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Organised by
RogerDodger
Word limit
400–750
Shattered illusions
I don’t know where I was born, and nobody ever told me. Sometimes, when I sleep, lulled by the swinging motions of my cradle, I dream of white lights. White surroundings. White anything. Then, from an unknown distance, someone, a fuzzy, featureless face emerges and bends over me and I sense that he – or she? I can’t tell – is smiling to me. I see them clad in a white apron, wearing white gloves. They pick me up carefully in their hands, and carry me away. I see things, things I’ve never seen before, things I don’t know, things I can’t name: glistening tools, beeping machines, patches of moving colours. Then they place me over a fluffy and soft mattress. I feel warm. I feel safe. I feel life running through my veins.
Then something happens that scares the pants off me: I see a huge thing—a stone?—falling on me. The light disappears as the ominous object approaches and I’m suddenly left alone in pitch darkness. I shriek in terror, but no sound escapes my mouth, and I wake.
Fortunately, my mum is never far away when I have this bad dream, and often I can feel the warmth and softness of her body surrounding me when I regain consciousness. Sometimes, she holds me tight into a warm embrace and caresses me. Often she also speaks to me, whispering words I cannot understand. When finally my fear subsides, she puts me back delicately into my crib, and after a short while I fall again in deep slumber.
When I am thirsty or hungry, she gives me my plug. And I feel a comforting liquid rushing into me, until I am full and replenished. Then sometimes she removes my plug and talks to me, sometimes she does not and I get asleep with my plug in my mouth—I like it.
When I’m awake my mother walks me around in the streets so that I can discover the many things that makes the world. I hear much noise. Sometimes I hear music. I like music. Not the shaky, blaring music mum sometimes listens to in her room. I prefer the soft, gentle music of lullabies. I also see many things, some weirds, some funny. Many faces, too, and they almost always smile to me. I’m happy when people smile to me, so I try to imitate them and smile back to them.
But now I can’t see anymore. Everything around me is black. I still hear, though, but my world has turned into a deep hole. What happened, I can’t remember exactly. I think I was in her hands, then there was a big shock, I hit something hard and lost consciousness. When I came back to my senses, all was dark.
Right now I can hear her. She’s talking to somebody else I don’t know. Nothing unusual, but I don’t like the sound of her voice. For the first time since I was born, I feel something is wrong. I can’t place it though. I’m afraid.
“How much to repair the screen?” she asks.
The employee hesitates. “It’s already an obsolescent model, two years old. I’m not sure there are many spare parts left. I’d say eight tenners at least, and you’d have to wait three weeks minimum. For that amount, you could probably get a new one right away if you upgrade your plan with your provider.”
“And what should I do with this one?”
“Ditch it. Cheap models like this have almost nothing recyclable inside. They’re made of junk. They’re bound to burn. You can’t even resell them on eBay.”
She ponders for an instant. “Okay,” she said. “It was a present of my mother for my birthday, but I suppose you’re right. Besides, it was beginning to malfunction sometimes, so no regrets. Could you do it for me?”
“Sure,” the employee replies.
He grasps the cellphone lying on the counter and throws it carelessly into the nearby bin.
Then something happens that scares the pants off me: I see a huge thing—a stone?—falling on me. The light disappears as the ominous object approaches and I’m suddenly left alone in pitch darkness. I shriek in terror, but no sound escapes my mouth, and I wake.
Fortunately, my mum is never far away when I have this bad dream, and often I can feel the warmth and softness of her body surrounding me when I regain consciousness. Sometimes, she holds me tight into a warm embrace and caresses me. Often she also speaks to me, whispering words I cannot understand. When finally my fear subsides, she puts me back delicately into my crib, and after a short while I fall again in deep slumber.
When I am thirsty or hungry, she gives me my plug. And I feel a comforting liquid rushing into me, until I am full and replenished. Then sometimes she removes my plug and talks to me, sometimes she does not and I get asleep with my plug in my mouth—I like it.
When I’m awake my mother walks me around in the streets so that I can discover the many things that makes the world. I hear much noise. Sometimes I hear music. I like music. Not the shaky, blaring music mum sometimes listens to in her room. I prefer the soft, gentle music of lullabies. I also see many things, some weirds, some funny. Many faces, too, and they almost always smile to me. I’m happy when people smile to me, so I try to imitate them and smile back to them.
But now I can’t see anymore. Everything around me is black. I still hear, though, but my world has turned into a deep hole. What happened, I can’t remember exactly. I think I was in her hands, then there was a big shock, I hit something hard and lost consciousness. When I came back to my senses, all was dark.
Right now I can hear her. She’s talking to somebody else I don’t know. Nothing unusual, but I don’t like the sound of her voice. For the first time since I was born, I feel something is wrong. I can’t place it though. I’m afraid.
“How much to repair the screen?” she asks.
The employee hesitates. “It’s already an obsolescent model, two years old. I’m not sure there are many spare parts left. I’d say eight tenners at least, and you’d have to wait three weeks minimum. For that amount, you could probably get a new one right away if you upgrade your plan with your provider.”
“And what should I do with this one?”
“Ditch it. Cheap models like this have almost nothing recyclable inside. They’re made of junk. They’re bound to burn. You can’t even resell them on eBay.”
She ponders for an instant. “Okay,” she said. “It was a present of my mother for my birthday, but I suppose you’re right. Besides, it was beginning to malfunction sometimes, so no regrets. Could you do it for me?”
“Sure,” the employee replies.
He grasps the cellphone lying on the counter and throws it carelessly into the nearby bin.