by J. Loseth | Jan 25, 2006 | Story
“Space-faring monkies with a mirror fetish?â€
“Yup. In The Day Ambrosia Paled by Kinstev Ramod, chapter six.â€
“Damn. Okay, uhh… how about ice cream that turns your teeth green and carries a rare strand of the bubonic plague? Unleashed on a modern colony?â€
“As a government experiment: Fire Warden by Jack Strapley. As a mad scientist’s coup de grace: On Being Trembleton by Emilia d’Oernga. With a time travel sub-plot: Terra Infirma by Marguerite Bloc. Sorry, Glenn. It’s all been done.â€
Glenn groaned and leaned back in his chair, running his hand through the long part of his hair and pulling it out over his eyes, staring at the brown strands in frustration. “Damn it all! How am I supposed to write if there aren’t any original ideas?â€
“Hey, come on, Glenn.†Neil grimaced at his friend in sympathy. “You’re just not thinking outside the box. Look, I know it’s tough, but there’s got to be something you can do that’s not already in here.†He gestured at the Central Database terminal he’d been using, the letters on the keyboard nearly worn off from the fruitless searches he’d made.
Neil’s words were encouraging, but his tone was not—it’d been months since Glenn had come up with his last viable story idea, and he still remembered the celebration they’d had. Now their fridge was bare, and there wasn’t a drop of alcohol in the house. Neil let out a long sigh. “Look… maybe you need a rest, yeah? Let’s go out for a while. We’ll go to the club, see Jeannie and the guys, and just relax. I bet it’d help. What do you say?â€
Glenn made a noise of frustration and sat up straight again. “No. No! We’re almost out of cash. What good is going out going to do? That’ll just make things worse. I have to think of something, and fast!â€
Neil sighed and turned back to the terminal. “Glenn, we’ve been at this for hours. You’re gonna make yourself sick.â€
“No. No, I’ve got one.†Glenn turned sharply, his face lighting up as his eyes latched onto Neil. He paused dramatically. “How about… a guy with writer’s block trying to figure out what to put in a story?â€
Neil groaned loudly and threw a stylus at Glenn. “Do I even have to answer? I think it’d break the database if I tried a search on that. Billions of billions of hits.â€
Glenn chuckled. “Yeah, yeah, I know. Geez. I just wish that for once I could write something without caring that someone else already did it.â€
“Wouldn’t sell.â€
“Yeah, I know. I know.â€
The two men stared in silence for a moment, Glenn at the ceiling, Neil at the screen that was nothing more than one massive search field.
“Neil?â€
“Yeah?â€
“How about a story about a writer who hacks into the Central Database and erases the old records so that editors will think his story is original?â€
“You know,†Neil said with a slow grin, “I don’t think that one’s been done yet.â€
by J. Loseth | Jan 10, 2006 | Story |
The bottles should have lined her shelf, all shapes of the pastel rainbow, a tally of her pasts. Their numbers would be such that they overwhelmed the tiny space, and even by resorting to clever stacking methods and ingenious pyramids she would never quite be able to fit them all. The shelf was clear, of course.
The latest brand of moisturizer was not on Miko’s shelf, but in her purse. She slipped it out without thinking, squirting the oily mixture onto her hands, rubbing it in like a prayer. Away with the rough edges, the lines, the pockmarks of use. Smoothness was unity, and as she achieved it the clenched fist in her breast relaxed. She could breathe again.
Miko sat down before the perfectly neat desk on the perfectly placed chair and ran her finger over the perfectly smooth mahogany. So beautiful, the dark wood against the white walls, especially in the dim evening light. Her hand against the surface made it all the more beautiful, the perfect skin and perfect nails of perfect length. Her life fit together like an intricate puzzle forming a detailed, perfect picture.
When she was little, she never bit her nails. The girls who did, pudgy-faced and red-cheeked, were her inferiors; they knew nothing of grace, and were too stupid to think in the long-term. She despised them, and used to make snide comments behind their backs, just loud enough so that they could hear. She held nothing but contempt for them.
The desk was polished to a precise and even shine: not to the point of pure reflection, for that would detract from its own merits, but certainly enough to catch the scant light of the setting sun. Her fingers pressed against four invisible spots on the right-hand corner, impossible to find unless one knew where they were. In response, the center of the desk faded away, revealing the matte black of a computer console that emerged from within the structure. Her fingers danced over the keys, too fast to follow and dizzying in their grace.
“Wow, sixty-five words per minute. Impressive.”
“Who told you how fast I type?”
“Nobody. I heard you, just now.”
When she was very, very young–no more than three years, though of course she couldn’t place her exact age, not knowing her birthdate–some old hag on the sidewalk had seen Miko sucking her thumb. “Stop that,” the creature had croaked, “You’ll get buck teeth.” The tiny, dark-haired child had cried all night long for fear she had irreparably damaged her perfect teeth.
Miko could feel an errant flake of skin, rough and offensive, on her knuckle. This would not do. Out came the bottle once again. The thick scent lifted her prayer to the god she didn’t believe in, to the ancestors she never knew. The half-empty bottles, scattered in forgotten dumpsters and office wastebaskets, were the beads on her rosary.
“Did you design the mechanism?”
“For what?”
“The concealed chamber in the desk.”
“What the hell are you talking about? There’s nothing in the desk.”
“Yes there is. Right there, the four indentations, thirty-six centimeters from the right.”
Miko slammed the laptop shut, then breathed deeply and carefully smoothed her hair. Temper, temper. That wouldn’t do at all.
She’d hated his scar, and made no secret of it. It was vulgar, she’d told him, even lewd. How could he deface his body like that? Worse yet, how could he leave the evidence intact? She painted it as a crime against nature, and berated him for it whenever the opportunity arose. The day he’d removed the scar out of necessity had been a veritable triumph, and she’d known the instant he slunk in, meek and overthrown. She was right, of course, as always.
A clear plastic bag was arranged precisely in the sleek metal wastebasket. She had never changed the bag; there had never been a need.
“…Switch?”
“Yeah?”
“How many scratches are in my desk? The one in my apartment?”
“Eighty-seven. Twenty-three on the top, sixty-three on the combined sides, and one underneath where you hit it with your chair last Sunday.”
Seven seconds of silence meant nothing more to her than a pause. Eight would have been precisely the same.
“…Why do you ask?”
She took everything with her–every pen, every note, every disk. Hardly a mote of dust was left; if anything, the lack thereof was the only sign that the desk had ever been used. The last rays of the setting sun made the almost-full bottle, tossed in the wastebasket, seem to glow.
by J. Loseth | Jan 8, 2006 | Story |
“’Scuse me, is this the sunbound dock?â€
Harrison started and nearly dropped the bouquet he was holding. He hadn’t heard the woman approach. “Uh… yeah, it should be.â€
“Thanks. Is this seat taken?â€
He shook his head mutely in response. Vibrant. It was the first adjective that popped into his mind, and it stayed there as she sat down and pulled out a compact. Every movement was sure and determined, as if she knew precisely what action she planned to take and followed through every time. He watched in awe.
“Are you going to Prime?â€
The unexpected question reminded him of his manners, and Harrison quickly averted his eyes. Prime was the first colonized planet in this system, and by this point it was entirely city, filled with excitement and flashing lights. “Ah, no. Not all the way.â€
“That’s a shame. Nothing else interesting along this flightpath.â€
Harrison was shocked at her casual attitude. He couldn’t imagine saying such things to a stranger. “I, uh… I guess not,†he agreed lamely. Serena—the intended recipient of the flowers—lived on one of the residential planets in the system, zoned to keep it from growing too congested but with regulations that prohibited any sort of bad neighbors.
“Can’t see the point of suburbs, personally.†The woman pulled out a red lipstick, applying it expertly, even while speaking. “If I want a city, I’ll go to the city. If I want the country, I’ll go to one of the outer farmworlds instead. Trying to compromise, trying to have everything—it doesn’t work. In the end you wind up with nothing at all. Not worth it, really.†The thick chemical smell of the lipstick pressed against his senses, and Harrison found it impossible not to notice how smoothly it went on as she rubbed her lips together, never taking her eyes off of the mirror.
What he said was: “That’s a very interesting point of view.†What he meant was: Serena never wears lipstick.
“I like to think that all of my points of view are interesting.†She capped the lipstick and rummaged in her purse for a moment, coming up with a light green compact that she offered to him. “Here you go.â€
Harrison blinked. “Uh… what?â€
“It’s makeup. For your black eye.†She turned and looked at him for the first time. The whoosh of air signaled the approach of the next ship on the outbound dock, and she raised her voice to speak over it. “Your skin’s about the same tone as mine, and this is the foundation I use to cover things like that. I figured you might appreciate it.†She inclined her chin, indicating the bedraggled roses. “And so will she.â€
Two ship gongs sounded, one from the transport pulling into the station and one from the trnsport that would arrive momentarily to whisk this woman away. Harrison’s cheeks flared red. He hadn’t realized the bruise on his face was that obvious. “What do you mean, ‘she’?†he asked, quickly trying to change the subject.
“The woman you brought those flowers for.â€
The station was filled with noise and clatter, filtered through the air systems. On the opposite dock, passengers were unloading, but Harrison didn’t pay attention. He picked up the roses. “Actually, I brought them for you.â€
by J. Loseth | Jan 4, 2006 | Story
The engineer stumbled into the cargo hold and dropped his bags like they were made of lead. At the moment, he couldn’t think of any place in the galaxy where he’d rather be. Not that that was a surprise.
His pilot wandered into the hold wearing underwear, a bra, and a towel wrapped around her head. She blinked at him and frowned. “I didn’t know you were back.”
“I just got in.” He flopped down on the floor next to his luggage.
“You look like hell.”
“Gee, thanks.” The engineer rolled his eyes. “Why don’t you put on some pants?”
“They’re in the wash.”
“All of them?”
“Yeah.”
“Aren’t you embarrassed to be wandering around the ship in your underwear?”
“No.”
He sighed. They’d had this debate many times before.
“So why do you look like you got run over by a tank?” she asked.
“Is it really that bad? Maybe I should take a shower.”
“I used all the hot water. And you’re trying to change the subject.”
The engineer scowled. “I ran into that pirate again, okay?”
“The one who’s been tracking us over three sectors?” The pilot hopped onto a steel barrel, crossed her legs, and put her chin in her hand.
“Yes, that one,” he growled, “and please don’t remind me of it.”
“So what happened?”
“Do we really need to talk about this right now?”
“Yes. What if some doohickey broke on the ship and you were brooding over that pirate? I’d need to know how to—”
“I am not brooding over him!”
The pilot rolled her eyes. “I hate pirates,” she remarked to no one in particular. She was obviously refusing to move until he finished the story. Sighing, he gave in.
“Well, I was in a bar.”
“You? In a bar? I’m shocked.”
“Shove it. I was in the bar meeting a contact for a job. Do you want me to tell this story or not?”
The pilot absently cleaned her ear with a finger. She stayed quiet, though. Eventually, he continued.
“So there was some, uh, unrelated trouble, and the local cops closed off the street outside. Some explosion or something. I didn’t speak up to find out.”
“Aren’t you wanted on that planet?”
“That wasn’t my fault! And who’s telling the story here, you or me? Anyway, I was in the bar, and it looked like we were going to be there for a while. So I had a drink. Nothing else to do, right?”
“I sure would’ve if I’d been there.”
“Right. Yeah. So anyway, it turned out that Valentine was there, too.”
“I still can’t believe his name is Valentine. Fucking pirates shouldn’t be named after fucking holidays. It’s unethical.”
“He’s not named after the holiday. He’s named after the gun.”
“The Valentine .45 SXG? Are you serious?” There was a pause. “How do you know that?”
“He told me, okay?”
The pilot blinked, then blinked again. The engineer looked away and, not for the first time, was eternally grateful for his dark skin. It hid the flush. He hurried on.
“It’s not like I was talking to him on purpose. He was heckling me. You know how he does that.”
“Boy, do I ever. Fucking pirate.”
“Anyway, he was heckling me, and I got sick of it, so I slipped out the back. Of course the cops were all over me, chased me around, stuff like that. So that’s why I look like shit. Now let’s get out of orbit before they realize where I disappeared to. Oh, and add another “˜wanted’ label to the map for this sector.” He pushed himself upright and headed towards the cockpit. “I’ll get the engines fired up. And put on some pants first!”
The pilot watched him leave, then hopped off the cargo barrel. She rubbed the towel against her hair and casually tossed it into the corner of the hold. The engineer probably didn’t realize that the pirate wore lipstick. She smirked, making a mental note to be near the bathroom the next time her co-worker and employer went in. The look on his face would be priceless when he realized what the red stain was around the corners of his lips.
by J. Loseth | Dec 29, 2005 | Story |
“‘Wanted: Breast donors. 34 C or D cup, O negative or AB, Caucasian. Non-smokers preferred. $500 USD plus expenses. Absolutely NO BINDING.’ What the hell is this?†Ryan waved the classified ads in Race’s face. “Donors for plastic surgery? How much demand can there possibly be for that?â€
Race shrugged and looked up from his copy of the Daily Times. Jobs were scarce and getting scarcer, which is why he and Ryan had hit upon the idea of going through the city papers in search of paid medical tests. “Enough that they’ve got an ad for it.â€
“No, but I mean, seriously,†Ryan protested. “I can understand wanting blood or tissue donations for, I dunno, mangled faces or something, but breasts? How many people, like, lose their breasts in a car accident? Isn’t that sort of a weird thing to be reconstructing?â€
Race snickered and looked back at his paper, combing the pages for something that didn’t actually require them to have diseases beforehand. “I doubt any of those ads are for accident victims.â€
“You mean augmentation? But that’s illegal. How can they advertise something like that in the public paper? Won’t the doctors get arrested?†Ryan looked back and the ad and chuckled. “Though that does explain why they only want Caucasians.â€
“Just because it’s illegal doesn’t mean they don’t do it. I bet half the tests we sign up for aren’t exactly legal either, but who’s going to stop them? We need money and rich people’s kids need a cure for cancer.â€
“I guess,†Ryan agreed. He frowned at the ad for a few moments more before adding, “But $500? That’s it? What woman in her right mind would give up her breasts for only five hundred dollars?â€
“Plus expenses,†Race reminded him without looking up.
“Expenses? Expenses for what? Never being able to get a date again? Christ.â€
“For the medications and after-care, and the cosmetic surgery on their chests afterwards.â€
“That doesn’t make any sense. No girl is going to cut off her breasts for five hundred dollars, no matter how much ‘after care’ there is.†Ryan snorted and turned the page.
“People who didn’t want them in the first place won’t mind losing them. Might even be a good opportunity.†Race’s voice was casual, a quiet musing as he frowned and reread one of the ads he’d circled as a possibility.
“Wait. You mean…†Ryan put the paper down completely, frowning at Race. “Trannies? That’s way more illegal than cosmetic surgery.†His face showed that he was more than a little uncomfortable at the idea.
“All the more reason for them to connect with rich women who want bigger boobs. The government isn’t going to break in and stop it; that’d be like enforcing prohibition. It’s a good way for everyone involved to get what they want while giving the law a good excuse to look the other way. How about lymphoma preventatives?†Race asked. “It’s long-term, so the pay’s good. You have a history on your mom’s side, right?â€
“Yeah, yeah, sounds good,†Ryan answered, distracted. He was still frowning. “How do you know so much about this breast transplant shit?†he asked Race, squinting at his friend.
Race didn’t look up. He just smirked.
“How do you think I got rid of mine?â€
