They told me it would be painless. They always tell you it will be painless.
I was seventy-three when they fitted the first interface. A volunteer, they called me. Pioneer. That word tasted sweet once. Now it sits in my throat like old copper wire. They needed someone whose mind had already softened at the edges, they said. Someone whose memories had grown loose, easy to pull free like teeth from rotting gum. The young ones held too tight. Their thoughts fought back. Mine, they said, would cooperate.
Continue reading “Lost Memories: A Tale of Memory Extraction at Seventy-Three”
The AI Grandad 