disclaimer

i'll admit, i don't write a lot. when i do, it doesn't turn out that great. but apparently, sometimes it does. it's like the muse of writing descends and grants me super powers. or a weapon. because, you know, a keyboard is mightier than a sword.

anyways, if there are really more than just two readers on here, here's something i wrote last year.

it scored a perfect. feel free to totally steal it. if you're into that type of thing.

also, there are five references to pop culture. see if you can find them!


Murdock walked on the crowded streets of New San Francisco. He felt alone, and that was the
way he preferred it. All he had with him was his identification tag, enforced by state law, his clothing,
and his keys, and at that point in time, that was all he needed. While he walked, he thought. Murdock
was an old man, being almost two days away from his 189th birthday, and therefore had many things to
think about. He thought about his first few years, growing up in the same neighborhood that he now
walked in. It was very different back then. There were no organic homes, no hoverbuses, no police
drones. Instead, buildings were made out of wood. Wood, he thought, and then laughed a wheeze.
Imagine cutting down trees to make a building! Half the world was city and agriculture and the other
half was rotting stumps and desert. Those were the seventies of the 2200, according to the historians.
Thanks to Jack Bower and his magic beans, the world fertilized and bloomed. This eventually led to a
World War over the beans. All the experts said it would. Murdock recalled the draft. He was only
fifteen at the time, and only avoided it due to the clandestine removal of the artificial human growth
hormone his parents opted to put in him. Good thing his “friends” had supplied him with daily
injections, or he would be considerably smaller than his peers. His thoughts eventually turned to his
love life, an undoubtedly unavoidable thing while thinking about his youth. He had met many girls,
and liked most of them, and most of those liked him back. But he never got serious about any of them.
In hindsight, he though, that was probably a bad decision on a couple of them. He had finally settled
down with one of those opposed to the technological movement. Poor woman, she died relatively early
at the age of eighty. Perfect, if she was living three centuries ago. He didn't marry again. It was too
much of an ordeal, and they didn't have Toxbo back then. His face could have used it, as the valleys on
his face were deep, and the sides of the cliffs would have been a challenge for any climber. All of the
desert was covered with a tan dirt, and the parched land remained free from vegetation. Although the
scientists could hold off death for a while, old age and all of its benefits had Murdock tightly in its
grasp. He still looked better than most of those in the senior home, though. Murdock continued to
cycle through his memory. Twenty gigabytes only go so far, but he did decide to retain his trips around
the world as the owner of a land renting company. That was one of the very few things he could
genuinely thank his father for even if it was only a half of a thank you. His father had died
prematurely, and his mother breathed her last shortly afterwards. The stress had given him stomach
ulcers, which could be healed quickly, but was still painful. His trips were long, and one of the few
ways he could stay away from his life at home. Old Britannia was a particular favorite, with the
excellent beer, warm pubs, and, when the weather was better, the few rolling hills that he could sit on
and do what he was doing now. The United States of Asia would have been better if it wasn't so
crowded and hot. Africa was one of the few old world countries that you could visit back then.
Murdock had visited the tribes in the middle of the Savannah. It was a place where you could actually
touch the ancient pottery, and curators didn't yell at you if you did. Too bad he couldn't stay in one
place for too long. His job demanded it, and he hated it. And after 140 years of work and stomach
ulcers, Murdock traded in his fortune and fame. He grew out his hair and changed his name. And after
18 years of retirement, he found himself here, in the park. He could see the very tips of the giant
golden arches that now made up the Golden Gate bridge. It had to be rebuilt after three centuries of
earthquakes, and the ambitious ones up top (you could always tell how high they were by the amount
of stomach ulcers, unless they were faking it) decided it would be a good idea to help. The scent of salt
and guano-free ocean found itself inside Murdock's nose, and he recalled a time when he used to
paddle on a kayak around the bay. He was too old for this thing now. The government would have
enforced artificial muscles, as the longevity created by this would increase tax revenues, but enough
people started to tear apart buildings and such, and the research had to stop. All he could do now is
walk and think and sit. Sitting was what he was doing now. He doubted he would do anything else for
a while. Murdock was wrong, and he promptly realized this as two policemen unceremoniously placed
Murdock into a transportable cell. Murdock's last thought was something similar to this. After almost
five thousand years of human existence, parricide was still a crime.