PROMPT One Word Inspiration ~ 11

Applo

Beautiful like a Forest Fire
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What's in a word?

Nothing but a group of different sounds put together to create something new, something intelligible.
And from this understanding sprouts inspiration for creativity!

Sometimes it takes only one word to create a spark!

What does the following word bring to your mind?

Ineluctable
 

PoetLore

HuggleMugger
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A Few Posts A Day
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After lunch (noon - 2:00), and evenings after 8:30
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Primarily Prefer Female
Playing Style- Passive or Aggressive
I can do either. I do prefer that there be a goal, but I like letting the charaters dictate what happens.
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Romance, Fantasy, Tudor, Historical, Magical
Genre You DON'T Like
Gore, Vampires, Horror
Daria sat solemnly waiting for the sound of the key to rattle in the lock of her cell. Today was the day. The reckoning had finally arrived and she would pay for her crimes as they were being called. It mattered little that her crimes were committed by order of the Great Oracle, or that he had warned if she were discovered he could not offer aid or release. And so the ineluctable fate of her oath to the Oracle had finally arrived. Somewhere deep within she knew this would be the outcome of their daring to unseat a powerful monarch. her faith in the truth of the oracle's vision had not ever wavered, nor did it now. She prayed for another to take her place, and move the plot forward as the keys clanged against the metal of the lock her eyes lifted and she rose to follow the guard to the chopping block.
 

foodforpigs

uncultured swine
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fantasy, scifi, horror, magical, drama
(a drabble)

There are no mirrors anymore. I can walk outside, and look out, and I understand why. Every one knows why. It was meant to be a good idea. Backups for people. Well, influential people, people of promise, because of growing costs. No longer would society have to suffer the loss of a great mind or artist. Wait a couple of days and they'd come back. Memories were gone, but the way that they were, was kept intact. Imagine the brain connections and plasticity as a soul if you like, being washed clean of the bias arbitrary experiences set upon them. Imagine Shakespeare being able to write different plays through the ages, having not known any of his previous, or a team of scientists revolutionizing our understanding of the cosmos?

All good on paper, except that I happened. A criminal with ambition. I had infiltrated the plant through social engineering, tracking a sap's movements, before killing him. He was in a low level janitorial position with an access card. You would be surprised how effective a uniform is at deflecting questions. Kill a few more up the chain and hide the bodies to collect cards, trading up. All done very quickly. They weren't military, and I was. If they had better guards, and if the lab wasn't secretive, the law could've done me in, but it didn't.

Get to the machine that made the backups. Again, that's what it was meant for, backups. I started to make backups for myself over that long night in November. The first backup had taken the longest, but I prided myself in being a fast learner. My mind was plastic. Despite being born minutes earlier, he had enough of a base understanding of who he was that I could clue him in on what to do next. The increasing number of me created more of me. These weren't backups, but copies. Before the remaining scientists came in the next morning, sheer numbers killed them.

Those who didn't remain to secure the lab and continue to make more, fanned out from the lab, with a communication network of stolen cell phones and wearing the clothes of the recently dead. Before people could clue in to what was going on, thousands of me had traveled the world as packs, doing whatever we wished. I was on the news on a 24 hour basis. I loved the attention. I loved the fear I inspired by my ruthlessness. I was my own military might.

Then everyone else started to have convulsions. I don't understand why. Though I could pick up on the obvious stuff, biological chemistry continues to be an egghead discipline I know nothing about. All I know is that if you weren't me, you became dead. The formulas might have been unbalanced. Some of me thought hard and said it could be that a transmittable virus was made as a byproduct of the cloning. I don't know. I never will.

My ambition had been so wide, I think it only possible that unique people exist in very remote places, far from my reach. There are still me creating me as I age, though I know it doesn't change that I'm lonely. I somehow survive, taking on the roles I had vacated - farmer, grocer, tailor, so on. Some philosophers, though not good ones. They say I am not any job, nor am I the clothes I slap onto myself. I am not my music, or my art, or the thoughts I think. There is only the history.

There is only me.
 
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