It started out as a humbling drive into the sunset but emotions grew, and before he knew it he was well above the speed limit. In a world of automated cars, people who find simplicity by having the technology do all their work for them, and priorities have shifted to pleasure long ago it becomes an act of rebellion to be perceptive. That is where the hero, or villain, of this story will reside.
His car is of a vintage nature, a time when there was a such thing as a driver and a driver utilized three pedals and a stick between the seats to control the speed and acceleration of the vehicle. It was small, only having two seats as opposed to the modern cars with cabins of bed-like seats, and was built with the intention of putting a smile on the driver's face. Now only a few would know how to turn a steering wheel as anything more than a novelty.
While cleaning out his great grandmother's home, years ago, he came across a collection of books. He didn't even know what they were - it had been decades since the last one had been printed and now people just listened to books selected for them by the state based on their age, gender, and racial background.
Among the books were the likes of Nietzsche, Sartre, and Camus. His grandfather, still remembering the old ways of reading, taught him the words within the book and talked to him about their meanings. While this behavior was not strictly forbidden by the state, it had been almost exclusively pushed out of societal norms.
Now our hero has found himself at odds with society. Upon re-reading The Stranger by Albert Camus he began to see himself in the character - not so much the kind of person who could kill a person and then show no remorse for it, but a person who perceived the world through a detached emotion. Another thing he began to notice was that everyone around him held no distinct emotion to their experience, no unique experiences.
His car, which had been handed down to him from his father whom got it from his father whom got it from his father, was weaving between the automated machinery. Each vehicle altering it's speed automatically to allow him easier access - a design feature programmed by the early programmers of automated cars to ensure those who still enjoyed driving wouldn't be held up while they were breaking various laws. It was also a way for the state to monitor people who drove themselves - see too many cars in a location altering their speed and you know you have someone driving themselves.
His wife, whom he shared conversation with before this drive, had proclaimed him mentally unsuitable for children due to his perception of the world. To him, this was not only an insult but an absurdity. He knew the people of the world were lost. They are lifeless, thoughtless, selfless shells of the humanity that had existed for hundreds or thousands of years.
He remembered when he first read Camus' classic, how it made him feel when he read about that fateful gun shot and ultimate murder. He felt conflicted. He knew it was wrong for that gun to be fired, he knew it was wrong to murder someone, but what else could he have done in the situation? It was the first time our villain of this story realized that people could have choices, and from that point forth he begun being paralyzed by choices. He didn't want to same soup for dinner than his wife cooked night after night. That old car that had been passed down between the generations suddenly looked like a viable means to get from point A to point B, at least if he could learn how to drive it - so he did.
He saw the different races of people, whom he had never really had any real interaction with before since they were forced to go to school together, take the same jobs as one another, and eat the same foods as one another - all dictated by the state, of course, because the state believed it knew what would suit everyone best. Suddenly, however, he wanted to try the other ethnicities foods. What about that round thing that was shared amongst an entire family? What about that steaming hunk of meat that would be sliced into several slices, each going to the children, mother and father? He didn't even have names for these things as the only thing he had to eat was soup - night after night, with the same ingredients.
The conversations he had with his wife about other ethnicities, trying different foods, and how odd it was that these people did not share things with one another is what led her to believe him unfit for children. In his society, little did he know, it was always the wife's job to report abnormalities within the household to the state.
In his rear-view mirror he saw flashing lights coming towards him fast, but he had no idea what this represented. All he knew is that each of the other cars on the road were moving to the side and stopping, automatically, while his car kept right on moving.
At one point, he stood at the door of another family of different ethnic background, but he couldn't bring himself to knock. He just wanted to ask them a few questions about their lives. He had heard once, in passing, that every ethnicity spoke a different language. He just stood at the door, he never knocked, and they never knew.
There was a loud THUNK into the back of the car. A moment later the engine died, along with all the lights, and the fuzzy sound coming out of the radio. The flashing lights came up on him fast, it was several cars, and surrounded him on every side. Guns pointing directly at him.
"Your wife has told us how you think, what you feel. You aren't allowed to think. You aren't allowed to feel."
His final thought was about standing at that door - how he should have knocked.
-Dustin S. Stover
If you enjoyed this short story and would like to read more of my work, or would just like to support me in a small way (but really, I'd prefer if you purchased to read) then feel free to click the links below to buy my collection of short stories, Happiness in a Void of Darkness. And thanks again for taking your time to read.
Kindle
Nook
His car is of a vintage nature, a time when there was a such thing as a driver and a driver utilized three pedals and a stick between the seats to control the speed and acceleration of the vehicle. It was small, only having two seats as opposed to the modern cars with cabins of bed-like seats, and was built with the intention of putting a smile on the driver's face. Now only a few would know how to turn a steering wheel as anything more than a novelty.
While cleaning out his great grandmother's home, years ago, he came across a collection of books. He didn't even know what they were - it had been decades since the last one had been printed and now people just listened to books selected for them by the state based on their age, gender, and racial background.
Among the books were the likes of Nietzsche, Sartre, and Camus. His grandfather, still remembering the old ways of reading, taught him the words within the book and talked to him about their meanings. While this behavior was not strictly forbidden by the state, it had been almost exclusively pushed out of societal norms.
Now our hero has found himself at odds with society. Upon re-reading The Stranger by Albert Camus he began to see himself in the character - not so much the kind of person who could kill a person and then show no remorse for it, but a person who perceived the world through a detached emotion. Another thing he began to notice was that everyone around him held no distinct emotion to their experience, no unique experiences.
His car, which had been handed down to him from his father whom got it from his father whom got it from his father, was weaving between the automated machinery. Each vehicle altering it's speed automatically to allow him easier access - a design feature programmed by the early programmers of automated cars to ensure those who still enjoyed driving wouldn't be held up while they were breaking various laws. It was also a way for the state to monitor people who drove themselves - see too many cars in a location altering their speed and you know you have someone driving themselves.
His wife, whom he shared conversation with before this drive, had proclaimed him mentally unsuitable for children due to his perception of the world. To him, this was not only an insult but an absurdity. He knew the people of the world were lost. They are lifeless, thoughtless, selfless shells of the humanity that had existed for hundreds or thousands of years.
He remembered when he first read Camus' classic, how it made him feel when he read about that fateful gun shot and ultimate murder. He felt conflicted. He knew it was wrong for that gun to be fired, he knew it was wrong to murder someone, but what else could he have done in the situation? It was the first time our villain of this story realized that people could have choices, and from that point forth he begun being paralyzed by choices. He didn't want to same soup for dinner than his wife cooked night after night. That old car that had been passed down between the generations suddenly looked like a viable means to get from point A to point B, at least if he could learn how to drive it - so he did.
He saw the different races of people, whom he had never really had any real interaction with before since they were forced to go to school together, take the same jobs as one another, and eat the same foods as one another - all dictated by the state, of course, because the state believed it knew what would suit everyone best. Suddenly, however, he wanted to try the other ethnicities foods. What about that round thing that was shared amongst an entire family? What about that steaming hunk of meat that would be sliced into several slices, each going to the children, mother and father? He didn't even have names for these things as the only thing he had to eat was soup - night after night, with the same ingredients.
The conversations he had with his wife about other ethnicities, trying different foods, and how odd it was that these people did not share things with one another is what led her to believe him unfit for children. In his society, little did he know, it was always the wife's job to report abnormalities within the household to the state.
In his rear-view mirror he saw flashing lights coming towards him fast, but he had no idea what this represented. All he knew is that each of the other cars on the road were moving to the side and stopping, automatically, while his car kept right on moving.
At one point, he stood at the door of another family of different ethnic background, but he couldn't bring himself to knock. He just wanted to ask them a few questions about their lives. He had heard once, in passing, that every ethnicity spoke a different language. He just stood at the door, he never knocked, and they never knew.
There was a loud THUNK into the back of the car. A moment later the engine died, along with all the lights, and the fuzzy sound coming out of the radio. The flashing lights came up on him fast, it was several cars, and surrounded him on every side. Guns pointing directly at him.
"Your wife has told us how you think, what you feel. You aren't allowed to think. You aren't allowed to feel."
His final thought was about standing at that door - how he should have knocked.
-Dustin S. Stover
If you enjoyed this short story and would like to read more of my work, or would just like to support me in a small way (but really, I'd prefer if you purchased to read) then feel free to click the links below to buy my collection of short stories, Happiness in a Void of Darkness. And thanks again for taking your time to read.
Kindle
Nook
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