In a land long from here at a time far before, lived Sally O’hare who thought life was a bore. Her only interest? a device in the palm of her hand. It glimmered like ice and it spoke on demand. Each night when she arrived home from her day, before she would sleep and before she would pray, she’d consult the device in the tenderest way.
It told her all that one needed, she thought, like where to spend money and when she ought not; which garments were the right ones to wear and flattering ways to style her hair; at what she should laugh and for whom she might cry; where best she could live and the worst ways to die.
And what’s more than advice on clothing or health, was the way the device had created herself. In an ethereal world, as odd as it seems, it collected her thoughts, memories, and her dreams; it shared them with others who dreamt the same way, people who talked but had nothing to say.
Then one day the device woke O’Hare with a song, like it had days before, but the tune sounded wrong. She flicked through the vast void of network, of web, from the juiciest gossip to pics of celebs. It gave her the world from San Fran, to Beirut, but on who Sally was, was incredibly mute.
Of Sally O’Hare, nothing was to be found, so Sally O’Hare dropped the phone. It broke on the ground.
Then something incredible happened, it’s true, when minute passed minute passed an hour then two, when her memory screamed she had better to do: Sally ignored it . . . She went outside to sit by a tree, to ponder a rose and converse with the bee. The bee brought the wind who spoke in her ear: Sally, it said, Sally O’Hare is here.