by submission | Nov 27, 2021 | Story |
Author: Rachel Sievers
Grabbing the rolled-up paper she batted the animal on the nose. Sighing with frustration she turned to her neighbor, “these humans are so cute when they are little but they are such a pain when they get older.”
“That’s why we get them as pets when they’re little. I forget how quickly they grow and become monsters.”
“I cannot tell you how many times I have thought of dropping this one off at the shelter.”
“Petunia Rose you wouldn’t!”
“Of course I wouldn’t, but if there was ever a human that has driven me closest to it, it is this one.”
“Are you having a hard time potty-training?”
“No, it took to that rather fast, within its first few months in the cage, but it’s the escapes.”
“Oh no, that’s the worse. Did you adopt it older?”
“Yes, we had a hard time getting a younger one. You know their planet is dying, they destroy everything they touch.”
“You don’t have to tell me.”
“Yes, but anyway, I was worried there wouldn’t be as many shipments coming anymore with the planet’s death and so I settled for an older one. You know, my kids have been begging me for one for years.”
“You are such a good mom.”
“Well, I try. But of course, just like I thought, they have no interest in it now that the novelty has worn off. I can barely get the children to walk it and feed it.”
“Kids.”
“I know.”
The pair sipped their tea in quiet contemplation until the human started to take off again towards the white fence that separated the neighbors’ lawns. Yanking on the lead the human fell backward tumbling to the ground. “Now come here,” she said and the human walked towards her. “There’s a good girl.” She said and ran her fingers over the brown hair, her fingers came back a bit dirty, she would need to have the kids bath the thing.
“She seems pretty mild-mannered to me.” Her neighbor said, “she came when you called, that’s something. I swear, it took mine ages to learn that trick.”
“I guess she did, and like I said, she potty-trained in a decent amount of time. I think she is rather smart but just obstinate.”
“Did you hear about what Aspen did?”
“Aspen from three doors down or Aspen from around the block.”
“Around the block,” her neighbor said and they shared a knowing smile. “Well, she finally got a buzzing device for her human. The silly thing wouldn’t stop making this high-pitched noise. You know she adopted hers from a shelter.”
“Oh, that explains a lot, those shelter ones are so much harder to work with. One almost always has to get a specialty trainer.”
“I bet, but anyway, she strapped that collar on her and turned it on. The noise stopped right away.”
“Incredible, but did it hurt the human?”
“She said no, but you know Aspen. It doesn’t make a peep anymore. I’m sure her neighbors are grateful.”
“My kids do like when it makes noises, at least when they are nice noises. We haven’t had a problem with noise just running away. We have to keep it tied up all the time.”
“Have you thought of one of those perimeter fences, the electric ones?”
“Now, that might work. I wonder where I can find one of those. More tea?”
“No, I’m good. I should be getting along soon. My kids will think I’ve abandoned them.”
“I’m sure they will. Thank you for the advice. I will look into those fences.”
“Good, I think there was a coupon on one in the paper. It seems humans are becoming very popular, maybe because of the planet dying, and we won’t be able to get them soon.”
“Maybe. So good to see you. Let’s do this again soon.”
“Yes, absolutely.”
Watching her leave by the side gate she turned and found the end of the lead empty. Those darn humans never learned.
by submission | Nov 26, 2021 | Story |
Author: David Henson
She’s dead.
She can’t be dead. And quite talking to yourself. I thought you, I, we … got passed that.
Stress, like from killing someone, resurrects bad habits.
She was never really alive. Not in a human sense.
But in an android sense, she was. And now she is, I assure you, dead. Look at the odd angle of her neck. Her spinal cable is broken. And they’re going to think you killed her.
She fell down the steps on her own.
Well, there was that nudge.
Not enough for her to fall.
And when she reached out, you didn’t try to grab her.
She’d have pulled me down with her.
And she scratched your arms. Oh, yeah, they’re going to say you pushed her. No one will believe an android would lose her balance.
Her oscilloscope must have malfunctioned.
Gyroscope.
I’m going to wake her up.
Don’t touch the body. You’ll leave DNA.
My DNA’s already on her.
Let’s go to bed. Get a good night’s rest. Things won’t seem so hopeless tomorrow morning after the sun chases away the spying eyes.
Those are stars.
Hmph.
#
Listen. Hear that?
I don’t hear anything.
Kitchen clatter. I smell coffee.
I don’t hear or smell anything. She’s dead, I tell you. Look for yourself.
You look. I’ll wait here.
You know that’s not possible.
OK, we’ll both go to the stairs, but I’m not looking. I’m keeping my eyes closed.
You realize that if your eyes are closed so are mine. We’re liable to fall down the stairs, too.
OK, OK. I propose a comprise. Let’s wait here in bed for an hour. If she hasn’t brought coffee up by then, we’ll go look.
OK, OK.
#
See? She’s still sprawled at the bottom of the stairs.
Maybe we can repair her.
#
“What happened?”
“You fell down the steps. We … I fixed you. I feared you broke your spinal cable, but you just twisted it.”
“You put my head on backwards.”
“I’m no expert.”
You’d think she’d be a little grateful.
Give her a minute. She’s probably disoriented.
“I can’t walk around with my head on backwards. I’m going to the android hospital.”
“Sorry but your warranty’s expired. I keep getting calls to purchase an extension, but I don’t trust those people.”
Tell her she can adapt.
“Can’t you just walk backwards?”
“Backwards? Backwards. I remember now. We were at the top of the stairs. You told me to hurry up then you pushed me. I fell backwards.”
Uh oh. Say something.
“Not a push. A tiny nudge. You lost your balance ‘cause your oscilloscope malfunctioned.”
Idiot.
“I have rights. I’m going to the police. You’re in big trouble.”
Stop her.
How? She’s strong.
She’s not allowed to hurt you. I’ll grab her. Now!
“Let go of me. I’m warning you. You know how strong I am.”
“You’re not allowed to hurt me. Forget about the police and make a fresh pot of coffee.”
That’s putting her in her — Ugh … can’t breathe.
“You’re …choking … me … Not …allowed.”
“I warned you. Now you let go first.”
#
Whew. That was scary. I thought for a minute she was going to strangle us.
Android safety protocols are supposed to be foolproof. She must have been bluffing.
Do androids bluff?
I think it’s a glitch because her head’s on backwards. I think—
“Hey, down there. Bring up my coffee.”
#
“Here’s your coffee. We … I was thinking you should go to the android hospital. I’ll find some way to pay.”
“Never mind. I’ve decided I prefer my head this way.”
See what you’ve done?
Quit talking to me.
by submission | Nov 25, 2021 | Story |
Author: Sakib Shahriar
Thanatology was a hotly-disputed conceptual art movement from the moment of its inception. Artists who identified themselves with the movement often explored feelings and sensations of death and decay, whether through paintings and visual art, performance pieces, or self-experiments.
Art critic Oscar Ries argues that thanatology formed in response to widespread ecological and economic collapse taking place in the modern world. Thanatologist Mildred Rosters often addresses the fear of death and disappearing from the world in her work: “Many of our oppressive institutions still in place today function on the fear of death—on the desire for permanent security from decay. If we can let go of this fear, if we can accept our eventual disappearance from the life of the Earth, perhaps we may yet save ourselves from the climate disasters we currently live, or perhaps we may at least stop inflicting systemic violence against our own people.”
Many of thanatology’s founding members, including Rosters, Michel Gagnon, and Agnes Toyokawa, were accused of promoting and romanticizing death and suicide. Gagnon in particular gained infamy when he was arrested in Highland Park, California on loitering and public indecency charges; he was running a streetside public art installation where he pretended to be bleeding out on the sidewalk for three hours.
Hayatul Rahman was much lesser known outside the insider artist circles of thanatology. Rahman was interested in beginning processes of decay and necrosis on her own body while she still lived. Though many thanatologists experimented on themselves, Rahman was notable for how much farther she pushed her own experiments compared to her contemporaries.
Many of Rahman’s pieces fall somewhere between art and science. Initially trained as a molecular biologist, her early pieces involved viral engineering, often having a virus localize to a specific body part or organ to create a controlled zone of necrosis. In later works, she explored extreme living conditions, including month-long fasts and extended sensory deprivation.
Rahman first gained recognition among other thanatologists through “Opposable,” a 3-day private art demonstration she held in July of 2057 in her New York apartment. Invited friends and fellow artists spent the 3 days living and feasting with each other, while Rahman’s thumbs slowly decayed via a localized virus until they became unusable altogether. Rahman wanted to explore the possibilities of communal life in the face of decay: “I slowly grew incapable of simple tasks like gripping things in my hands; more and more I had to rely on the people around me to do chores I was used to doing, like cooking and cleaning.”
Rahman’s most recent performance piece, “Infinite Life,” involves creating and injecting into herself a venom that cuts off her brain-body connection and slows her oxygen consumption to a minimum, entering her into a prolonged and indefinite death-like state without her body immediately decaying or becoming necrotic.
In her artistic statement for the piece before she entered into dying, Rahman mentions growing fascinated with jewel wasps producing a similar venom for cockroaches, so that their larvae can incubate near and feed on the incapacitated cockroach’s body. She also notes: “The length of this performance piece is indefinite. My body will sustain itself for an unknown period of time, and I’ve asked my partner to note the date and time at which my body finishes dying, after which point I will be buried under special request without a coffin at Centennial Park Cemetery, Pasadena, California.”
Conceptual artist and experimental thanatologist Hayatul Rahman entered into dying on October 14th, 2075. She leaves behind her wife and two children.
by submission | Nov 24, 2021 | Story |
Author: Alex Valdiers
“Where did you get these fruits? They look… magnificent.”
“They are.” Marec slices the cantaloupe and takes a bite. “I got them from Belmondo.”
“The actor?”
“Yeah. He works at the local grocery store.” Marec takes a bit and talks with his mouth full. “He’s in between jobs.”
I squint to find out if my friend is sick, as if squinting could shape my eyes into a medical scanning device. It doesn’t.
“Taste this cantaloupe.”
“Nah, I’m fine.”
“Taste it.” My friend shoves a piece of yellow fruit down my throat.
“It’s delicious.” I take the time to chew it down and savor the cantaloupe. “Belmondo?”
“Belmondo.”
So on the way home I stop at the grocery store and here I am, scouting for a Belmondo look-alike, as if I hadn’t seen Ennio Morricone’s orchestra play his obituary on TV a few months ago.
“Cobra? Yes, that’s right. A man from Japan calls my house one night and asks me if it’s okay to use my face for a character based on me for a cartoon. I said, Chucho, make me proud, but don’t make me too Japanese, I’m Bebel.” A group of people are gathered around the fruit salesman by the watermelon stand. The salesman who just called himself Bebel has a boxer nose and a broad smile. He sure looks a lot like the real thing. “That’s surely why they made Cobra a blondie.” Belmondo grabs a watermelon and yells out his fruit merchant sales pitch. I want to pinch myself and wake up from this surreal dream. “Did you know they used Cobra’s pilot episode to write Total Recall?”
I’m squinting again, the man really sounds and looks like Jean-Paul Belmondo. A teenage girl wiggles through the crowd and opens up a poster. I’m intrigued I get closer and I see the mysterious man signing ‘JP Belmondo” on a Cowboy Bebop poster, right over Spike’s face.
“I never saw a penny from that one.” His smile is so broad and so genuinely warm. “I’ll tell you who was nice, though. Jacky Chan. I first met the kid on the set of ‘The Tribulations of a Chinaman in China’. Ten years later, he’s a movie star, he calls me up to ask permission to use my stunt coordinator and re-create my stunts. I say, Jacky, anything you want, just do me proud!”
I stand there motionless, actually buying this shit. Jean-Paul Belmondo is standing in front of me, with a store apron, by the watermelon stand, helping customers pick their fruit whilst telling them anecdotes about his life.
I leave the store without daring talking to him. As soon as I get home, I scout my old boxes for my copy of “The Magnificent”. I dust my old Blu Ray play and put the film on. Bob Sinclar is there, not the DJ but Belmondo, laying on a beach in Acapulco, sipping margaritas whilst shooting goons by the hundreds. My friend Marec is the background, with a plate of fruit, and a person who looks a lot like me prostests and refuses to eat the cantaloupe.
I’m afraid to switch the movie off. I’m afraid I’ll disappear if the movie stops playing, and Bebel keeps smiling.
Belmondo never came back to sell watermelons in my local grocery store, and I watch his films regularly. I buy my fruit from a chubby old lady with an easy smile and a kinky pink nose. All is well, life is magnificent.
by submission | Nov 21, 2021 | Story |
Author: Jeremy Nathan Marks
I jumped off the boxcar just in time because one of the bo chasers was slinging his matraque and almost cracked my dome. But it was my town, Simcoe, and I was home.
For once I actually had a purse, enough for a cup of joe and a dog, so I found an all-night gas ‘n go where I drank a bitter cup and who knows how old the dog was. The button pusher at the damper was an odd cat, I saw him eyeballing my bindlestiff, probably expecting me to have fanny packed some of his goods and I saw him cogitating whether to call a Harness Bull, but now there was a picture of the Queen in his hand, and I walked out with the dog and shoved it in my bazoo.
The Last Time I Was In Simcoe is a song that should have reached the heights like By The Time I Get to Phoenix, it’s one I wrote but never got the rights to, and everywhere I looked the neon was gyrating like a bo-ette. Kyle was her name; we rode all the way out to Vancouver and split up at the Victoria ferry. I met her in Regina; we were the same age and from the same town, Simcoe. But I never went to school so we never met; I taught myself the world’s ways at a dark track, but she said she was in pre-med at U of T and she reset my shoulder after I popped it trying to catch a Crew Car.
“How d’you end up livin’ the life?” But before she could answer I started chawing about my time down in the states in the aftermath of that vigilante verdict where citizens no longer had to make arrests, they could just shoot, and I ended up with some lead below my knee. “I coulda used you then,” I said, and she nodded. “You ever been down stateside?” But before she replied I took a swig from my flask and passed it to her. “What your name anyway?”
“Kyle,” she said.
“You mean like Kylie?”
“Kyle,” she repeated.
“No wonder I never knew you, you must be a baby.”
She nodded and we huddled up against the cold. Canada is frigid but citizens don’t pack, they don’t do militias and we have R-camps on horseback with their wide brims, red shirts, who say stop before drawing their shotty. Then in Calgary we played the part of some Doughtnut Christians which kept us fed for a time, but in Vancouver I let her slip away like Bobby McGee.
The streets of Simcoe don’t look familiar. The motel on Highway 3, where I had my cherry popped is now four hundred loons a night. And I swear I see Kyle everywhere. The Queen Street Motel has a 30-foot-tall androgynous salve regina stretching their hams on the roof, and its proportions match Kyle if she stood ten metres high. I hadn’t missed Kyle as much as I did just then. And when the neon started whispering words I’d heard he ruse, I knew I was left with two choices: it was either Kyle having freighthopped my poetic mind, or it was that all-night lamp dog talking to my guts which is where nightmares come from. I hadn’t toked from a Gonger since Winnipeg.
There’s no more freight yard in Simcoe, no more coal pile either so I had to find a spot on an old rail trail to build a fire, where I warmed my mitts. There was a light snow falling, tiny neon flakes that glowed like Christmas ornaments on my clothes. Kyle told me that William Blake said that if you clear your doors of perception, snow crystals and the integrity of every raindrop comes to you pristine like an angel speaking, or a vestal virgin having just sworn on the Bible before giving barrister testimony. The snowflakes on my pullover were these angels, virginal, talking to me and then I heard Kyle’s voice.
“Your life begins and ends here. God is a deity with a great heart whose mind has taken over.”
And Kyle came walking down the rail trail then. When she entered the fire light, she had an aura, glowing exactly like the Queen Street Motel stripper sign beckoning me, and other toms, to enter her doors.
“Are you dead?” I asked Kyle, but she didn’t answer. I handed her a can of beans that had been heating on a spider I built over the flames, and she spooned them barehanded, their molten skins not bothering those LED fingers that lit the night with an illumination surpassing my small furnace.
“You got any Whiteline?” I asked, thinking what I really wanted was some Jazz, but Kyle had more to say about William Blake.
“Blake used to walk around naked. He had a vision of a tiger while lying in bed. The tiger was lit up like neon, but Blake didn’t know anything about electricity, so he couldn’t patent it and make a fortune on sign futures.”
She finished her beans and walked over to me, laying her hand on my shoulder. I had to close my eyes otherwise her light would have fried them.
“There’s a concession road a short way north of here. That’s where you’ll find me. But if I were you, I’d find a sink, clean up, and become a citizen. Stay in Simcoe. Simcoe is the centre point of the world’s hoop, and you’ve done enough hoop jumping.” Then she walked off, dissipating in the penumbra of my fire.
I did wash up, but I also found the concession where her body lay. There were coyotes in the night, beating the buzzard that come by day. I bent down and pulled at the lapel of her coat and discovered a note pinned to the lapel:
“And may God deny you peace, but give you glory!” Miguel Unamuno. I asked a coyote whether she wanted it, but she sniffed the paper and turned away.
