by Stephen R. Smith | Apr 21, 2008 | Story
Author : Steve Smith, Staff Writer
Two hours ago, Pete had been pulled gasping from a tank of jelly. Now he sat in an immaculate office, wearing borrowed clothes with his employer staring him down from the far side of a granite slab desk top.
“Welcome back, Pete.” Terrence Carter, syndicate heavyweight and the man Pete ran data packets for. “I must say, you look better than you did the last time I saw you.”
Pete sat straight in his chair, tentatively rolling and flexing muscle that remembered thirty eight years of abusive mileage, but didn’t feel a days wear and tear. “What happened Terry, what’s going on?”
“You were running a very special package for me Pete, one we couldn’t copy, one we had to risk transporting as original data.” Terry paused, pulling at each of his white shirt cuffs in turn, evening their length against the dark fabric of his suit. “You had an incident Pete, for some reason you seem to have hidden my package from me. I don’t know exactly what went wrong in your head, Pete, but when we finally… recovered you, what remained of you no longer had my package installed. We want it back, Pete, I want it back.”
“What are you talking about? I don’t remember that, I’m not on an assignment yet.” Pete shook his head, his face a puzzled frown. Sometimes he had episodes if he stored data too long, there could be cross talk, and data fragments without context drifting in his head caused all sorts of unpredictable things, some unpleasant, but he couldn’t remember anything about this.
“Of course you don’t remember, you’re not the Pete that carried. We just finished growing you from the backup sample we took before we briefed the original you.” Terry pushed himself back from his desk, steepling his fingers. “We keep insurance in case things like this happen, in case we lose a good carrier, especially one with a package installed.
“So I’m a snapshot of myself, from before I left?”
“You’re a cleaned up version of the old you, rechipped and hot-wired to carry. You were the best we had Pete, so I was a little disappointed when you betrayed me.”
Pete ran a hand across the fresh stubble on his head. “What do you want from me now?”
Terry’s eyes narrowed to slits. “I want you to figure out where you put my package Pete, I want it delivered.”
“Wait a minute, if I’m a snapshot from before the briefing, I don’t have any memory of what happened later. That knowledge died with the original Pete,” he shuddered involuntarily, “I mean the original me.”
“True. You don’t know exactly what you did, but you can figure it out. Situational familiarity, behavioral predispositions, pattern predicability. Faced with the same objective, and in the same circumstances, you’ll know what you would have done, where you would have gone. Quite frankly, you’re the only one who can figure out what the hell you’ve done with my package, and I suggest you put some effort into doing just that if you want to get another day older.”
Pete regarded his employer as he weighed his options. He couldn’t help but wonder what bled out of the package he’d been carrying to make him want to risk crossing the syndicate. He also wondered whether he’d been dead when they’d found him, or if death had come later.
One thing was certain, he was being given a second chance, and a short leash. He’d better be very careful not to slip up again, one way or the other.
by Stephen R. Smith | Mar 25, 2008 | Story
Author : Steve Smith, Staff Writer
“What is it that’s troubling you?” The doctor could clearly see the discomfort in the young mans face as he wrote ‘Anxiety’ on his steno pad.
“It’s getting harder and harder to go outside. It’s wide open spaces, they terrify me.” He clutched at the seat cushion beneath him, head down, eyes haggard beneath rough cut bangs, “I had to hide under an umbrella to get to the subway, and I picked you because you’re in a tower over the tube station, isn’t that weird?”
He noted the cloudless sky through the window. ‘Agoraphobia,’ he wrote on his pad, ‘possible Anablephobia’. “How long has this been affecting you?”
“All my life, but not like this. The older I get, the more debilitating it’s become.”
“How old are you exactly?” he asked, adding ‘Progressive’ to his notes.
“Nineteen.” He released the chair only briefly with one hand to rub at his nose, “Twenty on the twenty eighth of September.”
The doctor scribbled ‘Libra’ as he continued. “Born here in St.Louis?”
“I was. I moved to Phoenix when I was seven to live with my aunt, but I’ve been moving towards home for a while now. Trains mostly, buses. Not sure why exactly, I guess I just wanted to go home.”
“Come home,” the doctor corrected him. “So – you’re a blackout baby then?”
“Yeah, parents bored in the dark when the comet hit.” He shifted, uncomfortable. “I guess there were a lot of September babies in twenty nine.”
“Why not fly home? Surely that would have been faster?” ‘Possible aerophobia’ he noted.
“It’s not just being outside,” he hooked one sneaker behind the chair leg, “it’s hard to explain. I’m afraid of falling.”
“Ah, Philophobia,” he spoke out-loud as he added the word to his notes, “it’s the fear of falling. Not uncommon.”
“Well, not falling the way you think. If I look up, I’m quite sure I’ll fall into the sky.”
The doctor paused. “Falling up? That is unusual,” he clicked the pen against his lip, “anything else unusual? Strange dreams, other notable triggers?”
“Sometimes I dream that I’m alone in a field, and the sky closes around me and swallows me up. It get’s really dark, then really bright. I usually wake up soaked. I think I scream out-loud.”
“Are you staying with family here?” He struggled trying to find a word for ‘fear of falling into the sky’, finally giving up and writing that down instead.
“I’m staying with my mom, out by Forest Park.”
“Your father…?”
“I never knew my dad, never even seen a picture. Mom used to say the comet made me, before she stopped talking about it.”
“Hmm.” He wrote ‘abandonment issues’ before continuing. “You’ve talked about this with your mom?”
“My mom doesn’t talk. That’s why I went to live with my aunt. When I showed back up at my mom’s house she wrote ‘go home’ on the wall and hasn’t so much as looked at me since. She stays in her room, mostly, drawing pictures on the walls.”
“Pictures of what, exactly?” He stopped writing and looked up.
“I don’t know, planets and stars and stuff. She’s a bit of a nutter, but she is my mum, you know?”
“Well then,” putting down his pad, “we’re out of time, but come next week at the same time, and if you can get your mother to join you, I’ll see if I can’t block off two sessions.”
“Next week?” He met the doctors gaze for just a moment before looking back at the floor, slumping. “Somehow I think I might be gone by then.”
by Stephen R. Smith | Feb 19, 2008 | Story
Author : Steve Smith, Staff Writer
Kurtis leaned back in the broad oak chair, his head gently throbbing. He let his gaze wander from the ordered stacks of papers on his desk to the expanse of woodland visible through the loft window. God he loved this place. So many memorable things had started here, filing his patents, launching his business, even his lovely wife Meg had come to him here, at a chance meeting during the open house when he’d bought the place.
“I’m making tea dear,” his wife’s voice drifted in from the kitchenette, “would you like a cup?”
“Yes sweetheart, that would be lovely.” Opening his desk drawer, Kurtis reached past the Band-Aids and his EpiPen to the bottle of Tylenol, of which he dry swallowed two before replacing it and closing the drawer.
He couldn’t help but think how things would have been different if Martin Lockman had gotten to that open house first. Kurtis smiled at the memory, moving around to the front of the desk and leaning against the wood top. He thought of Martin’s excitement at having found this place, and his plans to purchase it. If he hadn’t had that ‘accident’, he’d have made it on time. He could picture Martin’s face, fuming over the mess of ruined metal that had been his car after the blowout.
“I always liked this place Kurtis,” the voice startled him, making him jump off the desk, “it should have been mine years ago.”
Kurtis wheeled to the figure seated behind him, speaking comfortably from the black high back mesh chair behind the metal and glass that was the desktop now between them.
“Martin?” Kurtis stammered. “What the hell are you doing here, and what have you done to my desk?”
“Oh come now Kurtis, you know very well that this place is mine, has always been mine.” It was Martin smiling now, with the sympathetic look one reserved for lost children or stray dogs.
“You get the hell out, I don’t know what game you’re playing Martin, but I’m having none of it. Get out.”
“I don’t play games, Kurtis, I never did. It took almost a lifetime to find a way back to where it all started, and to set things right. No accident this time Kurtis, no accident at all.”
“What the hell are you talking about, what’s happening?” The room about him was changing, nauseating him as book cases changed to glass doored cupboards, the couch morphing into two easy chairs and a reading stand.
“I mean you didn’t sabotage my car this time Kurtis. Honey in your coffee instead, anaphylactic shock. Shame, really, you could have done so many good things.
Kurtis shook with anger and fear. “Get – Out – Of – My – House.”
“It’s not yours anymore, so you’ll be leaving in a moment, not me. You see you took my life once, and it’s taken some time, but now I’m returning the gesture. I’ve simply taken it back.
“You’re not taking anything, I’m sure as hell not leaving and in a moment I’m going to call the police.”
“Oh Kurtis, you really don’t get it, do you? I’m not going to take–I’ve already taken, and as you’ve already left, I’m merely humoring you while reality catches up.”
“What’s all the yelling about?” Meg padded gracefully into the room, carrying a tray with coffee and cookies to the desk and setting it down. “Are you going to work in here all day?”
Martin pulled his wife close to him, wrapping his arms around her lithe waist. “No my dear, I think I’ve done enough for today.”
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by Stephen R. Smith | Feb 7, 2008 | Story
Author : Steve Smith, Staff Writer
Thom watched the two men approach him across the alleyway, leaving the crumpled figure they’d been beating to crawl moaning in amongst the piles of garbage.
“I told you to get the fuck out of here,” the taller man yelled, waving his hands, “are you deaf or stupid?”
“Either deaf or stupid,” Thom repeated, at first loud enough for the men to hear and then to himself “neither deaf nor stupid?”
“Not smart asshole!” The shorter, wider man reached him first, stepping into a wind up and letting a punch fly at Thom’s face. When the fist entered the place where Thom’s face had been, it simply was no longer there. Thom watched the fist streaking by, and pausing, first gently fractured the ulna and then with deliberate care shattered the humerus as they passed. He noted with interest the sudden shortening of the upper arm as the muscles contracted without resistance. “Humerus, but not funny,” again voicing the observation more to himself, but still out loud. Momentum carried the stocky man screaming into a heap on the pavement behind him.
“I’ll show you not funny.” The taller man was within striking distance, having brought both hands up shoulder high to swing them down hammer-like towards Thom’s ears. At the moment the two hands collided with each other, Thom studied from below with fascination the effect of the impact on their individual bones. “Carpals come and carpals go,” he whispered, plucking several out, moving to observe from the side. “Met a carpal, couldn’t stay,” he almost sang, extracting one of the longer bones with apparent care and adding it to the smaller two. “Phalanges, phalanges, one two three.” Smiling, he pocketed all six pieces before allowing the remaining bones to shatter amongst the pulpy mess of the resected hand.
There was barely any screaming from the tall one, rather he simply teared up silently as he fell to his knees, holding his ruined hands before him.
“Bits and pieces, again with me.” Thom continued humming the tune, enjoying the way the sounds displaced things in the air around him, continuing along the alley, until again he and his observations were no longer there.
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by Stephen R. Smith | Jan 26, 2008 | Story
Author : Steve Smith, Staff Writer
Kyle shifted in the metal chair, suspiciously regarding the toaster sitting on the table in front of him.
“So, it’s a toaster,” Kyle finally spoke, not taking his eyes off the appliance, “what’s so special about that?”
Niles cleared space on a desk in the corner, waking up his laptop and tapping impatiently as it warmed up. “I’m going to make it fly, and I want to see what you think when I do.”
“Flying toasters?” Kyle looked over one shoulder, eyebrows raised. “You’re shitting me, right?”
Niles left the laptop to finish initializing, and plucking a package from his pocket crossed the room to stand beside Kyle. “It’s going to fly, trust me, you’ll see.” He slipped a stubby antennae out of its wrapping, and held it up for Kyle to see.  “I’m going to pop this sensor on you so I can monitor and graph what you’re feeling while you’re watching, ok?” Kyle nodded, turning his attention back to the chrome box in front of him. Niles peeled away the wax paper backing to expose the adhesive pad on the device, and carefully stuck it sideways across the back of his friends neck.
Satisfied that it wasn’t going to slip off he returned to the laptop, apparently now in an operational state, keyed up a console window and stood poised with a finger over the ‘Enter’ key. “Ready?” “Ready,” came the response. Niles depressed the key and watched, dividing his attention between the screen and his friend, and periodically glancing at the toaster on the table.
Kyle stared at his reflection in the polished side of the toaster. Two slice. Very boring. For a moment, he could have sworn the cord had moved, but that wasn’t possible. No, it was moving, and he watched, mouth slowly sagging open as the cord withdrew from the clutter on the table to slide up the toaster and into the air. The wire flattened as it coiled into what was almost a propellor before beginning to swing in circles. As it gained speed, the room filled with the ‘whip-whip-whip’ sound of a small helicopter. As he stared, mouth agape, the chromed metal sides of the appliance seemed to peel away, unfolding outwards into wide wings. The toaster appeared as if to stretch once, then began flapping. Kyle moaned as the toaster slowly rose, clattering from the table to hover a few feet above it in the air. As he tore his gaze away to find Niles, he heard the toaster clatter back to the table, and as his head snapped back around he found himself staring again at a lifeless appliance, wings folded invisibly away, cord limp on the table top.
“Holy shit!” Kyle’s mouth moved, words started and stopped several times before he spat out “Holy shit” for a second time.
Niles stepped forward and retrieved the antennae from his friends neck before returning to his laptop and closing the lid.
“That’s incredible,” Kyle started again, still staring wide eyed at the now lifeless appliance in front of him, as though as any second it may leap back into the air. “Incredible.” He stared and then suddenly struck by a thought, turned to face Niles. “That is incredible Niles, and don’t get me wrong, but what the hell use is a flying toaster?”
Niles peeled the spent adhesive away from the stubby antennae before returning it gently to his jacket pocket. “Oh, don’t worry, I can think of plenty of ways to use this.”
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