The Final Scroll

The mouse wheel came to a screeching halt and an eerie silence loomed. The light emanated from the screen casting a dim gray shadow about the room. The gray light smashed into a contorted face stretched beyond its normal bounds under the burden of consciousness. It had failed to receive the release of slumber. The eyes became swelled rivers of blood, bulging from the blunt bludgeon of worry. The bags underneath the eyes dropped like a waterfall crashing to the face, yet after the initial plunge existed only a billow, silently lolling down the creased cheek. Stale sweat stuck to the face, suffocating the wrinkles, a spawn from the sludge of vexation. The hands quivered beneath the annoyance of the venomous coffee, uncontrollably shaking. In the future, only a glimmer could be seen, only a faint voice could be heard. Once again immersed in only silence. The typing became faster and the words blurred like a long serpent slithering into an enigmatic realm one could merely dream about. It was no longer an attempt to finish; there was no chance to stop. Consciousness wavered, duty forgotten. Memories became juxtaposed in a phantasmagoric nightmare. Slightly, ever so slightly, the being slumped and rested upon the keyboard, shaking, shivering in the dark, devoid of thought, feeling, and emotion. The symbiotic relationship of mankind and machine faded into a façade. Machine was the parasite and mankind the host. It remained motionless beneath the screen; forever a part of the machine, nothing more, there is no less. (Andrew Sippie)