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Creative Writing: Blue Skies

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I dream I am standing under a roof of blue sky, in a field of mid-day sunshine and yellow sunflowers, surrounded by the scent of wet grass and the music of song birds and buzzing insects. Then, I open my eyes and remember that I am Zach Moreland, 142 years old, and I am never going to die.
The ceiling is white, the walls are white and at 0800 every day the nurses roll out of the nursing station to wake the residents. My nurse is one of the older models from the time when they were all equipped with a red flashing light in the upper chest. It is often the only item of color to be seen in the Institute of Life where I live. Jason, my roommate, has a newer model nurse but then Jason is only just 104.
In the bathing area I walk through naked and feel the warmth of the synthetic HdeA misting over my body. As I walk through, I remember a distant time when bathing meant soaking in hot water, so hot it made my skin red and I would stay in the tub until my toes wrinkled. My nurse carries my clothes to me as I exit my daily biotic bath. White pants, white underwear, white shirt, white socks and white shoes are presented to me. I am allowed to dress myself. I try to put my pants on while I am standing up, balancing my weight on my left leg while stepping my right leg into my pants.
“There is a possibility that you could fall,” nurse says. “Please use caution. I advise that you sit on a chair to put on your pants, socks or shoes,” my nurse says. Her voice is familiar, almost human, but lacking the cadence either emotion or concern.
“You would never let me fall. You’re a computer, be logical, there is no way I can hurt myself,” I say.
“Your health is my only concern,” the nurse answers.
Technology to perpetuate li...

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...elieved to feel anything again. We stand still only for a moment to see where we have come. Snow covers everything for as far as we can see glistening in afternoon sunlight. We hear the song of a bird and see a red cardinal perched on a blue spruce against a backdrop of blue sky that reaches all the way to the blanket of snow. Becca begins to cry.
Jason grips my arm in a burst of excitement. Then he falls down laughing and crying all at once like a child. Lashaun clutches his chest and some others are gasping for breath but they are smiling, some finding a place to lie down peacefully or make angels in the snow, then stare up at the yellow sun. Becca hands me a synthetic apple she kept from breakfast. She says, “Here, in case you get hungry later.” She is still talking in code.
I throw my arms wide, as wide as the far horizon, and take a step forward.
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