GOLEMS
The end-result of the post-modern age through the eyes of an old man.
Vernon looked everywhere, but saw no sign of life. Their skins and faces varied; so did their clothing, at least within bounds of modern complexion, but they were only facades. It disturbed him that he could only tell them apart from their popular tastes. Beyond the veneers of fashion, entertainment, and the timing of UBI shares, they acted the same: their manners, their diction, their views, and especially their aversion to books. A thought piqued him that he was no longer dealing with humans, but something else entirely. He didn’t know what it was.
It started with the media’s ubiquity. The people were born into an electronic hive. Their magic eyes penetrated every living thing, whether held, worn, implanted, or even engrained. Now their thoughts were one. Yet Vernon persisted, praying each day for social reprieves that never came. If this was tribulation, he figured that praying for the sun to explode would also be futile.
Though, how could he curse the One they avidly denied, favoring the mammon spoon-fed every day? They were soulless after all; he saw it in their vacant stares, penetrating nothing but the void in between. Breaking the ice became more difficult than splitting glaciers. If he received more than a parting glower, he considered it a breakthrough. It wore him down, and he had eventually given up, retreating further into his mind, but even that was starting to go.
He was old hat; a dinosaur—a product of history now deemed unfit for classroom protocol. It made no sense, of course, but according to ever-changing standards, all forms of history, including the various cultures, places, and events before the present, were deemed unfit, even in casual banter. That included animals. He couldn’t pin the reason. Maybe the increasing gap between man and nature would explain it. It made the world a lonelier place. His only solace, as far as his own desires under the duress of capitulation, lay in the few years he had left.
His age caught up quickly, yet society moved faster than he was able to count the number of years falling out of his grasp. Vernon had never seen changes like this. The acceleration happened a generation ago, the worst of it over the last couple of years. Technology was the culprit, not only propelling the world through constant hammering of products and ideas, but further reducing the role of biology. He once heard a rumor—its source lost somewhere in the fringe—on the true nature of his contemporaries. It had something to do with the encroachment of artifice. He suspected the rumors held merit, judging by everyone’s behavior, acting more akin to robots than the AIs that flooded the market. But he kept to his own, which proved harder each day another wrinkle lined his cheek.
As he hobbled through the streets, every second praying not to end up on the short end of the neighborhood long knives, he was reminded of his mortality, not so much on getting mugged or murdered in cold blood, but of advertisements plastered on every medium, physical and virtual, touting portable euthanasia pods. There were lots to choose from. Their flashy designs laid evidence on what took precedence in the post-modern Depeche mode.
Until then, however, he remained miserable, too weak, enfeebled, to fight back, to regain at least a handful of rights once taken for granted, or to retain the small bit of privacy whittling away by the minute. But they kept encroaching…each day…closer and closer. Housing exploded. Land became scarce. Inflation rose. Poverty reigned. Tongues varied, so did their vitriol. His closest circles had long died off; the few alive having finally succumbed, their personalities fading into the shores of time, growing impassive, broken, shadows of expressions now cowering in compliance.
That’s how the laymen liked it, if permitted the capacity to emote their approval.
One day, Vernon flew off the handle. He didn’t show it. Outwardly, he remained the same old doddering fool, moseying along the sidewalk, standing out like a stain on a sheet of white satin, or a tiny gem on the face of a rotting tomb. Though inside, he raged. But there was a method in his madness. He recalled the rumors, including the pods that became En vogue. The idea struck him like a bolt of lightning; a plan that would only be significant to him.
He took an old spoon, soldered off the bowl, and fashioned the handle into the shape of an awl. He had no real weapons. No one did, except criminals, but they kept everyone in line at the ruling class’s behest. Vernon, however, was more resourceful.
He stalked through the crowds, his lame foot a stigma for the world to see. Heads turned. Some laughed. They won’t laugh anymore, he mused, not within my window of time. One sneered. When that happened, they all followed, surrounding him in a sea of similar looks. Every moment he expected to be swarmed and eaten alive. He was the talk of their magic eyes; it must have happened suddenly—one snap of someone’s glasses, and he was silicon centerfold—biometrics and anything else they could use to turn his life upside down.
Look at the relic! Time for a pod! A fossil! A fossil! he presumed they said of him. In truth, he didn’t know what they said, nor did he care.
Reaching into his jacket, he pulled out the makeshift spoon, cocked back his arm while ignoring the pain that flared over his shoulder, and recoiled into the first set of magic eyes that gave him a dirty look. Screams followed. He was famous, finally breaking the ice, and they showered him with jeers demanding his liquidation. Maybe that was his only way to strike a conversation
The body fell, but Vernon didn’t hear the impactful thud at the end. In the heat of the kill, perception slowed, drowning out sound. But it heightened the experience—much more effective than virtual reality. He noticed how no one aided the victim. Others sat idly by as noncommittal as ever, waiting for the authorities to do their bidding. But plenty hurled expletives, even whining and flailing their arms like infants, adult children weaned on targeted monocultures.
Give me all you’ve got! he taunted within, momentarily breaching his wizened posture, and shining as a beacon of hope for anyone beyond those magic eyes who secretly thought like him.
But in the hail of commotion and rising trill of sirens, he noticed something strange. To his surprise, the victim never ragdolled or keeled over their wound in mortal agony, but ended up planking like a flatbed truck while thrashing their limbs, mechanically stiff and unbending. The head bobbed, gurgling away and slapping at the concrete with the spoon still jutting from the eye and burrowed deep inside the brain.
The thrashing stopped. The body smoked. Smoke? Vernon saw it. It was plain as day. The rumors were right, far beyond the reach of technological saturation. He pointed and shouted. The proof lay right in front of them, all of them, including their magic eyes and the scores of audiences witnessing from around the world. Yet no one noticed. All eyes beamed at him. He screamed, incredulously shaking his head. They weren’t real. None of this was real. How did this happen? Am I in hell? Am I already dead—my life in exaggerated playback?
Even the barrage of postulations left him without an answer. In the midst of his breakdown, he began to totter. Then several hands broke his fall, dragged him out of the leering crowds, and into the Black Mariah.
NEW PHANTOM WHISPERS OUT NOW! Be sure to pick up a copy!
Phantom Whispers, Issue 3
Purchase the first two issues of Phantom Whispers:
Phantom Whispers, Issue 1
Phantom Whispers, Issue 2
Also, please check out my other short stories: Robert Garron’s Substack
Please visit my other sites:
Robert Garron on X