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Contents:

Brain Power

Greed Leads to Feed

The New Home

Brain Power

   Gerry McLane was a budding novelist. Unfortunately he never seemed to have any ideas to put down in writing. He spent plenty of time staring at screens and out of windows, but very little time creating stories.
   He was a twenty nine year old, balding lab assistant who lived on takeaway food and dreams. Dreams that never became reality. Excuses were his favourite past time. He loved telling people that he was a writer and had an array of excuses as to why he never had any finished work. His favourite was that he never had any time to read.
   “One of the things that makes a good writer,” he would say, “is the time spent reading other writers material. Absorbing styles and ideas.” Gerry could never find the time for this. He was always too busy. The fact that he watched thirty six hours of TV a week didn’t help.
   And so it was. One more wannabe writer too lazy to put the effort in. However, even lazy people have good fortune sometimes. Soon it would be Gerry’s turn. A throw away conversation that would lead to a realisation of his dream. A dream that he had harboured for so long. But not all good fortune leads to a better existence. A fact Gerry would soon come to realise.

   Henry sat in the canteen pouring sugar into his tea. It was his morning break and he was once again spending it with Gerry. He loved Gerry as a good friend, but when he was in one of his moaning moods he could just grab him by the neck and squeeze. This morning was one of those times.
   “I just haven’t got the time. I think I might try those audio books and play it while I’m asleep. Isn’t your brain supposed to absorb things while you are asleep?” Gerry continued with his moan. As soon as he mentioned absorb, something sparked in Henry’s mind.
   “Hey, Gerry,” he interrupted. “I may have something for you. There’s a scientist in this building who will be looking for volunteers soon for an experiment he’s been perfecting. I know someone working with him. It’s to do with increasing the minds capacity which might help you with your writing. They’ll even pay you for it.”
   “Really? What would I have to do?”
   “Not too sure, but it’s got something to do with uploading information to the brain. I’ll find out more and let you know.”
   “Sounds good to me.” Gerry swigged down his coffee and got up. “I’ll see you in the pub at twelve.” With that he left.
   A few days later Gerry found out what was involved. It filled him with dread at first, but he was soon persuaded by the sultry blonde working with the doctor. Probes were to be attached to his brain and information transferred somehow from a computer. It would take about ten minutes and he would need to return a week later for a check-up.
   Within two days Gerry had passed the required medical and was briefed on what was to happen before being hooked up while under an anaesthetic. During the transfer process he dreamt about equations. They just suddenly popped into his head. He was asked to write down what was in his mind as soon as he awoke and to recall the same information a week later when he returned for the check-up.
   The week in between was uneventful. No increase in his creativity, but he couldn’t get the equations out of his mind. When he returned, the check-up was OK. He wrote down the equations exactly as before with it still fresh in his mind. The doctors were very happy with the results. They wanted to try another test. This time with a piece of text. A poem from an unknown writer. One Gerry would never have heard of before. He agreed and went through the same process that very day.
   This time something very different happened. Once again, while he was under, it was like he was dreaming about words, only they produced an emotional reaction. The poem was about a lost love and this physically brought tears to Gerry’s eyes. This was a bit of a shock when he woke up and he was in a sullen mood for the rest of the day.
   Four days later Gerry and Henry were having their morning break together.
   “You know what Henry, there may be something in these experiments. Lately I can’t seem to stop writing poetry. Sad poetry, but none the less, poetry.” Gerry popped a headache pill in to his mouth and took a swig of his coffee.
   “That’s good. How about your novel? How’s that coming along?” Henry asked.
   “I’m writing nothing but poetry at the moment. I just can’t seem to think of anything else. See if you can persuade your friend to use a short story the next time I go in. We can see if that helps my novel.”
   “I’ll see what she says. I don’t know if she has much influence on what can be used.” Henry noticed Gerry rubbing his temple. “Are you OK?” he asked.
   “Just a slight headache. Nothing much.”
   “You know you have to report any side effects! Make sure you tell them when you see them next.”
   “It’s nothing. It’ll be gone in a couple of hours.”
   “That’s beside the point. You must report anything that happens to you during the experiment. It’s vital for them to be able to monitor the progress.”
   “OK, OK. I’ll tell them.” Gerry said this to get Henry off of his back.
   The next time Gerry was in for his check-up he heard the news he was hoping for.
   “I hear you’re becoming quite the poet,” the Doctor began as soon as Gerry had finished his check-up. He sat behind a large desk covered in blue post-it notes. Doctor Becker was a middle-aged man with an obvious healthy appetite for his food. His stomach stretched his white coat to breaking point. “It’s interesting that one of the effects of the experiment is a stimulation of your creative side. It’s not something we’d considered before. No one else has exhibited this same side effect. Because of this we are going to change the information you receive on your next upload. It will be a short story.”
   Doctor Becker noticed the smile on Gerry’s face.
   “Have you had any other side effects during the week? Nausea? Headaches? Dizziness?”
   “No.”
   “OK then. If you can come back the same time tomorrow we’ll have everything ready for you.”
   “Can you find something that is not so sad this time? It’s been quite an emotional week.” Gerry stood up and headed for the door.
   “I’m sure we can find something a little easier on your emotions.”
   Gerry opened the door and left the Doctor in his office. His mind racing. Twenty four hours to go. He got home and continued with his poem writing.
   That evening Gerry was at his computer, but something was wrong. The free flowing poems that came so easily to him over the last few days struggled to materialise. It was getting harder and harder to complete sentences let alone whole poems. The desire and need to create was still as strong as ever, but the ability to put this into words had deserted him.
   He rubbed at his temple trying to ease the annoying pain that had plagued his head for most of the day. Suddenly he heard a voice.
   “You know what the problem is?”
   “No, what?” he replied as though he was in the middle of a conversation.
   “You need another boost to your mind. You need to be hooked up. You need that flow of words to your brain again. It’s obvious the last fix has worn off.”
   “I’ll be getting more tomorrow.”
   “But you need it now! Why wait until then?”
   “There’s no way I can get it now!”
   “Yes you can. You have access to the building.”
   “No! No! I can wait until tomorrow.”
   “No you can’t! You must have it now!” The voice became angry.
   “No!” Gerry shouted grabbing his head with both hands. He stood up knocking the chair to the floor. The combination of the voice and the pain in his head was becoming unbearable. He staggered to the kitchen, grabbed two headache pills, gulped them down without any water and headed for the bedroom to collapse in a heap on his unmade bed.
   It was a restless sleep Gerry eventually fell into. Rhyming words filling his mind while he was chasing them with a butterfly net, always failing to catch them at the last moment, leaving him feeling empty and frustrated. A faceless voice constantly taunting him.
   The buzzing alarm couldn’t come soon enough. Although this time it felt as though it was gouging out a part of his brain. He slammed his hand down on it to end the torture. Seven o’clock. Gerry sat up on his bed. His headache, while still there, had reduced to a mild throb. Nothing that needed more pills. He jumped up and started getting ready for work. By the evening he would be writing stories like they were going out of fashion.
   That day seemed to drag as the throbbing pain in his head gradually got worse. It was a blessed relief as Gerry finally was able to walk into the lab at the end of it. He was hooked up and the flow of words created a good feeling throughout his body from the uplifting story he was receiving. The pain in his head finally disappeared.
   Doctor Becker ran the usual tests and once again everything was OK.
   “Another clean bill of health for you. Now during this week I want you to monitor your writing progress. Keep a folder of everything you do. We’ll take a look at it next week when you come in.”
   “If that’s all, I’d like to get started,” Gerry returned abruptly.
   “Sure,” said the Doctor a little taken aback.
   Gerry almost ran out of the room. The sooner he got home the better. He was on an unbelievable high. He never felt so good in his life. Even the thought of having to face all of those people on the tube bring him down. His head was free from any pain he had experienced during the day. Just filled with wonderful, happy words waiting to be transferred into stories.

   All that could be heard that evening was the tap tapping of Gerry’s keyboard. The evening turned to early morning. The early morning turned to daylight and still more tapping. The buzz of his alarm didn’t even disturb him. A puddle of urine stained the floor beneath the chair he sat on. His damp trousers not breaking his concentration for a second.
   Two days he was like this. Only eating when the hunger pains became too much. The phone and the door bell both rang and still he made no movement towards either of them. Henry had shouted through the letter box for a response. Gerry shouted back,
   “Go away. I’m busy.”
   On the third day Gerry started to notice things more. The stench of the stale urine on the floor. The birds in the trees outside of his window. The longer pauses between sentences. His concentration was waning. The free flow of words seemed to be deserting him. He started to get more and more frustrated. The pain in his head gradually returned until by about eleven that morning he had to stop and go and get some pills.
   As he swigged them down he noticed how tired he was feeling. It was three days since he had any sleep. Gerry made his way to his bed and crashed down onto it, unconscious.
   “Wakey wakey! It’s time to go and get our fix,” came the voice jolting Gerry from his sleep.
   Gerry slowly opened his eyes and focused on his clock radio. Six fifteen in the evening. He felt groggy, but had a strong urge to get up. He made his way to the kitchen for another pill to relieve the pain in his head and then to the computer.
   He sat there staring at the screen. His mind a blank.
   “Come on Gerry. We need to go and get hooked up.”
   “No! I can do this! It will come!” The pain intensified in his head and he screwed his face up.
   “It’s not happening. Let’s just get up and go down to the lab and get hooked up. You know it makes sense.”
   Gerry started tapping on his keyboard to try and drown out the voice. He wasn’t actually creating any words, just a noise. It wasn’t enough.
   “You know that’s not helping. There’s nothing left in your mind to help you. You need the fix.”
   Gerry grabbed his head once again as the pain increased and the never ending voice continued.
   “OK! OK! I’ll go!” Gerry cried jumping out of his chair. He left the house in the same clothes he had been wearing for the last three days and headed for the lab, continually rubbing the side of his head to try and relieve the pain, never succeeding. The street lights and headlights drilled into his mind causing him to lurch from side to side along the pavement occasionally bumping into people coming in the opposite direction. Gerry was just about staying conscious through the pain. The voice keeping him aware of his goal.
   Gerry burst through the revolving door and was immediately stopped by the security guard.
   “Where do you think you’re going sir?” he asked almost choking on the smell emanating from Gerry’s body.
   “I have to see Doctor Becker!” he said in a forceful tone as the searing pain and voice in his head made the matter more and more urgent.
   “I don’t think so. I don’t know where you’ve been or what you’ve been doing, but you’re not coming in here tonight. Go home, get cleaned up and come back when you’ve calmed down,” the guard returned in a condescending manner. He grabbed hold of Gerry to evict him from the building.
   “But I have to see him now!” Gerry was now screaming at the guard, struggling, not only against him, but also his mind. As the two men passed the guards desk, Gerry picked up a paperweight and smashed it into the side of the man’s head. He dropped to the ground like a sack of potatoes, blood pouring from the wound.
   Gerry continued on his way. He found the Doctors office and kicked open the door.
   “You have to hook me up Doctor! I can’t think of anything to write and my brain feels like it’s going to explode.”
   The Doctor was writing at his desk.
   “Gerry, what’s happened to you?”
   “I just need an upload and I will be OK. You have to do it now!” Again Gerry grabbed the side of his head.
   “Let me have a look at you.” He got up to examine Gerry.
   “No!”
   Gerry grabbed hold of the Doctor and flung him across the room. He flew over the desk and clattered into the cabinets behind it. Gerry’s head was pounding to the devil’s drum beat. Never ceasing.
   “We don’t need him. We can do this ourselves. Let’s go to the lab.” Gerry was in too much pain now to put up any kind of an argument and so headed for the lab.
   Once inside he jammed the door shut under the instructions of the voice.
   “There’s the equipment,” the voice shouted.
   Gerry stumbled over toward the machine, his vision blurred on each beat of the drum. He stared at it for a few seconds. He didn’t know where to start, but the voice told him what to do. He flicked switches, turned knobs. The only indication of success was a small green light.
   “Now, we must drill the holes for the probes. Looks like someone has been kind and left the drill out for us.” The compressed air drill lay on a tray next to the operating table still connected to its power source. He picked it up and pressed the trigger. The hiss of the expelling air jolted Gerry into realising what was about to happen. He took a step backwards.
   “Come on Gerry. We need this. We need to get hooked up. The pain is too much.”
   This was true. The only thing that kept him from passing out was the constant voice in his head.
   “Come on. Do it! Do it! Do it! DO IT!”
   Gerry gritted his teeth and closed his eyes. His finger squeezed hard on the trigger and he pushed the drill into his skull.
   By the time anyone had managed to get into the lab, Gerry was on the floor with the drill embedded in his head. The pain induced screams had finally subsided, but this wasn’t due to the final breath off his life. No, that would have been too humane for Gerry. Unconsciousness had quietened him.

   Henry sat staring at Gerry who was reading a book. This was the fourth time he had come to visit him and each time Gerry just sat there reading the same book. It had been six months since the accident. This now was his home. The injury Gerry had sustained was permanent. A life detained in a mental hospital resigned to reading the same book over and over due to loss of short term memory. How ironic, that a man who never had time to read before, now has all the time in the world.

The End