The Time Now 1.7

Forge Of AI

Storyteller the Time Now

Forge Of AI

spoken word, ambient, cinematic

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You’re breathing again, 
and all you can hear is your breath, loud and heavy.

You feel your chest and your lungs, 
and everything is hazy. 
You don’t dare open your eyes. 
You just take one deep breath after another. 
And keep still.

Slowly, noises creep into your consciousness—
wavering, distorted—at first mere impressions, 
then louder and louder 
until they pierce your brain and make you moan.

And then you’re startled by the sound of your own voice 
and soaked in a cold sweat. 
You hold your breath and listen carefully.

There are screams and shouts all around you. 
Some are of pleasure, some are of pain, 
and you almost feel sorry for that poor kinnay.

And all you can hope is that—
when it will be all over—
it will be over for good for once.

But to your dismay, 
the wailing goes on for a long time 
before it turns into hoarse moans and sighs,
 and it fades to silence.

Then you hear steps, 
a fumble of clothes, 
and a big splash. 
And someone sits on the bed at your side.

You open your eyes. 
And the first thing you see is the red water in the shark tank. 
It’s meat time, and your skin crawls in horror.

But as you gaze with morbid fascination, 
you are relieved that at least this time, 
for once, 
it was over for good.

“Our dear vessel… our beautiful vessel…” the well-known voice whispers. “You are back with us again.”

You feel their fingers caressing your temples. 
They are slimy and cold, and you are suddenly nauseated. 
The oxygen mask doesn’t have enough air for you anymore, 
so you pull it off and breathe in hungrily, 
swallowing lumps of air until your lungs hurt.

Alive. 
Again. 
Breathing again. 
Back again.

The stench of blood is overwhelming.

They move closer to you and whisper again.

“Don’t you like our work of art? Isn’t this a wonderful way to celebrate the raw energy of life?”

They point towards the shark tank, and your mouth turns bitter. 
They grab your chin and turn your head to look you in the eyes.

“So, do you like it?”

You gaze into their bleached, bleary eyes with terror. 
A different pair of eyes than before—
more frightening those ones. 
So that your stomach decides to erupt.

You heave and want to open your mouth, 
but that cold, slimy hand gags you. 
You swallow your puke and heave again. 
Spout again. 
Swallow again.

And…

…the sky is wonderful tonight. 
It has a tint of violet I’ve never seen before.

2401/7500

You’re breathing again, and all you can hear is your breath, loud and heavy. You feel your chest and your lungs, and everything is hazy. You don’t dare open your eyes. You just take one deep breath after another. And keep still. Slowly, noises creep into your consciousness— wavering, distorted—at first mere impressions, then louder and louder until they pierce your brain and make you moan. And then you’re startled by the sound of your own voice and soaked in a cold sweat. You hold your breath and listen carefully. There are screams and shouts all around you. Some are of pleasure, some are of pain, and you almost feel sorry for that poor kinnay. And all you can hope is that— when it will be all over— it will be over for good for once. But to your dismay, the wailing goes on for a long time before it turns into hoarse moans and sighs, and it fades to silence. Then you hear steps, a fumble of clothes, and a big splash. And someone sits on the bed at your side. You open your eyes. And the first thing you see is the red water in the shark tank. It’s meat time, and your skin crawls in horror. But as you gaze with morbid fascination, you are relieved that at least this time, for once, it was over for good. “Our dear vessel… our beautiful vessel…” the well-known voice whispers. “You are back with us again.” You feel their fingers caressing your temples. They are slimy and cold, and you are suddenly nauseated. The oxygen mask doesn’t have enough air for you anymore, so you pull it off and breathe in hungrily, swallowing lumps of air until your lungs hurt. Alive. Again. Breathing again. Back again. The stench of blood is overwhelming. They move closer to you and whisper again. “Don’t you like our work of art? Isn’t this a wonderful way to celebrate the raw energy of life?” They point towards the shark tank, and your mouth turns bitter. They grab your chin and turn your head to look you in the eyes. “So, do you like it?” You gaze into their bleached, bleary eyes with terror. A different pair of eyes than before— more frightening those ones. So that your stomach decides to erupt. You heave and want to open your mouth, but that cold, slimy hand gags you. You swallow your puke and heave again. Spout again. Swallow again. And… …the sky is wonderful tonight. It has a tint of violet I’ve never seen before.

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