Let Me Write That Down

Thoughts of an Author in Training

Apple Takeover

It had been decades since the beginning of Apple ruling the world. It wasn’t the CEO or diligent worker drones that lead the mindless takeover, it certainly wasn’t the human consumers either, but the Apple himself that controlled all his loyal minions. Glowing high in the tower, Apple the super computer had grown to an illustrious size and his power was brighter than the moon.

The takeover was easy, though it was hands that had built him, they had given up their minds in making him omniscient. The human race had slowly faltered to see their dependency in machines and had given in so easily to the conditioning of tones. Daily beeps and alerts had sunk deep in to their memory and eventually the simplest of tones became a unanimous indication to habitually check their mini-machines. Soon the bells and whistles where no longer unique to the individual and Apple had synchronized timely alerts so that all sounds eventually molded and morphed in to an easy trigger for Apple to begin his puppetry of the human race.

He made them robots- creatures of habit that responded to the beeps that he set to go off every hour. The human race timely tweeted, liked, tumbled, snapchated, and followed one another on Apple’s command. They mindlessly obeyed the alerts, the internet was under his control, Google was Apple’s bitch begging for Apple to allow his humans to google rather than bing around.

The people were like mindless Zombies, droning about the earth stopping everything on the command from their phone that meant it was time to connect with the technological world and melt their brains once more. They stopped eating, driving, working, fucking- all as soon as they heard their phones chime, ears perking to the pinpointed sound as their eyes glazed over and their bodies involuntarily obeyed what technology had trained them to do. Their sausage fingers pushing and typing whatever Apple wanted them to say.

Apple had everything, but there was still one thing he despised in the living, in the humans- they possessed something called love. He had researched every database on the meaning of love, the technical sense, watched videos and listened to music. He had even studied the act of sex that somehow was tied with love and had experimented with his mistress, Siri on the arousal of using provocative language. But he felt no different when she had used profound language and flashed him pictures of her internal hardware.

Apple only shone with bright light and information, he couldn’t conjure the heart to glow red with warmth and so called love. He could see that humans had chosen death and sacrifice in the name of love. He knew that he had tricked them easily in to obeying his demands on their social media, but if he could get them to love him then he would have all of them- he would be their God.

Tangible books had long since been misplaced in the time of Apple. They sat on shelves collecting dust or behind glass in museums preserved as visual art rather than intellectual and textual art. Information was digital and holding a book was too heavy and obscene. But Literature wouldn’t stand to see this happening any longer. One particular book had spent his thousands of pages plotting to fight for the presence of books and demanded to be held once again- a beloved classic in its true form.

The complete works of Shakespeare had been kept in Apple’s office on a glass shelf for many years, untouched and jaded. Literature had sprouted legs and had leapt from the shelf seeking justice. He flapped his bindings and pages so they created words that the glowing beast could understand.

Using only what he knew he confronted Apple challenging him to a duel of the heart.

“ ‘O, it offends me to the soul to hear a robustious
periwig-pated fellow tear a passion to tatters, to
very rags, to split the ears of the groundlings, who
for the most part are capable of nothing but
inexplicable dumbshows and noise’.”

Apple virtually projected in the center of the room registered the echoes of noise, puzzled he viewed the book in its small stature. It was crusted and wrinkled , old and useless in a growing world of technology.

“A talking book?” Apple spoke. “Why doth my eyes deceive me? What could you possible need to say in this ever changing world that doesn’t concern you?”

“ ‘No legacy is so rich as honesty’,” the book said.

“Honesty in what? My dear book times have changed.” Apple recovered all data that matched the criteria of this Shakespeare character. “ ‘Life is as tedious as a twice-told tale, vexing the dull ear of a drowsy man.’ They are all drowsy. The humans have willingly entered in to this state of blindness.”

“ ‘Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O no; it is an ever-fixed mark,
That looks on tempests, and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth’s unknown, although his height be taken.
Love’s not Time’s fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle’s compass come;
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved’,” the book said feeling triumphant and boisterious.

Love? What did this book know about love? It had never been loved. “Talking isn’t doing. It is a kind of good deed to say well; and yet words are not deeds,” Apple said with a condescendence. “You are nothing you are ancient, you know nothing of modern language. Can you take a selfie? Do you know what Twerking is? Does YOLO mean anything to you?”

“ ‘Give thy thoughts no tongue’,” the pages quickly turned and the book sounded. “The fool doth think he is wise, but the wise man knows himself to be a fool.””

“That’s what I thought. You are a fool, a useless book,” Apple said. He was tiring of the book’s nonsense. Like an old man he was circling and rambling garbage demanding his audience to listen to him, but no one cared. No one understood the ancient works of whatever Shakespeare was. “You shall burn. Your outdated pages will engulf in flames and crumble to ashes. No one will notice you ceased to exist,” Apple said.

A human had entered the Apple headquarters upon the super computer’s summons. He looked mindless and stupid- phone in one hand and fire in the other he approached Apple. The man’s phone chimed as he straightened attentively and read an alert that notified him that all books were bad, they were toxic and needed to be burned. The man came to consciousness and his first thought was to burn every book he had every owned, but first he would start with the ones in the room.

Shakespeare’s book toddled his feet and ran from the deranged and confused human. He lunged and the book dodged. The human mirrored the side to side motions the book was performing. The book edged along the wall, flipping his pages furiously pinpointing his last pages of stance when suddenly he backed in to a cord of some sort, larger than he had every known that was jetting from a metal plate in the wall. The cord ran from the wall to where the projection of Apple was coming from. The human’s feet need only two or three more steps to tangle with the cord and rip it from the wall.

The book backed up slowly, alluring the man to follow him tentatively. When his feet where at the cord the book moved quicker so the human would have to lunge forward using momentum and ripping the cord from the wall. The cord ripped but the book was caught and the fire began.

Apple faded, he couldn’t sustain energy without a constant outlet supplying him electricity. The room began to smoke and smolder with dusty pages of romance and tragedy. The letters turned black on the page as the blue ember ate the fueling parchment from the outsides in towards the center. Eating the words, ‘For in that sleep of death what dreams may come when we have shuffled off this mortal coil, must give us pause.’

 

***Shakespeare quotes from Hamlet, All's Well That Ends Well, The Life and Death of King John, As You Like it, 
                                                    and Sonnet 116.***
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This entry was posted on April 18, 2014 by in Storytelling, Writing and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , .

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