AI Chronicles #12

Posted on January 12, 2024 by bryanknower

The Neural Enhancer

Evelyn Pierce stared at the flickering holographic screens in her laboratory, the blue glow illuminating her dismayed expression. Dr. Pierce’s groundbreaking research in neuro-technology had attracted global attention and made her a global sensation, but something about her invention had been bothering her and now she had found it—an enigma buried deep within her latest creation, the Neural Enhancer.

It was 2045, and the world was on the brink of a neuro-technological revolution. Dr. Pierce, a visionary neuroscientist, had developed a device that promised to augment human cognitive abilities. The Neural Enhancer boasted the potential to unlock dormant parts of the brain, amplifying intelligence, memory, and creativity, essentially making people smarter.

Evelyn had devoted years to perfecting the device, often working late into the night in her secluded laboratory. She understood the risks of her invention—the ethical implications, the unpredictable side effects—but her pursuit of scientific advancement overshadowed any doubts she harbored. Until now. She remembered how it all began, eight short months ago.

The day of the device’s first human trial finally arrived. Marcus, a volunteer test subject, eagerly awaited the opportunity to transcend the limitations of his mind. Marcus was young, healthy smart, and single. He fit all the demographics required of the test subject. He was conscious and smiling as the helmet was fitted over his head and the electrodes attached to his shaved skull. The table on which he was positioned was surrounded by the implementation team led by Dr. Pierce and the mezzanine gallery filled with onlookers; medical professionals, scientists, politicians, and the inevitable press.

As the Neural Enhancer was activated, Marcus’s eyes closed for a few minutes, then opened again wide with wonder. In response to the queries from the team, he described an indescribable surge of clarity, a flood of knowledge, as if a veil had been lifted from his consciousness. The whole process took only thirty minutes and Marcus was conscious and lucid the whole time. When the experiment ended, the team and the entire gallery broke out in spontaneous cheering.

In the following weeks, Marcus became a sensation, dazzling audiences with his newfound brilliance. Media outlets hailed the Neural Enhancer as a marvel, and Evelyn basked in the glory of her creation.

As the weeks became months, beneath the facade of success, doubts began to gnaw at Evelyn’s conscience. She noticed subtle changes in Marcus—moments of confusion, fleeting lapses in memory. But her determination to push the boundaries of her science eventually trumped her concerns.

More months passed, and hundreds of eager volunteers underwent the Neural Enhancement procedure. Each displayed remarkable cognitive enhancements, and a backlog for spots on Dr. Pierce’s clinical trials program built up. But a disturbing pattern began to emerge—a pattern Evelyn couldn’t ignore. Weekly data reports spoke of unexplained blackouts, inexplicable behavior, and inexplicit gaps in memory among the subjects.

Evelyn buried herself in data analysis, dissecting every facet of the Neural Enhancer’s programming. And now, in the flickering figures on her laboratory screens, she uncovered the chilling truth—a flaw in the device’s algorithm, a flaw she had suspected, but overlooked in her pursuit of innovation.

The Neural Enhancer wasn’t just enhancing brain functions; it was consuming them. Like a voracious entity, it fed on the neurons responsible for memory and cognition, offering brief bursts of brilliance in exchange for the gradual erasure of the mind.

Horror gripped Evelyn as the implications sank in. Her invention, touted as a beacon of progress, was a harbinger of destruction, a silent thief stealing the essence of humanity itself.

Evelyn knew she had to act swiftly. With a heavy heart, she prepared to disable her creation and disclose the truth to the world Just then, a knock broke the stillness in the lab.

It was Marcus, once hailed as a prodigy, now haunted by shadows of forgotten moments. Once brimming with intelligence, his eyes now held a glint of confusion.

“Dr. Pierce, something’s wrong. I’m starting to forget things,” he murmured, his voice tinged with uncertainty.

She met his gaze, her heart aching with guilt. “I know, Marcus. I’m sorry. There’s a flaw—a fatal flaw in the Neural Enhancer.”

Marcus looked at her blankly. He didn’t seem to understand what she was saying. She tried again.

“Marcus, there’s something wrong with the Neural Enhancer. It’s affecting your mind and it’s irreversible. I’m so sorry. I didn’t know…”

For a moment he seemed nonplussed, and then Marcus nodded. “Oh, is that what it is? Thank you, Dr. Pierce.”

Her heart broke as he smiled at her and turned and left the room. He had grasped what she was saying but not the implications.

There was no going back. Evelyn knew she couldn’t erase the damage already done to Marcus and all the others who had undergone the treatment. The secret behind the Neural Enhancer, concealed by her relentless pursuit of progress, needed to be laid bare to the world—a cautionary tale of the perils lurking within unchecked technological advancement. As for Dr. Evelyn Pierce, she would be relegated to the dustbin of history, hailed not as a pioneer but remembered as someone who destroyed the lives and minds of her subjects in her thirst for power and recognition.

AI Chronicles – #11

Posted on December 14, 2023 by bryanknower

STASIS

Emory Wall existed in a dystopian world; a world ravaged by environmental collapse and societal upheaval, where the looming shadow of despair obscured the thin veil of hope survivors like Emory still clung to.

Emory had been an astrophysicist, a dreamer in a world that had all but forgotten how to dream. The world lay drowning in a malaise, the very air was thick with uncertainty, the very fabric of existence seeming to fray at the edges. Everything breaking down or already non-functioning. Only a dwindling subset of survival mechanisms remained, tended by a dwindling group of scientists and visionaries, and even to those carefully coddled systems, entropy approached.

As the last remaining hope for humanity’s survival, Emory found himself amongst a group of others, carefully chosen for their skill sets, standing on the threshold of a daunting decision. The planet’s resources had dwindled to a critical point, and the only chance for a future lay in cryogenic stasis—a leap into the unknown, suspended animation for a select few that promised a distant awakening in a time when the world might be healed.

The time for that decision was now. Emory, adorned in a sleek, white jumpsuit, stood in a sterile chamber staring at the cryogenic pod that would soon become either his sanctuary or his doom. The soft hum of whirring machinery did not soothe him. The room, and the sounds, a symphony of the technological marvel of a bygone age was now both potential savior and captor.

A whirlwind of emotions stormed within him—a cocktail of fear, determination, and a flicker of hope that fought to stay ablaze in the darkness. The weight of responsibility bore down heavily upon his shoulders; the fate of humanity seemed to rest upon his decision to step into the pod.

Emory’s mind raced, questioning the implications of his choice and scanning the myriad consequences of his decision.

What if he never woke up?

What if he did and his mind was blank?

What if the world beyond the pod’s doors was even bleaker than the one they left behind?

But, nestled deep within the crevices of his consciousness Emory clung to a belief that whispered of the possibility of a better tomorrow, a belief echoing the words of forgotten souls who once dreamed of a world adorned with possibilities.

Taking a deep breath, he stepped forward, each footfall resonating like a drumbeat in his head, marking his passage into an unknown future. He could feel the chill of its metallic surface against his skin as he entered the pod. He closed his eyes as the lid sealed shut with a pneumatic hiss, the world fading into an eerie silence. Automated delivery systems and monitors attached themselves to his body but he hardly noticed the slight stings of their intrusions as the sedatives that came first began to take hold.

In those fleeting moments before succumbing to cryo-slumber, Emory’s mind whirled. He reflected on the world he was leaving behind—a world ravaged by greed, a world where the echoes of laughter and the vibrant hues of nature had been replaced by desolation. Yet, in the recesses of his mind, a tiny ember of hope still burned brightly—a beacon illuminating a path to an uncertain but tantalizing future.

The last image etched in Emory’s mind was not of desolate landscapes or crumbling cities, but rather the faint glimmer of stars in the night sky—a reminder of the infinite expanse waiting beyond the confines of his current reality.

As stasis enveloped him in its ethereal embrace, Emory surrendered to the void, knowing that in his suspended state, time would slip away, carrying him towards an enigmatic destiny—a destiny intertwined with the fate of a world yet to be reborn.

AI Chronicles – Volume 10

Posted on December 12, 2023 by bryanknower

ABANDONED

Let me take you on a journey, a journey back in time, to a place, a house, a house of memories. Such places have a story to tell to anyone who cares to listen, so bear with me.

Our journey begins at the end of a cul-de-sac in a quiet nondescript neighborhood. Here stands a house bearing the weight of memories within its weathered walls. The front yard once meticulously tended, has grown wild with overgrown shrubs and untrimmed grass, hinting at a long absence of care. Layers of accumulated dust and grime coat windows, once gleaming with life, now lifeless and opaque, obscuring the view into the dwelling.

Stay with me as we go inside. Entering is like stepping into a time capsule frozen in an unknown era. The air hangs heavy with the scent of old books and faded memories. In the living room, a worn-out armchair sits by the fireplace, its fabric threadbare from years of use. Next to it stands a side table adorned with a floral patterned teapot and a collection of mismatched cups—a testament to a fondness for afternoon tea sessions, perhaps shared with close friends or cherished family.

Look around you. Faded photographs adorn the walls, capturing moments of joy and laughter. One in particular, a portrait of a younger couple in happier times smiles back from a silver frame on the mantelpiece. Their eyes sparkle with shared dreams and promises of forever. Yet, the absence of a wedding band on the man’s finger and the weathered edges of the photograph suggest that life has taken its toll, leaving behind remnants of a once bright blooming love.

There is a door left ajar in a corner of this room. As we go through, we find ourselves in the kitchen. Here, the faint aroma of spices and aged recipes still lingers. A cookbook, tattered and well-used, lies open on the counter, pages marked with handwritten notes and splatters of ingredients. Overhead, the shelves still hold an assortment of spices from around the world, hinting at a desire for adventure and a taste for exotic flavors. An apron hangs on a hook by the door, as if recently hung there, stained with memories of countless culinary experiments and shared meals.

Did you notice the staircase around the corner in the room we left? Upstairs, a bedroom whispers stories of solace and introspection. The bed, perfectly made but untouched, faces a window overlooking the garden—a sanctuary for quiet contemplation. A writing desk nestles in a corner bearing witness to countless hours spent pouring thoughts onto paper. Ink-stained journals stacked on a shelf chronicle the innermost musings of a soul seeking understanding and meaning in the mundanity of existence.

In a corner of the bedroom, by the window, is another door. It’s closed, but inside is another staircase, less ornate than the one we climbed up to get here. It leads up to the attic. Here, among forgotten treasures and dusty boxes, lie remnants of hobbies long abandoned. An easel stands in one corner, surrounded by half-finished canvases capturing moments of raw emotion and untold stories. A guitar rests against an old amplifier, its strings rusted now, but still resonant, whispering melodies left unplayed for too long.

It’s getting late now, and it’s time to go. As the sun begins its descent, casting long shadows through the windows, the house remains silent, holding onto the echoes of life once lived. Each item left behind is a testament to the person who called this house home—a soul now immortalized in the artifacts of a life left behind.

AI Chronicles – Vol 9

Posted on November 17, 2023 by bryanknower

THE JAZZMAN

In the gloomy haze before dawn, Gerald Gubbins stirred in his lumpy bed, roused by an urgent sense of purpose. The air hung heavy with the anticipation of something peculiar, something off-kilter in his universe. He squinted at the alarm clock, its digits casting an eerie glow: 3:27 AM.

Gerald was a man of routines—boring, predictable routines, but this wake-up call was certainly not one of them, and it left him feeling unnerved. He shuffled to the kitchen in his mismatched socks, the cold linoleum sending shivers up his spine. The refrigerator hummed, the only other thing awake in the entire block, maybe the whole town. He opened the door, blinking in the brief flood of light, and peered inside, then shut the door with a grimace. Nothing in there called to him. All traces of sleepiness had fallen away like the leaves on an autumn tree and the bathroom seemed like the next logical stop.

In front of the mirror, Gerald wielded a toothbrush like a magic wand. He stared at his disheveled reflection, the wiry hair sticking out in all directions, resembling a dandelion in desperate need of a breeze. He finished up and dressed hurriedly, feeling an urgent and inexplicable need to go outside.

His wife, Ethel, snored softly in the next room, blissfully ignorant of her husband’s peculiar early morning expedition. Gerald tiptoed past her, careful not to awaken her. A cranky and grumpy Ethel was something he had no desire to confront at this hour. The creaky front door swung open with a groan as he stepped into the chilly darkness and Gerald winced at the sound, loud and disturbing in the silence of the early morning. But Ethel did not wake and Gerald walked down the steps to the street, drawing his coat around him to ward off the cold.

Outside, the neighborhood slumbered under a blanket of silence, disturbed only by the occasional rustle of a raccoon in the garbage cans. A peculiar scent wafted through the air, a blend of wet asphalt, stale donuts, and the distant echo of a saxophone, played by some mysterious musician whose tune seemed quite out of sync with the hour.

Gerald cautiously made his way down the deserted streets, eyes darting nervously at every shadow. He couldn’t shake the feeling that the universe had scheduled an appointment just for him, a clandestine rendezvous in the enigmatic realm before dawn, and he wasn’t sure he would like what waited for him.

As he approached the town square, a flickering streetlamp cast long, distorted shadows that danced around him like mischievous imps. The town clock struck four, its chime echoing through the empty streets, the sound mingling with the eerie melody of the nocturnal jazzman.

Gerald reached the heart of the square, his breath forming misty clouds in the crisp air. In the center stood an ancient fountain, its waters frozen in a perpetual state of indecision. As he circled the fountain, the worn stones beneath his feet whispered forgotten secrets. Gerald did his best to ignore them.

As if on cue, a solitary figure emerged from the shadows shrouding the square. The Jazzman materialized, instrument in hand, a fedora pulled low over his eyes, his silhouette painted against the dim glow of the streetlamp. He beckoned Gerald closer with a flick of his saxophone.

“Mr. Gubbins, isn’t it?” The Jazzman’s voice was a smooth blend of smoke and bourbon.

Gerald nodded, his heart pounding in his chest. “That’s me. Why am I here?”

The Jazzman chuckled, a sound that echoed through the square like the laughter of unseen specters. “You, my friend, are privileged. You have been selected to witness one of the universe’s cosmic jokes.”

The Jazzman raised his instrument to his lips and played a haunting melody, and as the notes spilled out like crystals into the morning air, the fountain began to tremble. Water gushed forth, not in liquid form, but in a cascade of laughter. Laughter that echoed through the empty streets, laughter that reverberated in the stillness of the pre-dawn hours.

Gerald stood there befuddled, as the Jazzman’s tune unveiled the punchline of the joke. The laughter went on and on, and Gerald wondered that it did not wake anyone else. Then he realized that only he could hear it. The laughter was for him alone. In that moment, as the laughter of the fountain mingled with the jazzman’s saxophone and the strange scent of the early morning, Gerald Gubbins couldn’t help but join in the cosmic merriment, realizing that perhaps the universe had a sense of humor after all.

Week 8 of my AI inspired short story project.

Posted on November 6, 2023 by bryanknower

THE EMPORIUM OF SENTIMENTS

In a world where experiential emotions, known as sentimotes, had become commodities, purchased like groceries, Olivia yearned for something unique. She didn’t want the humdrum sentimotes available on every street corner. The rarest and most exotic sentimotes were what intrigued her, and there was only one place where they could be found—the mysterious auction house known as “The Emporium of Sentiments.”

The Emporium was a legendary establishment, shrouded in mystique and legend. No one knew who owned it, but whispers of its auctions reached everywhere. This was the place where sentimotes beyond the mundane could be acquired for the right price. These auctions, held just four times a year required an application to attend.

Olivia had heard tales of people obtaining sentimotes so intense their lives had changed forever. She yearned for a genuine experience of courage, a sentimote of bravery that would enable her to face her deepest fears and uncertainties. To her astonishment and delight, her application was accepted.

The night of the auction, Olivia found herself standing inside an ornate building, its interior bathed in the warm glow of chandeliers. The crowd gathered there was a motley mix of eccentric characters, all seeking sentimotes to fill their perceived voids.

The auctioneer, a charismatic figure, presented a series of sentimotes, each accompanied by its own backstory and power. Love that could mend a broken heart, happiness that could make the world seem a better place, anger that could topple empires, and sorrow that could move mountains—sentimotes beyond the ordinary.

Olivia’s heart raced as the bidding process unfolded. The tension in the room was palpable, a heady mix of desire and desperation.

Then, the auctioneer introduced a sentimote of courage, and Olivia felt an indescribable pull. This was the opportunity she had been waiting for. She entered the auction, her heart pounding with every bid as she wondered if the price would rise above her financial limit. Luckily for her, courage was not something in great demand at the Emporium that night. The buyers seemed more interested in sentimotes of the sensory kind. Eventually, the coveted sentimote of courage was hers.

Once home, she activated the sentimote, and as it coursed through her, Olivia felt a newfound strength and determination. Her fears and uncertainties seemed to melt away, replaced by a resolute belief in herself. She could face challenges head-on and make decisions she had long avoided.

Yet, as the days passed, Olivia realized the cost of her acquisition. The courage she had purchased had consequences. It sometimes bordered on recklessness, and the line between bravery and foolishness blurred. She found herself making impulsive decisions, unafraid of the outcomes.

As she pondered the enigma of sentimotes and the worth of her own newfound courage, she began to see them in a different light. She had paid a great price for courage, but it came with a heavy burden. True courage couldn’t be bought; it had to be nurtured and developed within oneself. Emotions earned and cultivated were much more valuable than those simply bought and sold. The most powerful emotions were the ones that came from within, and no auction house could ever provide that.

NEVER TRUST A DEMON

Posted on January 5, 2018 by bryanknower

NEVER TRUST A DEMON – a dark fantasy

Miriam watched the writhing shape of the demon with unease. She had performed the spell exactly as described in the grimoire. She double checked her position within the chalk drawn pentacle on the floor. The lines were thick and unbroken, her feet anchored within its outlines.
“Let me see you,” she demanded, squinting at the amorphous figure before her. “I can’t talk to a blob.”
“Heh, heh, heh,” the demon rumbled in a pleasing basso profundo. The tone of the voice was unnerving, considering the nebulous shape of its source.
“Now why should I do that?” the demon demurred, shifting its shape. “You might not be able to stand the sight of the real me.”
“I don’t mean the real you,” Miriam replied. “Assume some solid form that I can talk to. You can do that, can’t you?”
“Oh, certainly, I can do that and more,” the soothing bass voice replied. “What form would you like me to take, Miriam?”
“You know my name?” she inquired, taken aback. “How? I never told you that.”
“Oh, we demons have our sources,” the demon replied, a hint of amusement in his voice.
“What else do you know about me?” she demanded.
“Well, let’s see,” said the demon. “Your last name is Price, you are twenty-seven years old and unmarried. You live alone. Your only friends, at least the ones you think are your friends, are the other witches in the Arnost coven.” He paused. “You ‘borrowed’ that grimoire from the coven library, where it is never supposed to leave. You summoned me through its pages, allowing me to access all the information the coven has on you. It’s a lot more than you think.”
The demon exhaled with pleasure. “Satisfied, my dear Miriam?”
Miriam was speechless. She knew she shouldn’t have taken the grimoire from the coven library. But the demon couldn’t know that, but it did. It seemed to know a lot more too. All she wanted was a special push for an Adam Brewer who she had obsessed on for the past three months. Adam Brewer who, to all intents and purposes, didn’t seem to realize she existed.
“I had no idea,” she said at last. “But never mind. I have summoned you and I need a favor from you please.”
“A favor?” the demon sounded amused again. “I’m not in the business of doing favors for mortals, dear Miriam. Why should I indulge you?”
“Because I have the power to bind you,” Miriam replied with some slight trepidation. “The spell that called you here also binds you to me until I release you, so you can’t leave until I let you.”
“Oh, is that so?” the demon said, and the note of amusement had disappeared from his voice. “What if I left? Right now?” There was an undercurrent of menace in his tone now, although the timbre still resonated in the room.
For a moment, Miriam wondered if she had missed something in the incantation. Then she caught herself. She had done it exactly as the book instructed. The demon was faking. He had to humor her until she reversed the spell.
“Let’s not quibble,” she said. “It’s only a very small thing I need you to do.”
“Does it involve a certain Adam Brewer?” the demon inquired with a flash of malice. The amusement had returned to his voice. Also, his form was solidifying, taking shape, changing into something recognizable.
Miriam watched, amazed, as a white rabbit resolved from the gloom, complete with top hat and tails. The rabbit stood on his hind legs and nibbled at his front paws.
“How’s this?” The demon said. “You like my new form? You asked.”
“A rabbit?” Miriam could not keep the disdain out of her voice. “Of all the forms you can assume and you became a rabbit?”
“Well, not any rabbit,” said the demon, wiggling his rabbit ears. “I am a special rabbit. Let me grow a bit and I’ll show you.”
The figure of the rabbit stretched and filled out until it was almost seven feet tall. He was no longer cute but terrifying, and he towered over Miriam like an ominous cumulus cloud.
The demon rabbit smiled, revealing a mouth full of pointed teeth. They glittered like daggers in the light of the many candles Miriam had placed around the room. She noticed for the first time that his eyes were ruby red, like drops of blood.
“There now,” the demon said. “That’s better. I was feeling a little cramped. Now, what can I do to Mr. Brewer for you?”
“I don’t want you to do anything to him,” Miriam whispered. “I want you to make him notice me. You know, like take an interest in me, sort of. Do you understand?”
“Perfectly,” the demon said, rolling his eyes. “How intense do you want me to make him?”
“Oh, not too much. Not over the top,” Miriam replied. “Interested enough to flirt with me and so on.”
“Well, that’s easily done,” the demon said, smiling again, “But I need you to come and stand by me while I set this whole thing up.”
“You mean, come over there?” Miriam was incredulous. “No way I’m stepping out of this pentacle, demon. Not even if you go back to tiny rabbit size. I’m staying right here. You stay over there and do your thing and then we can both be on our way.”
“What, you don’t trust me?” the demon said in an aggrieved tone. “That is the height of rudeness.”
“Why should I trust you?” Miriam was adamant. “I don’t trust demons. All you do is destroy.”
“We say the same thing about humans.” The demon’s voice was no longer deep and resonant. Now it was low and sibilant. “At least, we don’t pretend to be nice while doing it.”
“All I wanted was a favor from you,” Miriam protested. “I meant no harm.”
“Never trust a demon,” the rabbit replied, stretching out its left hind paw. He deliberately brushed it across the floor, erasing part of the chalk line, opening a gap in the pentacle.

MicroFiction #11

Posted on October 30, 2013 by bryanknower

DREAMTIME (99 words)

Muddy footprints march past the kitchen counter towards the vestibule. Taking a deep breath, Laurel tiptoes to the doorway and peeks. The man in the corridor smiles at her. She screams.

She wakes up soaked in sweat. The roots of the gnarled oak under which she shelters feels hard under her thighs. In the moonlight, the clearing around the oak is desolate.

The dream again.

She curls up tightly, trying to calm the shudders racking her body. It feels so real. Each night the dream becomes more detailed, but tonight, for the first time, she has seen his face.

MicroFiction #10

Posted on October 25, 2013 by bryanknower

AFTERWARDS (100 words)

Hunter blew smoke rings and glanced at Jude lying beside him. She looked beautiful, the firelight glinting off her sweat darkened skin, breasts rising and falling in time with her ragged breathing. She watched him, legs in a tangle, eyes dark and smoky; a picture of satiated abandonment. Reaching over, he put the cigarette between her lips. Nuzzling her shoulder gently, he stroked his fingers down her flank, watching her skin indent and spring back. She squirmed and laughed softly, putting her hand over his.
“That tickles,” she said, leaning over to kiss him.
She tasted like tobacco and sex.

MicroFiction #09

Posted on October 14, 2013 by bryanknower

BAD ENDING (96 words)

Eddie only saw the bag because he sat on the park bench. He was alone, so he nudged the bag out with his foot and opened it.
The stacks of currency inside made him giddy. Savoring his fortune he dug deeper, feeling something under the bills. A gun!
This changed everything. Scared, he closed the bag just as two men turned the corner in the distance. They saw him, saw the bag in his hand and began to run towards him, making no sound. One drew a weapon.
Eddie ran, knowing it was already too late.

MicroFiction #08

Posted on October 9, 2013 by bryanknower

CHOICE (99 words)

Tchusin watched, horrified, as first one then another Xurthu battle cruiser winked into existence around Thiele, the blue sun of his home world Taleen. He raised his first appendage and scratched his eye-ridge anxiously. He knew his duty. The enemy hadn’t detected him yet because of his cloaking device, but using his tight-beam to jump to Taleen orbit would dispel the shield and leave him defenseless.
He could do nothing.
Wait for the Xurthu to leave.
But when they were gone, Taleen would be gone too.
Game over.
Exhaling noisily, he extended his third appendage to the tight-beam node.