Superscript

Thanks to the many sci-fi, dystopian pieces I read on here, you encouraged me to try writing one.

He typed the word persistently, the graphite band flared lightly against his temple, recording every associative spike.

The exam hall was silent except for the faint hum of processors. Each student wore a thin graphite band. The Ministry called it an “Associative Transparency Device.” It recorded neural spikes — sudden activations linked to memory retrieval. During national assessments, the data would be cross-referenced with interaction archives: classroom transcripts, library checkouts, recorded discussions. Every influence traceable. Every thought accountable.

This was not only a language and literature exam. It was an audit of the self.

He began his introduction with: The sky was persistently bright.

A pulse flickered on the desk display.

Spike detected:
Word to-be-credited: sky

87%: Primary 1 English, Ms Tan Wxx Lxxx, Lesson 14: “Weather and the World Above Us,” dated 12 February 2013. Vocabulary slide 3: “sky — the space above the earth that we see.”
13%: Exposure reinforcement via Sesame Street, Season 44, Episode 4412 (“Sunny Days and Counting”), broadcast 18 July 2014. Segment featuring animated cloud formation song.

He hesitated. It might have been Ms Tan’s lesson that made the word stable in his vocabulary. But he also remembered the melody from that episode — “up above the sky so high.” Both were prominent. Both should be cited.

Better to over-credit than to omit. Integrity required accuracy, and accuracy required humility. He added two superscripts. Then three, just in case. Over-crediting was safer than omission. Omission suggested arrogance. Arrogance suggested intellectual theft.

Secondary spike:
Word to-be-credited: persistently
50%: To Kill a Mockingbird, Harper Perennial Modern Classics (Teacher’s classroom copy, 2006 reprint), p. 143 (paperback edition).

A warning symbol appeared. Pagination discrepancy detected. Edition cross-check required. His personal copy at home — a gift from his parents on 9 January 2023 — was the Arrow Books UK paperback, 2010 edition. In that version, page 143 did not contain the same paragraph. The word cluster shifted to page 151.

“Another source,” the device intoned as he hesitated.

32%: IB English Language & Literature Lesson, Mr Lee Txx Kxxx, timed practice commentary, 3 March 2024. Feedback annotation: green circle around “persistent imagery,” margin note reading “precise diction.” He could see the ink in his mind. Mr Lee’s handwriting slanted slightly right.

“Another source,” it said again.

18%: Parental usage, mother’s remark dated approximately 22 August 2012: “You are a persistent child.” Context: refusal to abandon shoelace-tying attempt.

He swallowed. One degree of citation was mandatory — the direct source of a word or idea. Two degrees signalled diligence — every influence of that source also had to be traced. Three degrees — the gold standard — indicated university-level authenticity: each source’s source, and then that source’s source, all mapped like a genealogical tree of thought. University submissions below three degrees were auto-rejected. Thought without genealogy was considered intellectually irresponsible.

He tried to keep writing. But every sentence forked into origins. When he described rain as “relentless,” another spike appeared. Was that from a class debate? Or from a radio segment he heard on a car ride last year, where someone used the word casually? The monitor could not distinguish prominence. It only recorded activation.

“It might be this,” he whispered internally, “but I remember that being prominent too.”

So he cited both. His page began to resemble a legal document. Superscripts multiplied like anxious thoughts. The body of his essay shrank beneath the scaffolding of its ancestry.

He tried to isolate a single cause for a metaphor about light. Perhaps he had chosen it because he once read René Descartes and absorbed the habit of questioning perception. Or because his literature teacher insisted on imagery as a structural device. Or because when he was eight, he had squinted into the sun and felt something wordless.

Which one counted?

The device pulsed again. Spike: childhood memory. He stared at the blinking icon. If he failed to acknowledge it, the omission would be flagged. But how could he footnote a feeling? How could he trace sunlight through his eyelids back to a curriculum standard?

Self-awareness became interruption. Every time he stepped outside a sentence to justify it, the sentence cooled. Language that had felt alive now felt procedural.

The exam clock ticked. He looked at the draft — ten months of preparation distilled into an annotated skeleton. Nothing breathed. Nothing moved.

A thought formed, and the device pulsed. Spike: defiance. He closed his eyes. The band felt suddenly heavy, like a hand pressing down on his temple. Carefully, almost politely, he removed it.

The invigilator did not notice. Or pretended not to.

He opened a new document. No superscripts. No cross-referencing. No genealogies.

For three hours, he wrote as if thought did not require proof of origin. As if influence were air — everywhere, invisible, shared — and therefore not something to itemise. The sentences flowed. Imperfect. Unverified. Entirely indebted to a thousand voices he could not fully name.

He did not know whether what he had written was original. He only knew it felt like his.

Writer’s note: Sorry, the book sources are inaccurate and complete guesswork. Ironic, I know, but I’m not spending days just finding, buying and waiting for the books to come just to notice they’re not there. And piracy of pdf copies just feels wrong for this piece…nah, I’m just lazy.