The Synthetic Man (Excerpt)

John Christenson had not come with the intent of being lectured, and yet that is precisely what he arrived to. The hovering lights in the rafters above cast a soft white light across every pew, letting none in the congregation escape from the radiance of His love. Or at least, that was how Buddy interpreted it. John instead saw a weak attempt at symbolism in the church, another failing effort by the money hungry in the Vatican to save a dying religion. These lights weren’t mandated by the Vatican, but the benefits given by the Pope surely encouraged. After all, a cardinal personally visiting and blessing your church was nothing to scoff at. Still, John had serious doubts about God as humanity’s creator, because John knew that God had not created him. Maybe he made Buddy, though. Buddy was no cafeteria Catholic, you see. Buddy had a fire in his heart and a love for God that could never cease, despite the countless theological arguments that inevitably ended in shouting matches over supper. Then, Mother would calm John with her voice and a touch of her arm, and Father would poke John in the ribs and a “What’s the matter with God? Think carefully, He’s everywhere so you know he’s listening.” John always felt better when Mother and Father paid attention to him. John lost his train of thought when the deacon raised his voice for a climactic finish.

“Remember, children. God has blessed us with his presence in every single one of you. Be you black or white, man or woman, know that God is within you, and that He loves you. Amen,” the priest finished. He raised his arms high. The pews responded with a concluding “amen,” and the deacon lowered his hands. He walked down the stairs from the pew to reveal a rather small stature, unexpectedly so. The oratory prowess with which the priest had delivered his homily was conducive to a strong youth with a newfound passion for the Lord. But unless John’s eyes fooled him, this man of only five feet had shattered the foundations of his followers. Well, temporarily, thought John. After all, after every heartfelt hymn and feeling of good will towards men Buddy experienced, he always returned home only to act out his most sinful desires. Through no fault of his own, however, Mother and Father had no idea that the school they had sent Buddy to would be so profoundly rotten to the core, reeking of lust, gluttony, and a litany of other sins that John was unaware of.

“John, come on,” Buddy said firmly. In John’s thoughts, he had forgotten that after the conclusion of a ceremony, one was expected to leave.

“Sorry, Buddy. I was just thinking,” John replied.

Buddy tossed his head to the side, and his blonde locks revealed the face of an angel. Buddy flashed his famous smile.

“You think too much John. You’re not here to think. You’re here to be my friend,”

Buddy was not incorrect by any stretch of the imagination. John stood up, made his way down the wood veneered plastic pews, and followed Buddy through the long aisle to the atrium. He walked in, and was hit with the artificial oxygen created in a lab somewhere far away, probably Liberia. They were the world’s leading oxygen producer after all.

Buddy made his way to the respirator hanger, where his respirator hung alone. Everyone else had left by the time the pair had finally decided to make their exit, and it was reflected in the various pieces of garbage lying on the carpeted floor. A pamphlet here, a forgotten pill crushed on the ground, its contents destined to be vacuumed and expunged into space. Buddy stood at the doorway, tapping his foot impatiently as John stood processing the environment around him. Buddy already had his respirator in his mouth, and John could tell.

“Let’shhhhh go Shhhhhon,” he said. The respirator in his mouth, while essential for survival Outdoors, made it nigh impossible to speak understandable English while equipped.

It followed that most people didn’t talk on the street anymore.

There were a smattering of people at the hoverstop at Kennedy Square, meaning we would be last in the queue. Being a Sunday, most of the businesses surrounding the church were closed, so the only people at the stop were the remnants from the church. The church was sandwiched between a bakery and a jewelers, the trio of businesses being bookended by a synthetic plant store and a music store, etc. John enjoyed this style of city planning. It was efficient, saved space for more business, for more money. In the center of the plaza was a single synthetic tree, making a pathetic attempt to produce oxygen to populate the atmosphere. It was nearly identical to one of the famous old oak trees, except for the black nature of its trunk. That remained as the only reminder that no matter how real, how magnificent and grand it was, that oak tree served only as a feeble reminder of days long gone.

John wondered what it was like back then. To have trees everywhere, to know that the air you breathed wasn’t made in a lab in a foreign country you’ve never been to (nor intend to go to), to feel grass beneath your toes when you walked in a park instead of plastic, to smell the real smell of a rose, and not vanilla, or chocolate, or whatever flavor whoever bought the rose chose it to be. These were things John pondered quite frequently. He also wondered if he could possibly be the only one who thought these thoughts. Surely, he thought, there is someone else who wishes to see these things in reality? Not in the 2-D pictures, or the 3-D holo representations, but an actual tree? Of course, there were obviously other people who thought these thoughts as well. But it was not polite conversation to discuss wonderings such as these. After all, isn’t it better this way anyway?
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I'm trying to write a new story, and this is an excerpt from the first chapter. Enjoy!