All reading materials: Time and Change 1. TimeChange_ReadMe (Requirements of Assignment) 2. Everyone Reads 1) Dystopian Video Games and Human Nature _ Scholarly Gamers 2) Engaging Apolitical Adolescen

1/25/13 Ray Bradbury: There Will Come Soft Rains www.dennissylvesterhurd.com/blog/softrain.htm 1/5 T h e r e W ill C o m e S o ft R a in s B y: R ay B radbury In the living room the voice-clock sang, Tick-tock, seven o'clock, tim e to get up, tim e to get up, seven o 'clock! as if it w ere afraid that nobody w ould. The m orning house lay em pty. The clock ticked on, repeating and repeating its sounds into the em ptiness. Seven-nine, breakfast tim e, seven-nine! In the kitchen the breakfast stove gave a hissing sigh and ejected from its w arm interior eight pieces of perfectly brow ned toast, eight eggs sunny side up, sixteen slices of bacon, tw o coffees, and tw o cool glasses of m ilk. "Today is August 4, 2026," said a second voice from the kitchen ceiling, "in the city of Allendale, C alifornia." It repeated the date three tim es for m em ory's sake. "Today is M r. Featherstone's birthday. Today is the anniversary of Tilita's m arriage. Insurance is payable, as are the w ater, gas, and light bills." Som ew here in the w alls, relays clicked, m em ory tapes glided under electric eyes. Eight-one, tick-tock, eight-one o'clock, off to school, off to w ork, run, run, eight-one! But no doors slam m ed, no carpets took the soft tread of rubber heels. It w as raining outside. The w eather box on the front door sang quietly: "Rain, rain, go aw ay; um brellas, raincoats for today. .." A nd the rain tapped on the em pty house, echoing. O utside, the garage chim ed and lifted its door to reveal the w aiting car. A fter a long w ait the door sw ung dow n again. A t eight-thirty the eggs w ere shrivelled and the toast w as like stone. A n alum inium w edge scraped them into the sink, w here hot w ater w hirled them dow n a m etal throat w hich digested and flushed them aw ay to the distant sea. The dirty dishes w ere dropped into a hot w asher and em erged tw inkling dry. N ine-fifteen, sang the clock, tim e to clean. O ut of w arrens in the w all, tiny robot m ice darted. The room s w ere a craw l w ith the sm all cleaning anim als, all rubber and m etal. They thudded against chairs, w hirling their m oustached runners, kneading the rug nap, sucking gently at hidden dust. Then, like m ysterious invaders, they popped into their burrow s. Their pink electric eyes faded. The house w as clean. Ten o'clock. The sun cam e out from behind the rain. The house stood alone in a city of rubble and ashes. This w as the one house left standing. A t night the ruined city gave off a radioactive glow w hich could be seen for m iles. Ten-fifteen. The garden sprinklers w hirled up in golden founts, filling the soft m orning air w ith scatterings of brightness. The w ater pelted w indow panes, running dow n the charred w est side 1/25/13 Ray Bradbury: There Will Come Soft Rains www.dennissylvesterhurd.com/blog/softrain.htm 2/5 w here the house had been burned, evenly free of its w hite paint. The entire w est face of the house w as black, save for five places. H ere the silhouette in paint of a m an m ow ing a law n. H ere, as in a photograph, a w om an bent to pick flow ers. Still farther over, their im ages burned on w ood in one titanic instant, a sm all boy, hands flung into the air; higher up, the im age of a throw n ball, and opposite him a girl, hands raised to catch a ball w hich never cam e dow n. The five spots of paint - the m an, the w om an, the children, the ball - rem ained. The rest w as a thin charcoaled layer. The gentle sprinkler rain filled the garden w ith falling light. U ntil this day, how w ell the house had kept its peace. H ow carefully it had inquired, "W ho goes there? W hat's the passw ord?" and, getting no answ er from lonely foxes and w hining cats, it had shut up its w indow s and draw n shades in an old-m aidenly preoccupation w ith self-protection w hich bordered on a m echanical paranoia. It quivered at each sound, the house did. If a sparrow brushed a w indow , the shade snapped up. The bird, startled, flew off! N o, not even a bird m ust touch the house! Tw elve noon. A dog w hined, shivering, on the front porch. The front door recognized the dog voice and opened. The dog, once huge and fleshy, but now gone to bone and covered w ith sores, m oved in and through the house, tracking m ud. Behind it w hirred angry m ice, angry at having to pick up m ud, angry at inconvenience. For not a leaf fragm ent blew under the door but w hat the w all panels flipped open and the copper scrap rats flashed sw iftly out. The offending dust, hair, or paper, seized in m iniature steel jaw s, w as raced back to the burrow s. There, dow n tubes w hich fed into the cellar, it w as dropped into the sighing vent of an incinerator w hich sat like evil Baal in a dark corner. The dog ran upstairs, hysterically yelping to each door, at last realizing, as the house realized, that only silence w as here. It sniffed the air and scratched the kitchen door. Behind the door, the stove w as m aking pancakes w hich filled the house w ith a rich baked odour and the scent of m aple syrup. The dog frothed at the m outh, lying at the door, sniffing, its eyes turned to fire. It ran w ildly in circles, biting at its tail, spun in a frenzy, and died. It lay in the parlor for an hour. Tw o o'clock, sang a voice. D elicately sensing decay at last, the regim ents of m ice hum m ed out as softly as blow n gray leaves in an electrical w ind. Tw o-fifteen. 1/25/13 Ray Bradbury: There Will Come Soft Rains www.dennissylvesterhurd.com/blog/softrain.htm 3/5 The dog w as gone. In the cellar, the incinerator glow ed suddenly and a w hirl of sparks leaped up the chim ney. Tw o thirty-five. Bridge tables sprouted from patio w alls. Playing cards fluttered onto pads in a show er of pips. M artinis m anifested on an oaken bench w ith egg-salad sandw iches. M usic played. But the tables w ere silent and the cards untouched. A t four o'clock the tables folded like great butterflies back through the paneled w alls . Four-thirty. The nursery w alls glow ed. A nim als took shape: yellow giraffes, blue lions, pink antelopes, lilac panthers cavorting in crystal substance. The w alls w ere glass. They looked out upon color and fantasy. H idden film s clocked through w ell-oiled sprockets, and the w alls lived. The nursery floor w as w oven to resem ble a crisp, cereal m eadow . O ver this ran alum inum roaches and iron crickets, and in the hot still air butterflies of delicate red tissue w avered am ong the sharp arom a of anim al spoors! There w as the sound like a great m atted yellow hive of bees w ithin a dark bellow s, the lazy bum ble of a purring lion. A nd there w as the patter of okapi feet and the m urm ur of a fresh jungle rain, like other hoofs, falling upon the sum m er-starched grass. N ow the w alls dissolved into distances of parched grass, m ile on m ile, and w arm endless sky. The anim als drew aw ay into thorn brakes and w ater holes. It w as the children's hour. Five o'clock. The bath filled w ith clear hot w ater. Six, seven, eight o'clock. The dinner dishes m anipulated like m agic tricks, and in the study a click. In the m etal stand opposite the hearth w here a fire now blazed up w arm ly, a cigar popped out, half an inch of soft gray ash on it, sm oking, w aiting. N ine o'clock. The beds w arm ed their hidden circuits, for nights w ere cool here. N ine-five. A voice spoke from the study ceiling: "M rs. M cC lellan, w hich poem w ould you like this evening?" The house w as silent. The voice said at last, "Since you express no preference, I shall select a poem at random ." Q uiet m usic rose to back the voice. "Sara Teasdale. As I recall, your favourite... There w ill com e soft rains and the sm ell of the ground, And sw allow s circling w ith their shim m ering sound; And frogs in the pools singing at night, And w ild plum trees in trem ulous w hite; Robins w ill w ear their feathery fire, 1/25/13 Ray Bradbury: There Will Come Soft Rains www.dennissylvesterhurd.com/blog/softrain.htm 4/5 W histling their w him s on a low fence-w ire; And not one w ill know of the w ar, not one W ill care at last w hen it is done. N ot one w ould m ind, neither bird nor tree, If m ankind perished utterly; And Spring herself, w hen she w oke at daw n W ould scarcely know that w e w ere gone." The fire burned on the stone hearth and the cigar fell aw ay into a m ound of quiet ash on its tray. The em pty chairs faced each other betw een the silent w alls, and the m usic played. A t ten o'clock the house began to die. The w ind blew . A falling tree bough crashed through the kitchen w indow . C leaning solvent, bottled, shattered over the stove. The room w as ablaze in an instant! "Fire!" scream ed a voice. The house lights flashed, w ater pum ps shot w ater from the ceilings. But the solvent spread on the linoleum , licking, eating, under the kitchen door, w hile the voices took it up in chorus: "Fire, fire, fire!" The house tried to save itself. D oors sprang tightly shut, but the w indow s w ere broken by the heat and the w ind blew and sucked upon the fire. The house gave ground as the fire in ten billion angry sparks m oved w ith flam ing ease from room to room and then up the stairs. W hile scurrying w ater rats squeaked from the w alls, pistolled their w ater, and ran for m ore. A nd the w all sprays let dow n show ers of m echanical rain. But too late. Som ew here, sighing, a pum p shrugged to a stop. The quenching rain ceased. The reserve w ater supply w hich had filled baths and w ashed dishes for m any quiet days w as gone. The fire crackled up the stairs. It fed upon Picassos and M atisses in the upper halls, like delicacies, baking off the oily flesh, tenderly crisping the canvases into black shavings. N ow the fire lay in beds, stood in w indow s, changed the colors of drapes! A nd then, reinforcem ents. From attic trapdoors, blind robot faces peered dow n w ith faucet m ouths gushing green chem ical. The fire backed off, as even an elephant m ust at the sight of a dead snake. N ow there w ere tw enty snakes w hipping over the floor, killing the fire w ith a clear cold venom of green froth. But the fire w as clever. It had sent flam e outside the house, up through the attic to the pum ps there. A n explosion! The attic brain w hich directed the pum ps w as shattered into bronze shrapnel on the beam s. 1/25/13 Ray Bradbury: There Will Come Soft Rains www.dennissylvesterhurd.com/blog/softrain.htm 5/5 The fire rushed back into every closet and felt of the clothes hung there. The house shuddered, oak bone on bone, its bared skeleton cringing from the heat, its w ire, its nerves revealed as if a surgeon had torn the skin off to let the red veins and capillaries quiver in the scalded air. H elp, help! Fire! Run, run! H eat snapped m irrors like the first brittle w inter ice. A nd the voices w ailed. Fire, fire, run, run, like a tragic nursery rhym e, a dozen voices, high, low , like children dying in a forest, alone, alone. A nd the voices fading as the w ires popped their sheathings like hot chestnuts. O ne, tw o, three, four, five voices died. In the nursery the jungle burned. Blue lions roared, purple giraffes bounded off. The panthers ran in circles, changing color, and ten m illion anim als, running before the fire, vanished off tow ard a distant steam ing river.... Ten m ore voices died. In the last instant under the fire avalanche, other choruses, oblivious, could be heard announcing the tim e, cutting the law n by rem ote-control m ow er, or setting an um brella frantically out and in, the slam m ing and opening front door, a thousand things happening, like a clock shop w hen each clock strikes the hour insanely before or after the other, a scene of m aniac confusion, yet unity; singing, scream ing, a few last cleaning m ice darting bravely out to carry the horrid ashes aw ay! A nd one voice, w ith sublim e disregard for the situation, read poetry aloud in the fiery study, until all the film spools burned, until all the w ires w ithered and the circuits cracked. The fire burst the house and let it slam flat dow n, puffing out skirts of spark and sm oke. In the kitchen, an instant before the rain of fire and tim ber, the stove could be seen m aking breakfasts at a psychopathic rate, ten dozen eggs, six loaves of toast, tw enty dozen bacon strips, w hich, eaten by fire, started the stove w orking again, hysterically hissing! The crash. The attic sm ashing into kitchen and parlour. The parlour into cellar, cellar into sub-cellar. D eep freeze, arm chair, film tapes, circuits, beds, and all like skeletons throw n in a cluttered m ound deep under. Sm oke and silence. A great quantity of sm oke. D aw n show ed faintly in the east. A m ong the ruins, one w all stood alone. W ithin the w all, a last voice said, over and over again and again, even as the sun rose to shine upon the heaped rubble and steam : "Today is August 5, 2026, today is August 5, 2026, today is..."