Whom #fridayflash

Part of working in a certain genre with a large history is that you sometimes write about something someone else has used or someone uses something you had written about before. If you're unpublished the latter is annoying but the former is humbling. Unfortunately, some things are almost unavoidable. For what it's worth, this little sub-story fits in a larger novel I've been writing. I do realize that my stories have been of a theme lately. I do need to change that.

Send Date: 01/04/2253 08:39:46 (DD/MM/YYYY, GMT)
To: drfsmgombo@cdc.gov.un

Dear Dr. Mgombo,

Hello! I am writing you from the far and distant lands of an outpost on Ryugu Planitia on the moon Triton. I am writing you in hopes that you can give some advice regarding the diagnosis of an interesting infection. You are widely known as a microbiologist and communicable disease specialist of the first degree.

Our first patient was a human male, age 35, presenting with a trilaterally symmetrical rash under the arms and rear torso. As you know, our infectious disease screening procedures are among the finest in the solar system. Because of those screening procedures, the obvious cause would be our new-found friends. But, I inquired with them and, while they were sympathetic,they were ultimately unhelpful for some reason. I did not want to suggest they might have brought it with them and start an interstellar incident. I'd like to remind you that they guests also show tri-lateral symmatry.

Upon high magnification, you can see small, obviously mechanical, functions in the "cells." Can you give me any information on such nanomechanical structures that you may have seen?

Thank you for your time;

[signed] Dr. Derrick McReary

{ATTACHMENT}

Send Date: 01/04/2253 11:54:22 (DD/MM/YYYY, GMT)
To: drfsmgombo@cdc.gov.un

Dear Dr. Mgombo,

This rash has spread quickly amongst the rest of the crew here. I must confess that even I have become infected. The rash only produces a minor itch, but it is a deep and worrysome color closer to red than pink. Our first patient's entire torso has developed the color now and has started sprouting small hairs. See the attached.

I did take a sample from my own rash. You can see from the destructive chemical analysis that this is certainly not biological. I showed the alien doctors and they are intrigued but ultimately unhelpful. You see, they said, they do not get sick. They have doctors only for trauma.

I'm also sending this to a few others, in hopes that they can help reverse it.

I would suppose that this should not go without saying: we're very scared out here.

Thank you for your time;

[signed] Dr. Derrick McReary

{ATTACHMENT}

Send Date: 01/04/2253 14:28:43 (DD/MM/YYYY, GMT)
To: drfsmgombo@cdc.gov.un

Dr. Mgombo,

From discussing this with our alien friends, it has become obvious that their ancestors have perfected nanotechnological machines capable of cellular repair on a scale beyond even our most advanced treatments. Well, good on them. It appears that we're transforming into them. Our first patient has started to grow a tail. What happens when the transformation hits a vital organ?

What we want from you is any advice you can give about stopping or slowing the transformation into the alien species. If, at this point, you think that this is a joke reiteration of some old science fiction trope, I assure you we were not amused to find our predicament predicted by someone 200 years ago.

[signed] Dr. McReary

Send Date: 01/04/2253 16:54:48 (DD/MM/YYYY, GMT)
To: drfsmgombo@cdc.gov.un

Dr. Mgombo

Some of the more, shall we say, xenophobic elements here have speculated that this was an attempt to convert us to their species in attempt to not die out even though their sun went nova. This seems, on it's face, rather preposterous. Unless they don't know it. Perhaps.

They have explained that their civilization grew and shrank a dozen times, each growth reaching a new level, but some wisdom from previous eras had been lost forever. Could this be one?

Until this is sorted out, I am broadcasting a "STAYAWAY" beacon.

McReary

Send Date: 01/04/2253 17:01:01 (DD/MM/YYYY, GMT)
To: drdmcreary@ryugu.tri.nep.sol

Dear Dr. McReary,

Many apologies to you. I was in a meeting much of the day. I have reviewed your files. Is everything OK? There is some concern here that your agent may be a type of weapon.

Dr. Francis Mgombo

Send Date: 01/04/2253 17:14:33 (DD/MM/YYYY, GMT)
To: drfsmgombo@cdc.gov.un

Not a weapon. A survival tool.

I have grown a tail.

derrick

Send Date: 01/04/2253 17:51:36 (DD/MM/YYYY, GMT)
To: drdmcreary@ryugu.tri.nep.sol

Dear Dr. McReary,

I have noted the date and am not amused.

Dr. Mgombo

Send Date: 01/04/2253 18:00:19 (DD/MM/YYYY, GMT)
To: drfsmgombo@cdc.gov.un

The date? You buffoon. I don't care if it's april 1st. We're changing into them. If i could reach you I'd choke you with this prehensile tail. We are discussing self-isolation procedures to ensure this does not spread. Mummify the site here. If not for us for the species. I have attached a video I don't think I can respond again. The keyboard is too smalll for my fingers now. Time-lapse video is attached and shows the conversion of a human cell to the alien cells. qould a machine see us as damaged?

{ATTACHMENT}

Send Date: 01/04/2253 18:09:47 (DD/MM/YYYY, GMT)
To: drdmcreary@ryugu.tri.nep.sol

Francis

I have seen The Fly. I do not believe you. These videos and photos could have been faked.

Send Date: 01/04/2253 19:27:00 (DD/MM/YYYY, GMT)
To: drdmcreary@ryugu.tri.nep.sol

Dear Dr. McReary,

We have seen the secured camera feed relayed from the en-route ship Dream of the Unified Field. I apologize for my doubts. We do not know what to do. Recommend cryogenic suspension until further action can be determined.

Dr. Mgombo

Send Date: 01/04/2253 19:37:53 (DD/MM/YYYY, GMT)
To: drdmcreary@ryugu.tri.nep.sol

Dear Dr. McReary,

Hello? Are you still there?

Dr. Mgombo

Send Date: 01/04/2253 19:39:27 (DD/MM/YYYY, GMT)
To: drfsmgombo@cdc.gov.un

SYSTEM MESSAGE

DESTINATION UNAVAILABLE. WILL RETRY FOR UP TO 3 DAYS. THERE IS NO NEED TO RESEND YOUR MESSAGE.

Send Date: 03/04/2253 00:03:09 (DD/MM/YYYY, GMT)
To: drmgombo@cdc.gov.un

{ATTACHMENT}

Send Date: 03/04/2253 07:46:37 (DD/MM/YYYY, GMT)
To: drdmcreary@ryugu.tri.nep.sol

Dear God! What is that thing?

Send Date: 03/04/2253 09:00:10 (DD/MM/YYYY, GMT)
To: drmgombo@cdc.gov.un

Nnot what. who.

An Obvious Symptom #fridayflash

John was about 30 when the creeping feeling began. He woke up crying in the night, and the sleep paralysis he had when he was little came back. It felt as if he were being erased. As if someone were deleting him from the inside.

With the creeping deleting feeling, he started to cry at random. The situations were varied. He saw no pattern just increased frequency. Once a week became once a day and within a few months twice a day he would break down. The sleep paralysis was daily. He just kept feeling like he was being deleted, as if his essence was being taken way.

He mentioned it to his wife once. She didn't worry too much about it. Why would she? She couldn't help and she would point that out and didn't want to deal with it so could he just forget about it okay? She was not a bad person, though. Not really. What would you do if someone you loved for years just told you this? What would or could you do? Not in the hypothetical romantic-bullshit way but the real action-oriented way? It's an easy promise to make but not to act on. That promise is a lie waiting for reality to catch up.

It got worse. He was fired because he stayed in bed, paralyzed every day for a week. His boss, Tom, didn't believe the doctors' note.

"Like that restless leg thing. Bullshit," Tom said.

"Like that cancer thing was bullshit, too? Right, Tom," John said and knew it was wrong. Tom's hair was just coming back.

John didn't have to be told to clean out his desk and to leave the premises and that his last check would be mailed. So he went home to stay in bed, deleting. By the time he was 33, he was crying at least once an hour.

Not long after, John was in the shower one day cleaning out his navel. He noticed he could stick his finger right into it. At first he was interested because: How cool is that? It was the most exciting thing in months. Then he was elated because what he had been feeling was real. It was a thing. Here he was with a hole in his stomach. How could a doctor argue with that? How could his wife? Would she keep calling the divorce attorney? At least stop sneaking around when she did it? He went to her, naked and wet and full of potential as when he was born.

"See, see," he said. "See! I am not going crazy. See?"

"See what, John? Your belly-button? I'm just amazed that you got out of bed and took a shower."

"Just look, please. If not as my wife then as a human being."

She looked and there it was. A hole all the way through. She could see the banister he was standing in front of needed paint.

"What do you want me to do?"

He started crying again and went upstairs. He dressed. Got into the car. Went to his doctor.

"What do you want me to do?" The doctor asked.

And John didn't know, because he wasn't a doctor was it John's responsibility to know and what is the correct course of treatment for this.

"Fix it?" he asked.

"How? It is interesting, but I've never seen it before."

And so no-one did anything. And so it just got worse.

The divorce came. Her attorney said to the judge, "Really what kind of father is that? Stuck in bed for hours after a working man would wake and be at work. What kind of parent? It's about the children, isn't it? What kind of child does someone like that raise? His problems are not our concern. It's about how the children are affected. They are the important ones. They are the future. Right?"

John stood up and said, "Right." And he believed it. She got the house. The car. The dog. The kid. No objections.

The hole in his stomach had been growing slowly, but the next day it was the size of his fist. The insides of the hole looked like slices from a visible body exhibit, sectioned-off organs still pumping and undulating as if they had any purpose. There was no blood.

The erasure continued. Every morning he couldn't move for longer and longer. He didn't know what would happen when the hole reached across his entire abdomen. Would his chest fall off and his legs keep walking? The day after that he noticed that the hole was expanding up toward his sternum faster than out toward his sides. He put his wallet in. It fell into his stomach. He hoped the credit cards wouldn't give him heartburn.

The doctor didn't know how John stayed alive. How he walked. The spine was severed. The stomach was halved. Intestines had gaps. The doctor wanted tests, but all John wanted was the deleting to end. He left the doctor's and went to the 1 bedroom apartment he got after the divorce.

The next week, when the hole got to his lungs, John couldn't talk. When he breathed out, the air just escaped out the bottom.

Weeks later even his ex-wife started to worry. She went to him. Kicked down the door. When she saw him she dropped her purse. All there was left of her ex-husband was a head and his chest. A living bust on a couch.

"John."

He looked at her, crying, with his big, wet, and red eyes.

"There's another hole," she said and unbuttoned her blouse. John could see that the wall behind her needed paint.

Rehabilitation is Unlikely #fridayflash

The pyramids receded into the Northern horizon as we rode South on our horses. We rode them hard enough they bled out of their noses and into the sand.

The pyramids behind us are not the ones you know. They are south along the Nile as the river cuts through the desert. They were buried by sand until I found them with satellite photographs. But these weren't pyramids for kings, they were pyramids for criminals, destined to live out their afterlife confined to these chambers. No air-shaft to allow the soul to escape and return. No stash of foodstuffs. No wine and women and slaves and soldiers. Even the word pyramid is generous. They were more like mounds of masonry.

But we were not running from superstition. From dead religions. From nothing.

There were three of us. The horses were slowing no matter how much we whipped them. We guided them toward the Nile so they could drink. And they did. The blood still dripped from their nostrils, dripping and spreading into red clouds and flowing down river.

When we were at the pyramids, there were 5 of us. We read the warnings and ignored them. These were the ones committed to postmortem confinement. Damnation to hell is for amateurs. The glyphs told us they embalmed these criminals as they did the kings to ensure eternal punishment and chained them to slabs. But chains, even in this desert, eventually rust and break. These were the criminals we would use as fuses in our electric chairs and even the anti-death-penalty protesters would just stay home.

It took weeks to even find what would be considered a door on one of the structures. It took another week to clean it up and pull out that stone plug. We were there only minutes after the light entered for the first time in centuries.

They were angry enough to kill 2 of us with rocks and half-decayed fists before we escaped and rode off. When one touched me, it felt like warm jerky. Then we ran. I think the light bothered them. Wouldn't it bother you, to see it for the first time in centuries?

"How could they be alive?" I asked Brandon as we rode off. They had gotten his Eliza. Poor Eliza.

"I don't know." And that was the most honest thing any of us could say now.

I'm only taking this time now to write this as we are near the bank of the river and Muhammad takes time to pray. He is shaken, I can tell. As we all are. I hope he finishes soon. I hope he is putting in a good word for all of us. We are in a valley in this desert with the Nile, but I think I see dust over a dune in the North.

So, my thesis prospectus introduction is kind of lame.

Technical writing is not a new thing, as Connors points out “Scholarship has traced technical writing of a quite familiar sort back to the Sumerians, and we need come no farther forward in history than the Roman Empire to find technical writing as lucid and sophisticated as any that is done today.” (4) However, as an “identifiable profession”, the technical writer has only appeared mid 20th century. (Johnson-Eilola xxv) It is not irrational to assume this is due to a certain sophistication of the documentation required for activities of the day. Someone had to provide that documentation and the primary method of delivering that information was written.

Since that time, parallel development of different delivery methods has led to ways to deliver and display that information without a physical book. But before now, they were not ubiquitous due to expense, bulk, and cumbersome communications technology.

At the time of this writing, that is not a problem. For example, this particular document is written on a computer hundreds of times more powerful than the writer’s first computer, and yet this computer weighs less than 3lbs and is capable of communicating with any other computer (and the users thereof) hooked up to the Internet. It is my hypothesis that this inter-communication between any and all users of the Internet has fundamentally changed the way technical documentation is produced and consumed, even to the extent of eliminating the specialized and formal role of “technical communicator” in some circumstances.

Does it get better? I don't know. Again, I keep finding more info the more I look, so I've been looking at the following blog posts:

1. Open Source Tech Writing: The Time Is Now
2. The First Technical Writer (software specific)
3. Manuals: Why They Don't Matter
4. Achieving Balance: Redux

Got to be honest, I've been following Tom Johnson's (of I'd Rather Be Writing shared blog posts on his Google Profile. So, thanks, Tom. You have a consistantly interesting stream of Tech Writing relevant material.

So I might have some tweaking to do. I don't know if there is a happy medium here, because so many tech writers do blog (as writers tend to like to write and therefore do more of it). It might be a little late for a change of topic for me, but it'd be interesting to see how blogging has affected the profession.

I do intend to post most of my thesis/prospectus as I complete it here at least a section a week, if not more. So if you do have any commentary, there is a way to leave that, you know. Or e-mail me. It's all good.

Slow Learners #fridayflash

Sorry. It's a little rough. They can't all be winners.

The road salt coated Brian's car. Melting ice on the roof drew lines down the doors. The salt was so thick, that when the driver of the semi later took the stand in his own defense, he affirmed and swore on a stack of Bibles in his Blessed Mother's name that he couldn't even see the car on the road. He swore and affirmed that he was as surprised as anyone when he hit the car. He and a dozen witnesses confirmed that the salt billowed out from the accident site like a cloud from a falling skyscraper.

The accident left the driver of the car in what the doctors described as "Temporally Hindered State." His mind, damaged as it was, was not without function. Brian percieved his own thoughts as normal speed, but the world seemed very fast. The whole world was in time-lapse.

Not long after, they put him in among other people in comas, vegitative states, and so on. He didn't move, not really.

Doctors changed before he ever caught their name.

His only child, a daughter--in kindergarden when he got into the accident--married, had twin sons, and divorced before he could have picked out the college graduation gift. His grandchildren married.

His wife grew old. She was diagnosed, treated, and died of pancreatic cancer in the time it took him to think up a haiku for their 35th wedding anniversary. He breathed slowly. His heart beat on. Slowly. The doctors had to rig the heart monitor so that it wouldn't go off in alarm.

After Brian processed that his only child had died, he started to make noise. It was utterly facinating to the Neurologist. The pitch was low and barely audible. No-one understood what he was saying. The sound was low and quiet. It just became part of the ambiant noise. The Neurologist forgot about Brian after a week.

Some punk kid who never really visited his comatose mother except on her birthday heard the noise for what it was.

"Record it. Speed it up. Listen," he told a nurse on rounds. The nurse said, "Right on," and then forgot about it.

The next year, when that same punk kid visited his mother again, he asked the nurse what the dude was saying.

"What's that dude saying?" he asked. "Did you do what I suggested?"

The nurse said, "Uhh."

The punk kid pulled out his phone, started a recording program, and put it in front of Brian. For an hour, the kid talked quietly to his mom, held her hand, told her he loved her but it was hard to see her like this and that he was sorry that he had spent so much time away but he had met someone and wanted to bring them to see her, but it might be awkward.

He stopped talking and left the room to go get something, anything, a smoke, a drink, a bite to eat, a little time alone. The cafeteria was the first sign he saw.

When he got back up to the floor, the phone had been recording for 2 hours. He picked up his phone and started playing what he recorded. He sped it up two times. Four. Sixteen. Still nothing real. Thirty-two. Sixty-four. At 128 something comically slow could be discerned. 256 a bit better, but still not quite. At 1024, he heard it clearly, even though he had gone a little too fast.

"...my..." It took Brian 2 hours to say "my."

The punk kid looked at Brian who had, very slowly, started to smile.