Who is Operating Your Brain? - 11/9

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Brian
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Who is Operating Your Brain? - 11/9

Postby Brian » Tue Nov 09, 2010 6:33 am


Brian
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Who is Operating Your Brain? - 11/9

Postby Brian » Tue Nov 09, 2010 6:33 am

Pretend that there is a small man/woman operating the control system of your brain. Write about your day from his/her perspective. How does he/she feel about you?

You can post your response (750 words or fewer) here.

LittleEden
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Re: Who is Operating Your Brain? - 11/9

Postby LittleEden » Tue Nov 09, 2010 4:19 pm

Morning:
My mistress better wake up soon; the brain team is running out of first run dreams; serve her right if I slip a re-run in the dream machine. She will not know the difference since she never remembers them, and the last one took me days to film. Oh, good she is starting to stir. Maybe if I just whisper in her ear, "Coffee – think - you can smell coffee brewing - think – you can taste it." If she does not get some coffee in her soon, and I get a jolt of caffeine, we will not be any good until lunch. Okay, she is up and moving; now to get her to the coffeepot ASAP. I feel the caffeine oozing over me. It is all down hill from here. For the next couple of hours I will put her on cruise control. She has her morning routine down pat so in between checking on her I can work on ideas for the next chapter of her mystery novel. She thinks it is all her but in fact her inspiration is my hard work.

Noon
I am ready for some nourishment; the old brain cells are running on empty. I guess I should not complain she has been pounding the keys for hours and the first draft of the second chapter is finished. After printing it, she will set it aside, to edit later in the week; that means before morning I will have to come up with chapter three. I will deal with that while she sleeps tonight, for now I have to help select her lunch. I need brain food – not that junk food her mouth and stomach prefers. Good, she is listening to me and not them, canned salmon with baby spinach salad. I work so hard at keeping her on the straight and narrow that it is moments like this, when she listens to me, that makes it all worthwhile.

Afternoon
She threw me a curve ball, instead of spending the afternoon as she usually does in front of the TV or doing a little housework, she started chapter three. I will have to put it in high gear if I am to give her something to write. I like to plan it out and toss it around before it is ready for her. I do not do well on short notice but I have no choice, so here it goes. She likes the direction I am taking the story but I sure hope she shuts it down before my "idea-well" runs dry.

Evening
Now for some quite time, supper is over, and she will be content to watch TV until bedtime. Before she goes completely brain dead I will remind her to look at her calendar to see what is in stored for tomorrow. There is a lot to do so I hope she goes to bed at a decent hour. I could do with a little shuteye myself before I have to crank up the dream machine and work on her novel.

Night
I am slaving away and she is snoring like a warthog; cannot say I have ever heard a warthog snort much less snore but I am sure it would sound just like her. "Roll over on your side." It worked – for now the snoring has stopped, and maybe I can finish the last paragraph before she rolls back over, and that infernal noise starts again. I will have to leave the chapter in mid-stream because the sun is coming up; time to start it all over again. "Coffee – think - you can smell coffee brewing - think – you can taste it."

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Re: Who is Operating Your Brain? - 11/9

Postby Jim_Halisstrad » Wed Nov 10, 2010 2:56 am

[Edit: I might have deviated from the challenge a bit....]

Somewhere in the mind of Chuck Carro sat a little man behind an array of complicated monitors plugged into a wall of gray matter. His desk, which was the color of imagination (Slightly pinkish blue), contained a keyboard with thousands of strange symbols, a picture of Janeane Garofalo, various office supplies, and a mug that read 'Number 1 Id.'. The little man stifled a yawn and stared at the screens.

One of the screens that showed a short rotund man laying in bed flashed red. On the bottom scrolled a message that red 'Sharp piercing klaxon'. “And there's the alarm. Sorry Chuck, your time with the green skinned harlots from NeoVegas is over.” The man pushed a button with a lightning bolt symbol and a small buzz echoed through the chamber. Nothing happened for a few minutes, but finally the man in the screen rolled over and covered his head with a pillow.

The little man just groaned and punched the button again. The buzzing was joined by the occasional crackling sound of electricity meeting a conductor across open air. The sourceless lighting shimmered momentarily. Chuck groaned and raised out of bed just long enough to hit the snooze button on his alarm. “

The figure at the desk took a long sip out the mug. “You lazy sack of mostly water, you are not wasting this day”. The figure waited patently for several minutes until the screen with Chuck flashed red again. The little man, or TLM as he is sometimes called, hammered the lightning bolt button as hard as he could. A thunderous rolling explosion echoed throughout the mind as synapses started firing. The lights shimmered and then suddenly went out. A dull orange emergency light emanated from the walls. “Oh... By Freud's beard don't tell me I overloaded the system again!”

TLM rose up out of his squishy chair and ran over to an metal panel and flung it open. The open panel reveled hundreds of fuzes of different size and shape that were lined up row after row. His face soured when he noticed several dozen of them were blown. “Well, there's my comeuppance for a lack of maintenance.” Time paced while the proper fuzes were found and switched out. After replacing almost all of the defective ones he closed the fuze box and pulled an adjacent lever. The normal colorless lights came back to life.

“Okay, let's see what trouble this idiot has gotten himself into.” He hit a few buttons and screens flickered on. The screen that Chuck was previously on was an ominous black. “Oh no.” Frantically he started to pull data from the monitors. “Internal clock reads... Late evening! Heart beat is off the chart! Profuse perspiration, anomalies in the stomach, and... what?” Chucks screen came back to life. Beautiful emerald eyes stared back into the camera.

Her full lips parted and a voice of pure bliss came through the speakers. “Wow. And here I thought the biggest surprise of the day was you asking me to diner. Finally.” She leaned forwards and Chuck closed his eyes. Several monitors, bells, and warning messages did their thing. The beautiful eyes returned. “I like this surprise much better. You're awfully bold tonight.”

A grin could be heard in his voice. “Guess you could say I woke up on the right side of the bed!”

Bemused, the little man shut off the monitors, and set in silence.

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RE: Who is Operating Your Brain? - 11/9

Postby bethanyc » Wed Nov 10, 2010 5:27 am

Oh, for the love of God, she’s doing it again. Twenty-eight days…like clockwork. “Control, this is Tower. Do you read?”

“Copy that, Tower. Is everything okay out front?”

(Sigh) “Yeah, for the moment.”

“That doesn’t sound too convincing.”

“There’s a plate of holiday sprinkled Crispy Kreme’s on the table…how convincing would you like me to be?”

(Chuckle) “Uh, oh. We’re in for another long week, aren’t we?”

“I love how you say we.”

“Well what’s that supposed to mean?” (More chuckling) “Me and the boys have been slaving away all morning, making sure the synapses are firing away and the neurons stay on course…Hell, Cerebellum was just telling me that he’s been scheduled for a vacation since September, but apparently this time she actually meant, “I’ll never drink again.” --I guess that was a pretty eventful girls’ night…”

“Tower, I don’t give a rat’s behind about Mr. Cerebellum’s need for a night off. You guys have no clue what it’s like up here! You’re nestled beneath layers of membrane and bone matter, all warm and cozy, while I’m up here—front and center, witnessing everything! Do you have any idea how much chocolate and fried food I’m going to have to stare at for the next five to seven days? It’s disgusting.”

“Ahhh…now, come on. It’s not that bad, is it? You think we don’t hear all the attention you get?”

Silence.

“Didn’t I hear someone say last night that you looked like shimmering tropical pools?”

(Soft chuckle) “Okay, fine. There are some perks, but seriously…this week every month is murder! It’s like she’s never seen food before. At least when she’s just depressed I get to stare at pictures of Bradley Cooper…but this, well this is just torture!”

“That better not be you I hear bitchin’, Oculi!”

“Oh, uh…hey, Uterus…how’s it going?”

“You really want me to answer that?”

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Re: Who is Operating Your Brain? - 11/9

Postby avalanche_of_elysium » Wed Nov 10, 2010 6:05 am

LittleEden, I loved your writing prompt - very funny, and it sounded like the typical day in the life of a writer!

Cheers,
Lene

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RE: Who is Operating Your Brain? - 11/9

Postby Lakesideman » Wed Nov 10, 2010 9:41 am

Aldo strapped himself into the big chair once again. It was his thirty-first year on this particular vessel. A quick glance at the monitor located above his chair indicated that all systems were green for the day but response times were slow. “Seems to be a little sluggish this morning,” he said to Raynor, the ships first officer. Aldo opened up a communicator. “Com this is the Captain.”

“Com here, go ahead sir.”

“Send out a neural transmission that we are running late to see if that gets things moving, and also send one regarding the need for refueling this morning.”

“Aye Sir.”

Grubnick, the ships Boiler Chief had sent sever complaints regarding the paucity of fuel the past three days and invited the Captain to come down and see for himself if he didn’t believe it. Aldo said that he would look into it first thing in the morning. The boiler room was not a savory place to visit, especially when wearing a clean uniform.

The rest of the morning went a smooth as silk, all systems running well within specifications. They stopped for twice and topped off once at a doughnut box. That made a mess of the boiler no doubt but Aldo did not worry, his days working below decks were long behind him.

A broken elevator after lunch led to a five floor walk up the stairs but Cuddy in the engine room reported in soon after that though the engines were taxed a little bid the Pulmonary 4000 was still firing like a champ. The words swelled Aldo’s sense of pride as this was indeed a fine ship.

On the routine trip from work to the subway station all hell broke loose. “Bridge this is optical lookout,” a voice screamed over the communicator. “Messenger bike dead Sir, ahead and closing fast!”

Aldo took a quick look in his scope before quickly grabbing his communicator. “Engine room reverse engines, I repeat reverse engines,” he yelled. “All hands brace for impact.” A moment later his entire universe was tilted sideways. “This is the bridge, damage reports from all stations please.”

“Lower Extremities reporting Captain, everything looks good down here.”

“Waste Management here Sir,” a nasal sounding voice replied. “We almost had an accidental evac but we locked it down before there was any spillage.

“Upper Extremities here captain,” said a female voice. “I have two minor hull breaches, one on the left elbow and the other on the right palm.”

“Do you need assistance Marge?” Aldo asked her.
“No sir, I have a clotting repair team at the scene already.

“Good work Marge,” he replied. It did not come as any great surprise as his entire crew was all top notch individuals. He thumbed his communicator switch once again. “Com this is the Captain, fire off a neural transmit and let’s get moving again.”

“Aye sir.”

By the time they were safely back at home port the only damage left was superficial in nature and the ships board was lit green again. Nobody ever wants an emergency, but continual drilling and attention to detail had gotten them through the proverbial storm.

A short time after the evening refueling Aldo walked down to the neural com center. “It’s been a busy day,” he said to the crewmen on duty. “Send out the tired signals and let’s close down early for the day.”

“Aye sir,” they replied back with a smile and a crisp salute.

It was a never-ending job, Aldo thought to himself as he filled his log. He didn’t command the sleekest or newest craft in the human fleet but he loved his posting. It was a good ship and he loved taking care of it.

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Re: Who is Operating Your Brain? - 11/9

Postby Richard81086 » Wed Nov 10, 2010 11:54 am

The light was shining comfortably from its little hole embedded in the domed ceiling. I had just turned it on, and so its dulled rays washed over everything and cast them in an almost hazy sort of illumination.
Though the curtains hadn’t been opened just yet I knew it was well past the time of day when I would normally get him up. You see, I’m the man behind the veil, the one with whom all power rests; all decisions made, and thoughts are processed. My name is Nestor, and for those of you who are of a literary mind, I did fashion my name after the same Nestor from Homer’s great work. The reason for which was because as Agamemnon didn’t listen to Nestor, neither does the one I’m responsible for listen to me. And so, it is just that, I am the silent voice of reason that is often times ignored.
I rest atop in my little one light hovel, with dusty books on top of cobwebbed shelves. There is no refrigerator, no machinery of any kind, nothing except my books, an old rocking chair and dirty rug. The two football shaped windows are my only outlet to the outside, and given the man I was assigned, it’s often best not to open the curtains at all.
You may be surprised when I say assigned. Well it’s true; I was not born to this man. You see, in different stages of a person’s life there is also a different person who is in control of them. It makes sense if you think about it. A young person is assigned an older operator because they’re new and as such tend not to know how to work properly. As of right now, I’m with my twentieth person and my lifetime spans the times of ancient Greece all the way to today. I am very old indeed and have the lengthy beard to prove it.
Sitting in my chair, my old fingers wrap around my coffee cup as I sink into the rhythm of rocking back and forth. I didn’t garner much sleep last night, due in large part to the man I’m responsible for. He went drinking and when that happens, the windows to the world become so clouded that with my own bad vision I can’t see what’s going on. Not that it would matter since he rarely listens to me anyway. So with him throwing me into darkness, he unwittingly gave his decision making powers over to the young man who lives a few floors below me. Always with his loud thumping, his foul language, and his propensity for low morals, Dax is the opposite of me and yet has the ability to overrule my decisions since he is a permanent resident here.
And so when the music begins to fade and the sun breaks the dawn, I’m left with trying to rationalize the previous night’s escapades. This is also why old men are assigned to work the minds of those who’re younger. In my experience I’ve been able to rationalize many things, though distastefully so, in order to alleviate the burden of an otherwise boggled mind. Yet for right now, I haven’t yet opened my door to see what the report that awaits me has to say.
I don’t mean to complain, I enjoy my work. The wrinkles that afflict my face and the wearied look in my grey eyes are to me hard won badges of honor. I’ve never lost a person in my countless ages of watching. Never had to shout or to threaten to shut everything down when I didn’t get my way. No, no, that’s not my style. I just sit back and allow the permanent resident to do what he wishes, knowing full well that it is only a phase and when I need to, I can halt any effort that may cause serious harm to the man.
I do wish though, that given this young man’s life that he would indulge in less frivolity and enter into a more serious understanding of who he is, rather then what he wants. I don’t do want very well. But, I see that it’s getting on that time, so I’ll have to excuse myself. But I hope that this gives you a better glimpse into my world since I understand that more often than not, you’re too busy looking at other things.

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Re: Who is Operating Your Brain? - 11/9

Postby Leond » Wed Nov 10, 2010 12:35 pm

They say that every one has a tiny person inside their brain to guide their actions. These tiny people probably have tinier ones in their heads to guide them. But this isn't their story. Most of these people reside in the brain, but this wasn't always the case. Models have gone through many revisions. The very first had a large control room set up in the spine, but since that caused a bend in the back which was unhealthy, it was a abandoned. Inventors had the controllers set up shop in the left ankle, but this design did not last long at all. Achilles was one of the last people to have this model, which is why an arrow to through his heel was lethal to him. After that, some Greeks attempted to put it in the midriff. This worked out all right, until people noticed that under certain extreme emotional stimuli, the control center could be forced downward into the digestive system. Whence the expression "a sinking stomach". The model which put it in the heart was popular for a very long time, but again strong emotional stimuli became a problem, because they could cause the heart to press down on the control room. Whence the expression "a broken heart". Eventually, they were put in the brain, chosen because it is completely useless. People originally scoffed at this idea, calling the first models "blockheads". But now they are ubiquitous. Whence the expression "taking on a problem head on".
There is no exception for me. But mine is a little different. A typical day in my head goes a little like this.
"All right son. What's your name?"
"Mulligan, sir."
The man noted it down on a pad. "Is this the first time taking this exam?"
"Yes, sir. But I've had a permit to control animals for a while."
"Not the same thing at all, my boy. We'll see if you've got it. All right then. He's on screensaver right now, but he should come to in a moment or so."
Mulligan looked at the board in front of him. The instructor had been right. Controlling an animal was different than controlling a human. But he could make out everything that he would need for the job ahead of him. After a few tense seconds, a green light beeped. I was awake.
"All right," said the instructor. "Now what's the first thing we do every morning?"
"Get out of bed?"
"That's the second thing. First, hit the idle contemplation button and let him lie still for a while."
Mulligan remembered that from the manual. It built energy. "Yes sir." He hit the necessary buttons, and did nothing for a bit.
"Can I move him now?" he asked.
"Yes. But before you do, you might want to put him on autopilot breathe mode. He's about to pass out."
Mulligan saw that he had in fact missed that. He remembered that they always like to give little traps. He corrected it. Then he started trying to get me up.
Almost two minutes of spasmatic jerking later, I was lying on the floor face down with a bruise on my cheek.
"Do you want help, son?" the instructor asked.
Mulligan shook his head, knowing that that would be the worst thing possible. It was giving up. Instant death. "Don't worry, sir. If there's one thing I know how to do, it's get up from a fall." Mulligan immediately knew that he shouldn't have made that joke. Unfortunately, it was true.
He got me standing, when a warning light flashed.
"An itch!" Mulligan said. "I'll make him scratch." He hit a few buttons.
"Good job, son," said the instructor. "Only you're scratching the wrong place."
Mulligan looked down and saw that this was true. He sighed, feeling more and more defeated. Then, he sent me off to get some cereal.
The only reason I ever made it to work that morning was that the instructor took over for Mulligan. By the time he did, I had fallen down the stairs, broken my nose, spilled a gallon of milk on the floor, knocked over the table, and I had never gotten the itch.
Sometimes I really hate my life.

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RE: Who is Operating Your Brain? - 11/9

Postby ecytrynbaum » Wed Nov 10, 2010 2:54 pm

"bethanyc" I loved the organization of your piece, it was easy to follow and very funny.

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