Sunday, January 25, 2009

A One and Only Perfect Life: A Journal Entry

by NeverFlyte

…As the sun set in the sky, she knew that nothing would be the same. Yet nothing would keep tomorrow from coming, so she would have to learn to let go. For herself, and her people.

The iReader clicked off, informing me that the book was over. I glared at the blank screen, infuriated with the dull ending.

Ma, left for the library, be back shortly. Send.

I thought-texted to my mother, who was on a walk in the park. Black text automatically appeared onto the screen of my cell phone. It was a top-notch phone, with thought-texting included. No more having to press buttons. Think it, and it's done. I didn't understand exactly how it worked, but that didn't matter so much. I would leave that for the smart people to understand. Even though they probably had enough technology to have an online library, where you could download books instantly, they decided not to so that there would still be a sense of community. It was the only place left in the whole city where so many people would get together in such a little space. The only other place where anyone went besides thier houses was the park, but that was too big to form anything close to a sense of community.

As soon as I stepped out the door of my house, there were two moving sidewalks side by side, one going left and one right. The left took you to the library; the right to the park. It wasn't very complicated.

In seconds, the library slid into view. The walls were a flawless white, with a clear foundation. Can you believe that years ago the foundations were solid? They would crack like a fragile eggshell as soon as the first earthquake came along. It was sad, really. Earthquakes are no longer a problem, thanks to Sanuel Leaf, who invented the most primary form of the thick, gooey material in 2094. It absorbs the movement and slows it down, keeping the people inside safe. I'd just learned about it on the History course of my iTeacher, so it was more interesting now than it normally was.

As I entered the library, the kindly old librarian looked up to nod a hello at me before going back to reading her iReader. The library was filled with many, many people, most of them sitting at tables, reading. A small percent were by the shelves looking at book descriptions, which the government had also kept, to keep the former idea of a library alive.

There weren't any books any more. They had left along with the days of Global Destruction, way back before 2050. Trees and any sort of shrubbery were protected by GlobalPlan#4, which was in place to keep the Global Destruction from happening again. You would be sent to prison if caught selling or using anything from trees. This was rare though, because there were so many better things to replace it.

After downloading several interesting titles, I headed home. For the rest of the day, I would talk to my iFriend, take a mandatory school course on my iTeacher, and take a walk in the park so that my exercise numbers would go up.

The next day would be the same.

And the next.

And the next.

Every single day of my life would, in fact, be identical. With the exception of the iWork I would get for my twenty-first birthday, same as every other citizen of the world. It would customize me with a job that would take up time, and would, at first, be challenging.

After years, though, it would be boring. And everything would be exactly the same.

Ah, yes, a life of luxury, indeed.

2 comments:

Jessica Wainman said...

That was such an engaging and inventive story! I am a Spanish teacher in Denver and happened upon your blog from reading about it on another teacher blog. What an amazing writer you are. you should invent those things and make millions! Good luck.

Anonymous said...

Written by an 8th grader! Wow! I have taught many seniors who can't write this well. You have created a dismal futuristic society in which humans seem to have no purpose other than, perhaps, to maintain technology. I eagerly kept reading to see where you were heading. Good job and keep writing.