by submission | Mar 9, 2017 | Story |
Author : Trevor Doyle
Sex droids don’t do it for me, but I’ve never had a problem with clones.
My most recent Romeo, for instance. The last time I saw him, he was standing on my gold plated balcony, his back to the city that worships at my feet. He looked like a pop star in the clothes that I’d dressed him in.
It’s a thorny problem, of course, getting them to forget everything I’ve done for them without making them tame. The first one forgot too much; the second one, not enough. This one had found his footing somehow on his own.
Memory implants and hypnosis can only do so much, after all. Put a shirt on your clone’s back, and he resents it; teach him to be civil, and he becomes soft, a sorry putty you abhor. I’ve learned the hard way that virility and duplicity are inextricably linked; the noblest man alive will spin incredible yarns in obedience to his first master, that metamorphic creature that he keeps hidden in his pants.
This one was different though. His desire to please was genuine; he was gracious but never fawning, capable of maintaining his self-respect even though he had no place in the world aside from the one I’d made for him. And yet he wasn’t docile or subservient; he could be unpredictable, which I liked, and he was forceful when my mood called for it.
Only last week, the psychiatrists who’d supervised his training and conditioning told me that he’d passed his total personality test. We’d succeeded where others had failed, which meant that we had the complete package, a clone who would be the perfect companion for any woman who could afford him. They showed me the numbers, the graphs that always bore me, and assured me that I was going to be a thousand times wealthier than I already am. But I wasn’t convinced, not entirely. There was one more test he had to pass.
Because it isn’t enough for a man (or a clone) to say that he loves you, is it? This is a fundamental truth, and that’s why I had to ask that all important question while he was standing there on my balcony with the wind roiling his perfect hair.
“So you love me. What would you do to prove it?”
He nodded to show that he understood, and then he turned around. He swung one meaty thigh over the railing, then the other, and he looked at me one last time.
“This,” he said.
And he jumped.
I had to smile. I couldn’t help myself, because it was the ultimate answer, the only answer that could expel my final doubts.
So he was perfect, a little too perfect. But I’ve learned my lesson; true love is overrated anyway.
We’ll do better with Romeo-4.
by submission | Mar 7, 2017 | Story |
Author : M. Irene Hill
Today’s sunrise is a Chinese watercolor painting, with inky tree branches in the foreground of an ombre sky. Below a band of monochrome cloud, a thin line of cinnabar melts into pink chrysanthemum in rhythmic balance. I imagine that a bird’s eye view would bring harmony to the richness and texture of the landscape. On cue, a profusion of chickadees bursting from their nests can be heard as they cheer on the sun god.
Lacking feather and flight, I can only revere this daily miracle from the comfort of my favorite window seat. My roots have grown deep into the earth since the last time I punched through Earth’s exosphere. People had once called me Space Cowgirl. Now they just call me Marie – or Mommy.
I had played my role in shattering the metaphorical glass ceiling. The number of female space travelers has quadrupled since Cosmonaut Valentina did her first spacewalk so many moons ago. At age 39, I decided it was time to hang up my spacesuit and step aside to make room for my sister space walkers. Space had been like a cornucopia of my wildest dreams. I greedily plucked each asteroid harvesting mission offered to me, but then one day I realized I’d had my fill.
Seeing the orbital sunrise on Earth from a vantage point in space is truly breathtaking, but my perspective is now limited by earthly matters of hearth and home. There is always that transient desire to uproot and set sail on a sea of stars, and I’m not sure it will ever fade completely. But for these briefest moments while my children are soundly sleeping and my mouth is filled with the rich taste of coffee, when the sun god awakens from his slumber and stretches, I am content on this blue planet.
Sun god kisses my lips good morning; his kiss is a song written indelibly upon my heart. I taste its essence, and breathe its color. Its warmth seeds my soul. I am a poet, a painter, a philosopher, a star walker, and a mother – or as Carl Sagan would say, I am star stuff harvesting starlight.
I hear the faintest stirrings of my little star mites. Sigh. I check my solar panel battery indicators on the inside of my wrist: four bars. I stretch my eyelids open wider to harvest more starlight. Five bars – Houston, we are go for launch.
“Who wants blueberry pancakes for breakfast?”
by submission | Mar 6, 2017 | Story |
Author : Russell Bert Waters
The moon stares down as I stand on the beach next to what once was the ocean.
Powerless to control the tide, or anything at all, the moon seems sad.
This is conjecture on my part.
The moon hasn’t said anything lately, so for all I know it is full of glee and merriment.
Earlier, after the dehydration and lack of sleep began really playing their tricks, the moon had said plenty.
It wanted to know if it would ever regain its purpose.
I told it, in a cracked and hoarse voice, I didn’t know.
No one knew.
It seemed satisfied by the answer, as though it had known all along what the answer would be.
My nickname in the Army had been “Camel” because I was able to last the longest without worrying about taking a drink from my canteen.
I could hike, march, or run, for miles without worrying about hydration.
Some people are just wired that way, I guess.
But I am worried now, I assure you.
The moon turns its back on me and lets out an audible sigh.
It hasn’t been many days since the water inexplicably began disappearing.
Geologists were concerned it had somehow begun draining into the Earth, but drilling projects and advanced scanning equipment kept turning up nothing.
Bottled water sat on shelves, empty.
Their containers took on a “sunk in” look, as though the water had been sucked out of them.
Lakes, ponds, rivers, oceans, seas, wells, aquifers, all had begun to dry.
The humidity in the air was reduced to less than zero.
People began dropping like flies.
They’d have headaches, delusions, seizures, and one by one they would collapse.
As far as I know I’m the last person alive on Earth, or maybe there are a few more like me out there.
I guarantee none of us are in good shape.
I keep seeing things dancing, just out of sight.
My head hurts.
My mouth and throat are painfully dry and cracked.
My throat feels like a collapsing straw.
The moon looks down on me again, asks me if things will ever be the same.
Asks me if it’s going to be all alone soon.
Asks me if children will ever again watch it follow them in the night sky.
The moon is a bit choked up, as it asks its final question of me.
It wants to know if there will ever be another tide.
“I don’t know” I croak, “I don’t know.”
My first celestial friend seems smaller for the moment, as it continues its dance in the sky.
Before me lies miles of sand, littered with dead starfish, lost tourist sunglasses, the occasional instant camera. All the treasures one could ever want glimmer before me in the vast expanse that was the Pacific.
I would trade it all for one sip of fresh, cold, water.
I walk forward, daring to venture where riptides once ruled.
My final hike is to be one that no one has ventured before; at least not without proper SCUBA or snorkel gear.
“May I have this dance?” I manage to painfully ask.
The moon is game.
It dances in the sky, as I weakly dance on the sandy terrain, kicking the occasional shell, stumbling over driftwood.
I will drop soon, I know that.
But, for now, I will entertain my lonely friend.
For now, we will dance.
by submission | Mar 5, 2017 | Story |
Author : Dylan Otto Krider
Talmey is not a pervert, just very lonely. He tried to get dates, really he did. With the computer business, he didn’t have time. Plus, he was shy and — he could admit this – ugly. But a guy has certain needs; for sex, yes, of course, but female companionship above all.
He tried ordering one of those latex dolls, which were cold and inanimate. Then he tried VR, but had to strap on a vibrator, which buzzed and wasn’t the way he imagined it.
Then he came across this ad for something called Meat Market. They advertised “living flesh,” which grossed him out at first until they explained it: it was a human clone, essentially, minus the brain. Well, a tiny brain, a reptilian brain, so it was like owning a pet, So, there was nothing unethical about it.
When it arrived, it was fine to have sex with, but he was a romantic. He wanted something to love him, and which he could love back. This… this was… well, it didn’t even seem to be there, really, mentally. All it wanted was to sleep and eat. It wasn’t potty trained either, so you had to change adult diapers, which was gross and not at all what he paid for.
He tried to return it, but the operator told him there was a new, smarter model coming out, one smart enough to flush the toilet. One bred to adore you, the way dogs were bred. Dogs wanted to be with you. Nothing cruel about it.
When she arrived, she loved him almost immediately. She followed him around the house, and was always underfoot. She wanted attention constantly.
He returned her almost immediately.
He guessed he was a feminist. He didn’t want someone just to have sex with. He wanted more than that. He wanted someone to talk with, share his dreams and fears, discuss movies. His equal. Who would go out with him. His equal who would go out with him. That’s what he really wanted.
So, he tried a sort of mail order bride service, which wasn’t really a mail order bride service, but sort of was. They found you a woman from a third world country who was willing to overlook his ugliness for citizenship. They sent him a woman from someplace with arranged marriages, so it wasn’t weird at all. She was great at first, but eventually stopped having sex with him, and nagged him all the time, and once she got citizenship, she ran off with his brother.
He forswore all women after that. Some people aren’t meant to couple. But Meat Market kept calling, trying to get back his business.
“We have a premier sentient model coming out; one who is bred to want to be there, but can leave at any time,” the salesman said, “but won’t.”
They talked him into one last try.
She arrived at his apartment under her own recognizance. She smiled at him. It didn’t even seem to matter that he was ugly. She did all the talking at first, to draw him out.
They had the best conversations after that. They had arguments, too, sure, but she never got mad, and when they came to an impasse, would defer. She didn’t nag. She wanted to make love, and loved him, but not in a needy way. When he came home, she ran up and kissed him and would say, “I have been thinking about you all day.” She wanted to be there, and was his equal as she was engineered to be.
And she was all his.
by submission | Mar 3, 2017 | Story |
Author : Anthony Francis
Hariq realized she’d wandered into their territory the moment it was too late to go back. She’d turned too early, into the alley to the abandoned school, a blasted block of creaking swings and dirty chainlink the city had let fall to them. Not even human!
In her forevermurk, she’d mistaken a glimmer down this dark crevasse as her signpost to safety, but the brick alley stretched on too long, the haloed streetlight passed over too quickly, and she found herself in true darkness … while quiet steps crept behind.
There would be no help: the police were afraid of them. She had to turn back—but heard a curse. That voice! Half child, more animal, the snarled insult revealed her pursuer knew she was blind. Hariq walked faster—but blurred fencing loomed.
A T-junction. Turn right, circling the school: a block through their territory—or cut left, shortcutting through a perilous alley: a straight shot to the subway.
Then Hariq froze: she no longer heard footsteps, but breathing.
Hariq bolted to the left, cane clacking her way through debris and Dumpster, buttress and barricade. No curses mocked, no footsteps followed—but that breathing grew closer.
Hariq’s bag caught on a drainpipe, swinging her around, knocking her cane from her hand—and that breathing was upon her. Hariq turned back towards the murky jumble of dark shapes and haloed taillights. “Why are you chasing me?”
“I was tryin’ to get by ya.” An unseen voice. “Don’t like being hassled.”
“You’re afraid,” Hariq laughed, forced, “that I’ll hassle you?”
“Yeah. Okay, I’ll give ya a treat. See the two red lights? Look close.”
Hariq stared—were those taillights? Those haloed lights surged forward, and Hariq drew back. An unseen presence loomed, a tang of cinnamon—and animal musk. God, one of them, too close. Shadows rippled … and the red lights yellowed, and became eyes.
“So your eyes glow.” Little showoff. “So what?”
“Huh. You—fahkk—couldn’t see me turn visible?”
“You see I have a cane.” Hariq clenched her fist. “Had one, before—”
“You gots it worse than my mentor,” said the blur. Hariq’s cane pressed into her hand, a whisper of claws brushing against her fingers. “Nota bene, most lykes can’t turn invisible. Just me. Why ya scuttin’ in this alley? Can’t Pythagoras square blocks—”
“I should be able to go where I want.”
“Funny that, I feel the same way,” said the shape—pressing Hariq’s hand to her cheek. The face of a child, warm and smooth … but with the prickle of whiskers. “Don’t be scared. You can feel, can’t ya? Here’s another treat.”
Sharp cracks popped. Fur burst beneath Hariq’s fingers. Hariq laughed, wondrous, as the child’s face bloomed, rising until Hariq stood with her hand in the cheek ruff of a tiger, bigger than any of its natural kind … yet with those same glowing eyes.
“YYOU’Rrre TRRESSpassin,’” rumbled the weretiger, its voice quickly firming up. “You missed—faahkk—the signs, might not even have sussed lycanthrope glyphs if ya coulda seen ’em. No biggie, but I don’t want ya hassled—or snoopin’. I’ll lead ya out.”
“You called me a blind mouse. I didn’t like that—”
“Funny that, neither did I, but, hey, Tourette’s is Tourette’s.”
“Oh!” Hariq said. Obvious, now, the bursty exhalations, so different than a normal voice. Hariq let her fingers sink into the thick fur: this monster had its own struggles. “I guess you won’t eat me. I’m Hariq.”
“Wasn’t plannin’ on it,” said the tiger. “Spine goes far with lykes, Hariq. I’m Cinnamon. MARTA’s a block. Stay close?”
