by Jared Axelrod | Jan 6, 2006 | Story |
“But why don’t you want to be Prince Charming? I just don’t understand.†Beryl worried a handkerchief nearly to the point of tearing with her plump little hands. Saske could see she was almost to the point of tears, but he wasn’t going to relent. A man had to draw the line somewhere.
“I have no problem spending our honeymoon in Orlando, babycakes. And if it means that much to you we can get married in the Magic Kingdom. But does it have to be Cinderella themed?â€
Beryl dabbed at the corners of her eyes and fanned the collection of brochures at Saske. “There’s Sleeping Beauty. We could do Sleeping Beauty. They have animatronic replicas of Flora, Fauna and Merryweather that float around on little gasbags and even a Maleficent that storms from the back when the priests asks if anyone has any objections.”
“Thats not what I meant…”
“You can have Maleficent turn into a holographic dragon if you want. You could fight her. They give you a sword.”
“I don’t want a sword…”
“My cousin Stacy had the Little Mermaid and she said the Ursela was just fantastic. I’d have to dye my hair red for that.†Beryl’s tears were lost, and she was now fingering her auburn curls in front of the hallway mirror.
“I don’t want you to dye your hair red!†Saske didn’t mean to shout, but now that he was started, he couldn’t keep it in. “I don’t want to marry Ariel, or Aurora, or Cinderella! I want to marry you!â€
“And you don’t think I’m a princess?†The tears were starting to come back, and Beryl sunk down into the sofa. She looked at the handkerchief in her hands, “I think you’re Prince Charming.â€
Saske sat down next to Beryl and put his hands on hers. “You’re a princess to me, sweetie. You’re my princess. Not Walt’s. What is it you want out of that type of wedding?â€
Beryl looked him deep in the eyes. “The fairy tale, honey. I want to be Cinderella, if just for a night.â€
“In rags, scrubbing the fireplace?â€
“No, silly! Cinderella isn’t about rags!â€
Saske looked at the brochures, the glossy, pastel gowns and the castle backdrops. “No, I guess not. You’d think Little Red Riding Hood would be in here. I loved that movie. I could be The Wolf for that.â€
“The Wolf isn’t a romantic hero!â€
Saske turned to his fiancé with a saucy gleam in his eye. “Au contraire, my little Forest Traveler,†he growled. “Allow me to show you how wrong that notion is!â€
“Oh my!†Beryl said. “How big you are!â€
by J.R. Blackwell | Jan 5, 2006 | Story |
The van comes for me at the usual time. I imagine myself as the driver must see me, a doll with matching parts, standing in front of buildings that are coated with red sand. I pull my coat around me but the cold wind climbs under and up my bare legs. I am wearing the dress that my mother saved for, the one I do not eat in, the one I keep laid out at the foot of my couch, the one that my grandmother presses formaldehyde in to keep it fresh.
Girls are crowded in, stinking of perfume. I see the usual faces and a few new ones, their nervous twitches betray them. With a years of experience, I have become old at this game. A few of the new girls chatter, hoping for handsome and rich. They lie to themselves; no one who is handsome or rich would come here for a woman. The driver jokes, and makes check marks on his pad. He tells the van where to go and it takes us to the Hotel.
Paint is curling off the plastic in the Hotel, breaking down, like all of Mars. They line us up in rows of chairs. We wait for the men. There is the clatter of breakfast dishes, the smell of baked goods. Our best reproduction of Earth food. The little oily man comes in. He’s not so bad, maybe he sleeps with a couple girls to give them front row seats, but that is their business, not mine. It doesn’t matter, he isn’t really bad, not as bad as what could be.
Most of the girls are smiling now, watching the middle aged men, the best dressed. I do not make eye contact. I will not act like a whore to meet a man. I do look, though, at the oldest men when they are not looking. I am watching the oldest. If he looks toward me, I will look away. Perhaps that will interest him. A few of the girls giggle and the men watch them. One girl touches her leg, another, her cheek. I hold my hands on my lap and practice stillness. On the other side of a small window I see there is sandstorm coming, red sand, whirling.
The men are looking at our profile on their data pads. I am a virgin. Some earth men like that. Some do not. I have seen the Earth women in the Interactives. Earth women are wild. Earth women will deny men. Their denied men come here.
I feel his eyes on me before I see him. He is not so old and has a soft face. He says something in his Earth tongue. I do not smile. He is too young, fat on Earth food. I look at my hands but he is staring. There are other women who are more attractive, who want him to look, but he is watching me.
I am at the edge. He mispronounces my name and the oil man, our translator, flashes a smile.
“Stand up.†He says “Turn around.â€
I stand and turn, looking at my shoes. I am naked now, on display.
“Be a pretty cat.†Says the oil man.
The cats on Mars are starving.
I try to make eye contact with an old man, but he is looking at a young girl. I am looking out the window for signs of a red storm. Will my shoes get stained in the storm? The red can stain everything.
I try to sit but the young man grabs my arm. He points to me; his fingers are hard. The oil man motions to the other girls. I snubbed the oil man once, I did not want the front row as much as he wanted me and he has not forgotten. He is telling the young man that he has time to decide, that he should think it over.
The young man shakes his head. He has made up his mind. He will take me to Earth, to him home. He has paid his fee to the oil man, and my parents will get five percent. It is more than they make in a year.
The men break for lunch and the oil man leaves me in his office. They want me to sign papers. There are pictures of weddings here, each of them with the same background, the same fake cake and champagne, only the date changes on these photos. There are hundreds of pictures.
It is my eighth trip to the hotel and no one has chosen me.
The papers absorb my signature as I sign them and they carry the confirmation to the oil mans data pad.
Red sand beats the window in his office. The storm has arrived.
by J. Loseth | Jan 4, 2006 | Story
The engineer stumbled into the cargo hold and dropped his bags like they were made of lead. At the moment, he couldn’t think of any place in the galaxy where he’d rather be. Not that that was a surprise.
His pilot wandered into the hold wearing underwear, a bra, and a towel wrapped around her head. She blinked at him and frowned. “I didn’t know you were back.”
“I just got in.” He flopped down on the floor next to his luggage.
“You look like hell.”
“Gee, thanks.” The engineer rolled his eyes. “Why don’t you put on some pants?”
“They’re in the wash.”
“All of them?”
“Yeah.”
“Aren’t you embarrassed to be wandering around the ship in your underwear?”
“No.”
He sighed. They’d had this debate many times before.
“So why do you look like you got run over by a tank?” she asked.
“Is it really that bad? Maybe I should take a shower.”
“I used all the hot water. And you’re trying to change the subject.”
The engineer scowled. “I ran into that pirate again, okay?”
“The one who’s been tracking us over three sectors?” The pilot hopped onto a steel barrel, crossed her legs, and put her chin in her hand.
“Yes, that one,” he growled, “and please don’t remind me of it.”
“So what happened?”
“Do we really need to talk about this right now?”
“Yes. What if some doohickey broke on the ship and you were brooding over that pirate? I’d need to know how to—”
“I am not brooding over him!”
The pilot rolled her eyes. “I hate pirates,” she remarked to no one in particular. She was obviously refusing to move until he finished the story. Sighing, he gave in.
“Well, I was in a bar.”
“You? In a bar? I’m shocked.”
“Shove it. I was in the bar meeting a contact for a job. Do you want me to tell this story or not?”
The pilot absently cleaned her ear with a finger. She stayed quiet, though. Eventually, he continued.
“So there was some, uh, unrelated trouble, and the local cops closed off the street outside. Some explosion or something. I didn’t speak up to find out.”
“Aren’t you wanted on that planet?”
“That wasn’t my fault! And who’s telling the story here, you or me? Anyway, I was in the bar, and it looked like we were going to be there for a while. So I had a drink. Nothing else to do, right?”
“I sure would’ve if I’d been there.”
“Right. Yeah. So anyway, it turned out that Valentine was there, too.”
“I still can’t believe his name is Valentine. Fucking pirates shouldn’t be named after fucking holidays. It’s unethical.”
“He’s not named after the holiday. He’s named after the gun.”
“The Valentine .45 SXG? Are you serious?” There was a pause. “How do you know that?”
“He told me, okay?”
The pilot blinked, then blinked again. The engineer looked away and, not for the first time, was eternally grateful for his dark skin. It hid the flush. He hurried on.
“It’s not like I was talking to him on purpose. He was heckling me. You know how he does that.”
“Boy, do I ever. Fucking pirate.”
“Anyway, he was heckling me, and I got sick of it, so I slipped out the back. Of course the cops were all over me, chased me around, stuff like that. So that’s why I look like shit. Now let’s get out of orbit before they realize where I disappeared to. Oh, and add another “˜wanted’ label to the map for this sector.” He pushed himself upright and headed towards the cockpit. “I’ll get the engines fired up. And put on some pants first!”
The pilot watched him leave, then hopped off the cargo barrel. She rubbed the towel against her hair and casually tossed it into the corner of the hold. The engineer probably didn’t realize that the pirate wore lipstick. She smirked, making a mental note to be near the bathroom the next time her co-worker and employer went in. The look on his face would be priceless when he realized what the red stain was around the corners of his lips.
by B. York | Jan 3, 2006 | Story |
Seamus dipped the greasy piece of bread into the even greasier layer of oil in his plate. “Mm. It seems so much easier when you know your own sin, doesn’t it?â€
Carol hadn’t touched her food; her lust for love blinded her, but only to a point. She watched the buffoon in front of her as he ate away his life. “I don’t think it was meant to be taken literally, Seamus,†she said. “People have just become… more goal-oriented.†The words were lost beneath the sound of her blind date’s incessant chewing. His blue eyes peered up ignorantly and a muffled confused phrase somehow made it out of the crevice.
“What I mean to say is, just because we have thirty-five years doesn’t mean we should debase ourselves to such trivial concepts of living.â€
The glutton finished swallowing before bellowing an answer, “Well, you’re looking for love, right? That’s your purpose; love. I, as stated in the advertisement, am transfixed upon simple pleasures. Food is too good to let go to waste†Again, he stuffed his mouth full of various confections and salty doughy things.
Her words came after much thought and in-between the orificial cramming of her oh-so-temporary partner for the night. “It has come to my attention that you, Seamus, are gluttonous because you think you do not have anything else to live for but your own pleasure. I, on the other hand, believe in a world meant for one person to stand beside me. For children, I feel that we need to have similar goals.â€
The man’s eyes went into thought and he gulped his food down with his mind working in overdrive. They both had at least fifteen years left, and the rush to procreate had crossed his mind. He sat up straight, cleaned off his chin and stared directly into her eyes.
“I love youâ€, he said without wavering.
“Good. Now let’s talk about a house and kids.†Her mood was changing from highly annoyed to mildly irritate.
A napkin he brought to his face rubbed away any remaining stains, and he looked up to the teenage waiter. He was sure that the kid couldn’t imagine how disturbing it would be to hold such a job when he was halfway done his life. “Waiter, take this away,†Seamus said. “Bring me a salad and filtered water.â€
by Kathy Kachelries | Jan 2, 2006 | Story
“You really shouldn’t write so much,” the boy said. He perched on the edge of an orange subway chair and jumped off as the train screeched to a halt, catching himself on the handrail and spinning around.
“If I didn’t write so much, you wouldn’t be here,” the woman said coolly.
“Well, yeah, but maybe we’re not all we’re cracked up to be, you know?”
The woman sighed deeply and folded the page of her notebook before placing it on the bench beside her. “Would you stop that already?” she said.
“What, this?” The boy pushed forward and caught himself on his hands, pushing off and spinning into a precisely controlled flip. It was the type of control that could only come from good programming, and she knew from the price tag that the boy had been programmed well.
“Yes, that,” she said.
“It’s not like I can get hurt.”
“Human beings have protective instincts. We don’t like watching kids do that kind of stuff.”
The boy smiled and jumped into the seat beside her. She picked up the spiral-bound notebook and flipped to the designated page, then pressed the end of her pencil against her lips. He rolled into her like a cat, sprawling across her lap and giggling. “I told you to cut it out,” she said.
“I didn’t write myself, you know.”
“You’re supposed to be inspiring me.”
The boy crawled over her and flopped into the seat beside her, tracing his thin finger over the thin lead lines on the page. “What am I doing now?” he asked.
“Being a nuisance.”
“I hope you don’t let that guy kill me. I’d be very sad.”
“I wouldn’t have paid for you if I was going to kill you in three chapters,” she said. The boy took her pencil from her fingers and stuck it behind her ear.
“You look silly,” he said. “Silly writer! You bought a fake boy.”
The woman retrieved her pencil and returned to the notebook, but as soon as the lead touched the page he grabbed it again and ran down the length of the car, giggling hysterically. “Get back here,” she ordered.
“Maybe you don’t want to write, did that ever occur to you?”
“I think I know what I want better than a cybernetic nine year old.”
“I’m a child prodigy!” he squealed with noisy excitement.
“In an hour you’ll be a decommissioned pile of circuits,” she warned.
“Nah. You like me! You just don’t like this pencil.” The boy stuck it between his teeth and smiled. “Look at me! I’m a writer! I think deep thoughts and put them on paper!”
Frustrated, the woman turned back to her notebook.
“Pay attention to me!” the boy demanded around the object between his lips.
“I am paying attention to you,” she said as she dug through her purse for her spare pen.
“I’m not in there, silly. I’m right here!” He grabbed the handrail and spun and jumped, landing beside her. She took the pencil from his mouth.
“Sit down,” she ordered.
With much dramatic pouting, he obeyed. He folded his legs beneath him and sighed in the heavy way that only children can sigh. “It’s probably a lot less fun when you can’t control it,” he observed.
“I told you,” the woman said. “Behave.”
