Code 1

Can you crack this code? It's deligthfully simple once you understand it, yet may be dreadfully difficult to solve.

The image is small, I know; to be clear, the whole thing is one continuous line, starting from the left and zigzagging around. The nodes may or may not matter.

If you want a hint, transpose each of the following letters to the letter before it (and each number to the number before it):

Uijol cbtf-9.

Have fun!

Hotel Infinity

David Hill went off to stay
At Hotel Infinity
“Don’t bother,” the clerk did say
At Hotel Infinity
“There’s an infinity of rooms here,
But an infinity are taken
Would you really like to walk up to
The next room that is open?”
David smiled slyly, and said
“Just tell all to move up one.
The first room is now vacant, and
This problem is done!”
“That’s all right,” the clerk agreed
At Hotel Infinity
And David Hill got his need
At Hotel Infinity
But while the clerk thought he was done
And he smiled quite contently
An infinite busload arrived
At Hotel Infinity

Traitor

So I wrote this story a while ago, for a Bionicle contest. I decided to adapt it to the real-world for my non-Bionicle readers. I'll also be submitting this new version to my school's literary magazine.

You can read the original here.
**
Traitor

Drip, drip, drip. Rhythmic. Constant. Unchanging. Inevitable. Unavoidable. The next drip comes, the next plop of water, and inevitably, the body on the ground. The body falls, hitting the ground with a thump as the next drop drips and the head follows. The eyes stare deep into mine, but they do not see. The mouth hangs open in its last breath that never leaves. The thing watches me, beckoning me toward my own death.

The cell around me is not enclosed – though, God, I pray it was. It is open, like the others, forcing me to watch the spectacles of death, my own future. I, like my fellow resistors, must while away the rest of my life watching life’s end. The armored guards scream with glee, a scream that sounds so much like my own, inner scream of fear – terror – sorrow – grief.

The executioner. The worst. He walks toward the cell next to mine, and his aura drives me into the corner. The shadows creep around my eyes, I hear the long-lost screams of old times, and a new, bloodcurdling scream joins the past, melding with the guards’. My hands quiver and my eyes, thirsty for tears that have abandoned me, blur with pain, terror, and woe. I watch the struggling figure dragged from his cell, his jaw hanging and a sound ringing out that should never have been put in man’s mouth or mind.

The disk flies through the air, flipping slowly, and comes face-down before the feet of the prisoner, who wails. Now his fate is sealed: the disk is life or death, and only fate controls it. The man’s eyelids quiver, wanting to close, yet some strange force holds them open. His wails peter out, and a new force overtakes him: for one glorious moment, he stands proud before the Great Emperor. And when that moment ends, his body falls like the rest, though his head remains defiant for a split second, without even the support of his own body. Then it falls too.

The executioner is walking towards me now. Oh God, just one more hour… I’m not ready. I will never be ready. The tyrant will always rule, the guards will always watch. And death will always loom before me, visible but shadowed, so I cannot understand it. I must fear it. I must avoid it. I must…

The cell opens, and the executioner steps in. I never knew it was this bad. I wanted to go proudly, I wanted to be peaceful and defiant, but this I cannot stand. Every step that beast makes is a hammer to my guts. As he reaches me, I vomit. The stench is terrible, but not as terrible as the reeking of the bodies that I will be dragged towards. I clutch my necklace: a string with a wooden cross on it. God, save me…

“Nooo…” I groan as the thing grabs me and pulls me out of the cell, towards my imminent doom. I hear the jeers of the other guards, and I wish that my resistance hadn’t been so pitiful. What have I been reduced to?

I’m standing in the center now. I see the cells all around me, and their prisoners watch me silently. I always imagined that my final moments would be met by the cheers of my fellow resistors, and my spirits would soar as my body fell… but I know now that our spirits are as broken as our bodies, and their wings clipped by torture. My gaze falls and lands on the terrible tyrant, who smiles. My life is ending, but to him I’m merely the next to die.

He gestures to a slave next to him, whose feet are shackled together. His name tugs at the corner of my mind, but all memories before this moment seems to be fading. The slave is holding the disk, but his eyes are glazed. He knows not what he does – he is but a zombie, with a mind stolen by darkness. He throws the disk, and it flips over and over, rhythmically, inevitably, and then hits the ground with a thud like the water and like the bodies.

It is face-up.

Now is the moment where I must go proudly. The fear consumes me, but surely I can face this last test and earn my place with the heroes. The Great Emperor looks up at me and smiles. Oh, God, no…

“Kneel.” The one word lingers in the air, the word that will determine my fate, my future, my life… I remain standing for a moment. I can do this; I can die for my people. I can… no, I can’t, I CAN’T!

I hear a thud – my knees hit the ground, but they might as well have been my head, for at that moment my spirit dies, though I somehow live. As I look to the heavens for forgiveness, my cross falls into a pool of blood beneath me.

Drip.

***

The night is black, as is the hole in my being. No stars shine, and the clouds roll over each other, barely visible and yet obviously there. The wind howls with my heart, and rain falls slowly, rhythmically, pulsing through the night as my sickening headache pounds against my cranium. The grass of the plains I stand on scratches at my legs.

I’m a traitor. A coward, a craven, a self-absorbed thing.

I want to die. I gave up my loyalty, my friendships, my home for life… but that life means nothing now. Where can I go to be free from the shadows? Where can I be free of myself?

Suddenly, a light appears on the ground, a shining field materializing around me. I look up. The clouds have moved, revealing the moon behind them. Its silver light washes over me, and I quickly move out of it, back into darkness. I don’t deserve light. I deserve nothing. Traitor.

“Traitorrrrrrrrrrrr…”

What was that? The whisper surrounds me, flowing over me like the moonlight, except I cannot find the source. It seems to radiate from the world around me, as if nature itself were rejecting me.

“Traitorrrrrrrrrrrr…”

It’s as if I’m looking in a mirror, and I’m ugly. Ugly as the Emperor himself. I want to turn away, I don’t want to look, but I know that wherever I go, the ugliness will stay… the ugliness is inevitable, unavoidable, eternal. Oh why, oh why?

“Noo…” I moan, falling to my knees – the executioner stands before me, and I can see my fears – but now I only see myself. I’m cradling up on the ground, my hands over my ears to block out that one, true accusation:

“Traitorrrrrrrrrrrr…”

“No!” I shout out, jumping backwards. The voice follows, its one word striking at me sharper than any sword. I stumble about, roll down a hill, bash my head on the ground, and the voice – that terrible, undeniable voice.

“Traitor!” It’s stronger now, attacking directly, harshly, accusingly –

“WHO ARE YOU?” I shout out to the darkness around me. A cloud passes over the moon, and all goes dark. The voice stops for a moment. Silence consumes me. The mirror is covered.

Something shimmers in the distance. A faint light beckons me with no words or motion. Help? Anything to get away from the voice. Death? Perhaps better. I stumble towards it, and it gets brighter as I approach – perhaps that’s just the illusion of proximity. But it’s really bright now. Blinding –

“Marcus…” Oh, no. It’s the name. The name I forgot – it did me no good in the prison – it does me no good now. Judas – my name. A traitor deserves no name. I recognize the voice, too. The man who died just before I kneeled – the man who stood proud in his last moments, fearful yet resilient.

“Marcus…” Another voice joins it. The voice of Carter, once my leader and now the martyr who we once rallied to. His invisible presence watches me – disappointed – ashamed. His eyes, empty in death, linger in the dark. I can see them – I can see the face. Slowly he takes form. Oh, God, what is this?

Another voice joins, and then another. Heroes, men and women much greater than I ever was, coming into being around me. They sparkle in the darkness. Their eyes are blank as corpses’. They stand still, their mouths do not move, and yet the whisper lingers…

“Traitorrrrrrrrrrrr…”

I weep. I never wept during my years in the tyrant’s prison. I weep now. I fall to my knees as I did before the Emperor. Their spirits form around me, they watch me, wishing I had joined them – and I failed them. They died for my freedom, and I threw it away in a moment of cowardice. I surrendered myself to the darkness, to the monster, and my spirit died – while their spirits watch me, disappointed.

“Marcus…” One voice ebbs out of the growing crowd. I recognize it. A friend, long dead: Cora speaks again. “Why?” The question burns at my essence – what’s left of it. My mouth is dry. I try to speak.

“I was…” The voice leaves my mouth like a croak. “Afraid.”

“We all feared,” Cora states. “Why did you give in?” Her eyes are blank, though her face is twisted – not in anger, but sorrow. Grief. For me?

“I don’t know.” I do not speak words, I speak sobs. “I’m weak. I’m a coward. I’m worth no more than the smallest insect, that’s why!” My sobs come out as shouts. Cora stares at me with pity.

“No…” Cora walks towards me. No, stay away – what could you want with me? My mouth is sealed shut. My pleas are trapped, cornered, imprisoned… “Marcus, you can –” Cora stops talking. Carter is staring at her coldly, with no emotion on his face. The other spirits are following suit.

They are now turning towards me…

“Traitor...” Carter’s voice. “You have failed. You are not one of us.” I begin sob again. Oh, God…

“Failure…” Another martyr speaks. “You turned on us. You will never join us.” They all start to walk slowly towards me. The grass is unhindered by their steps.

“Murderer…” Another, whose icy glare holds no feeling. “You’re no better than them.” Just leave me alone! “You are one of them.” Ohhh… They’re closer now. I can feel the warmth leaving the air around me. I’m in a frigid, desolate place – a world of death. Through the figures, I can see Cora standing helplessly. She mouths two words, but I can’t make them out. Then she is blocked from view –

I sit up. I’m in a dark hut. Rain is pouring outside. Where am I? This place looks so familiar…
Then I remember what has happened. I see the charter of my freedom that is not free. I weep, and as I weep, I hear the wind whisper two words throughout the night:

“I forgive.”

Tears drip down my face, and they don’t stop; the rain falls rhythmically, constantly, inevitably.

A rope is hanging on the wall.

Language, efficiency, etc.

Isn't that just a stirring title?

I've been having fun lately making a language, with two purposes in mind: beauty and efficiency. No, it's not a coincidence that I'm going for a language with both rhyme and reason.

However, a problem poses itself in trying to maximize efficiency and beauty at the same time. Right now, I'm looking at ways to maximize efficiency, and later I'll make sure that it leaves room for a beautiful language to be constructed. However, efficiency itself is difficult.

I'm going to create a measure of efficiency, first. The efficiency of a statement is the units of information divided by the number of syllables. For example,

"The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog."
The - modifies "fox" to make it definite
Quick - describes "fox."
Brown - describes "fox"
Fox - states subject of statement. In fox, a number of things are stored:
1. It's a fox.
2. There's only one.
3. By its placement in the sentence, it is the subject.
Jumps - states the action the fox takes. Also stores a lot of information:
1. The action is jumping.
2. One thing does it.
3. It's present tense.
4. It's third person.
5. It's active.
6. It's indicative.
Over - Describes the action of jumping.
The - Modifies "dog" to be definite.
Lazy - Modifies "dog."
Dog - What is being jumped over.
1. It's a dog.
2. There's only one.
3. Since it's after a preposition, it is what is being jumped over.

Counting it up, we have 18 units of information, and 11 syllables. So that's an efficiency of 18/11, which isn't too shabby.

English seems pretty efficient, right? Well, let's change it to

"The quick brown foxes are jumping over the lazy dogs."

We didn't change the units of info. The number of "fox" and "dog" became plural, and "jump" expanded to "are jumping," which means the same thing, just with a helping verb and an ending. The efficiency falls to 18/14. Which goes to show: the efficiency of English is variable. It depends on the words chosen, and we've got some pretty long words. The efficiency of "This is supercalifragiliciousexpialodocious" is supercalifragilisticexpialodociously low: 8/16 = 0.5.

Anyways, I want a language that gives me a high efficiency. This means I shall eschew with endings (they add syllables to add meaning, which doesn't help the efficiency much). The efficiency for Latin averages out to be something below 1 (that is, as far as I've experimented - feel free to find some highly efficient Latin texts!).

The problem with efficiency, though, is that when something is too efficient, it can lead to mass confusion! Let's say the word "Icar" means "beautiful girl," and "Ikhar" means "ugly girl." You wouldn't want to screw up in the middle of a compliment!

I soon realized that the issue correlates to something else I've been working on: a "Natural Language Processor," which is a neat little programming language based on... well, language. You define nouns, conjunctions, verbs, etc. to do math stuff.

This requires me to study what language is all about: making statements. Obviously, you have the nouns, which you make statements about. In math these correlate to numbers and maps and tensors and whatnot. So, what are functions and operators (sin x, x + y, etc)? The answer isn't intuitive: they're modifiers and conjunctions. In J, a programming language that acts like a Natural Language Processor, these are verbs, but I disagree. A verb is a statement of relation: even "Bob hit Tom," the verb is a statement of relation! Bob is the hitter, Tom is the hit. The word "hit" simply states a relation through the action: the verb is not the action itself, in other words.

So I've decided to analyze the components of language in tandem with making this efficient language. Hopefully, it will help me realize how to most efficiently organize components to maximize the efficency of the language, and life will be easier. :)

In making a language, there's a certain amount of reasoning and logic: but there's also the most important rule of having fun. Why am I creating this language? Certainly not to benefit anyone. I'm doing this purely for enjoyment. Language and math walk hand in hand, and each bring their own rhymes and reasons to the mix.

Room Cleaning

So my mom tells me that today is "serious room-cleaning day." Nope, not regular room-cleaning day. Serious.

So after breakfast I go into my room. Board games are littered all over the floor from my latest project, books are sitting in every nook and cranny - except, curiously, the bookshelf - and I can barely walk from one side of the room to the other. This will be fun.

Room cleaning is always an interesting experience for me, because I'm lazy and like to use ethical arguments to get out of cleaning. "Why do we care what other people think of my room? It's my room." My parents usually don't buy it.

But something struck me today. My dad had left, so only my brother and I remained in the house. Dad didn't let me have my door shut when he was gone, which bothered me. I like to be isolated when I clean. Of course, it's really a bad idea, because I get distracted easily, and if the door's shut, my parents can't come in and snap at me to get cleaning again. Usually it takes an afternoon to clean my room, and that's when it doesn't look like Katrina's winter home.

So the door's open, and my brother starts singing from his room across the hall. I have two choices to block the sound out: yell at him to stop singing, or shut the door. Obviously I can't do the latter, so I get ready to shout - but then I stop. Why can't he sing? It's a Saturday morning, I'm tired, but why do I have to be a jerk about it?

This question struck me. I'm not a jerk, but then why is my subconscious telling me I am? The answer suddenly hit me: because occasionally I am a jerk. Not to most people, but sometimes I am to my little brother. Sometimes I'm a jerk to my parents. Sometimes to my sister. I'm a jerk when I get obsessed over a particular fault of theirs that annoys me. I can't be annoyed. When people annoy me, I become a jerk, because I don't like to be annoyed (there's an irony there).

Hmm. So I've got this fault of jerkiness. Can I improve on this? Fine, I won't tell Jack to stop singing, even though it annoys me. What else can I improve on? Perhaps I should stop having ethical debates with myself and clean my room. In fact, why is cleaning my room a problem?

This question also hit me, due to a simple phrase I employ a lot. "Sam, why do you like math?" "Why not?" I'm a weird person, and I do weird things sometimes, because I enjoy doing them. When people ask why I did something in a way that's just simply curious (not mad), I say, "Why not?" That seems to make them think. Which is good, because people should think.

So, Sam, why clean your room?

Why not?

It's a stupid reason, to be honest, but it really made me think. There are plenty of good reasons why one should clean their room. The only reason why not is laziness. I don't want to be a lazy person. So for me, there's neither rhyme nor reason to not cleaning my room.

So, for the first time, I cleaned my room with barely any distractions. I not only put the books on the shelves, but I organized them (those who know me know just how strange that is). I threw away the trash. I I made the room more than manageable - it was beautiful (in my eyes, at least).

When I finished, the only thing I could think was, "Wow, that was weird": which fits me well.

No, mom, this doesn't mean I'll clean my room on a regular basis. Yet.

Indecision

I'm not sure whether I should begin this blog with a long, comprehensive post or a short welcome.

So I'll compromise.

I'll make it

look long

when

it's

really

very

short.

Welcome to my blog!