Start
Run Bios
Run Win32.exe
Starting operating system…
Welcome!
Login User: Scott
Password: *********
Logging in…
Loading explorer.exe
Loading desktop environment
Loading GUI
Loaded.

Open Folder: User: Scott
//My_Documents
…//My Pictures
   …//Caroline (Hello?)
      …//Summer 2009 (Is anyone there?)
Open Beach00008.jpg (Where am I?)
Open Beach00009.jpg (What’s going on, what is this place?)
Open Beach00011.jpg (Wha…wait.)
Open Beach00015.jpg (I recognise this.)
Open Beach00016.jpg (Two years ago, near the old harbour.)
Open Beach00019.jpg (You told me to bring a parasol.)
Open Beach00022.jpg (I got so sunburnt that day.)
Open Beach00030.jpg (You laughed about it for a week solid. You kept prodding me and…)

Are you sure you want to move //Summer_2009 to the Recycle Bin? (?!)
Deleting Folder… (Wait, why would…)
Deleted (…)

      …//Caroline (Now what.)
         …//26th_Birthday (Oh no, god.)
Open Bday00024.jpg (You told me you got rid of these.)
Open Bday00027.jpg (You promised!)
Open Bday00028.jpg (I should have known.)
Open Bday00029.jpg (Can’t believe I got that drunk.)
Open Bday00039.jpg (You had to clean up the next day, though.)
Open Bday00043.jpg (Your fault for buying the tequila.)
Open Bday00044.jpg (Still can’t drink the stuff.)

Are you sure you want to move //26th_Birthday to the Recycle Bin? (This too?)
Deleting Folder… (Well, it’s about time.)
Deleted (But why now?)

      …//Caroline (What’s next?)
         …//Wedding (Oh, Scott.)
            …//Reception (Jeez, that’s a lot of photos.)
Open Rec00106.jpg (What a nightmare.)
Open Rec00114.jpg (At least the rain had stopped by that point.)
Open Rec00116.jpg (Auntie Amelia, looking better then everyone else.)
Open Rec00117.jpg (As usual.)
Open Rec00119.jpg (I still think I looked fat in that dress.)
Open Rec00132.jpg (Oh, Gran. She looked so tired. I was amazed she didn’t fall asleep at the service.)
Open Rec00134.jpg (I miss her.)

Run MediaPlayerPro.exe (Hmm?)
   Open Chicago-Sufjan_Stevens.mp3 (Ah!)

Open Rec00149.jpg (I Love this song.)
Open Rec00159.jpg (“You came to take us…”)
Open Rec00201.jpg (“All things go, all things go…”)
Open Rec00202.jpg (I thought you hated this album.)

Are you sure you want to move //Reception to the Recycle Bin? (What? No, you wouldn’t.)
Deleting Folder… (Scott!)
Deleted (How…)

Are you sure you want to move //Wedding to the Recycle Bin? (How could you.)
Deleting Folder… (Why)
Deleted (Why are you doing this?)

Are you sure you want to move //Wales2010 to the Recycle Bin? (Scott, I don’t understand.)
Deleting Folder… (Please, tell me.)
Deleted (Scott.)

Are you sure you want to move //Graduation to the Recycle Bin? (Scott, you’re scaring me.)
Deleting Folder… (Didn’t these things mean anything to you?)
Deleted (Anything at all?)

Are you sure you want to move //Christmas_09 to the Recycle Bin? (Stop.)
Deleting Folder… (Please stop.)
Deleted (Please.)

Are you sure you want to move //Caroline to the Recycle Bin? (STOP!)
… (Scott.)
Deleting Folder… (I love y…)
Deleted

Run gCalendar.exe
View Entry: Today
List: British Summertime Ends
Reminder - Phone Bill comes out today.
Reminder - buy flowers for grave.
View Entry: Tomorrow
List: Caroline’s Birthday

Deleting Entry…
Entry Deleted.

Logging off user: Scott
System shutting down, please do not turn off the power to your computer
.
..
…
Goodbye

When indisposed, I find myself searching through bedsheets
for two black stains
like burnt butterflies

or catch myself feeling paint,
caressing the bumps and dimples
I tried so hard to smother.

or drinking from chipped mugs,
tonguing the tea stained gap,
and stroking its handle.

and collecting used tissues
that are frayed and wet and beautiful
and useless.

As dusk faded into ember night,
on the corner of some soulless street
Two friends met beneath an old street light.

The embrace was long, she held him tight,
he beckoned her to take a seat
as dusk faded to into sapphire night

Her frame was frail, and just as slight,
he wished she was wiser now some years older,
As he sat beneath an old street light.

Her tale was long, and rife with plight,
but distance had made his heart grow colder
as dusk faded into mourning night.

He couldn’t help, try as he might,
they had been here too many times before,
as one friend wept beneath an old street light.

A passer by beheld the sight,
and pondered upon the scene she saw
as dusk faded into sombre night,
of two strangers sitting beneath an old street light.

As I sit beside your paned face,
your echoed cry like winters howl,
your features shift, and are replaced,
by my own translucent scowl,
these glazed glass eyes form jealous pits
before your transitive beauty,
the verdant cheeks and wisp white lips,
Your countenance of symmetry,
Oh, the faces of last summer!
When we kissed the moon goodbye,
Drew blinds woven from lavender,
And swept spiders silk from the sky.
     But now I see with tempered lust,
     A love forgotten under dust.

Sometimes good friends are like good drinks, have another one on me,
They clash and roar as glasses clink, have another one on me,

Purchase in bulk, best by the dozen,
Discard them without so much a blink, have another one on me,

Pop bottle corks in carnal thirst,
Spit soured swill and miss the sink, have another one on me,

Pour doubles over shards of ice,
While frosted hearts fracture and shrink, have another one on me,

Drain the bar, survey the battle,
Line used canteens upon the brink, have another one on me,

Now all good friends have dried up and left,
I’ll say it again, but this time, think: have another one on me.

There is an an old book I found in the attic,
That reads quite well, if lacking rhetoric,
Yet when I came to study its pages
The story seemed odd, as if the ages
spent in shadow had wrote it a new,
cast out the lead and changed the story too.

For the boy I recalled had sat proudly in class,
Fervent to his studies, his teachers, a pass
Was all he sought, troubled not by bullied fear,
Yet this is not boy that I see here.

Nor do I see him surrounded by friends,
accomplices, allies he could depend
on in this world, scorned and dour;
left me to muse on this plot turned sour.

And surprised I felt, when his young man,
began to sob quietly as organs began
To play within that bustled church,
My recollection now besmirched.

And so I find myself chasing that old leading role,
through lines and leafs of this dusty old tome,
but I cannot find him, the ink starts to run,
pages lie in ruins, my story now undone.

Jerry hit us hard that day.
The Heinkels and Stukas
with their Jericho wail.
The main hanger was caved in,
and the runway ridden with holes,
and iron,
and old Tom,
took one in the gut.
We assembled the parts
we could find,
following the blueprints
of the first engineer.
Jim said “there’s not enough.”
Some paltry percent
the brass insisted on,
to earn a decent keep.
So we lifted our divided comrade
with half a heart
into his pine coffer,
and started looking for rocks,
chunks of shrapnel,
to weigh him down
and make him seem more the man.
The lid was closed,
the burden sufficient.
As the bearers lifted the case,
loose rubble rolled and shifted,
and Tom knocked,
asking to come out.

Ted put his hand to the coffin:

“Our earthly friend, we will join you in piece,

in time.”

“Excellent! Though the tracking system needs a bit of work; my order had apparently been “delivered” about a half hour before it actually turned up. I was all ready to bite into my ethereal pizza before I realized that air alone would not sustain me. Perhaps you should launch a new line of quantum entangled dough based delicacies? The Indeterminate Italian; The Spicy Schrodinger. I’m quite partial to the Tachyon Tomato with extra jalapenos, myself. “

The third floor of the call centre stunk of hot perfume and disinfectant. The air was a wash with whirring fans and rumbling dial tones, and a thousand wordless voices murmuring into the ether. In the far corner the photocopier was grinding and clicking endlessly. It was old, and had developed an almost waltz like rhythm as it worked; you could dance to it. From the corner of my eye I noticed Clarissa leave the bathroom. She adjusted her blouse sleeves and pulled on the corners of her black woollen vest. I remembered her chest; confident, neat, save for a vulnerable sliver of flesh between folds of white cotton. I remember having an overwhelming desire to go over to her and button up the rest of her shirt. Like rhinestones through silk, I would slip each button through the gaps in her collar until she was safe under her dress of ebon and pearl.

As she ducked below one of the separating walls I returned to my work. The highway’s line was busier then usual, in no small thanks to the recent harsh frost that had shred up every road leading out of town. Every call followed the same pattern, asking if we were aware of the endless cracks and potholes, and why we hadn’t done anything about it. One of the most common thoughts was “I can’t imagine what would have happened if I’d had my family with me.” But why, I often asked. Surely it is better then dying alone? They would often hang up at this point, and I would go back to tracing lines though the grain on my fake wooden desk.

I took my lunch hour later then everyone else’s; less stationary people. The sky looked like it had wanted to rain all morning. I sat perched on a bench looking into the high street, and watched the solemn tide moving from one shore of the city to the other. Every face was fixed dead ahead, no attention paid to the periphery; it reminded me of my father. He always faced you directly when he spoke, to do otherwise was disrespectful and rude.

I stared back across the naïve sea of faces, glimpses of store fronts appearing between the endless static of moving bodies. I stood up, leaving my half finished sandwich and coke, and walked into the waning tide. For a moment I was lost, with no destination and no heading. Before I was swept into the unknown blue I lashed my hands out towards anything for purchase. The tides parted, and I was anchored.

The man whom I had ensnared looked down at me, puzzled. I dug my face into his shoulder, my hands tight around his back but trying not to crease his suit. My eyes stung as they stared at the torrent of moving feet below, so I closed them. The noise of endless rolling footsteps faded into the wind as I stood there, holding fast to the man with the navy blue jacket. Some time passed, but not once did he make an effort to move or remove me. Eventually a voice appeared from behind, asking if we were all right. I heard a reply, that he didn’t know, and that we’ve only just met. What do you mean came the response, as I choked back the acrid cries of a drowning man.

The questions returned in earnest: What do you mean you don’t know him? Is he okay? Hey, have you seen this? I suffocated each new voice, but like fighting an inquisitive rip-tide it only tired you out. As the torrent built I felt my grip loosen, when suddenly, from under the surface, a last gasp of clarity passed through the air, and eventually there was silence. Hesitantly my eyes breached the sunlight, and found myself looking out over calm waters. Every body was stationary, every face directed at me. Every office assistant, floor manager, events organiser, receptionist, and project leader stood crowded and motionless in the high-street. Every shop clerk, line manager, support worker, nurse, and network admin held their hands by their sides and waited for something to happen, something to tear away the why, the how and the reason. They didn’t have to wait long.

A policeman had seen the stationary crowd from a distance. He tried to get to the front of the pack by pushing and shoving when the mass of faces turned inwards and swallowed him up. The call for back up was met with fierce resistance, and the street exploded in a tide of energy and desperation. It was madness; people setting fire to benches to cook sausages and toast marshmallows. Some looted clothes stores and dressed as formally as they could, while others threw their ties and trousers over lamp posts and shop signs. One person broke into the electronic store and took a projector and an extension cable, and played Casablanca on the side of 3^rd Street Bank. People sat mesmerized by the ghosts of Humphrey Bogart and Ingrid Bergman as they danced over the ripples and alcoves of the old building, while all around the city imploded in longing destruction. As the district pulsed and shook into the night, I felt myself slipping from the surface, and into the warm black depths of obscurity.

I awoke early the next morning, sometime before work, beneath a bush in one of the city gardens. I straightened my tie and shirt and walked out into the street. Every inch of wall had been covered in paint: murals of people dancing; great long lines of poetry and song lyrics; and names, countless names and signatures stretched from street sign to shop corner, over windows and awnings and banners a hundred feet wide. An old shop keeper scuttled out towards me, and followed my gaze over the high water mark. He claimed that no less then 20 people had stepped forward and offered to pay for any damages to his store.

“Can you imagine?” He asked.

   Static. The phone’s speaker crackled in TV Boy’s hand. He placed it back down on its rest with a clunk, and dragged his fingers over the worn keypad. The numbers sank and rose with a snap, their motions precise and deliberate. He had grown weary of a world of haptic feedback, where every screen and smooth surface rumbled under touch; little motors burning away out of sight, eager to please. TV Boy missed buttons.

   He turned his attention to the empty train station. The walls glowed with neon and tungsten, and almost every sign featured the phrase “instant access” or similar. There was a pile of sleeping bags wrapped in extension cables a few feet away, and TV Boy noticed an old man lying amongst them. He scanned the figure and saw he was covered in dust, his screen lined with greasy fingermarks. There was a crack in the side of his monitor, and a good chunk of his screen was shattered like an arachnid’s web. TV Boy recognized the Amiga logo on the side of the man’s chin, its bold font now thick with grime and shadows. He listened carefully to the old Amiga, but heard no soft scratching from an idle disk drive, and saw no sedated LED to indicate sleep. The fan on TV Boy’s CPU revved and let out a sigh of warm air as he turned back towards the phone.

   Probing his pockets, he withdrew several small discs of tin and copper. They were symmetrical and polished, and he collated them by size and shape by the side of the phone. He inserted them into the open slot slowly, one at a time, making sure to savor the rattle and clink as they were fed into the system. A small green display lit up with a one, a seven and a zero, with a decimal point just after the first digit. He lifted the receiver once more, pressed in the relevant six figure number and waited. The long drawl of the dial tone gave the impression that something was crawling down the phone line towards its destination; each break in the muffled ring it was affirming its path and direction. Finally subsiding with a blip the phone came to life, with a sweet synthesized voice coming through the speaker. “Hello?”

   TV Boy remained silent. He was supposed to acknowledge the response. He was supposed to identify himself, as was protocol, but his speakers remained hushed. His core burned within him; fans worked tirelessly to keep him cool, but for all the humming and pulsing in his head he could not process a reply. The voice from the phone repeated itself with the exact same tone and inflection. TV Boy locked up. His sound card froze, and his speech program ceased to function. He hesitantly lifted the receiver away from his monitor and placed it back in its groove one last time. He stared at the tips of his shoes, and didn’t move to collect the change that was shelled out of the phone. TV Boy took out a container of ethanol from his jacket pocket, unscrewed the cap, and poured the liquid into his front serial port. Inside his circuits sparked and hissed, shorting out components one after the other. First his graphics card, then his hard drive, and lastly his power supply. TV Boy stood idle, his screen black, his parts motionless.

Reboot.

System error. Memory corrupted.

Reverting to last known working configuration.

   A train raced through the underground station, empty carriages screamed past the platform and slid off into the night. TV Boy lifted the receiver from it’s rest, and thought about calling home.