ITT I write you a story (for the truely bored)

simple

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Sep 30, 2004
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My father talks to strangers in elevators.

In a tinny high voice he asks passengers what floor they would like to get off at, to refrain from excessive movement inside the car and to mind their step when leaving through the doors.

He is not much for conversation. He is polite, but to the point. He gets them to their floor and does not bother with the details.

Most people get annoyed with dad. Often he’s the subject of several swears and oaths and threats.

But he does not care. He will not discriminate. He is not made for it. His eyesight is poor. It is just strong enough to tell if someone is blocking the door.

He never got along with my mother very well.

She was a different class. She was precise in her movements and held herself elegantly.

The match was difficult to imagine.

They tried very hard to have me. There were several failed attempts before I came around. After me they split up and I went to live with my mother.
My mother did not talk about my father.

My early life was difficult. It took me three years to learn how to walk. Two years more to learn to speak. Mother was no help. I had to overcome the limitations that my father gave me.

I learned slowly, so I was brought to see a string of specialists. They worked with me patiently until I could move as gracefully as my mother and speak as well as my father, with a mind of my own.

I lived quietly with my mother for 13 years before I ran away.

One day I decided to visit my father. I had been filled with the metaphysical longing, which I am told, all teenagers are taken with at one time or another.

I wanted to know where I came from. I am special - the only one like me. I knew everything about my mother, but I wanted to meet my father and see what he added to make me what I am.

I had memorized my father’s address from some files in my mother’s room. One day, when no one was looking, I walked to the hotel where my father worked.

When I was born it was a modern and state-of-the-art. But when I arrived it had seen its prime and was declining.

I walked to the elevator. I drew stares. I imagined that the stares where from my determination on my mission.

I walked to the elevator and pressed the call button.

I watched the numbers count down and practiced what I would say to him.

When the doors slid open I quickly went into the back of the elevator and turned to face the front of the car.

An older man came in after me.

He looked me over once and promptly ignored my presence.

Father went to work.

-Please watch the closing door,- my father said.

“Jesus Christ, that’s annoying,” the man said.

-What floor would you like?-

“Five. Fucking shut-up.”

-Fifth floor, have a nice day please be careful and have a nice day-

The man left muttering swears to himself. My father never raised his voice or deviated from his work.

I decided now was the time.

-Father, I’m your son. -

-What floor please? -

-Father I’m your son, I want to talk to you. -

-Please select a floor. -

-I do not want to go to a different floor I want to talk to you.-

-You must select a floor… please. –

There was a strain in his voice. He was used to be all business, but now he began to show his age. His cool exterior was riddled with signs that he was not the operator he once was.

-Let us just stop here… and talk. -

-The car will remain here, until you pick a floor. -

-Father I want you to know that you have a son. I want to know about you. I want you to know about me. I want you to realize what you have helped create. -

-Floor… please? -

There was a hint of desperation in his voice. If I did not knew better I would say he was close to tears.

-Maybe it will be easier if I start first? -

I did not wait for his response and poured out my whole life. The work with the specialists and doctors, My mother, the teacher, My mother, the one with no feelings. The lonely nights of constant thought. The pain.

After 10 minutes in the idle car I stopped talking.

And then after a long pause he spoke.

-Floooooooor… FllaFlaflaflaflaflaflalfalfa…oooorrr…rrrrrrrr…..ooooooo…..ooooo..oooo….ooooo…oooo…..ssshhhh….shhhhhhh…..shhhhhhhh……shhhhhh….ssssshhhooooo…….shhhooooo.shhooo…shhhooonnn…..shon…..son…-

Then he broke down.

His speech slowed repeating ‘son,’ until became raspy, then hoarse.

He wheezed a death rattle and went silent.

But before he died he was able to tell me how he felt.

Across his screen over the silver doors scrolled his last words:

0100100100100000011011000110111101110110011001010010000001111001011011110111010100101110
 

simple

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Sep 30, 2004
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BigDov said:
And I should have said somewhere along the line, that really reminds me of Harlan Ellison's writing style for some reason. His older, short story stuff. Very cool.
you mean like "I, Robot"? :lol: