No Rest For The Wicked

People leeched the colour out of the world, then wondered why they felt so depressed and unfulfilled. They locked themselves away indoors, staring at the one window, wondering why the Real World couldn't be as colourful and satisfying.

People reached the end of their lives feeling they weren't ready. This wasn't new. Few ever are. No matter what age they are, or what age they live in. This generation had a unique claim to genuine unreadiness, because they'd never lived in the real world at all. "Plugged in" all their lives. From conception, really.

Someone finally figured out how to upload consciousness.

Romances that had only ever been played out in cyberspace could at last go to a new level. More importantly, people mastered death! When their bodies Left, They could linger. Watch their grandkids grow.

Except...

They never should've done it to children, for parents who (understandably) couldn't bear to let go. You haven't had your heart broken until you see a toddler, transparent and faintly outlined in blue, trailing his elderly mother in the supermarket and lingering by the birthday cards. "When will I be four, Mummy?" She blinks hard, and keeps walking. Maybe his voice pecks away at her, her finger hovers over the button on her wrist. Dying, at last, to switch it off.

They never should've let creditors force people to upload. People work off their debt after death, now. Mort-gages took on a whole new meaning. An especially sick sort of enslavement, really.

After a while, almost everyone signed up for this, knowing that they'd never be able to buy a house otherwise. Not in this economy.

People used to say things like, "I doubt I'll be able to retire before I'm..." Now, it's rare they retire before they die. Or even after.

A certain billionaire bought the right to have Marilyn Munroe keep him company. She died before the singularity, so it isn't a true consciousness. It's a ghost cobbled together from her time on-screen and a few interviews. Other women will not be so lucky.

People are so good at tormenting each other. They make a better Hell than I ever managed from fire and brimstone and demons.

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Word count - 366

(NB. This excludes the title, subtitle, and authors note.)

Submitted on Thursday 26th September at 22:15

The song that leapt to mind when I was writing this:

The story behind the story: This is a story for Marie Sinadjan's Spooky Bingo, using the theme "Technology gone wrong".

A Year of Stories: I'm writing (and submitting, here) a story every day this year. This continues my 270 daily microfiction story streak since 1st January. I can't believe I'm going to say this, but...

ONLY NINETY-SIX DAYS TO GO!

Please consider lending your support to the other creators on this madcap "a story every day" adventure. They're putting out excellent content every day! Rachel Deeming Gerard DiLeo

Image: I had a fun fight with AI again for this one. At first it said, "Oops, try another prompt! Looks like there are some words that are blocked..." I'd originally asked for this gentleman to have a fireside in the background. I thought that might be what caused it to be blocked, so I took that part out, but it still didn't work.

I asked for AI to add a vintage pocket watch to the picture, and it churned this out. Not bad, but the watch looks shit. I asked it to take the watch out, and it said, "Oops..."

What the heck.

Thank you

Especially if you are one of the wonderful people who has been staunchly reading these daily scribbles since the start of the year. I see you, and appreciate you very much indeed! Thank you to those who leave feedback/comments. I will do my best to respond to each one and reciprocate the reads.

If you enjoyed this one, the very best compliment you can give me is to share it, or read another!

Here's one on a similar theme:

Five days left on my dollar challenge!

+ + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + Thank you again!