Neanderthal World

It wasn't that the Neanderthals were particularly good at war, nor were they intellectually superior to humans. They were technology gods. Routine was somehow sewn into their genes. These people were completely void of metaphor and abstractions, yet, communication, streamlined and efficient, was vital to their existance. Their language consisted of simple two-syllable arrangements. It rolled from the gut like a cough. Mr.Hardin knew it well. He became a 'tugh-ah,' or writer. His job was to write instructions that were distributed via a small digital screen to each of the square white houses that stretched the planet of Kapa (or Earth, as a small group of Mr. Hardin's people used to call it). These instructions were succinct, and covered such mundane tasks as receiving rations and maintaining their homes. The Neanderthal people read these instructions vigilantly each morning, and they mechanically followed the instructions line by line.

One morning, Jeffery Hardin woke up, ate breakfast and settled at his digital transmission screen to receive his verbal cues for his day's work. He began typing the each word as it was delivered. Then, his mind and hands became two separate entities. He heard the words; his fingers moved in response to them, but what he was typing was not what he was hearing.

"Rations will be offered at all Series Nine streets today," said the verbal initiator.

"My mother sang beautiful melodies about men who made houses that weren't white," said Mr. Hardin's hands.

"All rations should be offered by Series Nine inhabitants," announced the initiator.

"She sang about dancing at dinner parties and about food decorated with herbs," typed Mr. Hardin's hands. His fingers bled rhythm. The words punctuated the screen in a tempo that defined the words "sing" and "songs," in such a way that the Kapa people, diligent with routine and logic, could possibly understand the meaning.

"The order of receivers for rations will start with Series One streets," said the verbal initiator, unaware that his words were being absorbed by the involuntary action of Mr. Hardin's hands.

"Tell stories, sing songs. Sing songs. Survive this way. Survive and sing."

Then, as though the ray of light sqeezing through the small window in his little white house had smacked him into awareness, Mr. Hardin noticed the words on his screen. His fingers froze crisply. His breath fell from his nostrils like stagnant rain falling from a gutter. 'What will they do to me?' he wondered. He would be the very first anarcist in Kapa in over twenty years, and surely, he'd be the very last one. He heard a buzz of the verbal initiator indicate a pause. Mr. Hardin was caught.

"All Series streets of Kapa shall record their history in song to avoid the fate of "the others," who've waged wars and died silently."

Mr. Hardin shriveled up inside himself. "That's it?" He said aloud. His eyes were glassy with thoughts of all those who have died in futile wars. He was furious that the Neanderthals didn't kill him for his mistake.