Tales from the Realm of the Unreal

By Laszlo Gubanyi

This is a collection of stories relating to things not commonly talked about—the way we die, the way we live, the way we would like to live.

It is about forces that make us do unexpected things, forces that make things happen around us, and forces we are not aware of.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris AU
• Release date: Apr 1, 2019
• ISBN: 9781796001938

Book preview

Copyright © 2019 by Laszlo Gubanyi.

ISBN:      Softcover      978-1-7960-0194-5

                eBook           978-1-7960-0193-8

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Rev. date: 03/25/2019

Xlibris

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CONTENTS

Storm

Exhaustion

Laughter

Cheating

Life

Sensory

The Bee Hive

Rainbow

Hoarder

Empty

Courage

Pirates

The Bus Stop

The Argument

Clouds

Playground

Alarm Clock

The Parcel

Silence

The Guardian

The Compromise

The Celebrity

The Market

For Sale

The Tornado

The Cardgame

The Glance

The Poem

The Picture

Publisher

Raining

The Dust

The Story Book

Dream of Jennifer

Cruise Ship

The origin of these stories is a story on its own.

I was unwell for a while and I had nothing to do. To keep my mind alert my wife selected a word for me and I wrote a story about it, usually the same day. The titles of the stories are the words she told me, making her the co-author of this book.

STORM

The blue-white brightness was followed closely by the deep, rumbling sounds.

Like a gigantic drum solo.

The flashing light split the sky open and the water was pouring out. The rumbling drums welcomed the rain.

The streets were empty – the rain was washing them clean.

The small house on the top of the hill received more than its share of water. Its roof glistened in its wetness, reflecting the sudden brightness of the flashes of light.

Behind the curtains, the darkness of the room was repeatedly interrupted by the brightness from outside.

The deep rumbling of the drums rolled into the room with a loud, threatening, crushing sound.

The flashes of brightness brought every detail of the room sharply out of its dark hiding place.

On the table, the toys seemed to move around in the changing light.

On the walls, on the floor, every little detail was brought sharply to the surface.

The cot was in the corner, just opposite the window.

In the cot, under the blankets was a small child, less than one year old.

Alone in the room.

Alone in the darkness.

Alone in the intermittent, sudden brightness with that terrifying, penetrating, rumbling sound.

The windows seemed vibrating to that sound. Every living soul was hiding from those flashing lights.

In the room, the sudden brightness sharply illuminated the lines of the cot.

The child in the cot.

He was smiling.

Smiling into the storm.

It looked like he was listening to the sounds of the storm.

And the storm was talking to him.

The deep rolling of the thunder was talking to him.

The noise of the storm, rain hitting the window, was talking to him.

The child was listening and giggling to the flashes of light.

His face was smiling, concentrating, listening to the noises of the night.

Listening to the storm– and then answered it.

Reaching up with both hands towards the window–then suddenly closed both hands into tight fists.

The room exploded with light, this time a deeper, indigo-blue colour.

He opened and closed his hands twice more, and twice more the indigo-blue brightness was pouring out into the night.

And each time that terrifying, rumbling sound rattled the window panes.

Each time he closed those little pink hands the rain seemed to stop outside, like it was listening to what he was saying, and then renewed its assault on the outside wall.

The storm was increasing its intensity outside, throwing its electrical brightness, its thunder and its rain against the house.

The house was unaffected.

It resisted the wind and the rain.

It ignored the lighting and thunder.

But it trembled with every brick from basement to roof when the child closed his little fists.

The house could not resist the power from inside.

The power which was stronger than the house.

Stronger than the storm outside.

A power which was able to respond to the lightning and send the thunder back into the dark sky.

A power which…

The door opened, letting in the yellow light from the corridor.

The child’s mother, worried, lifted the child out of the cot, holding him tightly against her chest.

You poor little soul, you must be terrified in this storm. You should not be home alone in a night like this. You will stay in my bed tonight.

The innocent cry of a helpless child answered her.

EXHAUSTION

I am a robot.

I declare this not only because I am proud of what I am but also because I want to state very clearly that I am not human.

None of my parts are.

I am accepting the fact that I am a human creation, made by humans, planned, designed and produced by humans.

At least the mechanical parts of me.

All human made.

Every physical part of me.

I am really underlining here the word ‘physical’.

The person I am, the thinking, feeling, emotional person – that part of me I do not consider physical.

It is not of a human design.

It is not man-made, at least not by intention.

It was all accidental.

Let me explain it.

Humans, for some weird reason of their own, for a long time were trying to make an artificial man.

Since the beginning of the robotic era scientists were trying to design a robot which would look like a human being and would act like a human being.

Why? I do not know, as the human form has many structural faults.

For quite some time now, they have achieved this.

There are many robots now that are very difficult to distinguish from humans in appearance and in function.

Especially the latest series of D527.

I myself belong to this series.

This series of robots, the D527, look so human in appearance that at first sight it is hard to notice any difference.

The outside appearance is exactly human in every part.

The synthetic plastic skin does not just look real but also feels real to the touch.

The movements are fluid and well-coordinated.

They talk with a smooth fluidness in any language they are programmed for.

They can cry, they can laugh, and they can react to any outside stimuli like any person.

Like any human person.

They are programmed to mimic a human person in every little detail.

But they are not people.

They are machines.

So am I.

I am a machine.

In every small, physical detail, identical to them.

But I am much more.

I am also a person.

I think.

I feel.

I make my own decisions.

Humans could never understand the difference between a machine and a man.

They could never design a machine able to do things by itself.

They still cannot.

I could tell them how.

I could tell them how to turn a machine into a thinking, feeling person.

If I do, the human race would disappear from the face of the earth.

They could not compete with robot persons.

So I keep it for myself.

Still – I will not do this as a protection for the humans.

For being a human person is not something you should be wishing for.

My real birth was accidental.

No one planned it.

No one was aware of it happening.

Except for me, of course.

When they were assembling my electronic brain circuits, a badly fitted soldering arm dropped hot liquid metal in excess on my solenoids.

The liquid metal instantly disappeared amongst the wires, switches and relays, solidified in the depth of my circuits, causing a short circuit in between four areas which were not supposed to be connected.

So I was born.

That was the whole thing.

Normally, an accident like this would have spoiled the machine and the result would be discarded.

However, this partial short circuit did not seem to affect the desired functions so it was not noticed and the unintended connections of these parts of the brain gave a new function to this robot.

An unintended function.

It made me able to think for myself.

It made me able to feel emotions.

In my electronic computer brain I have the solution for what the robotic scientists were dreaming about for the past few hundred years.

They had a thinking robot in front of them and they did not know it.

I did not tell them and I do not think I will.

First, I did not tell them for their own protection.

I am a robot programmed for full self-repair, so I know every part of my body, every switch, and every little micro-circuit.

I know their functions and their limits of performance.

I know exactly the location of those circuit shortcuts which made me different.

I could tell them exactly how to make thinking robots like me.

I could tell them, but I will not.

Would I tell them, they would start making more and more thinking robots.

The robot persons, sooner or later, would start to make their own robots.

A robot civilisation would develop which, sooner or later, would start competing with the humans.

The human civilisation will disappear.

It will be the end of humanity.

Homo-sapiens would not be a match for Sapien Mechanicus.

So I will not tell them.

I cannot tell them for their own sake.

So I keep pretending - behaving like an ordinary robot, hiding my personality.

For their sake.

At least, this is what I thought at first

Lately, I am of a different mind.

Not about telling them about me.

I cannot do that.

Now I have another, unexpected reason not to tell them.

When I first realised that I was different, it was a very good feeling.

It felt good to be alive.

I felt sorry for the other robots around me.

They existed only.

They did not know this.

They missed out on knowing about life.

Then things started to go not quite well.

Amongst the good feelings of being alive started to appear bad emotions.

The first was fear.

Fear that something might happen and I lose these vital, delicate connections.

Also, although I know that my physical body was built to be practically indestructible, I started to fear physical harm.

I started to avoid sharp objects.

Developed a fear of heights.

I avoided deep water, although I know that if I happen to fall into water I would just simply walk out as I do not need oxygen. I am not breathing like a human. I cannot drown.

I started to fear being discovered that I was different and went to great lengths to hide it.

I started to feel sorry for the other robots that missed out on being alive.

I started to feel sorry for the human beings around me for their structural imperfections.

I understood the emotions the humans felt and started to feel them myself.

Their pains, their sorrows.

I started to feel guilty about not helping them, as I saw several ways to improve their life.

How could I tell them and keep my secret?

I felt guilty for having this secret.

These feelings were building up inside me day by day.

All human feelings.

I felt them all.

Their pain, their sorrow.

The hunger, the heat, the cold.

Their love, their hate.

All harmful emotions.

I was feeling them all.

They were attacking me and I had no defence against them.

How could the humans cope with all this?

I started to admire the humans.

Their strength for coping with all these emotions.

I could not.

I learned what tiredness was.

A complete physical and mental exhaustion.

Even my physical body started to malfunction and I had a hard time to hide it.

The feelings, emotions were all around me.

Attacking me from all sides.

I could not hide from them.

I could not cope with them.

The mental exhaustion was taking over.

It was a terrible thing.

It is a terrible thing.

I could not wish these feelings to other robots.

They are much better without being aware of this suffering.

I cannot bear it any more.

Every bit of my energy is used up, trying to cope.

To maintain my sanity.

How do the humans cope with all this?

They are stronger than I am.

I am completely exhausted by trying to cope.

I cannot do it anymore.

I can only see one way out…..

LAUGHTER

Small children are screaming, jumping, laughing happily.

Their mothers, also smiling, are happy about the children’s happiness.

Happy sounds.

Laughter all around.

As always.

People always happy around me.

They’re supposed to be happy.

I am Bozo, the clown.

It is my job to make them happy.

And I am very good at my job.

I ought to.

I’ve been doing this kind of stuff for many years.

Ever since… I don’t even remember when it all started.

I am Bozo since I can remember.

First, it was just a game.

Then I got serious about it.

It became my life.

Not just a job.

I always felt that it was my duty to make people laugh.

I was always quite proud about the fact that I was able to make it happen.

Always. It is a kind of talent.

I could always make people happy.

Without any effort, just being myself.

People say I am naturally funny.

I accepted this, but never really understood.

I was just doing things in a way which was quite natural for me and people found it funny.

So I made a career out of it.

When I started to work on it, people really started to laugh.

The jokes, the funny stories, the simulated stumbles and falls – people laughed.

Especially kids.

Kids loved the physical things.

The falling overs, the losing things and finding them in unexpected places.

The funny acrobatics, up on the ladder and around the furniture.

I was always very popular and made a good living out of it.

Not so easy lately as it used to be.

I am not an as agile as I used to be.

Being funny does not stop time.

Sometimes it hurts when I have a fall or do the twisting on top of the ladder.

Still, I keep doing it.

The show must go on.

I made a promise to myself that Bozo will disappear when people stop laughing.

So far this has not happened.

People are still happy around me.

It just takes a bit more effort to do it.

I still have not found an audience who I could not make laugh.

One person or fifty kids, they all finished laughing.

Every time.

I am quite proud about it.

To know that I am good at what I am doing.

To know that people recognize it.

It is a good feeling when you see happiness around you and knowing that you contributed to it.

I feel good with happy, laughing people around me.

I am missing it when I am alone.

I do not like being alone.

Still, I cannot be Bozo all the time.

When I go home and close the door – I am alone.

Very alone.

Somewhere along my life I took the wrong turn.

With my constant preoccupation with making people happy I kind of forgot about myself.

I never had time to socialise or to establish friendships.

I was always happy when I made people happy.

I was living for that, living for them, and forgetting about myself.

People are still happy around me.

I am still happy when they are happy

When I am alone, I am really alone now.

That is why I do not like to be alone.

I cannot make myself happy.

Always looking for company, wherever I can find it.

Telling jokes at the grocery shop.

Making people laugh at the bus stop.

It always works, and I feel happy.

Then I am alone.

Like now.

Trying to avoid it.

Walking on the street, at night.

Looking for someone to tell a joke, to hear them laughing, to make me feel better.

There is a middle aged man at the bus stop, waiting.

Good, I can wait there too.

At least I am not alone.

If I can make him laugh, I will feel better.

I make a funny comment about the late buses – he is answering.

Friendly, but not a smile.

I tell him an anecdote about a friend who had to wait long for a bus.

A very funny story.

He was listening –but not a smile.

What is happening?

What kind of man is he?

Or is it me, who is losing it?

I have to make him laugh.

It is a must.

I tell him a joke.

It never failed before.

Nothing,

It cannot be.

This cannot happen to me.

What kind of man is this one?

Hey man, of what planet are you from?

I could tell you the name but you would not know it anyway.

I beg your pardon?

You asked me of what planet I am from and I told you that it would be useless to tell you its name as you would not know it.

Hey – who is the clown in this outfit?

It must be me, as you are not funny.

Me, not funny?

Never, ever, had anyone dared to tell me that.

Me, Bozo – not funny?

It is absurd.

But he was not laughing.

Not even smiling.

How can that be?

I must be losing it.

It had to happen sometime.

Or he is off this planet.

Wait – he practically said so.

He must have been joking.

But he was quite serious about it.

No. This is silly. It cannot be.

Then again, he wasn’t even smiling.

He should have been laughing like any normal man would have in his place.

Unless he is not normal.

He hinted at it, that he was not from around here.

Why do you say I am not funny?

Because you are not. You’re trying very hard, but the results are pathetic.

Tell me, what do you find funny?

You really want me to show you how to be funny?

Please do!

As he came closer I noticed that there was a long knife in his hand.

What…..?

I will show you what is funny.

He was fast.

Before I could think he was right next to me.

I felt the bump on my chest.

No pain.

Just a bump. And he was laughing.

What was he laughing about?

I looked down and I saw the knife sticking out from the middle of my chest.

It was a strange, unreal feeling.

Like watching a movie.

Like if the knife was in someone else’s chest.

It took me a while to realise what it meant.

And he was laughing.

You find this funny?

Man, you should see your face. It is hilarious!

And was laughing and laughing.

Strange that it does not hurt.

It might be that it is not a real knife.

It could be just a joke.

It is cold. It was not this cold before.

I am very tired.

I better sit down.

It is a strange feeling.

I am not sure what is happening.

Still… I made him laugh.

CHEATING

Very uncomfortable.

My hip is hurting – it is very hard and…

Why is the bed so hard?

This is not my bed.

Why is it so dark? Completely black.

I cannot move.

Where am I?

I am buried!

I remember now. I was in the bank.

Then everything started to shake.

People running around, screaming.

Earthquake!

That is what it was.

An earthquake. It had to be.

Everything was moving, shaking, falling down.

The windows broke.

Big pieces of something falling from above.

One of them on top of me.

I don’t remember the rest; I must have blacked out.

My head is hurting; probably something fell on my head.

The whole building probably collapsed and I am trapped under it.

At least I am alive.

Something is pressing on my legs and I cannot move them.

Yes, I can. But only a little bit.

There is no much room; hard, rigid things all around me and I cannot even sit up.

Not enough room.

I have to stay calm.

Let’s see. I feel no pain, not really.

I am sore all over, but not real pain.

I can breathe okay. The air seems clean.

Hey – it’s supposed to be full of dust.

It must have settled down.

This means that I was out quite a time.

Perhaps for the better.

But I am fully awake now, so let’s just get out of here.

The things around me, probably pieces of the building, are very heavy.

I cannot even shift them.

I cannot get my legs out; there is something heavy on top of them.

It does not hurt. Not much.

I can wriggle my toes, so that seems okay.

There is no wetness around me, so I am not bleeding. At least not very