A letter from Shakespeare Jones

Brethren,

It all started with plant-slug. The first scientific discovery of a plant combined with a living organism. Scientists were understandably excited. They had been searching for some way to combine a plant’s photosynthetic properties with living tissue for ages. It didn’t take them long to figure it out. Within 5 years of plant slug’s discovery, the first human-plant hybrids were being born. In another fifty years, all of civilized humanity was part plant. This was seemingly a miraculous wonder. Hunger was virtually eliminated and other resource issues became moot. War diminished, as did disease.
Free from these constraints, civilized humans were able to soar. We made advancements in arts and science. We built towering cities that gleamed in the sunlight. We perfected Artificial Intelligence and spawned a new living machine. We traveled the stars and made contact with other races. But then the Centauri came. A viscous race from a distant star whose only interest is conquest. We battled them for 20 years until they darkened the skies with a cataclysmic weapon. Without the sun to feed us, we have been dying out steadily ever since.
I write this in hopes that it will survive the weathers of time and find its way into the hands of the primitive humans that still lurk in the earth’s forests. May this letter, along with the books underneath, contain all the knowledge needed to start a new epoch for Humanity. My only hope is that the ignorant savages who will undoubtedly discover this stash don’t use it for kindling. May they instead cherish it long enough to comprehend the intricacies of their evolved brethren.

Infinite Love Upon You,
Shakespeare Jones

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About Universal Shift

I am the Sonata Unusual. I coat myself with some obtuse angle too far below zero to become any warmer. I create motivation, activate schemas, moisten gardens with scents of natural honeydew. Construct this meaning, you sleepy flock. Silence your singing—despairing contortions out of tune. Shatter the brittle butterfly glass with your hideous wailing. I am born of my god’s imagination. When I die I shall meet him. For there are many things to discuss over tea…or scotch.

Posted on August 19, 2011, in Fiction and tagged , , , , . Bookmark the permalink. 1 Comment.

  1. You really do enrich lives with your words. Please continue to enlighten people with your genius prose.

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