(I’m just using this prompt to get an idea down, so the poem has nothing to do with it.)

Sometimes I feel Like a pencil With no eraser

I’ll scribble down My words Only to see the wrongs later

I say and do Things without thinking Hopeing I don’t do something I shouldn’t have

Then when I later look And see what I’ve done Do I realize the wrong

And when I realize I try to erase And fix what I’ve done

But my words have already Been inked over And there’s no going back

Star wars Old Lore Modern ways Battle haze

Star cruiser The loser Darth Vader Life hater

Spiked Wheel Restaurant set cozily in center of a spiderweb hedge maze. The writer had researched the Brotherhood of Truth exhaustively. Pixel by pixel, the Order’s virtual headquarters was a copy of Saint Catherine Alexandrine. Mediation in each green step, the boxwood smelled real, like mint and cat piss.

Per the Order’s restrictions, the writer was dressed in a plain muslin habit. Like an acolyte she approached glow of flickering candelabra. Brother Jamie Lee set in a corner booth swirling a brandy sniffer.

“Come into my parlor,” the jovial friar said chortling.

His guffaws attracted the other patrons in their crimson robes. They chuckled in kind. Looking bemused the writer settled down at her place setting. A luscious lock of her hair peeked out invitingly from beneath her wimple.

Blue rare prime ribs were placed before each of them.

“ I took the Liberty of ordering. You don’t mind,” Jamie said.

She answered with meek shake. The young serving girl poured them each the house red.

“ I was pleasantly Pleased your publication wanted to hear our side in this unfortunate affair. You seem mature enough to speak to me about this political persecution. The Brotherhood of Truth rejects categorically any digital recording of memories. We pray against the abomination of trading synthetic emotions. it is an affront to God,” Jamie said.

“Your god,” she said.

“There is only one God, little sister. The poison of memory keeping is blinding the world to the truth. Some of my order in faithful exuberance may have crossed the line, hacked in to a few memory banks. We regret this naturally. mistakes were made.”

Between platitudes Jamie ate hunks of red flesh. The writer cut her meat. Hazily she remembered another hungry mouth. She probed at the thought. Pemberley said there would be side effect, this thought popped into her head. She skewered a roasted ramp.

“What of the memories of the dead, brother? Those memories are lost forever. Emotional breakdowns have been reported and worse “

“It is a heavy burden to bear but that’s the past, child. I see your engagement ring. You are soon to wed soon take up your natural role caring for children. You understand focusing on future. Why live in the past?”

The reporter looked at the ring on her finger for the first time. Engagement ring? She flexed her fingers.

“Some say that the hacking was not a random act. Some speculate specific memories were stolen for blackmail to provide power for the order.”

“Fiddle faddle! Conspiracy theory nonsense,” he said as au jus dripped down his chin.

“I agree, Jamie Lee.”

He met her eyes. What he saw there made him set down his fork. Shai grasped his hand hard.

“Memories were stolen to hide crimes, annihilate testimonies, keep secrets buried. My memory was stolen and but I borrowed dearly to get the memories of my brief time with my little brother back plus the pawn shop gave me a little extra help to find the hand that stole my memories. Lucky for me unlucky for you. I remember everything Jamie Lee,” shai whispered. “ Someone has to pay up. someone has to pawn their memories to pay off my loan.”

Shai snatched back her hand leaving four bloody scratches on the monk’s hand droplets on the pawn ticket glistened.

“Empty is better than jail, brother. That’s it just press you thumb on the ticket interface and Desperation Pawn & Loan will handle the rest.”

Shai savored the garlic as Jamie’s mouth grew slack.

I always found it funny how our city worked. Over the past years, we have developed some of the greatest technologies the world has ever seen. Our leaders are on the earlier side of life. But they still upheld our rules and traditions. This is where it gets interesting. Some of the traditions involve things you would never imagine our people still celebrate these things. But I love it. It connects our past and our future. It brings together the people who got us this far and the people who will continue it on.

Even with progress in different areas, the history and traditions of cities have not evolved much from their original state. While there is a push to protect cultural practices, advancements in technology can sometimes impede cultural growth. The environment in which one is raised has a lasting effect on their identity, despite external influences. While culture seeks to maintain its traditions, technological progress pushes society to change and develop. It is crucial to value and learn from our cultural heritage while also embracing advancement and transformation.

I was ashamed of my father as I saw him walking into the sea of people all holding stones.

The jumbotrom blipped on to put more attention on my father (as if he needed more already)

He chose not to acknowledge me as he walked past out of fear of embarrassment. I was at least grateful for that.

But now I had to watch him endure one of the most brutal and unrefined tradition when you comment a crime, getting stoned. In my opinion it was stupid as we now had tech that could surely create a more unpleasant experience

He couldn’t believe his eyes.

“You are the chosen one,” it said on the screen.

At 12 years old, the town elder came and took a sample of your blood.

This sample was then fed into a complex supercomputer that analyzed 46 trillion datapoints. Based on these datapoints, it determines your life path.

“How can I be the chosen one? There’s nothing interesting about me,” he thought to himself.

Ancient tradition held that at some point the “chosen one” would be found. Scientists and researchers had spent over 7000 years analyzing and decrypting ancient texts to understand how the “chosen one” would be identified.

And here he is.

The klingon city rose into the heavens. it’s metallic green angular oblong shaped structures dot the landscape like pyramids gleaming in the desert heat. Polluted dusty metallic structures wind batters the landscape. Silhouette of a bird of prey and its engines sort above and as it attracted as wings hovered in position over the city. Flying cars flew overhead quad copters and gyrocopters taxi and fairy warriors and suits for the daily commute Ancient cultural traditions still ruled politics of the Klingon Empire. With the suits or hairdressers, fashion out of feathers, shields and knives and swords ornamental and a patriarchal hierarchy that ruled the city of the world. Traditions of fighting to become a boy or a man is held every year in a ceremony.

“Customers insisted that they needed something sturdy,” Mr. Thane explained. “The monitors were cold, unwelcoming. They wanted to visit a real place.”

Mr. Thane and I stood on what we euphemistically called Bone Hill. Its real name, the business name, was the Garden of Perpetual Rest.

My parents both died in the pandemic of ‘35. We put their vids on pretty metal dongles and hooked them into the columbarium. For the first year or so I visited every day. Opened the app on my phone and watched my parents come to life through their photos and videos. That dropped off though. Over time it came to be once a year, when I visited on leave from the moon colony.

Sure, folks could watch their loved ones on any device. But having the monitor in a special place — seemed to fill an ancient need.

But the monitors weren’t enough.

People missed cemeteries. A place for their loved ones, with a stone marker to touch, to place coins or stones, to weep as if by a bedside.

Mr. Thane took me to see his parents. A beautiful granite stone with a weather-safe monitor. Tapped his phone and the video came on.

“I miss them,” he said. “This helps.”

I nodded. Around me, families were visiting other stones. The monitors beamed out the past. Laughter and stories and tears. Lives gone, but not forgotten.

Detective Deborah Soulstar leaned against the cold granite wall of the precinct, her eyes tracing the flickering neon signs outside. Ardenia had changed—its pulse now driven by algorithms and data streams—but some things remained constant. Like the weight of guilt in a suspect's eyes.

Brian Corner, the soccer coach, sat across from her. His hands trembled, betraying the calm facade. "I didn't kill her," he whispered. "I loved her."

Deborah studied him. The victim, Emily, had been found in the park, her lifeless body tangled in the soccer goal net. The evidence pointed to Brian, but Deborah's instincts screamed otherwise.

Her husband, Judge Steve Soulstar, entered the room. His graying temples framed a stern expression. "Deborah," he said, "the trial begins tomorrow. The city demands justice."

Deborah clenched her fists. Justice—such a fragile concept. She'd seen it crumble under the weight of bureaucracy, prejudice, and hidden agendas. But this case was different. Emily's ghost haunted her dreams, whispering secrets.

Part 1: The Silent Whistle

Deborah retraced Emily's steps—the soccer field, the dimly lit alley behind the pub. She followed the digital breadcrumbs: surveillance footage, credit card transactions, and Brian's encrypted messages. Yet, the Nexus—the ancient temple at the heart of Ardenia—beckoned her.

She stood before its crystalline walls, her AR glasses reflecting its iridescent glow. The Nexus held memories etched by generations—truths that transcended data. Deborah wondered if it could reveal Brian's innocence.

Part 2: The Quantum Verdict

The trial unfolded—a dance of legal jargon and emotional testimony. Steve presided, his gavel echoing like a heartbeat. Deborah cross-examined witnesses, revealing hidden motives. But when Brian took the stand, she asked the forbidden question: "Did you hear the Nexus?"

His eyes widened. "The what?"

"The Nexus," Deborah said. "The whispers of our ancestors. Emily's spirit."

The jury shifted uncomfortably. Steve frowned. "Detective, this is—"

But Deborah pressed on. "Brian, tell us. Did you hear her?"

Brian hesitated, then nodded. "I felt her presence. She loved the game, the thrill of victory. She wouldn't haunt me."

Deborah turned to the jury. "Ladies and gentlemen, we're not just arbiters of law. We're guardians of the Nexus—the harmonious nexus between past and present."

Epilogue: The Echo of Acquittal

The jury deliberated. The Nexus seemed to pulse, bridging the gap between circuits and spirit. When they returned, their verdict was unanimous: acquittal.

Outside the courtroom, Deborah met Brian. "Emily forgives you," she said. "She wanted justice, not vengeance."

He touched the Nexus, tears in his eyes. "Thank you."

Deborah glanced at Steve. "We've balanced the scales."

He smiled. "In Ardenia, tradition and technology coexist."

And so, Detective Deborah Soulstar vowed to protect both—the code and the chant, the neural network and the sacred circle. For in this city, where echoes of the past met the algorithms of the future, justice flowed like a river—a verdict's echo that resonated through time.