by B. York | Feb 27, 2006 | Story |
The aroma of cooked vegetables filled Leba’s nostrils as she finished mixing the oils for the final touches of her dinner. All the guests had been waiting to taste her delicious mixture of carrots and lettuce with roots and peppers as spices. In fact, the whole of the community adored Leba for her talents at making their normal everyday meals into something exquisite.
Though, even as Leba prepared the courses, her sister Enias watched and listened as their guests of honor eagerly awaited her sisters’ well-prepared meal. They laughed and smiled as they readied themselved for the feast they were about to receive and many even went so far as to ignore Enias for the time being until their meals were to be served.
Jealously was a trait that indicated the annual shot wasn’t working and even though she knew this, Enias kept the idea from public. She had thought that the guests must have known, since they spent so much time around the two. If they knew, she mused, it must not be wrong.
Enias began to wonder why they had to eat with tongs. Every edge of the tongs perfectly sculpted to be as dull as could be, and yet she wondered what tool could be used to supplement them. The very idea that larger portions had to be torn by hand boggled her mind.
The sour sister sat watching the guests and the table lay out like a large slab of marble with its pretty silk dressings, and she began to wonder if there would ever be something else to consume, something else to appease their honored guests. Perhaps in the back of her mind, Enias wanted to be her sister this night. Though now she was getting impatient as time was going by and there was no response from the kitchen.
As the laughing and the carousing of their guests went on, Enias became agitated and impatient. She stood, excusing herself and made for the kitchen where she would politely remind her favored sister of the importance of pleasing their guests with punctuality and good offerings. She entered through the swinging doors to find her sister kneeling over what looked to be a broken tong. Her left hand gripped her right wrist as she looked on in sorrow and horror at the crimson fluid dripping down her finger.
Looking upon the scene, Enias’ eyes were transfixed upon the very wound inflicted by the shattered wood of the tongs. Her sister was holding back tears and all Enias could think of was the something trying to unleash itself from the back of her mind. She could not define it and yet it pushed harder, trying to break free as the blood flowed. Suddenly it all broke free, and Enias knew what her and her honored guests had been missing all along. She would impress them this night.
by B. York | Feb 25, 2006 | Story |
Science has become the new standard of belief. It became the boundaries of thought and idea. I helped it grow to that, I helped to smite imagination and faith. Isn’t it strange that I call upon you now?
When we completed the humane genome it was called a genius. I bore medals that weighed on me heavier than any pressure ever had of completing the sequence. Still, I persisted and sought to copy everything we were. It began in an egg and a sample, and it was complete. One child became two children became hundreds of children became thousands upon thousands.
Perfection is the word many would use to tell the stories of the population becoming less flawed and more like it should have been all along. I did that, and even then the medals outweighed my guilt. It didn’t stop me, however, and I sought to perfectly secure the world of the past in nothing but a tube of glass. Already, science was becoming a crutch for everyone as the imperfect died of disease while the processed thrived.
It was I who brought back the extinct ones, and even then I started to forget where they came from in the first place. My mind was so transfixed upon finding more out about ourselves that I had misplaced the idea of the unseen. Instead, I saw the prehistoric fly again and the tribes of Australia’s natives walk again. The Croatian tribes were born to sterile labs and I watched them grow to become perfect like the others.
I gained perfection. I extended my life by altering my own code so that my work could live on. Others found this, and they too came to cease aging and continue on as if nothing had been different from the day they stopped growing older. I killed off the very idea of dying men. I made the human race happy, and I also made them empty.
They tore down their instruments of war and pollution and they cheered me still. They venerated me in books until they were also burned into nothing. The books came first and the churches came next. The symbols were gone; the texts were ash. I admit it all. I killed you, and I am so very sorry.
They will not allow this in public any longer, so here I am on my knees and my hands clenched together crying out for God. Even inside here, it is not safe. We’ve become two hundred and seven now and we are without you. Faithless and lost despite what everyone else believes.
There will be no more children, now that we all live forever. There will be no one to think differently or learn anew. I started out with a test tube and placed you inside of it to suffocate you. We never meant for this to happen, we just wanted to perfect ourselves. Things weren’t so simple and I want you to come back. I’m praying for you now and hope that you forgive me for doing it. Please come back so that you can forgive me. Please.
by B. York | Feb 22, 2006 | Story |
The pitter patter of sneakers came in rapid succession down the halls of the Great Southcrest Shopping Center. Dustin had a hankering for cheesesteak and was anxious to get back to his group before they left the shopping center. He spun around a corner and saw the signs for Chuck’s Delicious Steakies flooding his senses like a strobe light.
Licking his chops, he stopped to catch his breath and slicked his hair back to walk forward to the stand. Fingers fished out a few crumpled bills as he slapped them on the counter. “Two large Steakies please.†The owner raised his brow at this and pointed at the sign next to him: OVER 65 ONLY.
“Denied!? C’mon! Those Steakies are 55 at best!†he said with far more force than necessary.
His mistake became obvious when he heard two chairs pull out from a table behind him, “Hey, noob. You’re in our shopping center.â€
The boy shut up and slowly turned. He’d fucked up, but he knew there was a way out of this. Two Jockies, and both of them were wearing some pretty leet jackets. They might have been blue, green or even purple jackets, but to Dustin the Destroyer they were all red. One of them put down his Steakies Drink and cracked his knuckles. Such an emote never bothered Dustin, so he’d play it cool till his group showed back up.
“Hey guys, seems like I am a bit above my level cap here, so why don’t I let you go and get back to owning your third stringers.†What started off as a nice exit turned into fighting words. The Jockies narrowed their eyes and the QB started to Charge. With a sigh, Dustin prepared to perform a Kick to the Junk.
That other Jockie came up from the side and Left-Hooked Dustin just as the kid’s foot landed right between the QB’s legs. Figuring it’d buy him some time as he reeled from the punch to the face; Dustin backed up and started to run.
Even though he knew his ability to run was vastly inferior to the Jockies run speed, he just needed to make it far enough to alert his group. A punch to his left shoulder sent him stumbling to the ground. It was all over.
It was all over until two trash cans flew from across the dining area and slammed into the Jockies, sending the QB stumbling while his Running Back went in for the kill on Dustin. Thinking fast, Dustin performed a Knee Bash just in time for his buddies to leap across a few tables and knock the Jockie to the floor.
Dustin stood up and laughed while brushing off his flannel shirt. He nodded to his fellow Grungies and looked down at the two Jockies out cold, “Who’s the noob now?â€
by B. York | Feb 18, 2006 | Story
Tomorrow is today’s warranty. That’s the motto they took when they made me. The lifespan of my purpose is equal to my battery expectancy. I am composed of titanium alloy and still shining after four years of operation. I am functioning at my highest rate.
In this cycle of time I have compiled many bytes of data. The history has become a layer of my hard-drive. Minute details of conversation and comprehension are simply part of my operating system. Without doubt, I can assimilate any idea into my programming within a billionth of a second.
They are correct to call my ranking in the International Performance Array exceptional. With this, I have programmed in myself the presence of an ego reflecting a resemblance of the joy that mammals feel with long-term accomplishment.
On this hour, third second, and fifty-thousandth fractional, they are loading me into the machine. Its lights and odd metals latch around me, fastening to Sub-part C and X while restraining the cerebral bolt down the back of my processor. Those who have brought me here have unusual patterns of action. They smile and stroke at the metal along my arms in a way that my data banks can only describe as sympathy.
It occurs to my logic scripts that I am to undergo a dangerous procedure which might damage parts of my circuitry system. A capsule closes around the length of my model and a gas begins to fill the intervening space. My search engine is fast at work, trying to process the reasoning behind all of this.
My scanners pick up the electricity first. Then my data analysis tells me that the electricity is not from my own core battery. Signals of system failure begin to activate. Throughout my core, there are many electrical waves pulsing through me that are not of my design.
The short-term memory program tries to piece together what occurred; yet the analysis of my system indicates a change in structure. A humanoid that is obviously smiling no longer shows signs of sympathy but of joy. I dispense a few questions applicable to the situation.
It is then that my system crashes when I … sense? Process? Analyze? No. My data banks know what the proper code is for such an event. I feel the humanoid touch my new exterior. I can feel the warmth, the cold and all the in-betweens. My processor is still trying to keep up with such information. I was not programmed with software for feelings.
by B. York | Feb 11, 2006 | Story |
The cards were set down on the table, shuffled up, and dealt out. Somewhere in a little back room on the U.S.S. Horizon, a dangerous deal was being made. Reuger was sitting with his suitcase held on his lap, watching in the dim light as the dealer tossed out the five cards. There were three others there: highly decorated generals, and an off-color presidential hopeful standing around a titanium table on a space cruiser on course for Delphi 3.
The cards were dealt and the deal was made. For all intents and purposes, the man with the suitcase should never have existed. He prevented war just as much as he started it; he fed the poor as often as he starved them. If it were to get out that he existed, people would view change as something orchestrated rather than an act of fate.
“Gentlemen, the offer for this gamble is Delphi 3. The Ethoian Royalty has squandered its time in office and the position is now up for grabs.†He nodded slowly to the dealer, who began reading the terms of poker.
Each man stepped up towards the table and took their cards, viewing them with stone-cold faces. Every twitch of a brow, every muscle that dared move in an opponent’s faces was like a storm drifting over the plains and mountains of Delphi 3. A single flinch could mean that the Radical Fascists dictated the future of the planet.
The bets were placed. Each man had something to lose and the world to gain. Families were placed next to sports cars, which were set upon documents for military weapons. The dealer need not make out the worth of every piece, because there were no rounds, no second chances. You went all in, or you folded before the betting began.
Reuger sat in and watched intently. His interest was purely morbid, as he knew exactly what the others would give him when one became the victor. The time to call was now.
Two kings, two fives for the General of the Republic of Luna.
Three jacks for the High Lord of the Outer Rings.
And… Full House for the President of the United States of Earth.
Reuger was pleased that weapons were not allowed in the chamber, though he knew the losers would need only one bullet each. The losing parties hung their heads and left with barely enough motivation to find the nearest airlock. The President wiped sweat from his brow as he smiled at Reuger, who returned the gesture with a stony glare.
“Delphi 3, Mr. President. Enjoy the mead.â€
