by featured writer | Feb 18, 2014 | Story |
Author : Jay Knioum, Featured Writer
I’m wearing your hand from my neck.
I spent a week drying it out, preserving it, taking care that the tattoo was still visible. Once I was convinced that it didn’t stink, I threaded the zip-tie through the wrist, hung it over my head and tucked it inside my jacket. Good thing, because I don’t think this group I hooked up with would understand. Some of them still have their husbands, wives, kids, moms or dads out there. They still hope. They can still look at the moon and think to themselves, maybe you’re looking at the same moon right now. They can stay warm with that thought as they drift off to sleep.
All I know is, if you’re looking at the moon, you aren’t thinking a damn thing. Not even of me.
I take it out now and then, when it’s my turn on watch. Everyone else is asleep, or trying to be. I take out your hand and look at that tattoo. I did it for you, while I was learning the trade. It looks like shit, but you loved it.
WANT. You had me tattoo that on your left hand, in that spidery writing that I used to use back then.
Somewhere, you’re out there. Maybe you’re dead. Maybe you’re shuffling around under this same moonlight. On the hand you’ve got left, I’d written IGNORANCE into your skin. Same spidery letters. It looked like shit, but you always kissed me and told me it was better than any ring.
Eventually, I put your hand away and someone relieves me. So it goes. Dark, sunrise, sunset, dark. Moonlight.
Sometimes I think I feel your hand move, feel it cup my boob like you’d do sometimes. I’d remember those mornings when you’d be making breakfast, but I wanted something else.
But it’s just a dead thing. Somewhere out there, you’re a dead thing. This hand around my neck is a dead thing. I fall asleep hoping that I’ll find you crushed under a car somewhere, or against all odds, with your stump in a sling, surrounded by people like the people that surround me.
That’s when I remember how I found your hand. It hadn’t been cut off. Hadn’t been torn off. It had been bitten off. Anyone who gets bit, they turn. I’ve seen it. I know that’s what happened to you.
That’s when my hope turns to ash, but it’s still there. I hope, someday, we’ll see each other again. I’ll see your stump, and I’ll see IGNORANCE on your other hand.
Then I can finish this. We can both rest then.
Til death do us part.
by submission | Feb 17, 2014 | Story |
Author : R. Daniel Lester
The call came out of the clear blue. From the suburbs, beyond the gates. A woman, speaking in a whisper, said, I’ve heard you help. Can you help?
He said, No guarantees.
She said, Get my daughter before she really hurts herself. Corner of Peco and Ash.
He knew what that meant: GIFbaby. Another party girl walking on the wild side. He got the details: height, description, etc. He played it professional. He had two terms. One: no crossing. He had border fear. And any day without a body scan and a cavity search was a good day in his books. Two: an envelope of cold, hard currency at the exchange.
The caller agreed. She said, Please hurry.
The main place to score in the city was a 10-block radius of burned out buildings and half-demolished skyscrapers. Zone Zero, where the worst of the bombing and rioting had taken place. Once the glossy hub of glass and concrete, now a maze of rebar and rubble.
GIF was street slang for the latest designer drug to be plunged through the ruined veins of the city. Other names: Loop, Loopy, Stucky, Same Ol’. A common side effect being repeated actions in its user, a brain on replay. The trip you were on depended at what timecode in the movie you were starring in that your brain hit stop, hit rewind, hit play, hit repeat. Good trip: blissed out magic carpet ride. Bad trip: nanobot nightmare.
He went to Peco. He followed it to Ash. Rough territory. The anti-tech gangs roamed the streets. Lately, they named themselves after old movie stars. They were both nostalgic and vicious. He got a pass. He was local. He was a certified no-chipper.
He walked across the open-air plaza of a 50-storey with half the floors it used to have. He saw a GIFhead in a beg-for-change loop. He saw a GIFhead with no teeth and one milky cataract eye. He saw citizens cut a wide path around a girl in a shiny dress and high heels. He saw her roll an ankle. He saw the girl fall down stairs. He saw the girl on autopilot. She stood. She limped back up the stairs. She fell. She was loop-fucked. He got closer. Her palms and knees were raw, scraped. She didn’t feel it yet. She was GIFfing hard.
When she hit the bottom stair, he grabbed her. Her body wanted to move. Needed to. He didn’t let her go. She went, Wha? Her eyes were all pupil. She dribbled spit and blood. There was a tooth on her jacket, stuck to the lapel.
He escorted her to the gates. She limped barefoot. She sobered up as they walked. He snagged an empty pill bottle from an abandoned corner store and dropped her tooth inside. She rattled the tooth around in the bottle. She handed over the rest of her stash.
He said, You’re lucky. If the Dead Astaire’s had found you first.
She nodded. She said, My mom?
He said, Yes.
She said, Shit.
The woman waited on the other side of the gates while a burly member of the family’s personal security/kill team traded her daughter for the envelope. The mercenary was teched out–ocular rig, smart armor, reflex enhancers–and looked at him like he was nothing. Like he was a chimp behind zoo bars scratching his balls.
He traded the GIF for a baggie of pure Columbian. At home, he hand ground the coffee beans. He boiled water. He sipped slow. He savoured. The taste, a rare thing, knocked him out at the knees.
by submission | Feb 16, 2014 | Story |
Author : Daniel R. Endres
The glasses gave her a headache. With clenched teeth and a hand that wouldn’t stop shaking she put the neurolenses down on the coffee table beside the sofa that served as her bed. Her chest burned again and she cursed not for the first time her inability to resist the allure of cheap Mexican fast food.
Donna had been there again. She’d deleted her over and over again, erasing her from every preloaded dream-sim she owned, but she kept popping up. More often than not Donna was nothing more than another face in a crowd that just happened to stand out a bit more than the others. While she might be playing out the role of a police officer on patrol or a bike messenger handing out parcels, Donna would be on the street, watching with the same cool grey eyes that had defined her in Nancy’s mind.
Sometimes however, the encounters were more intense. In the sim she had just closed, she had been a professor of metaphysics at Campton and Donna had appeared as one of her students. By the time she’d pried the lenses from her head in the real world, things had progressed to a situation better suited for cheap freebooks than for her dream-sims. Even at their most exciting, her friends had often teased Nancy for the dullness of her scenarios. While they lived out imaginary adventures full of fantasy and action, Nancy’s sims were simple lives most people would find mundane… unless Donna was there.
She was a virus. Nancy knew that. There had been a real Donna once, sure. Hell, somewhere there still was, but she hadn’t been a part of Nancy’s quiet life for years. This Donna, the Donna that ironically enough wouldn’t leave Nancy alone even when she wanted her to, wasn’t real. After this encounter Nancy knew that she was more than just an unfortunate glitch that’d latched onto one of her memories. This anomaly had purpose. She would keep coming back no matter how many times Nancy deleted her profile from memory. It wanted something.
This last time, when Donna had pressed her too comfortably tight against the desk of her imagined office, she’d whispered something into Nancy’s ear. In the moment, Nancy hadn’t given the words much thought. Her mind was too torn between wanting the lenses removed as quickly as she could tear them from her face and wanting to see just how far things with this phantom Donna would go. Now though, with time to reflect back on the experience, she could recall exactly what she’d said.
“Meet me at Baker’s.”
Nancy didn’t know anyone named Baker, and even if she did was she seriously considering taking directions from a virus? It was absurd. No, this had gone on long enough. As soon as she could motivate herself to throw on her blue sweats she was going to Tommy’s. He’d sold the neurolenses to her in the first place. He’d gotten her a discount through his job and had insisted she buy a pair. If he couldn’t fix the piece of junk, then maybe he could replace them. Her warranty was still good for another two months and despite her initial protests against buying into something she saw as a fad, she’d grown fond of the simple little fantasies she could come home to. As boring as they may have seemed to her friends, they were an absolute vacation from the soul crushing data entry work she did from home.
by submission | Feb 15, 2014 | Story |
Author : Mark Gorton
London’s High Court has been hearing how a dream timeshare holiday turned into a nightmare for two senior citizens.
In return for £15,000, Bob Plain, 83, and his wife Betty, 82, were promised a luxury fortnight break in the computer-generated splendour of aristocratic Victorian England. Instead, the elderly couple had to endure two working-class weeks at the height of World War II’s Nazi Blitz.
Mr Plain told the court that virtual tour operator Past Times had offered a low price and also tempted him with the promise of lavish gifts that never arrived. “They told me we’d have a holiday we’d never forget,” he said, “and they were right.”
According to their contract the Plains’ trip of a lifetime to 1840 should have seen them mingling at a Buck House garden party thrown by a young Queen Vic, and also given them the opportunity to meet dizzy daffodil loving poet, William Wordsworth. Other highlights included a hot-air balloon flight over the capital, a ride on a train powered by steam, and helping Rowland Hill invent the postage stamp.
All of this was to have been a gift from Mr Plain to his wife. “I wanted to surprise Betty,” he said, “and surprise her I did. But not in the way I had planned.”
The Plains’ journey downtime left them a century short. Instead of Victoria’s England the Past Times server sent them to Brick Lane, London, in October 1940. Here there were no palaces, poets, aristocrats, inventors, champagne or caviar – just sub-standard accommodation, ordinary people, dried milk and powdered eggs. And one of the most ruthless bombing campaigns in military history.
Mrs Plain, who is still being treated for post-traumatic stress disorder, described how their holiday began. “Two of the houses next to our timeshare were blown to pieces during a midnight raid. There were dead bodies stinking underneath the rubble. And despite being almost 84 years old my Bob was arrested for being a Nazi spy and put in solitary confinement and given a beating. I’ll never go back there! Never!”
Server problems also meant that the Plains’ minds could not be withdrawn from this environment until their two weeks were up. In that time Mr Plain suffered severe bruising and lost 10 kilos in weight, while a shell-shocked Mrs Plain was committed to a local asylum. “My holiday was complete Bedlam,” she told reporters later.
Expert witness and top Oxford historian Professor Richard Fothergill stated that, in his opinion, there had been a material change to the couple’s holiday plans. “I have researched this period of 20th century history for many years,” he said, “and I have no doubt that the London Blitz is not the sort of thing any normal couple would deliberately choose to experience.”
Lawyers representing Past Times told the court that the server error that blitzed the Plains was a one in ten million accident. The Plains’ lawyers agree – they are seeking £10 million in damages. The hearing continues.
by submission | Feb 14, 2014 | Story |
Author : Joshua Barella
The fronds of the willow hang over the front of the cabin. Tangled and thick, they make it nearly impossible to see from the byway, which is just the way he likes it.
It’s early October and last month he ended it with Miranda, she was his nineteenth marriage.
The Company’s on its way with his twentieth. She has an exotic name.
It’s unique, this kind of love.
Canthos is wrapped in a blanket, smoking a pipe and drinking tea on his decrepit porch–keeping his good eye peeled on the service road for Schroeder, the delivery boy.
His dog, a withered, wiry-haired terrier is splayed out beside him.
Hours pass.
Crickets cling to and chatter amongst the tall blades of grass. The rumblings of the space engines and corsairs carry over the rolling hills to the west.
A surface car eventually turns from the byway onto the service road.
Canthos recognizes the insignia and fires up the Ergo thrusters on his Flitter, and spins around, hovering inside. A personal support vehicle, the Flitter was care of the Wartime benefits.
Moments later he comes back with Miranda. She’s looks great (much better now that her eye is back in). He can present her to Schroeder without any worry of denial of exchange.
Schroeder is waiting for him at the foot of the steps; a handsome man is to his right wearing sunglasses, a pressed, slick blazer and pants. And beside him is Canthos’ new bride.
“Morning Canthos,” says Schroeder, putting his hands on his hips. “Nice one isn’t it?”
Canthos regards the squirrelly man, his freckled face and red curls of hair. He sizes up his coworker.
“Sure,” he croaks. “Who’s this?”
“Canthos, this is Donovan Furth. Our company’s Customer and Product Relations Executive,” Schroeder says.
“I’d like to apologize for my sudden appearance, and I thank you for your willingness to participate in our focus group thus far.
“I want to assure you, you are in good hands. That being said,” gesturing for Schroeder to remove the plastic, “we want to introduce you to Vivian.”
“Our most popular if I might add,” Schroeder says, smiling, removing the plastic from her face, slowly, carefully.
In a pair of slim cut jeans, and wearing a loose pink blouse that reveals her dotted olive shoulders, is a beautiful, middle-aged woman.
Canthos gawks at her defined torso; her saxophone curves. A jubilant spread of brown locks fall about her face.
“Hope she’s as good as you say she is,” Canthos says. “I had a hard time warming up to the old one.”
“Mr. Hale,” Furth says, crossing his arms. “Vivian has built in presets and features that you can’t begin to imagine. She will be everything you’ve been missing between the others–the laughter, the intimacy, the passion.
“She will truly be the love of your life…”
Furth nodded for Schroeder to activate Vivian.
“So this is your exchange,” he says, glancing at the other model. “You told the operator her emotions were a little flat? Anything else we should know about?”
Canthos shook his head.
Furth takes Miranda’s hand, and with her he and Schroeder go back to the surface car.
“Happy life, Mr. Hale,” Donovan Furth says as they zoom off.
A few puffs of steam escape Vivian’s nostrils, a vibration shoots up her body; her eyes slowly open.
The dog whimpers, puts its tail between its legs.
Canthos gasps.
“Hello handsome,” Vivian says, winking.
Canthos is a gentleman and shows his wife inside.
