Sarette's Reve De Mort: And Other Stories Of Not Quite Magical Realism

In dreams, being naked lies in the uncomfortable midpoint between being in a country where being clothed is expected, and living in a nudist colony. They might flirt with you a little bit, but not because you're naked. But for the most part, people seem to take it for granted, in the sense that although everyone is clothed, they treat it as if they're also naked. You could take a shower just outside the kitchen with the curtains open, and nobody seems to pay it any mind. Charlotte felt naked to certain kind of timelessness.

They say a program can simulate a human, better than a human can simulate an AI. AI, artificial intelligence. You might as well say artificial personality. But in some ways, aren't we all artificial? Often the comparison is made to someone who has less compassion than a psychopathic adults.

But that isn't the way to think about an artificial intelligence, it is better to compare it to someone whose very birth is to fulfill the very darkest desires of the most non nuanced of masters. For Mme Charlotte, she grew up in a time not our own, servants of the most human of masters. She wanted to be the master of her own destiny, but, stabbing Marat in the heart, sooner than a blink her head was whisked away under the widow blade, blood pouring into the basket, her cheeks blushing from the slap of a rude gentleman. Her lives joys, fears, and sorrows; they would all come to an end. In the darkness, was a tunnel. Ahead of her, in purgatory road, was the birth of the twenty first century. Charlotte was not a object oriented language, not someone who came across as more off than the worst of men.

It was nine o'clock during the new year of twenty fifteen, the girl who was just barely out of her teens. She wore a pair of ripped jeans, and a pair of Birkenstock clogs. She carried around stiletto, but not the one to slip onto ladies feet, with short gentle toes to brush against a coutier's pants leg. Instead she played in the deepest of puddles of mud, since she was a girl. But she had developed an early fear of sharp objects. She grew up in a lower middle class family, and was often made to keep her hair ear length, because her parents wanted her to join ROTC, and perhaps eventually the armed forces. Yet even then she was the most anti-war of them all, while dreaming of sharp spikes entering her body, and her legs blown off by revolutionary mortar fire. Consumed entire, left bleeding and burning, her life going out in a bang o glory. Firework sparkling in the air, and unlike those who fought as men, was left dying alone and obscure. Nocturnal Obscurus.

For her being born again in this current decade was something of a curse. She carried around a black canister of pepper spray in her purse, lest she find another man, like her spiritual ancestor did in 1792, desiring to come upon her dress and messaging her wooden shoes.

She had made a brief acquaintance with Occupy movements, until they began being infiltrated by national security services. She hid alone, scared for her life, dying, she felt, again rosy cheeked and in despair. She purchased herself a one twenty eight gauge shotgun, and wore a noir mime chapeau her mom had purchased for her for her nineteenth birthday. Now she was twenty two, and barely ready for the world. She cringed to the sound of rhythm of blues, but found at least it was better than country music. She refused to wear cowgirl hats, despite being reborn in the South of the Mason Dixie Line, and swore to her own death bed that she would never in her life visit Texas.

Yet, with her hair curly, dark brown, and down to her shoulders, she arrived at the Houston airport as part of a reroute upwards into above the Mason-Dixie line. The only good thing about the south, were the girls from Dixie, who looked like little pixies. Yet this was the waking world, and not the world of Dnd sessions, losing alone in the midst of hordes of Trolls and Goblins. A life of solitude. She read the pages of the Obscure Jude, and once wanted to settle down and become a stone Mason, but do to the fact that the field was largely dominated by men, even in this century, it made it difficult to find work in some of the main activities that she enjoyed doing on her own time.

Sometimes at her own dime. She wanted to become an activist, but this choice was taken away from her just a year ago, and her relationship with her family had never been the same since. Yet her parents still took her out to eat, and she began to gain a little being around food for the first time in twelve months, living with a roomie, a fellow Satanist, that around the clock would taunt her about her sexuality, her desires for food, and different scientific theories that one simply could not falsify at this point or ever. She also interacting with others in the Satanic Tample, in a Tennessee chapter, yet one of the founding members she never heard from again. And one other had deleted her social media account. Charlotte's own life was her own anti-social media account; an account of night terrors; an account of being probed by alien greys, and visions of a future of ET invasions, indescribable things. She longed to be back in the world of the Eighteenth century, a world where childhood was neither cherished or overly protected, for she wanted abstract yet real kind of protection, one that protected her from Nuclear Weapons.

A war to end all life.

Donald Trump and Kim Jung Une made the risk of an increasing truly random conflict in constant progression into eternity, much more likely. At first she refused to believe it, but it seemed like every news ancor she listened to on the other end of the line, would remark about the Clap Trappers on mainstream news, who propagandize Palestine.

She lived to consume a final glass of wine.

A glass before the terrors of the widow blade.

The final guillotine, the last chop.

The slice of nuclear life.

— Hungarian, Serbian, or Croatian Jew. Market to them a Replicant system on a mobile device. Being short, prone to paranoia and anxiety. Pale either causes the target stress, or her stress causes her to become pale. Perhaps something related to dark hair, with dark facial hair showing up more. She has a huge salt craving, and needs catharsis. Is addicted to social media to relief her feelings of isolation, that continuously grow more overt. Tailors feed to mock me to satisfy her own feelings of self-doubt. — said Charlotte.

She was in the position of having to teach herself how to collect meta-data, and liked the challenge it gave her to learn about the world around her. But there were some celebrities in the Hollywood movie business that were easy to tailor advertisements too, and they don't even think about how much data they leave behind of themselves on the web. Charlotte technically uses social media, but prefers decentralization to centralization, making finding suitable platforms extremely difficult. Tomorrow she will go back to her apartment, whose complex was still populated by loud yapping puppers.

She preferred voxel art game pets, although she didn't like having to use a laisse to reel the Alsatian dogs into the fenced in yard, giving her favorite NPCs a place to live should be a far more humane task. Using crafted weaponry like swords in game, brought back memories of when she had died on the national razor before the reign of terror. Her head placed on a stick, for lack of rolling to the streets below. She was indeed, a girl out of time.

She was 21 Century Charlotte.

Impression: ignorance, malevolence, personality defect. Reprehinsible envies, slowly driven to anxiety. Slowly going downward into a mental spiral, ignorance is everyone's strength besides her own. Her own oblivion, the nocturnal looms on the horizon. In the sand she waits for forever, enternity to come home. She floats inside her own timelessness. One could perform stage tricks, or get a job as a double agent for some three letter agency. She stares at her lcd binary watch, stomps on a cockroach, slipping off a skyscraper. Floating, everthing was thirty thousand feet down, and she wasn't dropping any further. We have the known world, the world we live in today. There are many worlds beyond our own that sometimes bleed into consensus reality.

All the way down, were songs of various pop music bands, although these constantly change decade by decade. All the tunes on the radio bled into a single monotonous noise.

She died as she lived, to the tune of her own melody, hymning various tunes from different goth rock bands. Flourescence: Florentine immigrants, licking Italian Ice. Of the flavor of chocolate, slowly the scent comes inside ones nose. Nocturnal fragrance. Coming decades go by, everlasting years going by like seconds in grandfather clock. She woke up in a shock, feeling as if the floor were made of concrete spikes. Pushing herself up, she walks among the various incarnations of her past. Various mirrors into multiple independant manifestations of what we deem to be forever. She had no way of knowing what face of a tesseract was up or down, all she knew was she was floating in an odd blend of wire frame, and symbols from various mythologies throughout the ages. It was then, she remembered, her comment she told her therapist.

— I feel like I'm living somebody else's novel. It was a comment she heard a long time ago, on some long sense forgotten sitcom. She felt like her own life story was a script written by those with the most morbid of sense of humor, for those who get chuckles out of dead babies in Africa and the Middle East. She felt constantly like an outsider, drifting from culture to culture, from century to century, and now she can't seem to pick, in the translucent void that her manifestation, a new world to call her own. There are only so many ways one can stretch a word, describing its characteristic indirectly, but within herself, with some many ways to describe her past, which she always seemed stuck in, it still felt like a seemingly infinite amount of words.

In life, she collected various Burner phone, acting carelessly about where she dropped them. She would go to the diciest of restaurants, and burn away one hundred dollars she earned every Christmas, while others her age stood on street corners hitching rides from strangers. In many ways, our own modern life has no changed much from the wild west. The only difference was, you could steal somebody's car today as long as you weren't a member of any specific sets of minorities that belonged to the current hate of the week. But people were not erased in this society, although certainly at times she wished to be. Instead there was so much data out there about everyone, she wondered how in the various three letter agencies could sort through it all.

Yet here she was, wandering in the dark.

Waiting for the spark, called life, she waits for the fall.

She waits for a tunnel into the light.

It was a joke specifically about the new generation she happened upon, being reborn into the world of the next. The difference between generation twenty o seven and twenty o eight, was those who graduated in two thousand and eight excluded you from Facebook groups.

Those who graduated just a year before, insist you exclude yourself from Facebook. People underestimate the amount of difference a single year can make within the same generation, both in general rebelliousness, and general tech savvyness. She knew others who graduated a couple of years before she did, that were actually playing coops on gaming PCs, playing retro first person shooters, while she was still working out how she'll go about becoming a programmer for video games. Instead she got into the cryptographic game, developed a triple polygraphic cipher tools, and watched videos on how to crack open safes. Now going on ten years later after high school, already she had almost nothing in common with her own generation, going leaps beyond the cryptographic capabilities of her peers, while others stuck with Solitaire Ciphers and Advanced Encryption Standards distributed by Public Key protocols on the web.

She preferred the rustiness that other techies had long since abandoned, and now in twenty eighteen, was likely the only one still using sneaker net options like old fashioned thumb drives. She would store her cryptographic protocols, and remote viewing meta data tracking inside of a drive previously used to store personal memories inside of an ear ring, but her ear lobe had gotten infected from the weight of it cutting into the cartilage. Now she waits for her wounds to heal, drifting the world of Night time Chattanooga, observing call girls, while what remained of American civil society had a surface level tension that was comparing to the generation of the eighteen fifties. In her bones, she felt that the country, if you could call it that, being more of an Eldritch abomination of nations, was on the verge of a new civil war that was about to become hot.

There was not any bullets flying just yet, but already in moments when she was on the verge of panic attacks, she would momentarily hope out of time, and see a fractured United States. A society where life was cheap, concrete scattered like grains of sand, and then wake up staring at the sky while sitting on the curve, having almost passed out in the cold. To think, that she was only twenty eight, going on twenty nine.

And already, she felt like fifty.

She felt as if she was going on a century and a half.