Author: James Callan

The holographer did more than tell us who was next on their list to be murdered, though that alone would suffice as unnerving. They didn’t mention names at all, opting for an artistic approach, something avant-garde to demonstrate their next dreadful slaughter. The holographer had their modus operandi, their eccentric, sadistic show-and-tell. No one wanted to witness any of it, of course. But that didn’t stop the grisly shows of light.
The holographer was a genius of their craft, capable of weaving light-forged imagery as convincing as materiality. Their “art” was telling of their skill, though it did more than tell: It showed us who was next to be murdered. The images came in hijacked spasms of radiance, every holo-device ejecting a visual presentation that did not miss the nuance of each drop of blood, each soundless scream, each strand of saliva from every wide-mouth vortex of horror.
The holographer didn’t spare their audience the finer distinctions of homicide, nor did they consider their audience beyond its numbers — the more the merrier. The “artist” didn’t bypass any outlets where they might share their work, sparing neither the children’s daycare film theatre nor the mellow, daytime holo-vision programs. The holographer was all about inclusion, sharing their light-engineered horror-show with all of Venus-Side Starport. In vivid color, in deft realism, no one was spared the shocking omens crafted in hovering luminosity.
It happened sporadically –a day, a week, a fortnight between each vulgar exhibit– then, like a ghost, it would enter the room. It would invade your senses with a stunning emission of light, a portent of what was soon to occur. It happened during dinner, at the gym, at work. You’d be eating a sandwich or lifting dumbbells, maybe filing paperwork, having sex, then it seized your awareness completely. You’d be an eye-witness to a violent act, a gruesome murder. And it wasn’t just you, just me. It was everyone.
No one was spared the 3-dimensional soon-to-be homicides, their tasteless, hack-and-slash horror. The visions of terror could not be avoided, and as the death toll climbed, neither, it would seem, could their inevitability.
When my own death was broadcasted over an evening meal shared with my mistress, I dropped my sushi, chopsticks and all. The tank-bred tuna wrapped in UV-grown rice and seaweed-substitute splashed in sort-of-soy-sauce across my plate. I glanced down to a meal that was less authentic than the image of my eventual murder before me. I pushed away my food, averting my eyes from the blunt-force cranial cave-in of my skull, the splintering of my hardhat that I wear at the starport docks.
I glanced at my mistress, noting her wide-eyed fear, the stringy thread of lab-grown sashimi dangling from her coral-red lips.
“Could the holographer be wrong?” Little hope in her tone. “Might you avoid being murdered?”
I measured the qualities of my mistress –her elegance, her beauty, her kindness– none of which I figured I deserved. “Don’t worry.” I assured her. “I’m certain to avoid this horrible death.” I passed through the 3-dimensional image of my brain being smashed into sushi ginger, my skull being fragmented into a joyful celebration of thrown confetti.
“How can you be certain?” Tears in her baby-blue eyes.
“Trust me.” A semblance of bravery. “I will not be murdered by the holographer.”
I went into the next room and sighed, loaded a fresh charge into my laser pistol and raised its barrel to my temple. The cold, gleaming instrument trembled against my ear.
I looked in the mirror, a semblance of bravery. “I will not be murdered by the holographer.”