TDV 57: What The Water Means

December 3rd, 2009 by Sharkchild

On the top of a thirty-two foot long counter, I lived amongst a population of two-hundred and forty-three—a civilization wrought by the hands of man in the age of his illustrious prime. Our kind was called humids—life forms birthed from a mixture of DNA and infinitesimal computer processors. Our size was measurably minute, but our appearances were only marginally different than that of our creators. Life, essence, and love were ours to behold and share and abuse. And by logic and labor we fought to maintain purpose, although it passed like air through our lungs, coming and going, sustaining, then depleting. We existed for forty-four years and two-hundred and sixteen days before our world came to an end.

On the morning of our last day, I awoke to the sound of pandemonium. Cries of abhorrence echoed throughout the societal chamber on the top of the counter as those who became sentient to the noise made their way to the source and discovered the disturbance first-hand.

I got out of bed and collected myself. My head throbbed as if the bothersome noise had surrounded me for the entirety of my sleep and dreaming and only now continued into the reality that it was. When the haze behind my eyes had passed, I awoke my companion and alerted her of the situation. We, too, then set out to investigate.

(Listen to the rest)

 

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