Thought Production

-Factory floor-

I never thought I'd be appreciated. There's no chance, but I was there shaking his hand. Warmth exchanged from hand to hand. My eyes won't leave them, thank you.

It sits on the table but usually, I hold it, it is quite important. Its leathery casing protects it. I spend a lot of time staring at it, listening to its sounds, watching it. Filling it. It keeps me from leaving this place, it keeps me happy to be here. It gives me purpose.

Maybe it's been a few months, or years, I'm not sure. Time has changed ever since I have been here. It goes fast and slow all at once. Do you ever feel that?

I have nobody. No family, no friends. I don't think I know anyone. Only the people that collect my notebook sometimes, I know them. I think.

IT IS A ROOM. A SMALL ONE. COLD ONE. PEOPLE WALK PAST THE DOOR TO THE ROOM. THE SUBJECT, THOUGHT PRODUCER 404, SITS IN THE MIDDLE. THOUGHT PRODUCER 404 HAS ACCESS TO A BED, WRITING DESK AND SMALL, BLACK, LEATHER NOTEBOOK. THEY WRITE. WE READ. WE DECIDE.

I've written hundreds of stories by now, it is all I do, all I'm needed to do. I'm told that I am the key to discovery, that by writing I can unlock secrets and mysteries of the earth. When I wasn't here, I was a writer, so sitting day in and day out writing does not phase me.

THOUGHT PRODUCER 404 AFTER UNDERGOING PARTIAL MEMORY REMOVAL IS TASKED, AS WITH ALL THOUGHT PRODUCERS, TO WRITE.

-Head Office-

The Author walks the length of the board room, brushing past the 3 seated prospective facility buyers, to sit at the head of the table.

-THE AUTHOR: “Welcome, I am glad that you all join me here today”

Sunlight pours through large windows into the glass board room.

-THE AUTHOR: “Today, I will give you the opportunity to obtain the greatest tool and resource you will ever own. A Thought Facility”

The Author’s eyes sheen, thinking about the concept.

-THE BUSINESSMAN: “How much? I know about the product but I don’t know the price”

-THE AUTHOR: “Now now, let us not get ahead of ourselves”

The Author stands, walks away from the table and faces a screen displaying crystal sharp imagery of the exterior of the facility.

-THE AUTHOR: “This is my facility. My success. This is how I have written hundreds of best-selling novels. This is not the only facility of its type, many successful business magnates, politicians, philanthropists, authors, the list goes on, have facilities much like this. My facility, being the first, is the largest of its kind with 5000 onsite Thought Producers housed here”

-THE PHILOSOPHER: “What does the facility look like on the inside?”

-THE AUTHOR: “A good question. Each Thought Producer has a room to themselves with a bed, writing desk and a black leather notebook”

-THE POLITICIAN: “How do you ensure our confidentiality? I mean, I don’t want the public knowing of my involvement in any of this”

-THE BUSINESSMAN: “Yes, how will we manage these facilities privately?”

-THE AUTHOR: “Again, very good questions. With your initial purchase, there will be the option for an onsite upkeep team to manage the facility at an extra, upfront fee. This will mean that you, if you wish, never have to step foot in the facility and can remotely operate and command your team from wherever you please”

The Author walks back to the head of the table, moves the chair and stands in its place.

-THE AUTHOR: “You have the option for your team to implement the Thought Producers to write ideas, their personal thoughts, or stories. Depending on the Thought Producers previous profession they can even produce scientific theories or mathematic conjectures”

-THE PHILOSOPHER: “What is the procedure for recruiting the Thought Producers?”

The Author pulls the chair back to the head of the table and sits down again.

-THE AUTHOR: “Thought Producers are bought outright at a base price, living in the facility and undergoing a partial memory/brain re-configuring procedure in order to maximise their thought output.

-THE BUSINESSMAN: “No purchasing of rights? You own the right to every thought, every word they write down”

-THE AUTHOR: “Exactly, every letter they write in that little black notebook is yours by right”

Each mouth sat around the table stretches into a smile at the endless possibilities.

-The Middle Men-

“Hurry up, it’s notebook collection day, come on! The facility is not getting sorted on its own!”, a short but sturdy facility worker spits out to surrounding workers.

Corridor upon corridor of rooms creates a seemingly endless maze, like a hotel, an infinite hotel. Several hundred workers pace the hallways daily, collecting the notebooks and not much more, just doing what they are supposed to.

One of the workers, the short sturdy one, stands in the middle of a group talking at them. Another one scuttles along the hall towards the group but the group disperses as soon as they are near.

"I've some news, yeah, news about one of the thinkers, I have"

the scuttling worker exclaims.

The short worker being the only person left, responds

"What's this about? what are you saying? News about a thought producer? spit it out then".

"You know how the boss at the head office wants to spread the thoughts, you know, publish the stuff and get money and whatever. I put one of the stories that the thinkers wrote on this competition" the scuttling worker’s words begin to scuttle too.

“Stop...You did what?” the short worker peers up from under their pronounced brow.

“This competition where you could win 20,000 if you write a good story and...” the scuttling worker begins to redden, sweat.

“That’s not your story though is it?”

The short worker says, slow, no longer seeming as short but instead seemingly intimidating and big.

“You don’t own that writing do you? That story belongs to the boss. If you’ve won money, its the bosses. You need to sort yourself out”.

The scuttling worker, now shaking, whispers

“You can have some, some of the money the story won, I’ve..I’ve actually been doing this for a little while now, taking some of the stories. The boss has hundreds of bestsellers, mountains of money, where is our cut? Please don’t turn me in you gotta understand me. I’ve got nothing...Thompson?”

The short worker, Thompson, shudders then barks

“You..you..don’t use MY name! You want me to use YOUR name? Let everyone know it and use it for themselves? You can own a person if you know enough about them!”

...there is a long pause...

“Would you rather crush mice beneath the soles of your shoe or step on the toe of a lion?... Would you rather take from the vulnerable with only moral consequences, or steal from the powerful and risk being the crushed mouse?”

Thomson mumbles, staring down the hallway.

“I’m not sure what I prefer but I understand you. Please, don’t talk about this again.”

Thompson disappears down the hallway.

All the thoughts that could possibly scuttle around the scuttling workers head do just that, scuttle around. At least they had money now, enough money for safety, not to be sold off or bought, enough money to keep oneself to oneself. In this age of monetization, one does not want to let their guard down. Anything you say, feel, are, can be bought, sold, bartered. The scuttling worker thinks about what Thompson said. Guilt? Is that what can be felt? They begin to walk down the hall towards room 404 where the Thought Producer that wrote the story which won the 20,000 resides. They deserve something at least, even if it isn’t the money they earnt.

The door is unlocked and swings open. The Thought Producer, 404, spins around, assuming it is notebook collection. The scuttling worker can’t help but pity the human in this room. They step closer to one another, 404 knows that something is different, looking uneasy. To diffuse this, the scuttling worker instinctively reaches out and touches 404’s hand and thanks them, congratulates them “Your story, amazing, the boss is proud, you have done well”. Lies. The boss is not proud, having never seen the writing and 404 will never know of the money that their story won. The scuttling worker leaves. The door shuts. 404 sits in the room and thinks...

-Factory Floor-

I never thought I'd be appreciated. There's no chance, but I was there shaking his hand. Warmth exchanged from hand to hand. My eyes won't leave them, thank you.

I will write again, like this, produce more knowledge that will bring the boss pride. A moment like this is one that secures my existence, secures my purpose. I hold the black notebook, think, think of thoughts that will fill these pages. That is all I must do.