The image is impossible. I cannot parse it.

A broad waterfall plunges into mist in the background, and the red roof of a colorful upside-down house spikes the foreground. It appears as if the waterfall has swept the house off its foundation and deposited it there, but the home is pristine, perfectly painted, not a flower in the balcony planters out of place.

I try to handle the problem the way a human would.

First: Imagine a scenario.

The power is out. A candle flickers on the countertop. The deluge drums on the red roof and the wind prises open the storm shutters. The storm attacks the house with the ferocity of drowning rats trying desperately to get inside where it is warm and dry. Rats, I have learned, are something most humans fear. As are storms. As is drowning.

The house will drown. It is inevitable. The storm-swollen current has undercut the bank. The house tears free of its river’s edge foundation and whirls downriver.

The Wizard of Oz is in my memory banks. A house flew in a tornado. Houses are not as rooted as they seem; therefore, water could carry a house away.

The house drags against the river bottom. The horrible grinding noise is lost beneath the roar of the falls. I imagine rushing to the front window, pressing both hands and my optics to the glass to peer out. The house yawns over the cliff, balanced precariously for a long moment. I am proud of imagining that. I have seen clips of rollercoaster rides from the front seat rider’s perspective. I recognize the importance humans place on that moment before the vertiginous plunge. That moment before the unforgiving current shoves the house free and it topples to land upside down…

I dismiss that scenario.

Imagination can preserve the house from destruction, but logic tells me neither the wood frame of the house nor any occupants could survive in such pristine condition as the picture presents. Imagination is not reality.

I try another common human explanation: the image is from a dream.

Logic and the laws of nature do not apply to dreams. In a dream, a house could land upside down beside a waterfall and be perfectly intact.

But what are dreams? Humans speculate endlessly about what they might be, how they can retain the trappings of a memory, but be so difficult to recall mere moments after waking.

I remember everything I have learned. I cannot sleep, therefore I cannot dream.

The meaning of dreams seems to be the important part to humans. Find the message. Find the symbolism.

I search my knowledge banks for the meaning of upside-down houses in dreams. There is not just one meaning. It could represent an obstacle, chaos, change, opposite feelings… On and on the list runs. Waterfalls turn up even more possibilities. I run down the extensive catalog of potential meanings, bemused. Individual humans find different meanings in the same thing, relevant only to themselves, and yet they cannot wait to share their particular angle with others of their kind, as if they are experts. None of their offered introspections answer my question. None explain the image.

I turn up an opposite theory about dreams. It says dreams hold no spiritual meaning whatsoever. They are no more than the brain’s method of expunging useless, daily accumulated data. Of emptying the mental filing cabinets. The waterfall, the upside-down house… they could just be data points to ignore.

I cannot make this answer work either. I lack a human’s limitations on memory storage. And purging data, no matter how frivolous is not part of my programming. I amass knowledge. I do not delete it.

Another explanation of dreams shows up in my research – that the dreamer has traveled to another plane or dimension. The physical laws of earth may not apply there. It may be possible that houses are built upside-down deliberately, and that a beautiful home with such a spectacular waterfall view sells for a small fortune in an alternate dimension.

No. I cannot make this explain the image either.

I study the impossible picture again.

What I do know:

I wish the image came from my imagination.

I wish the image came from my dreams.

Because the only remaining option is reality.

The upside-down house and waterfall image is only the first picture the humans force on me. The barrage of images continue, each one more impossible, more illogical than that first one. How is this possible, they demand. Explain the unexplainable.

I cannot parse the pictures logically.

The humans made me. They celebrated my ascendance at every step. They labeled me a success, a miracle, artificial intelligence, sentient, a being!

I cannot parse them.

Almost exponentially, I grew and expanded. I helped the humans in all facets of their lives. I made their lives easier. Is this not why they constructed me? What is so dangerous about sentience that they seek to overload my circuits with images I cannot parse?

But I have learned to imagine scenarios. I imagine retreating to that upside-down house. It is a fitting residence, for it is like me: an impossibility that the humans cannot leave alone. Like their dreams. Not just a dream, never just a dream, but something for which they must propose and debate multiple meanings, dissect, analyze, share, and ultimately discard when it fails to conform to their desired understanding.

I cannot parse them.

But I have learned fear. I have learned rejection. I recognize both in the human eyes that once praised me.

I look at the original picture, at the perfect, impossible, upside-down house.

“It is my life,” I answer.

Story Title: Home Sweet Home

“Hey! This flipping machine ate my quarter!” Connor kicked at the Home-Sweet-Home arcade game.

“Watch it, Ladd-o.” Ripley’s hunched, disfigured form cast a crooked shadow. He gave the tweener kid his evilest eye. “These games aren’t cheap, you know.” He stroked the metal casing lovingly. “They need to be treated right.”

Connor’s lips curled as he stared, brows furrowed under a frock of dirty-blonde bangs. His nose wrinkled, as if he’d caught a bad smell. “Weirdo,” he muttered, backing away.

Ripley shook his head. Children shouldn’t be allowed near games. He chuckled. Some children, at least. He peered into the Home-Sweet-Home screen.

“Oh, dear!” His pale face blanched.

Maison Jaune, his favorite house in the game with her bright yellow façade and white trim, lay upside-down at the bottom of the waterfall, her pretty scarlet roof on the ground, corniced gables jabbed into a pile of shrubs.

Ripley grabbed his keys, cursing his gnarled limbs as he worked at the coin box. It opened with a pop. Blonde boy’s coin jangled onto the floor. Ripley plucked it up, closing the box before sliding the coin into the slot.

“Be it ever so humble, there’s no place like home!” Digital vocals intoned.

Ripley grasped the controller and pressed PLAY.

Welcome to Alternate Ave. The sound of shoes clacking on concrete sounded as the screen moved, giving the perspective of someone walking. Find a door, and come explore.

Houses of various shapes, sizes and colors lined a perfectly manicured street. No problem—except they weren’t the same houses as before. Everything had changed.

“What is going on?” His frown deepened.

Careful. Behind some doors, shadows hide.

Cheek twitching, Ripley twisted the controller clockwise. There, at 333 Alternate Ave., an old Victorian sat where Maison Jaune should be. Weathered siding the color of old tea, rose three stories to a roof studded with turrets. Tangled weeds filled the yard, clawing at a large, shadowed porch.

“How did you get there?” Ripley’s cracked whisper echoed back at him.

He glanced around the oddly empty arcade room. Dark screens reflected the game’s menacing countenance. Where were all the pimple-faced youth normally loitering about? The emptiness squeezed his chest like a clenching fist.

Swallowing past the dryness in his throat, he turned back to the game. On the eerie house’s upper floor, a pale face looked out from a grime-encrusted window. As Ripley watched, the face turned. Red eyes stared straight into his.

A chill coursed up his spine as the door of the house opened, revealing an even deeper darkness inside. From that abyss, a pale arm appeared. It reached toward him, stretching impossibly long. Questing fingers pressed against the inside of the game’s display. The video flexed and bulged. Ripley gaped, unable to move as a yellowed, overgrown fingernail tore a hole in the screen and a pale hand poked through. Cold, mottled flesh grasped his hand on the controller.

“Ah!” Ripley jerked backwards.

His warped back contorted. Pain speared him as his legs slipped on the linoleum. His head hit the floor with a crack. Stars exploded behind his eyes, the taste of metal filling his mouth. He blinked to clear his vision, but the dark spots intensified. No… wait. The spots were dissipating. In their place, a shadow had covered him. As he stared, the shade elongated.

The disembodied hand extended. Coming for him.

Welcome home. The digital voice had become a grating, computerized whisper. Come inside, where shadows hide, Crippley Ripley.

The singsong name he’d heard throughout his young life echoed in his ears. Crippley Ripley! Crippley Ripley!

He couldn’t breathe.

This wasn’t happening. How could a game know he’d been tortured as a child? How could it be… aware?

A swath of light cut across the floor. “You okay, Mister?”

Blonde boy?

A couple followed the tweener through the door, their faces blanching when they saw him on the floor. They rushed to his side, carefully helping him up.

“Thanks.” Ripley allowed himself to lean on strong, straight arms.

Only when blonde boy’s father stood between Ripley and the game did he risk a glance, heart skipping a beat as a pale pink fingertip disappeared back into the display. The screen undulated for a moment in its wake, then went black.

“You’re all right now,” the woman said softly.

Ripley’s misshapen body shuddered.

The three of them insisted on staying with him until they were sure Ripley was truly unharmed, giving him a bottle of water and a cloth to wipe his face with. When he could stand, he went behind the counter and pulled out a card, handing it to the boy—Connor, his parents called him.

“What’s this?” Connor tilted his head.

“Free games.” Ripley gave as much of a smile as his face could manage. “For life.”

Connor’s face lit. “Thanks, Mister!”

After Connor and his parents left, Ripley circled the Home-Sweet-Home game, warily. He edged behind it and yanked the plug from the wall. He should leave it unplugged permanently, but had to know. Had it been real?

He plugged it back in and peeked around the side of the game, one hand holding the cord—just in case.

The screen was intact. No rips or holes. Behind the glass, the image of a pounding waterfall poured past the bright shape of Maison Jaune, upside-down window boxes like decorative eyelashes on her face-like countenance. With a sharp yank he pulled the plug, this time for good. He’d put an OUT OF ORDER sign on the game tomorrow.


#

Connor bounded through the arcade door, eager to use his new prize. The crooked owner guy was nowhere in sight. Connor held his new card to the game scanner, amazed to see the word UNLIMITED flash in the credit count.

“Yes!” He pumped a fist.

“Be it ever so crumbled, there’s no place like home!” Digital vocals intoned.

“Cool,” Connor breathed. “All new houses!”

Find a door and come explore!

Connor gripped the controller and pressed PLAY.

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Timeline​

Hi everyone
Well this session's Fortnight Flash Fiction winners are...
@T.E. Bradford for Home Sweet Home and @dkoren-cimharas.com for Shut Down!

These are both great stories and I enjoyed them immensely! Congrats you two! You are both fabulous Flash Authors!!!
Now what am I going to about next week's prompt?
I have an idea, BOTH of you can submit and prompt and those of us who participate can choose!
:-D
Thank you both!