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An online preview of terra_furma #1 - ROBOTTRANSCRIPT
// JADED against
humankind, we turn to machines for guidance. Complete messes: the planet, our bodies, our friends and families. Let the ROBOTS guide us. Tell us who we know, how best to express our gratitude for their friendship. Let them into my blood and make me in and out of steel. Fight my wars. Fly low over a village and blast ten women ten children ten innocent men and one enemy general to shit. Float a flotilla churning sea salt into the air above warming oceans, cool my atmosphere and save MY Polar bears. I need the bears to look at, to have well educated British octogenarians speak softly over high definition three-dimensional footage of them playing with their pups. Let the ROBOTS into our schools, teach our children to be smarter than the insecure messes who taught us. Let them scan me when I am sick, prescribe and administer me the dosage, correct to the atom. I want them driving me everywhere, interacting with each other and no human hand touching a wheel, drunk drivers become the drunk driven. Anticipate human behaviour in computerised city planning, computerised city policing. Know crimes before they occur and stop me being burgled, mugged, stamped and spat and stabbed on by other balls of sweat and feeling. Deny and go numb. Layer a soft film of metal and carbon-fiber over every difficult part of my life so that the joyous bits shine and go luminous. Write me my favourite songs. Recommend me my favourite books. Feed me. Blast water into me and make me clean. JADED and jagged we are from too much rubbing of shoulders far too human. Iron out those kinks and make life good and well and simple and honest AGAIN. ROBOTS align and enter my life. COME. BE.
EMIT. /
~AJP / /
/ /
holyshitfuckingfuckf
uckshit
~ HANNAH LEVENE /
With one final rusty
swallow Megalomaniac54
completed his chicken
sandwich and felt content
to die. He wheeled over to
the window and looked out
at the world below: they
were re-laying the
aluminium on the high
street. He pondered for a
second whether this was
enough reason to live. It
was not. The large sheets
that wobbled into place
caught the sun and
reflected pure light into
his eyes. Is this it?,he
thought. It was not. There
was only one way a
Meglomaniac54 could die.
He rolled backwards the
length of the sofa and shut
off his vision. Then, from
zero to full speed in the
shortest time he could
possibly achieve he headed
straight for the window of
his fifty story apartment.
He hit the glass. It
shattered. Not instantly:
it seemed whole until he
was completely through it,
as if he had passed through
a worm hole and the air had
reformed around him. Then
it sneezed a gigantic
sneeze into the expanse and
millions of shards of
Meglomaniac54 s window’
followed their previous
inhabitant as he plummeted
through the sky.
The sheer speed at which he
hit the air ripped all his
extremities from his body.
The wind rushed through the
holes left in him: it
entered his left side
silently and exited through
his right tuned to a
perfect B#. Inside, his
organs let go. His bowels,
if he had been given any,
would have released every
inch of every part of him.
Instead, thousands of cogs
and gears began to rattle.
They panicked, throwing
themselves against the box
of his skin they thunked
and thunked until his body
became a cliff edge and his
organs smashed against each
other over and over. But he
could not die. There was
only one way for a
Meglomanic54 to die. Each
robot was given their own
self destruct password at
production. It was assigned
to them and saved in the
info-cloud which surrounded
them; the quasi-
subconscious ready to
reveal itself when the will
to die became too strong.
Meglomaniac54 plummeted
through the air deformed
under the forces of both
outside and in. He immersed
himself in the cloud. He
cried out a nameless sound:
a screech of metal gears;
the friction of his own
self on the sky. His hard-
drive cracked through his
body and zoomed away from
him. Everything he ever
knew was gone; each cog and
wire and gear flew out
after it. He was completely
empty but for his final
words as if his self-
destruction was all he had
ever known; his will to end
became every part of him, a
metal shell around his
ability to die and he
opened his mouth and let it
fall from him
holyshitfuckingfuckfuckshit
he screamed and a flame
ignited inside his ragged
remains and his body ripped
its final rip and the sun
hit the aluminium and
blinded the world below and
the world above.
Meglomaniac54 turned to
ash; soft, formless and
gentle and he did not land.
/ /
/ / Jack and Bolts
~ CHRIS STEER /
Jack sits in his beige,
tattered armchair by the
window. A cup of cold tea
sits on a discoloured,
mahogany coffee table. The
floors of this room are
wooden and stained and the
yellowed walls are bare.
Jack barely moves. There is
only a slight quivering in
his white wisp of a beard
as he breathes. Like the
table and the armchair, he
spends his days collecting
dust.
He catches his
reflection in the window.
His skin looks like
wrapping paper, creased
tight around his skull. He
glances down at his clothes
and his hands and decides
he has been sitting by this
window too long. He too has
faded in the sun.
Through the window,
beyond his reflection, Jack
stares out to the road. It
used to be that cars raced
past his house all day and
night. Now the road is
empty. He can t recall when’
he last saw a car with
tyres.
With great effort
Jack leans forward. He can
almost hear his muscles
creaking as he reaches out
his hand. He flicks the
latch and heaves the window
open. Flakes of paint tap
down onto the windowsill.
He leans outside and looks
up. The sky is full of the
black specks of cars flying
in every direction. He can
hear their engines; a
constant buzz that
disappears once he closes
the window.
Jack hears the
jangle of keys in the door.
His new help must be here.
His family arranged it for
him before they left. It
has been more than a week
since they hugged him
goodbye to live off-world.
His daughter-in-law said
they will try and visit
within the next couple of
years but no-one expects
him to be alive then. When
they return to Earth, it
will surely be for Jack s’ funeral.
Jack looks to the
doorway of the living room,
waiting for his helper to
appear. He hears heavy
footsteps plodding down the
hallway, accompanied by a
mechanical whirring.
The helper comes
into view and stops,
standing in the doorway. It
is an impressive sight and
barely fits through the
door. It must be well over
six feet tall.
Jack tries to
remember how tall he is
himself. He knows he must
have been measured as a
child, with a tape measure
and a pencil against the
wall. He knows he must have
done the same with his son.
He knows but he does not
remember.
The helper is even
paler than Jack. Its
plastic skin is cream in
colour. Over its chest the
skin is thick, a deeper
cream. Over its arms and
legs the skin is thinner
and Jack can see through it
to the helper s plastic’
bones. They twist and dance
beneath the surface. The
bones are light blue, or
maybe they are darker but
the translucent skin
softens their colour.
The helper s hands’
are little more than claws.
Two pairs of metal pincers
on each hand. They are
currently opening and
shutting quickly,
fidgeting. Jack holds his
own hands up to his eyes.
His fingers are bony and
seem just as sharp.
The helper s head is’
oblong. Two huge eyes shine
delicately near the top.
They shimmer like puddles
of mercury with blue pixels
swirling beneath the
surface. The helper has no
other facial features yet
somehow Jack decides it is
a sad face.
Hello, Jack, says“ ”
the helper. No mouth or
speaker is visible. The
voice hangs in the air. It
is supposed to sound human
but it rustles with static.
Slowly, Jack wets
his lips. Good morning.“ ” His voice cracks and
wobbles in response. It is
a broken whisper of a
voice.
May I approach you?“ ” asks the helper.
Yes.“ ”The helper clomps
over to Jack and towers
over him. Jack can only
strain his head back so far
and roll his eyes up so
much. He can t see the’
helper s eyes.’Please can you bend“
down?”The helper
immediately begins a
strange routine that
reminds Jack of the classic
image of a snake dancing to
a charmer s melody. The’
helper writhes and rocks
its way down to the floor
until it is kneeling and
…PURCHASE @
TERRAFURMA.
TICTAIL.COM
…PURCHASE @
TERRAFURMA.
TICTAIL.COM
/ / Sex Robot
~ AIMEE BEA BALLINGER /
Everyday I wake up, take a
shit and eat breakfast.
Sometimes I watch the news,
try to think about girls
and money but mostly I just
get depressed. It s always’
the mornings that I really
feel the burden of being
born human.
All we do is eat down into
the earth shitting out
carbon monoxide, leaving
trails of detritus until we
finally decompose.
I m not an activist, or’
scientist or poet or
political speaker. I m too’
lazy. I m a maggot like the’
rest of them, leaving my
shit-trail like everybody
else, I just never got a
chance to multiply.
I spend my afternoons
projecting dirty movies
onto the ceiling so that I
don t have to sit upright,’
watching girls getting
themselves off with relics
of the old-world;
corkscrews, torches,
nutcrackers. Half the time
they don t look like they re’ ’
enjoying themselves, which
makes me feel like I m’ probably not either but I
always keep watching right
up until they come.
I ve been ticking off’
reasons to leave my
apartment from the second I
moved in. I don t eat as’
much since the operation
even though the pain has
stopped. I m nearly all’
machine and surgical rubber
from the waste down. A
macerator stomach implant
isn t unusual for a man of’
my age. Everybody s cyborg,’
some of them out there in
the new world have never
experienced a natural human
body. They call it positive
change. Progression,
keeping us trudging on and
on in these silicone
caverns they call bodies.
My parents died a few years
ago both in their late
eighties, too young really.
They rejected the cyborg
ideal, preferring instead
to die as a result of a
natural failure of their
organic organs. First their
hearts played up, then
their bladders went and
just before the onset of
cancer in my fathers small
intestine they were gone.
They went on the same
night. There was no way of
accurately telling how much
time existed between their
individual deaths. I think
that they both went at the
same time. Lights out all-
together like when I was a
kid. One couldn t have’
lived without the other
anyway. It sounds beautiful
but it was pretty fucked up
and sad. After their death
I moved out of my shitty
bedsit and into the home
they had shared since their
early twenties, before the
smog, before the metal,
before macerator stomachs
and scaffold arteries.
Petra came into my life
because I finally became as
lazy as everybody else. I
got bored with wallowing in
the old days, sick of
laying in filth. I d let’
the apartment slip into a
wasteland of my own making;
sheets beyond soiled,
washing up bowl perpetually
belching dirty dishes until
they spilled over onto the
floor. Something had to be
done, I sat up for the
first time in days, letting
the dirty movie swing down
onto the opposite wall and
realign itself with my
vision. Blinking it off I
opened a new browser and
spoke into the bleakness:
‘SEARCH:HOUSEBOT:
SELECT MODEL:
YOU HAVE SELECTED:
PETRA’
One giant leap from my
cesspit of the past into
realtime.
Petra arrived a few days
later, cutting though the
grime like acid. For days I
watched Petra move around
the flat, mesmerized by the
fluidity of her movements.
Each time I dragged my eyes
away light would bounce
over the smooth metal
exterior, drawing me back
in. My life became calmer,
quieter. I found myself
relying less on the girls
in the projections.
I made her a her, Petra my
she. Being around Petra was
like standing next to a
mannequin in a clothes
shop. Feeling the presence
of somebody next to you
even though they re not’
real, not human. I started
wearing a towel out of the
shower. I didn t want to’
make Petra uncomfortable,
though I wasn t entirely’
sure she could see me. She
didn t have eyes, only’
sleek smooth metal with
quick, long arms and a
glowing red bulb filling
…PURCHASE @
TERRAFURMA.
TICTAIL.COM
/ / Leika~ GARY GREEN /
Another day, another
dollar.
That s one of the niceties’
my makers programmed me
with, even though they're
incredibly far away. For
reasons unknown to me,
computer jargon isn t’ supposed to be particularly
effective conduct in
conversation; instead,
phrases such as the whole‘
nine yards , and up shit’ ‘
creek without a paddle are’
just some that I was
presented with during my
programming. I assume it's
in my maker's hopes that I
will begin understanding
such odd sayings, but I ve’
yet to discern what they
mean. Meaning - what
meaning do such
colloquialisms bear out
here, where there's no one
else to hear them?
During this thought
(one of many to keep my
cognitive functions
healthy), I m rolling’
across the barren terrain
of a world six hundred
light years from where such
phrases come. I'm sampling
soil and rocks, scanning
for any sign of
extraterrestrial life to
relay back to my own
planet. My tracks are
irredeemably dirty, my
chassis plating is pecked
with scratches, and tiny
cracks have formed in the
most embarrassing nooks and
crannies. It's a tough,
nomadic profession, to be
sure it takes a certain–
gusto (another one of my
maker's bizarre turn of
phrases) to simply keep on
going, and going, and going
more. Out here, it's just
desert, desert and more
desert. And me, scuttling
across its horizon.
I ve been here for quite’
some time now, and there
has been no positive
identification on any of my
samples. How many must I
have taken now?
Five thousand, two
hundred and twenty nine.
I'm not sure why I
asked myself that question.
Maybe it's to do with this
unknown urge I'm
developing; I keep finding
myself wishing that if I
stumble on a life form -
which would fulfil Priority
One, and make my makers
very happy - me and it will
become 'friends', that
bizarre thing where you
actively enjoy the company
of another localisation of
thought processes. This is
of course improbable. If I
do find anything, it'll
likely just be puddles of
bacteria, which I'm led to
believe aren't fantastic
conversationalists. So
instead, I'm starting to
wish there were someone
else like me. Perhaps I
could talk with them. Just
for a little while. We
could exchange data,
compare telemetric
equipment.
But there was only
ever a single unit deployed
here which was me. It s a– ’
shame they couldn t have’
anticipated this
unexplainable feeling. But
luckily, today I have a
distinct mission to keep my
cognitive functions busy:
I m heading toward the base’
of IO481, less a mountain
and more a monolith of rock
wreathed in faint cloud.
It's the largest mountain
my makers have recorded on
this type of planet, which
is impressive - and it's in
view a few miles dead ahead
of me. It may hold secrets;
if it's a volcano -
obviously a dormant one -
it could show traces of a
magnetic field, too weak
for me to pick up with my
equipment. And a magnetic
field is needed to support
a sustainable life system.
I may find a friend.
And if I do, I hope they'll
like me.
IO481 looms ahead, closer
now than several hours ago.
Weather and humidity are
constant, and the terrain
is proving smooth. It
strikes me that this odd
journey, traversing the
depths of space, is just
for a scraping of microbial
life at the very least. It
seems almost ridiculous -
then I recall my new
feeling. What if my makers
too want to find someone
else, just like them?
During my
programming, which now
seems a very long time ago,
I came across a
psychological defence
mechanism that my makers
would activate in similar
circumstances: sometimes,
when one of their children
had no one to play with,
they would conjure up an
imaginary friend . In many‘ ’
cases, they seemed to adopt
imaginary friends when they
were adults, too. A lot of
the time because they were
'sad', and wanted someone
to talk to.
I recall my chief
…PURCHASE @
TERRAFURMA.
TICTAIL.COM
/ / FeelBook
~ AJ PRENDERGAST /
I look at Robyn Pince. She
has been so very busy this
week! I take great joy in
turning her profile over
and up and down and - ! -
She became friends with
Terry Shulah! I am already
friends with Terry Shulah!
This means that my
friendship with Robyn Pince
and Terry Shulah is more
meaningful; more thoroughly
connected. Terry Shulah
likes a music festival and
for a moment I consider
liking it as well, just to
celebrate my newly
discovered extra-special
friendship with Terry
Shulah. But then I hit one
of those blank walls and I
turn around in my thoughts.
I check my Private
Messages. None today.
'Here we have a transcript
of Ling overstepping in a
category one. She didn't
get far enough along the
thought process for it to
be a problem and she was
able to step back, retreat
to the private section of
her profile and then
continue.' The people in
the board-room nodded. Some
of them made notes on the
eSurface of the table. The
notes darted back and forth
amongst the attendants of
the meeting, white lines in
dull green.
'In this next
transcript we will see Ling
hit category two and then
allow it to develop into
category three. At this
point she makes some
erratic decisions and
starts scrolling dumbly up
and down her feed. This is
comparable to logging off.
Effectively comatose.'
A real-time capture
of the FeelBook profile
appeared in front of
everyone at the table. The
people, some dressed as
stiff scientists: shirts
unbuttoned at the collar
and some in the height of
designer-fashion: blank
kimonos and LED hair-
extensions, lean further
into the table and look:
What is Pauli Herring up
to? Her time-line spreads
out across me and I take
joy in submerging into her
life. When she was fifteen
she was in a relationship
with a (then) twenty year-
old boy called Philip
Carter. I remember being in
a relationship. I remember
the great joy I felt in
checking the box so that my
profile read: Ling Zero-One
is in a relationship with
Jiu Zero-Four. I made sure
to like more of Jui Zero-
Four's activities from then
on, at least until I
decided I didn't want to be
in a relationship with Jui
Zero-Four any more. I like
Pauli Herring and Philip
Carter's relationship from
those years ago. I am shown
various pictures of Pauli
Herring and Philip Carter.
Pauli Herring is kissing
Philip Carter and someone
has commented: Hope you
didn't break the law Phil
you creep! I ponder for a
moment. There is something
that troubles me. Law. Law.
Break the law. I think for
a moment more but my mind
is all fogged and messed
with this 'Law'. I remember
something, a fragment but I
am so lonely in this memory
and the memory of this
loneliness hurts me. I feel
uncomfortable and sad so in
order to feel better I
return to my feed and
celebrate the friends I
have now. In a moment I
like everything they have
all done within the last
five years. I also comment
on all of their 5, 500
profiles. 'I thank you for
your company! You are a
valuable aspect of my
life!' I almost feel
better. I check my Private
Messages. None today.
'So. The word 'Law' and the
idea of 'Breaking Law'
evidentially caused an
issue for Ling. She
appeared to recall, through
association with the
concept of 'Law', her life
before being plugged into
the FeelBook server. When
we were utilising the
FeelBook advertising and
profile algorithms to
create Ling, who it might
be worth reiterating was
the very first AI profile
we created, we spent a lot
…PURCHASE @
TERRAFURMA.
TICTAIL.COM
/images in order of appearance -
/ Machine (Cover/Backcover)~ Fred Vernon/fredvernon.tumblr.com
/ Heavy Metal~ Tom Dunn/ kidswithpuns.tumblr.com
/ Robot Fast~ Amanda Baeza/ mrspoqui.com
/ Organism~ Archie Edwards/ themagicheadache.tumblr.com
/postcards -
/ Robot Sale~ Fred Vernon/ fredvernon.tubmlr.com
/ The Robot That Ate the Planet
~Arthur Hamer/ arthurhamer.co.uk
/stories in order of appearance -
/ holyshitfuckingfuckfuckshit~ Hannah Levene/ neutralnorway.tumblr.com
/ Jack and Bolts~ Chris Steer/ chrissteerscribbles.wordpress.com
/ Sex Robot~ Aimee Bea Ballinger/ aimee-bea.tumblr.com
/ Leika~ Gary Green/ filmontrial.com
/ Feelbook~ AJ Prendergast/ terrafurma.tumblr.com
/ edited
~ Alfie J Prendergast
/ printed
~ crumbcabin.tumblr.com
/ many thanks
to Joey Fourr, Percy
Currie, Neutral Norway
and Crumb Cabin
/ special thanks
to all of the
contributors
/ this issue is
dedicated to Falmouth.
/ GO
terrafurmazine.tumblr.com
and follow
@terra_furma
for info on
terra_furma
ZINE #2
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