Turbinator

October 31st, year 2000 - the distant future. Ten months have passed since Cyberdyne Systems became self aware and launched the deadly Y2K. On New Year's Eve of 1999, when the clock struck 00:00, that is exactly what the human race was reduced to - zero. Panic ensued as cities went black. The doomsayers were right. It was the end of life as we knew it. Before a single hour had come and gone, the world held its breath in silence as the skies lit up. Cyberdyne had simultaneously launched every armed warhead on the face of the planet. Giant smoky mushrooms grew and grew, devouring everything in sight. Those of us either paranoid or pragmatic enough had gone underground. When we emerged, our worst fears were confirmed. However, soon we would find that not even our worst fears could have accounted for the horrors we were yet to witness. Soon we would suffer at the hands of the machines. We call them turbinators; practically indestructible machines animated by artificial intelligence and coated with human skin. At first there was no telling whether the people around us were organic or metal. Before long though, we made a discovery of vital importance to our survival. Since Cyberdyne Systems is itself a machine, it cannot act creatively, and as a result all turbinators were coated using the same human template. By risking my life I have managed to get a clear Polaroid shot of a partially coated turbinator. As can be seen, while all other skin has been either melted or blown off of the machine, a human face remains. This face haunts me every time I close my eyes. It bares a shocking resemblance to my sweet grandmother, who too wore an identical expression and turban.

At the time of writing, I am trapped inside a Channelware building in Milnerton, South Africa, where I was told one of the last functioning computers could be found. My information proved to be correct, because as sure as I breath, I am typing on this computer. The photo shown above was taken moments before I took refuge in this building. The machines are so near I can hear them trying to find a way inside. I do not have much time. I came here with the intention of leaving behind, for whoever may find it in the years to come, some lasting form of documentation of this hellish time. The moment I hit 'PUBLISH POST' these words will be stored on the internet, protected forever from metallic destruction.

Honestly, I doubt I will ever leave this building. The turbinator wearing my sweet grandmother's face has full energy, whereas I have very little left. It also has full gunpower, whereas I do not own a ballistic device of any description. Not even a catty or pea shooter or one of those traditionally African bow and arrow sets that used to be sold on the side of the road. Both turbinators at the forefront seem to be armed with some sort of rocket come missile. Luckily though, they appear to only have one rocket each. I think I can safely assume that since I am looking at the peak of technology and that it is the year 2000 - the distant future - these rockets are heat-seeking. This means that I can dodge them with a suitably warm substitute for my own body. As soon as I immortalise this text, I will begin brainstorming about what I can use to accomplish this. I'd better hurry though, as I only have four credits left.

You're my best friend in a world we must defend

I wish pokemon were real. There, I said it. If pokemon were real, I would have something to do on the weekends. I would find a large field with tall green grass. Oh man, I would look forward to it all week. Once I got there I would walk up and down and around the field until my vision became invaded with flashing, spiralling purple squares. Then, all of a sudden and out of nowhere would appear a wild geodude. I would be able to tell that it is wild by its eyes. Its eyes would speak volumes to me. They would tell me stories of unbridled freedom and sing to me the songs of the mountain. I would wonder for a moment whether it is a male or female geodude. This would be a waste of energy though, as everybody knows that the gender of a pokemon cannot be discerned until you have weakened and captured it. The wild geodude would approach menacingly, and I would thank my stars that I had taken the middle egg from Professor Oak's table. 'Squirtle, I choose you!' I would yell with alacrity. I would throw a pokeball at my feet. A cloud of white smoke would rush out of the open pokeball, and when it cleared, my young squirtle would be left standing there, ready to faint for me. My squirtle would be a boy, and he would be filled with character. He would be my best friend in the whole world. I would be able to tell him all kinds of nasty secrets and he would never be able to tell anybody else, because all he would be able to say is "Squirtle!" I suppose other squirtles, and possibly even wartortles and blastoises would have access to my secrets, as they would probably be able to understand him. Just to be safe though, I would never allow my squirtle to socialise with other turtle pokemon. Instead of skipping through it, I would have paid ample attention to Professor Oak's lecture on pokemon and how to do battle, and so I would remember that rock pokemon have a hard time fighting against water pokemon. 'Water cannon!' my voice would boom without warning. My squirtle would waste no time in opening his mouth wide and spraying litres of seawater at the wild geodude. The wild geodude would no longer be able to keep itself afloat in the air, and struggling, it would drop into the tall green grass. Before long, water would have filled its rocky little lungs and it would have very few hit points left. Here, I would have to work fast. Out of my trouser pocket I would haul an empty pokeball. I would throw the pokeball at the weakened wild geodude and another slightly smaller cloud of white smoke would appear. When the smoke cleared, I would pick up the pokeball. It would feel much heavier, as it would then contain a captured geodude.

Later that day, I would go to the gym, because if pokemon were real, this would actually be enjoyable. With my two pokeballs jingling in my trousers I would walk through the gym doors with a considerable amount of swagger. Once inside, I would proceed to move large blocks of stone. I would experiment, placing these blocks in different formations. Eventually, I would figure out the correct stone block positions and the passage would be clear for me to head on through. Along the way my pokemon would do battle with no less than five personal trainers. The gym's personal trainers would be overconfident and say hurtful things to me. But I would do my best not to take what they said to heart. I would soon find that by trusting in my pokemon, and by believing in myself no matter what, I could achieve anything. After defeating the gym's personal trainers in pokebattle, all that would stand between me and the gym leader would be one last stone puzzle. With the momentum I would have, this puzzle wouldn't stand a chance. The gym leader would say the most conceited things as he saw me enter his office. He wouldn't even say hi or anything like that. At this point, my squirtle and geodude would be in need of some well earned rest. They would both be so close to fainting, that I would decide it best not to risk using them to battle the most powerful trainer in the building. My mind would race back to the beginning of the day, when over breakfast, my mother offered to hold on to my money. I would silently berate myself for agreeing to this, because if I hadn't, I would have been able to purchase some sort of healing salve or potion to use on my pokemon. Upon digging around in my backpack, I would find its sole contents to be a bottle of ether. In an attempt to think of how ether could possibly have a positive effect on pokemon, I would stretch my mind to its limit, but to no avail. I would be completely out of options. It is common knowledge that one cannot fight other people. It is just physically impossible. The only form of combat possible is that which occurs between two pokemon. I would be left with no choice but to leave the gym the way I came in. A fight for another day, I would tell myself. The sun would set behind me as I walked the long dirt road home, and Japanese music would fill the air around me.

Turban granny

How many precious minutes or hours do we spend each day listening to people talk about themselves? I will follow this question up with another: why would anybody willingly read somebody else's blog? I cannot imagine a scenario where person X wakes up early, drops his or her children off at school, slugs through traffic on the way to work, listens to his or her colleagues talk about themselves, slugs through heavier traffic on the way home, listens to his or her spouse and children talk about themselves, and then scours the internet to read about what person Y has to say about him or herself.

This blog is mainly personal. A futuristic diary, if you will. However, in the event that person X, the masochist described above, somehow finds this post, they will not be reading about me and my opinions. Sorry, person X. This post is dedicated to my sweet grandmother.

In her age, my sweet grandmother has become rather paranoid about certain things. For one, she does not like anybody unrelated to her by blood to know her true name. It is my understanding that this paranoia is a result of two things. The first being a dire lack of medication, and the second, a notion that the Japanese want her dead and are working on it. But I don't believe the bit about the Japanese. Not one bit. Understand, I must respect her wishes, and so to give a name to my sweet grandmother, you may call her turban granny. I find this name suits her perfectly, as she is typically seen wearing a turban.

Ever since her school days, growing up in South Africa, she has dreamt of playing cricket at a professional level. Her dominance with the iconic red stitched ball was established as early as the time she began playing mini cricket in her primary school quad. Before long, turban granny had amassed a fine collection of small, wooden-based trophies depicting athletic stickmen frozen in their bowling action, poised to shatter the wickets in front of them. At the tender age of 16, word of her abilities reached the rest of South Africa, as she was named the country's top young sportsperson. The road ahead of turban granny was certainly paved with bricks made of the most expensive cement. Things appeared very bright for her. However, everything changed in the summer of 1931, when her skills earned her the opportunity to captain her side in a tournament held in Japan. Overwhelmed with mirth at receiving such positive news, turban granny felt it necessary to celebrate her good fortune. That very night, she hosted a party and a feast, inviting everybody she knew to join her. She had a great deal of friends and acquaintances. However, one does not pick up enough mini cricket trophies to fill a room without also picking up a few enemies on the way. As the night grew older and the celebrations wilder, turban granny's own sweet grandmother suggested a toast, in honour of turban granny's immense promise and increasingly bright future. In our culture, whenever a toast is made, those present who are carrying loaded firearms are obliged to fire a single round up into the sky after performing the dance of our heritage. Admittedly, this is a flawed tradition, as it does not take a university professor, or even a fully developed adult, to realise that mixing alcohol with munitions might not yield the safest results. And on this particular night, it did not. Koos, who considered himself to be turban granny's sworn and bitter sporting rival for life, would not normally have had the courage to do what he did at the moment of the toast. But drunk with confidence and desperate to prove himself as the final victor, before turban granny ascended to victory at the Japanese tournament and even greater things beyond - things he knew to be out of his reach - Koos hoisted his six-shooter and aimed it at the back of turban granny's turban. This may be the perfect time for me to attempt to describe our cultural dance. It is a fairly simple dance to master as it only consists of two movements performed in repetition, gaining in speed until the people performing it have reached what we call the eskom. The eskom is a physical state that one reaches after a few moments, minutes or hours, depending on fitness levels, where they have no power left. No energy. No electricity. The first step of the dance is a tip of the head to the left, followed seamlessly by a double finger click and slide of the body to the left. The second step involves raising the right bicep parallel to the shoulder and bending the elbow at a 45 degree angle, pointing the fist forward. From here the dancer pumps the right fist forward and back as furiously as possible until a state of eskom is attained. By the time Koos pulled the trigger, turban granny, who was a fantastic dancer, had already completed the first step of the dance, effectively moving out of the path of the bullet. Fortunately for those nearby, the bullet whistled clear of all human bodies and burrowed into a tree in the garden. I wish I could say that turban granny remained unharmed, but Koos' pistol had been fired no more than 30 centimetres from her right ear. Before realising that the blast had rendered her completely deaf in one ear, turban granny had started the second step of the dance, unknowingly driving her elbow directly into Koos' face. Koos hit the ground, his consciousness leaving him until well into the next morning. Needless to say, turban granny did not make it to Japan that year. Losing half her sense of hearing meant that she had also lost half her sense of balance. Doctors said that she would never run in a straight line again. These doctors did not know turban granny very well though, and could not possibly factor into their diagnoses an iron heart and indomitable spirit. Through sheer determination and a love of the game that is cricket, turban granny has nursed her talents, training daily so that she can realise her dream of becoming a professional cricketer. The truly inspirational thing is, her dream has finally come to fruition. After being scouted and recruited to play for Middlesex county club in England, she has shone time and again and has earned a place in the English XI. I have included a recent picture of her at the Pro 20 World Cup held in Japan earlier this year. She took a record breaking 8/22 in the final, without which her team may have lost sorely.

Sincerely
Person Y

Tester post

Testing

One
Two
Three