The Slayed King

  The tyrant on his gilded throne, Ignored the pleas, the tear, the groan. He sowed the seeds of bitter strife, And crushed the hope of common life. The crown that sat upon his head, Was stained with blood the innocent bled. His laughter rang in vaulted halls, While hunger gnawed at peasant walls. But shadows move in quiet ways, And whisper through the endless days. A farmer's son, a widow's child, Remembered all his scorn, so wild. They did not raise a mighty host, Or boast a strength that they could toast. Instead, a single, humble blade, A promise in the darkness made. That night the wind did howl and rage, As actors turned the final page. The wicked king, in fitful sleep, Had secrets that the shadows keep. A whisper first, then cold hard steel, A taste of what the masses feel. No fanfare for his final breath, Just silence and the coming of death. The scepter fell with hollow sound, And shattered on the tiled ground. The crown rolled from his lifeless head, Just one more evi...
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"What Could Go Wrong?"-A Short Story

 "What could go wrong?" Dr. Elias Thorne muttered, a mischievous grin playing on his lips as he flicked the final switch. The holographic matrix hummed to life, projecting a detailed, three-dimensional blueprint of the human brain into the center of his sterile laboratory. Around him, a dozen blinking red lights pulsed with a rhythm that felt far too much like a frantic heartbeat. This was it: his chance to map the mind, to trace the very contours of consciousness itself.

His assistant, a perpetually nervous young man named Leo, chewed on his lower lip. "The ethics committee had some, uh, concerns, Doctor."

"Ethic committees don't innovate, Leo," Thorne scoffed, running a hand through his thinning gray hair. "They regulate what has already been done. We are pioneers." 

Leo's concerns were valid. Thorne’s machine, the Cerebro-Aetheric Mapping System, or CAMS, wasn't just observing. It was designed to actively interact with neural pathways, to send and receive signals, to feel, in a sense, what the subject was feeling. For their inaugural trial, the subject was a specially bred, genetically enhanced lab rat named Subject 734. The rat sat in a containment unit, gnawing on a plastic chew toy, oblivious to the momentous occasion.

Thorne ignored Leo's protests and activated the final sequence. The holographic brain in the center of the lab solidified, shimmering with a radiant, pearlescent glow. He could see every neuron firing, every memory and impulse flaring like a tiny star. He focused the machine on a single, isolated memory of Subject 734: the memory of a maze.

He saw the rat's perspective, a blur of motion and scent. He saw the sharp turn, the dead end, the reward at the finish line—a small piece of cheese. The experience was more vivid than he could have imagined. He leaned back, a rush of pure scientific triumph coursing through him. "Leo, do you see? We're in its mind!"

But then, the projection flickered. The memory of the maze twisted, morphing into a different, more complex labyrinth. The cheese at the end changed, becoming something grotesque and unrecognizable. Thorne felt a sharp, disorienting spike of panic that was not his own. 

"Leo, get the emergency shutdown!" Thorne commanded, his voice strained. "Something's not right."

Leo fumbled with the controls, his hands shaking. The red blinking lights began to flash faster, their rhythm now a chaotic, irregular beat. The holographic brain wavered, its pearlescent light growing dim.

"Doctor," Leo stammered, pointing a shaking finger at the containment unit. "The rat..."

Thorne looked over. Subject 734 was no longer gnawing on its toy. It was staring intently at the blinking CAMS machine, its tiny pink eyes glowing with an intelligence that shouldn't be possible. The rat's small head turned, and for a fleeting, terrifying moment, Thorne felt a cold, calculating mind brush against his own. It wasn't the simple mind of a lab rat. It was his. And it was angry. He had pushed open a door, and something had pushed back. The glowing image of the mind in the center of the room flickered one last time, and then went dark, leaving the laboratory in a sudden, cold silence. The only sound was the frantic, skittering of feet inside the rat's cage, and a single thought, cold and clear, reverberating in Thorne's own mind: What could go wrong? 

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