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Sci-fi Novel - The Dream Artist - Part 8


last yearBusy4 min read


Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Part 5
Part 6
Part 7

Part 8

Peri left to talk to a friend of the dream artist. As I didn't feel the energy going into the animated maze that Selim Özben spends his nights, I have invited the android Marlo, who had a chrome-decorated body, to accompany. He welcomed my invitation because he was programmed to be useful to people. I remembered that I didn't have a quadcopter for coming with Peri's when we went by the flight track, so I gave my quadcopter instructions to come to me with the message I sent. After a short walk, we sat at the banks under the big willow trees. The branches of giant willow trees hanging down from our top were making pleasant murmurs in the wind, like a beautiful woman's hair waving gracefully with the wind. The intensified wind leaned across the poplar trees and allowed them to participate in the hums of willow trees. My phone rang when I thought this place might be even more beautiful in November. My mother asked me if there were any close relations between Peri and me, and if so, whether it resulted in sexual intercourse with a curiosity that suits tabloids.

I said, ”Even Siamese cats need to go through days to get used to each other, and you should know that I don't have a habit of mating with my colleagues."

“You chose a profession where men are the majority. If you had chosen another profession, I would have been playing with my grandchildren in the park.”

I said, ”You and papa don't like kids."

“Your father loved only me in life, although I don't know how true it is to say, love, it's more of a sexual situation. He never left after me like a stray dog on the tail of its mate.”

I knew my mother's tongue didn't have a bone, so I said, “I don't want to know the details of your sexual life.”

“Do you think you were produced in the lab? You were fertilized after 100% quality sex, and you were built in one of the highest quality bellies in which a human baby can be produced. Do you appreciate the value of your mother who produced you cell by cell, tissue by tissue, or will you start not to take care of her like your father, who is now old and have a weakening libido?"

“I will visit you as soon as possible, I am under pressure for my duty, please understand me.”

“I don't like your job, I don't like your dreams, I don't like you wasting your days looking for someone who is a lunatic, and probably already has gone to the donkey heaven. Who knows how many psychopaths there are in the crowd of fans having fun watching other people's crazy dreams. I'm seriously worried about the possibility that one of these psychopaths will harm you,” she said with endless energy.

“Is dad okay?" I asked to change the subject.

“Your father wants to go to Mars; he's been counting on it for a couple of days. He talks about Mars like he doesn't know how much it costs to travel. I don't know why he wants to go over there and swallow the tile powder. I'm surprised when I think how this guy has worked as a journalist for 50 years. Now, because of crazy people like your father, employers give all the jobs to robots, and then on the streets, they do demonstrations, and the world's nails come out, and we can't wipe our asses without robots.…”

I cut her off by saying, "Mom, I got to get back to work."

She said, "Well, all right, okay."

I decided to find and read dream critics of Selim Özben from hypernet before attempting to question the android sitting next to me like a child. I opened one of Tarkan Tezcan's old articles about the dream artist on my mobile computer, which is considered a worldwide master in the field of dream criticism.

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