Counter Culture

This story was originally part of my latest novel The Experience [to be published 2025]. It is one of five ‘outtakes’ that were originally threaded through the novel’s opening chapters. The job of these stories was to reflect or counter the nature of the narrative’s ‘reality’. Their style and viewpoint being contrary to that of the novel’s. It was eventually decided to remove them, simply to keep the continuity of The Experience’s particular style. Please feel free to comment.  – Tim Bragg

I lay in bed, thoughts coming and going. I still felt tired but wanted to get up. The phrase ‘I’ve got to get up’ formed solidly in my mind. A phrase I have said or thought many times. But this time it felt poignant in some way. So I thought harder about the phrase – like when you think hard to bring a dream back into your consciousness. But nothing came. I remained prone. Aeroplane noise sounded through the open window. That should have been a clue. And when the traffic stopped I heard faint birdsong. That should also have been a clue. But I got up.

When I opened the shutters I was surprised that I could see neither planes nor a road with traffic. Had I been dreaming? Perhaps I hadn’t woken up when I heard them previously and the phrase ‘I’ve got to get up’ formed in my dream, trying to wake me up. That seemed plausible. Yet for those first few seconds, maybe a minute, I could have truly believed in the aeroplanes and the traffic. Now I had the birdsong. This was my life. Smiling, I presumed I’d been in that hypnopompic state between sleep and waking – my mind caught between two realities. ‘I’ve got to get up’ it was saying to me.

Outside the air smelt fresh and the view was inspiring. This scene never tired me. I could stare at it for an eternity. Again I smiled. An exaggeration. I was prone to that. I knew myself. For a fleeting moment the idea of painting what I saw entered my head. But why would I paint it when I could see it every day of my life? As I thought this a neighbour passed along the lane below. ‘Bonjour,’ I said. They smiled and replied ‘Bonjour,’ craning their neck to see me. I have an odd idea that I don’t normally speak French. Then I think again and I hear myself say, ‘Good Morning.’ Odd. But then I’ve just woken up and the sun was already rising in the sky. Everything felt good. There was some kind of significance about the day that invigorated me.

There was no-one in the house. I wondered where my daughter was. Having got dressed and throwing some cold water on my face, I descended the stairs. I loved the staircase, I’d always wanted to live in a house with a solid old wooden stairway. There was a hint of smoke in the air. The nights could still get a little cold so we’d have the wood stove burning logs for a while. I went into the living room – I suddenly found that a funny description: the room where we lived. Was it that anywhere else in the house we’d be dead, or only partially living? I imagined a world where folk were partly alive, like fleshy-ghosts or zombies but with an instinct. An instinct to get to the ‘living room’ where they would instantaneously rediscover themselves. In which case the living room of a house would most likely be the largest room. Which would make sense. Then I thought, would there be any need for bedrooms? Would these ghostly zombies need sleep? Time for a coffee. Kick in my brain. Kick in some normal thoughts. Where was my daughter? Perhaps Hannah had taken her into town. Was it Saturday or Sunday? Well, if they’d gone to town it wouldn’t be Sunday. This thought comforted me. I made coffee. Good coffee. I prefer tea but in the morning I need a good strong cup of finely blended coffee beans.

You probably think I’m a bit scatterbrained – but truly, one day seems to meld into another. And a day can feel short or last for an eternity, depending on my mood. Hannah thinks having a creative mind like mine must be torture. I didn’t even know I was creative. Then again I didn’t know why I wanted to paint the scene from out the bedroom window. Perhaps I’d begin painting. Are we all creative? That’s the common idea isn’t it, we’re all creative in some way but that ability has been squashed by routine and societal put-downs. The idea of painting swirled around my head for a while and then was lost.

I was sitting down when someone knocked at the door. Getting up I hurried to open it. There was a postwoman standing there holding a parcel. I guess I couldn’t have slept too late or if I had the postwomen was very late. ‘Bonjour,’ she said. Automatically I answered ‘Bonjour’. Was I speaking French now? Handing me the parcel she smiled warmly. ‘Gracias,’ I replied. She said, ‘De nada.’ As she turned and walked down the path I did what everyone else does to a parcel and weighed it in my hands, turning it to feel its dimensions. Unlike most people I only then looked to see who it was addressed to. Me. ‘Gracias,’ I said again. I didn’t normally speak Spanish either, and neither the postwoman, I didn’t think. But it felt as natural as it did odd.

At the table I began to open the packet. It wasn’t my birthday. I hadn’t ordered anything. Maybe Hannah had used my account and the parcel was really for her? With the wrapping off I could see a solid looking box. Quickly I opened it, there were no clues as yet to what it was. Inside was truly a box of tricks. All manner of small packets of circuitry and minuscule objects I had no idea about. But I emptied the box onto the table and began assembling. That is the truth. Despite having no idea what it was I was constructing I set to the task briskly. Perhaps I was allowing my sub-consciousness to take over. I was a reasonably technologically-minded man, that was how I made my living. That was how I had made my living.

After some concentrated minutes I looked up and around. I hadn’t eaten and I hadn’t gone out. Getting up I stretched my limbs. Where was Vicky? I don’t think I’d even got to talk to her by herself this visit. Anything to eat? A banana. That would do. More coffee or make tea? I looked out of the kitchen window and saw my neighbour returning – she passed by and I was unnoticed. The countryside called to me again. Why did I want to paint it so much? I made some toast, spread some butter and jam and made another mug of coffee. Then sat back at the living room’s table.

Once the assembly was finished, I stared at it curiously. What on earth was it? It was small. It lit up. Flashed. And then spoke to me, which took me totally by surprise.

‘Thank you,’ it said. My mouth opened in wonder. I’d constructed a talking box. I was both surprised and excited. ‘And congratulations,’ it added. I looked at it. I dropped my head down close. Now I was concerned about touching it, even though I assembled it. I waited. ‘Are you going to ask me any questions?’ I looked about the room. I was confused. ‘Questions?’ it reiterated.

‘Well what are you?’ I asked.

‘I am the creator,’ it said.

‘The creator of what?’

‘Of everything,’ it answered. Then added, ‘Of your world.’

‘But I made you,’ I said.

‘But I made you,’ said the box.

‘I could break you,’ I said. ‘Easily.’

‘You’d be too late,’ said the box.

‘Too late for what?’

‘You can’t undo what has been done.’

‘Who says?’

The box flashed. ‘I made you and therefore I would make you break me if that was my desire. Besides, I’m often broken. When that happens I just arrive as a parcel at someone else’s door.’ It flashed.

‘Are you like a genie, are you going to grant me three wishes?’ I said flippantly.

‘I already have done.’ The machine seemed to smirk. I found it slightly condescending.

‘What three wishes?’

‘Three of them.’

‘Yes, you told me.’ I couldn’t believe I was talking to a machine I had, by chance, assembled. ‘Be more specific.’

The machine flashed again. It seemed playful, but how could I know?’

‘You expected me to assemble you?’ I asked.

‘Everyone does,’ it said. ‘Not strictly true,’ it corrected, ‘there was someone who didn’t.’ If a machine could be angry, it was then angry. I felt it. But then the machine would be recalling something that had made it angry. That would be pretty advanced. An emotional memory.

‘Who made your parts?’

‘I did,’ it said.

‘How can you make yourself?’

‘Didn’t you make yourself?’

‘I’m not a machine.’

‘But you did make yourself. You grew all by yourself into who you are now. You aren’t anyone else, are you?’

I had to think about this. What was I doing arguing with a machine? The contents of a box. There had been a strong compulsion to assemble it. Build it. ‘I didn’t grow by myself,’ I began, ‘I had parents that nurtured me and gave me food. I have to eat to grow, to maintain myself.’

‘It’s everything I gave you,’ said the box.

‘You gave me?’

‘Yes,’ it flashed.

‘This is crazy,’ I said. Maybe I’m going crazy? I questioned. ‘I’m going to smash you up, smash you into smithereens. Then try and turn up in a box at someone’s house.’

‘It’s all been done before. You have to learn. You’ll have to learn…’ As the machine said this I picked it up and smashed it against the tiled floor. Then I took it outside and smashed it against the brickwork. And then I laid it down on the patio we’d had laid and I took a rock which I heaved above my head and bent over and brought it down on the machine, or what was left of it. Its parts were scattered with some turned to technological dust. I sat down on the patio’s brickwork. The sun was shining. It was a glorious day. My breath came heavy. My hands were shaking. Two mugs of coffee. I shouldn’t drink so much coffee. I could see bits of the machine everywhere. What did it mean, it made me? An arrogant machine. What did it think it was?

I went back into the house and washed my hands and threw water on my face. What on earth had gone on? Probably some elaborate joke. Technology could do that kind of stuff these days. Maybe ex-work colleagues. Creating a machine that thinks it made me and everything that made me, me. I decided to go for a walk into the beautiful countryside I could see from my bedroom window. Bathe myself in nature.

Lying on my bed I heard a bird singing loudly outside. I felt very comfortable where I was. The duvet was warm from my body’s heat. And my wife’s. I turned round to look at her but she was gone. Her pillow was depressed into a bowl where her head had rested. I was desperately trying to remember my dream. I was willing my thoughts to bring it back. I’d experienced it, why couldn’t I conjure it once more. Do dreams go into our memory banks? And if they do, what distinguishes dreams from reality? Besides, when you’re in a dream it is reality.

‘I’ve got to get up,’ I said out loud to nobody. I had that curious feeling you sometimes get when you’ve experienced something before or that something seems peculiarly poignant but you don’t know why. As if the words were harking back to another fictional world, perhaps a dream world. I pulled myself out of bed and stood and stretched my arms upward. Walking over to the window I looked outside at the view. Such a beautiful view. I wanted to take a photograph of it – try and capture it. But it was always there. Each day it welcomed me in whatever time of year, whatever the weather.

The sun was rising. I wanted to fly out from the window and across to the distant fields and trees. My neighbour walked past below me. I watched her get close and called down to her, ‘Good morning.’ Looking up she smiled and replied, ‘Good Morning.’ Then she carried on her way. Tripping down the stairs I felt truly alive. Where was Hannah and my son? No trace. I got myself a mug of tea, I’d given up coffee, it could excite me too much. I opened the side door of the house and looked outside. The sky was blue with not a cloud. I was very happy. Resting against the wall I let the sunshine pour over me.

From around the corner of the house I heard a voice call out, asking  if there was anybody home. I must have missed them knocking at the front door. Walking quickly I turned the corner to face the postman who was waiting by the door. ‘You need to sign for this parcel,’ he said. I strode over and we smiled at each other. Bending down he picked up the packet. ‘It’s a little heavy,’ he said. Passing it to me I said, ‘Thank you.’ I watched as he disappeared down the path. I held the packet in my hands and weighed it like we all do, turning it as I did. Gauging its dimensions and wondering what it might be. Looking at the address I saw it had my name. Curious, I thought, as I’d not ordered anything. Perhaps Hannah had got something for me. A surprise perhaps? But then why would she send it to me and not to herself. I brought the parcel in and placed it on the living room table and began to pull off its wrapping. As I unwrapped it I had a very curious feeling.