Instead of writing I’m watching Mr Robot. It got me thinking about something that has popped into my head before. We all have shit that we think makes us weird, makes us different, and we try to hide it to fit in.

The number of people I know now who have had terrible childhoods due to alcoholic, mentally ill or absent parents, and think that this is weird. I hear it so often I think that it’s probably a lot more normal than we’re taught to believe.

My own family is loving and supportive, and still together despite every obstacle and hardship they’ve faced. I admire them greatly, partly because it seems so rare. At least among the people I know. Despite the fact that a Mum and Dad working together to raise and support their children is supposed to be normal. In reality it seems to be odd, unusual, weird.

I like being weird. I used to worry that I had no right to be weird because I didn’t have a messed up childhood. So I tried to be normal. Go to college, fall in love, get married, get a career, a house, a car, have kids, make friends with other couples and climb the corporate ladder.

Me being all domestic

It was all wrong though, fake, dishonest. If we’d had children though I would have kept it up indefinitely. Worked jobs I hated just to make sure they had a roof over their heads, food in their bellies and a loving mother and father to look out for them.

I can’t have children though. I’m infertile. To be fair so was she. After we found that out it got harder to understand what it was all for. Humans are supposed to reproduce. Even though I reasoned that at least we weren’t condemning a new life to our particular combination of genetics, I still felt like I’d failed as a husband and a human being.

It still took a few years for the marriage to crumble into dust. During which I still tried to hold up the structure of a perfect life, with one pillar missing. The remaining pillars, and the two of us, cracking under the strain.

She found someone else shortly after we broke up. I have no idea if they’re still together, nor do I want to know. I’m not that person I was trying to be. I’ve embraced my weirdness. No more pretending. Though I admit I’ve toned it down a little for work.

Me now

I have no idea how my new coworkers would react to my black nails and eyeliner. The fact I like to eat raw bacon as a snack doesn’t need to come up. I loathe sports, but I love fantasy and sci-fi games.

I worry that I have little in common with people. I want to be able to relate to the customers and coworkers. I’m repelled by the thought of having to pretend I’m someone I’m not, but I like this job. I don’t want to lose it because I have no idea which football teams are playing, or because someone thinks I’m too weird.

I know I’m being over anxious. I got a food order wrong today, something I found out on day one I could get in big trouble for. The problem was resolved before it became an issue, but I can’t afford to make any mistakes.

Firing a perfect employee because he’s weird is prejudice. Firing the weird employee because he makes expensive mistakes is justified. If I was in their shoes, I’d be waiting for me to make another mistake. It’s not like I’d be hard to replace. Two more people handed in job applications today. Who knows how many more applied via email.

I feel a little better for expressing this. It’s overdramatic, but emotions often are. I don’t really expect to lose my job anytime soon, no more than I do in any job. There’s always a chance that the people you’re relying on will betray you, but that’s life.

Have a great day

Coming Along

I got some more actual writing done today. Not just this blog article, but also the next part of my Hermes925 story, Discon in Distress. Obviously it’s a little silly to get excited about being able to keep up with my writing goals for just 2 days in a row, but I’m choosing to feel good about myself anyway.

I think the journaling format works. Though I wonder if I should include some kind of date system. Having dates would clearly indicate how long it’s been since the last entry, but there are inherent problems with setting sci-fi in a particular year. I want the year vague to try an make the story somewhat timeless, and make the story relevant for as long as possible. However the technology itself is going to date the story before too long. Perhaps I could use a day and month, with no year? I might be able to get away with that. I could even use a two digit year I suppose, leaving the century uncertain.

There is another possibility of course. It could be an alternate timeline. The current Hermes925 story arc already combines 3 older story ideas into one narrative. I could bring in another. The working title had been ‘time-chain’, and the core idea came to me in a dream once. In the dream I had been walking through an American town in the fifties. In a used car lot next to a diner, among the beautiful vehicles you’d expect to see in the 1950’s, was a modern Chrysler 300.


I kept walking and entered a small hardware and homewares store. Again, most of the items in there where fairly typical of the time, but there’s a pegboard display that’s a little out of place. Hanging from the hooks are little plastic baggies containing electronics components. Resistors, diodes, transistors and chips. This is what I had been looking for, to complete the time machine, the plans arrived on my kitchen table that morning along with a list of parts I would need to purchase.

It occurred to me upon waking that if you could build a machine that could send things back in time, you could send them the means to build another time-machine, along with instructions to do the same. The time-line would be drastically altered as people send back car-parts, components, computers, and even literature. I abandoned the idea, because I couldn’t imagine the chaos the world would be thrown into.

I’m fairly certain I’m not going to try an incorporate this into Hermes 925. It would completely confuse the current plot. If you don’t want to know what the plan is then skip this bit until you get to the paragraph starting ‘It’s safe now’.  The plan is to have Jaime jump at the chance of joining the Hermes project after his relationship with Tanisha goes spectacularly wrong. The project involves using a set of quantum entangled ‘doorways’ to allow people to be astronauts from 9-5. When your shift is over, you just walk through the doorway and go home.


Of course something goes wrong, leaving Jaime, a female bio-technician, and the ship’s AI Hermes, stranded in space, unable to communicate with earth. Cut off from the N•Viron system. The bio-technician goes crazy first and kills herself. Jaime gets depressed and neglects his duties, resulting in an overpopulation of the ship’s lab rats.The rats and plants from the hydroponics bay spread throughout the ship. Hermes itself narrates the story from here.

Decades, perhaps even a century or two passes, before Hermes flight-path brings it back to earth to find the connection it was seeking long gone. There is no N•Viron, nor any recognisable civilisation at all. Hermes crash lands allowing the savage rat-folk on board to spill out. This leads to a fight for dominance against post-civilised humans (or whatever new species has taken their place), and a new narrator for the last part of the story. Adding the time-chain plot could make nonsense of all of this. Unless the time-chaining is actually directly responsible for the fall of civilised humanity? I may need to think on this some more.

It’s safe now. I hope you like what I’ve posted so far, and that you’re looking forward to another Hermes925 entry tomorrow. If you have any comments, concerns, suggestions, or words of encouragement, I’d love to hear from you. I have a new e-mail address, or you can use the comments section below, contact me via the Contact/Commissions page, or track me down on Facebook.

Have a great day.

Mischief and Magic

When I asked my niece Imogen what I should write about today she didn’t get a chance to tell me before my Dad piped up “Faeries!” She did give me some very sensible suggestions afterward, but I decided to go with my Dad’s suggestion. I love that the Reverend Trevor Copeland not only accepts that I believe in the Fae, but also actively encourages me to share my thoughts on the subject.

Just in case you think I may be crazy, let me give you a little background. I don’t expect to change your mind, but perhaps it’ll help you understand why I think faeries are real.


I grew up in a haunted house. My parents got a good deal on it because the previous owner was a medium. By that I mean she was able to summon and communicate with the spirits of the dead. She told my parents (and presumably any other prospective buyers) “You may get the occasional visitor, but don’t worry they won’t do you any harm”. If I was the real estate agent, I would’ve hated her for that!

My parents were young and sceptical, so they bought the place. It was right across the road from the local school, next door to a general store, and just around the corner from my grandparents. A good deal. After we moved out, my Dad confessed to feeling a cold spot at the top of the stairs, right next to mine and my sister’s bedroom. He just told me now that it would sometimes smell of kippers (smoked herring).


On the other side of that wall was a wardrobe. For my US readers, that’s a piece of furniture that functions as a closet, a cupboard with a clothes-rail in it. Anyway, this wardrobe stood in the corner of the room with games and toys stacked on top of it. Even with the door open ajar (my sister was afraid of the dark), there was a deep dark shadow above it.

Sometimes I would lay in bed staring into that shadow, and see red eyes, black fur, and a smile full of sharp teeth. I called it ‘the monster on top of the wardrobe’. Dad tells me that I told him about it (I have no memory of this), and that he offered to chase it away. I told him (he says) “No Daddy, It keeps the others away.” As I grew up I didn’t see him around as much. He showed up again when I was much older, after I began to look into paganism and witchcraft.


There were other strange things too, that I just took for granted. My older cousins had given us a tote-full of Lego. It was awesome. I could never find the piece I was looking for, so I learned quickly to pretend I was looking for something else. I held the image of the decoy lego brick in my mind clearly as I hunted, until I’d found all the bits I was really looking for.

Long after we moved out of that house, things would go missing, and I’d be the only one able to find them. By pretending it didn’t matter that I found it or not, or seeming to be looking for something else, I can get a ‘feel’ for where the missing item really is. I still do that now. It doesn’t always work, but I have other tricks up my sleeve.


Monica and I were staying in a youth hostel in London once. As we were packing to leave, we couldn’t find her watch anywhere. We both heard the faeries giggle. I left a pile of coins on the window sill as an offering (we weren’t going to be able to use them in America anyway) and trusted that it would show up. When we got back to the states and opened her backpack, there was her watch, sitting on top of everything else she’d stuffed in there.

Going back a little in time, to a family holiday (vacation) on the Isle of Man. This little speck of land between England and Northern Ireland is a fascinating place. According to legend, it’s the home of the Celtic sea god Mannanen. He kept the Island protected from Roman invaders by hiding it in a blanket of fog, but allowed Vikings to land and interact with the Manx Celts peacefully.

Mannanen Mac Lir.gif

The Isle of Man also has a faery bridge. As you cross it you’re supposed to say ‘hello’ to the faeries and wave. If you don’t then bad things happen to you. The locals will tell you about a coach bus full of tourists ignoring the tour guides advice, which then crashed on the other side of the bridge.

Then there’s the time I was exploring the woods in Williamson Park in Lancaster, UK. I found an area where the trees looked twisted and unhealthy. I could feel their pain. There was one tree in the middle of them that seemed to call to me, so I approached it and reverently laid my palm on it. I got the clear impression that a glade god, a green man, an aspect of the Celtic god Cernunnos, passed through me. He expressed gratitude for being released and vowed to restore the glade, and I saw/felt the faeries of his kingdom swarm from the tree also, bringing life and joy with them. That same group of trees looked, and felt, much better the next time I passed through.


I’m not sure I could prove their existence to anyone else. I’ve learned to accept that they’re around through personal experience. Perhaps, if you’re open to it they’ll make themselves known to you too. I do know this though. There’s a lot more of them here on the UK than there are in the US. The faeries I met there were weak, sickly, hurting. Desperate for any belief they could get. Do me a favour and believe in them anyway. Save the American faeries. Leave them coins, milk and bread. Dedicate a little corner of your house or garden to them. Listen for their giggles when your stuff goes missing, and smile.

Do you believe in faeries too? Do you have any stories of personal encounters, or know someone who does? Get in touch! 🙂


Daemonic Aspirations

For those that are easily disturbed by talk of demons and hell, fear not, this was simply a mental exercise.

My friend Bumble and I record a podcast called The Masquerade with Bumble and the Brit. It’s very silly and nerdy, and I love it. The subject of religion came up. As you may recall I love discussing religion, especially the expanded mythos. For example, the Christian religion has some interesting ideas about Angels and Demons that don’t originate from the modern Bible. In fact the image of hell has gained more inspiration from Dante’s Inferno, Paradise Lost, and underworld legends from older systems of belief.

Regardless of the origins of Hell, the majority of Christians believe that sinners and unbelievers will go there after they die. That may very well include me, if what a street evangelist in Lancaster, England told me is true. She was quite certain that, no matter what I had done, God would welcome me back with open arms. That is unless I had blasphemed against the Holy Spirit. That, she said, was an unforgivable sin.

I'm Doomed
So I’m doomed.

I have done so, years before the woman in Lancaster gave me a look of heartbroken disappointment, and walked away. I had been a devout little Christian boy my whole life, I was in the Choir, and then an Altar boy after I was confirmed (Anglican Church, not Catholic). I had never really needed God for anything though. There were always parents, grandparents, aunts and uncles, and teachers there to help me out and make me feel protected and loved. Even the police were trusted adults that made me feel safe. It’s a shame that I assumed this was God’s love I was feeling, because those people who were there for me deserve far more respect and appreciation than I ever gave them. This article may upset a few of them since many of them are still believers, despite my disclaimers.

When I was about 15, and my Sister was 13, my parents went through a rough patch. They separated. It was an odd separation. Grandma Copeland, my Dad’s Mother, was already living next door so that we could keep an eye on her. My Dad moved into her guest bedroom, right next door. What happened afterwards was an adorable reconciliation, and my parents got back together. During this time though, my Sister and I were there for them. Being a somewhat typical fifteen year-old, my emotions were in flux, and felt very sorry for myself that I had no-one to turn to about them. Even the teachers seemed too busy to deal with me. I felt lonely, unloved. All very dramatic. I asked for a sign from God that I was not alone, and felt nothing, heard nothing. So I told the whole damned Trinity, Father, Son and Holy Spirit, to go fuck themselves.

My Dad is a wonderful Man, but he made a rather dramatic change in his life also. He had been an Atheist. One of the cited reasons for the separation, was that Mum felt that Dad didn’t respect her Christian faith. He had begun going to an Alpha course at the Church I had once attended, to learn more about Jesus. It was during one of these meetings that my Dad saw an Angel. A brilliant living light, the rays stretched like wings. It seemed frustratingly unfair. After the rough patch had ended, every discussion I had with my Father about the old stories, the old beliefs, became an attempt to save my soul.

My Dad, of course, thinks the Lancaster lady was wrong. That I’m guaranteed a spot in heaven, whether I like it or not, because I’ve been confirmed. This, ironically, made me more determined not to follow a God that would resort to such trickery to secure souls! Condemned to Heaven, because I was naive. He can absolutely go Fuck Hisselves. Why would I want to go to Heaven if I have no choice? I’d rather go to Hell on general principle! So this brings us to what I was originally intending to discuss.


Again. Mental exercise. None of this is to be taken seriously. If we are going to Hell, it’s a choice we make in life. It seems to me that, if you’ve made that choice, that you don’t want to get there and find that you are to be tortured for eternity by demons. It’s accepted by most that the Demons are comprised not just of fallen Angels and entities spawned from the dark void, but also some of the cruelest souls from history. Monsters that were once man.

Wouldn’t you rather be a torturer than among the tortured? If you happen to like the idea of being tortured, your torture may, in fact, to be a torturer instead! Regardless, it’s better to be able to choose, than be a slave to the whims of others. It was suggested, during the podcast, that this could be the basis for a lucrative new religion! 🙂 Like minded sinners can hang out, compare stories of their misadventures, teach classes about certain sinful activities, basically does everything he can to prove ourselves the most worthy of daemonhood.

2016-06-30 11.23.47

The churchgoers would be encouraged to help keep the church going, the recommended tithe being 10% of their income, on autopay. Attempts to gain power and influence, and summon daemonic patrons, through majical means or otherwise, will be actively encouraged. Church money would be readily available to anyone who needs it, on the understanding that the Church is entitled to maintain enough cash in the coffers to keep the place going, the founders well paid, and to be able to pay for other unexpected fees. Chances are that, as the Church gains notoriety certain religious and political groups would have to be paid off. Bribes and lawsuits aren’t going to be cheap! 3:)

Funnily enough, the conversation began because Bumble was suggesting I wear a white shirt with a black collar and call myself a Tsierp! That’s ‘ts’ as in ‘tsunami’. This is because my Dad is now a Priest, a Vicar technically, with a black shirt and white collar. I can’t imagine myself in white, but I could totally rock my Dad’s look! I’d give it my own twist of course, but it would be predominantly black. Perhaps it would become a popular practice among our church-goers to wear white dog-collars, chokers, or ties, against a black shirt to identify each other. If you want to add some color, you could go with a Cardinal’s red, or Bishop’s purple.


If people do begin doing this though, I shall assume of course that they are in on the joke and don’t actually take any of this seriously. I shall also only accept any money sent to me as a show of support for my writing career, and not a tithe toward the Church. After all, I’m just a fiction writer. All of this is just imaginative speculation. What power could I possibly have to ensure daemonhood or curse you to eternal slavery and torture?

Seriously though. This could be a great sub-premise for a story! Thanks Bumble!

Click here if you don’t want to lose your drone!

Modern Wizard

The War on Magic

While watching Stardust today, I wondered to myself “If people live in a world of magic, why doesn’t everyone do it?”. It occurred to me that maybe people just don’t feel inclined to learn. What if magic just fell out of fashion, and no-one wanted to do it anymore? They just chose a different path.

What if that is the real world? Magic does exist, but a long time ago we just stopped practising it. Old power replaced my mechanisms and tools designed to make the job easier. There might even be a small group of surviving students of magic, trying to keep the practise alive, with limited actual knowledge. The surviving texts are old but still written long after true magic left. They may have even encouraged the world to forget about them, in order to protect what’s left from the ‘wrong hands’ or from destruction.

Perhaps that’s the basis for an idea I’d put on the backburner called “The War on Magic”? It was inspired by the Facebook meme I added below. My first instinct was that America would declare it a terrorist attack and declare a war on magic.

What do you do?
I was partly inspired by this Facebook meme.

So what if a legendary half-elven wizard, let’s call him Mann, makes arrangements to divide the world in two. One for people like him that are at least part human, and one for the true fae. Perhaps the wizard makes a separate world for himself and fellow part-humans, the children of Mann.

It might even have been a circle of wizards. Mann, Jaeh, Dzeut, Woldein and Ossrus. The new world. Each of the five responsible for their own group of humans and part-humans, and taking their own approach to taking care of them. Primitive humans were ape-like beasts. Monsters. Animals as far as the Elves and Faeries are concerned. They can use tools and weapons though, so the Fae use them as a labor force.

There are some modern wizards that disagree with this theory, preferring to think that neither of the factions was ‘pure’. However, they’ve lost so much over the centuries and can only have old documents and the vaguest summoned ghostly apparitions of the magical world to refer too. Some believe that this is the real world and that magical realm is a literal product of our imagination, brought into being by our faith in it, and that the ancient wizards are just twisted parodies of the world’s gods.

But one modern day wizard has been studying a branch of summoning magic similar to quantum physics, manages to break through the barrier separating our world from the world of the fae. The immediate result is the dragon bursting through into our reality. Magic itself leaks through also, corrupting the laws that stabilize our world.

Dragon attacking City

The wizard closes the original rift, ending the spell and sealing the tear in reality with magical bonds. Of course trying to keep magic at bay with magic could be problematic, and the damage has already been done. Magic has entered our reality and those with traces of fae dna become noticeably more Fae. The coworkers that look sort of like an ogre, or a pixie, become more so, and get some of the racial benefits.

The dragon’s appearance results in citywide destruction. Mostly this is because the dragon itself suddenly finds itself in our world, and it’s confused. The dragon is killed and removed. People are understandably scared by this series of events, and many of them respond aggressively. Perhaps another ancient organisation relying on old lore that been restudied, rewritten and reinterpreted many times, and merged with modern religious beliefs. These people would be calling for those with magical traits to be rounded up and imprisoned or destroyed.

Modern Wizard

Extremists suggest everything from terrorism to armageddon. Some of them refer to the dragon in the biblical Revelations sense. The Beast. The Devil. People with Faun or Forest Elf dna, who might have cloven hooves and horns, are some of the first victims of the zealots taking matters into their own hands. This ostracism leads to some of the fae-blooded coming together and fighting against the zealots. Escalation leads to several world governments deciding to declare war against Magic, and Fae-blooded with any influence working to undermine their efforts. A new arms race to be the first to reopen the way to the world of the Fae ensues. Some looking to leave this world, hoping they’ll receive better treatment from the Fae, and others seeking to end the war with an attack on the magical realm so devastating that they’ll never send anything against us again!


The war between the Humans and the Fae has been delayed for eons. A war that had been imminent before the worlds had been divided. It had started long before when the fae had begun using the primitive humans as slaves, pets, expendable troops and test-subjects. For many reasons, including rape in either direction and magical experimentation, half-breeds emerged. While breeding occurred between the fae races also, they were still Fae, whilst anyone who was born to at least one partly human parent was seen as a vile aberration.

War on Magic

Of course they were still far more acceptable house-slaves and concubines than their full-blooded cousins. Cross-breeding became an amusing pastime to encourage certain genetic traits, and certain pedigrees became very popular. Even centuries later, when part-humans have become a greater part of society, with positions in industry and politics, those who consider themselves pure Fae still look down on them and treat them as second-class citizens.

The conflict comes to a head when it is suggested that, if the humans aren’t happy with the world, they should make their own. Both sides take offense to it and accuse the other of suggesting it. Despite this the idea gains popularity once the five half-breed wizards, Mann, Jaeh, Dzeut, Woldein and Ossrus, come up with a plan that might work. Many of the part-humans remain behind, too proud to give in. It’s assumed they were wiped out. There was no-one alive now in this world that remembered, until the dragon came through. Now the people of this world think they need a preemptive strike against the Fae so that they’ll leave us alone.

What do you think of this idea? Should I leave on the backburner for now, or does “The War on Magic” need it’s own page?

Life lessons

Why did I wait so long?

I could have been doing this all along. I should have. How many times did I tell myself,  “I need to write a blog”? Way too many. I always thought I should know what I’m writing about first. I thought that the blog should have a particular theme, or topic, to focus on, and write only on those subjects. Whichever idea I started with soon ended with me feeling frustrated, disappointed and restricted. Whether it was the blog about games and gaming that I had called “Game On” (the G and the O were modeled from the on/off power symbol), or the one about mastering art of sales (made my skin crawl), or even the tumblr feed dedicated to gifs of topless busty women (sorry, it’s gone), I lost interest in all of them.

I should have just been me. Wrote whatever springs to mind as the mood strikes me. I write about writing, about my feelings and worries, my hopes and dreams. Sure I could write articles for “Don’t Hate the Geek” or even “Cracked” (which I’m still a little tempted to try out for, just to experience it), I wouldn’t be free to write what I want. I’d still need to conform to their style, to their target audience, and this would irk me. I get snarky when I’m unhappy and it leaks into my writing. I begin to sabotage myself and test my boundaries. It’s happened in almost every job I’ve had, despite intentions to stay professional and play the game with every fresh start.

I seem to have a deep ingrained need to be happy, and I start having a rebellious little tantrum each time I have to compromise my integrity is compromised. I would be a terrible journalist! Don’t get me wrong,  I’d love it at first, and me the perfect employee, until it stops being fun. Then I’ll start acting out and looking for an exit strategy. Sometimes that strategy is just, “let’s see if they notice I’m gone”. Sorry to all my past bosses and girlfriends, especially Monica, for having to up with my passive aggressive bullshit. In my defense, I was in complete denial I was doing it. I would try to behave, do the right thing, but when it came to doing the thing that I privately disagreed with, if I did it at all, would be done dispassionately. I’d half-ass it. Perhaps closer to a third.

Life lessons

Is it a symptom of depression? Am I just an entitled brat who thinks he gets to be happy in a world where the most any of us hope for is to be ‘content’? I’m not content with merely content. I really do want to build a good life for me and my family. It’s mostly selfish, but I know that I wouldn’t be really happy unless my parents didn’t have to go wanting, and my sister and her kids could go to any schools they wanted, and my grandparents were taken care of. I realize that my insistence on freedom of expression is going to make getting their harder. I’m setting a fairly narrow path for myself. I do like a challenge though, I’m excited to see what people might ask me to write about in the future.

My favorite author, Neil Gaiman
My favorite author, Neil Gaiman

I also wonder if there’s a certain level of respect involved, and that if I were ever to work with someone I truly respect (like Neil Gaiman, Patton Oswalt, or J. J. Abrams  perhaps), if I would just do as I’m told. I’d probably be too awed by their presence to actually say “Excuse me, you said I should do what? I’m sorry but I think you’re wrong!” I’d probably be beating myself for not just being able to be content with what I’ve achieved, and find myself, once more, incapable of demeaning myself. Then I’ll slink off into the night and cry about losing the best opportunity for happiness I ever had. Because I’m silly.

I’ve read enough self-help books to know that it’s possible to reprogram yourself. You can literally be whatever you want to be. The hard part is wanting to be it. I used to able to convince myself that the path I was on was what I wanted. I used to think I could teach others to do it too. The problem is that, the more I read up on mind-hacks and manipulation, the more self aware I became. If you take away the little scripts and mantras you tell yourself, the little mind tricks and lies, what’s left? I’m still picking away at the layers of my programming, sorting through the lessons I’ve learned in life to separate the honest knowledge and experience from the conditioning. Keeping what’s useful, discard the rest, analyze what was buried underneath. Repeat.

Having done all that work to find myself, work that is far from finished, I’m understandably resistant to compromise. I don’t wanna! I’m going to get what I want. I’ll be persistent and stubborn. I just wish I had started sooner, so I was already looking back at this moment in my life and saying “Oh man that was rough, but what a ride!”

The Ultimate Stressball

Scientists all over the world are already working on ways to clone human organs. It seems to me that in the world of organ transplants, the availability of usable organs is only half the problem. The other half is getting the organ to the patient while it’s still viable, and while the patient is open and ready to receive it. It would therefore be beneficial to also develop small fuel efficient life support machines designed to feed oxygenated nutrient rich blood and basic nerve impulses into the cloned organ long enough to get it into whomever needs it. Imagine what we could do if the systems were capable of keeping the tissues alive indefinitely as long as the organs were fed.

We’ve all seen this meme in our Facebook feed, and if you haven’t, well, you have now!

Have you already realized what I’m about to suggest? Imagine being able to squeeze an actual living breast whenever you get stressed? Lab grown from genetically engineered tissue, the Uniboob would be available in a variety of natural and bold colors, as well as a range of sizes and firmness! You could get two for double the stress-relieving effects! Heck, you could fill a paddling pool full if you wanted to (and had the money). You could order them online!


I suppose, in theory, you could do the same thing with any organ. A grown beating heart, in any color you wish, could become the must have ornament/ gag gift in the future. “You were coming off as heartless, so we decided to get you one!” I’m assuming though, that there’d be a much higher demand for living sex organs. Imagine if your pocket-pussy or dildo was actually warm living, responsive tissue? Again it would no doubt be available in a range of colors and muscle tone. Not sure if they’ll be able to make the little clit-tickling bunny real, but who knows?

Where would the ethical boundary be on cloning human tissue for recreational items? There’d be no actual humans being harmed or abused if the toy is damaged or ignored for a while. You could decorate it, add piercings, dress it up, do whatever you want to. What if your home’s AI system used a living cloned human brain? Would that be creepier than the Uniboob? Share your thoughts!