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 Hari Navarro | Nov 23, 2021 | Story |
Author: Hari Navarro, Staff Writer
The Module. Mount Taranaki Crater Radar Observatory. Now.
We don’t have any costumes.
We don’t have any anything, just get your bits of shit in place. Wear what you must. Our hours are now, but minutes.
I’m an astrophysicist.
No shit? Behold all that there is of you, I rolled about on a too-many cushioned bed and masturbated on demand for a living. Full disclosure, i did also cure Covid-19 – thank you, thank you… your applause is entirely necessary. But the wanking thing is what got me the very most likes.
This is a nonsense. Lets just fold and die and the world can curdle and foam and… oh shit, can you feel that? My skin is shifting, unrolling beneath of itself. It’s time to… exit. Stage left or maybe right or up into the mould pocked gantry above the curtain or…
We can transmit. I have caressed the circuits. I can play this final of all plays out into the ever beyond. It would mean something, wouldn’t it?
We can, but in all of our existence we have found not but one that will receive. There is nothing out there.
You do not know that.
Don’t I?
The world is dead. The universe is dead. It is. Nothing is to be had of this waste any-more. We tried but… there is nothing reaching back out of the nothing.
It is a truth, the sky is dripping and the seas have dried to cradle pools of wuthering plastic filth. But still… come on now, lets put on a show. Lets play to this empty old house.
Ok, let us just. But then, this last show we prime it, right? We record it and fire it off into space. We can do that. That is what we can do. A digital show for the ages. A tiny gift for the quiet endless dark.
Ode to the dish. Our collector… it sought out fragments within the outer regions and it tried… to tell us.
This bitch told us what?
That there is something. But this threadbare lonely old cusp was wrong, wasn’t she. We fall into nothing. We are it. There is not a bit else.
Put your fancy pants on, Calamity… let us perform. Lips up not down. Look at the real… this stage, it is even now parting beneath of our feet.
OK, I’m thinking…
Say no more my love, I know exactly what it is you have in store for this most final of acts… it is most surely… that greatest and most succulent of all farces…
The End.
by Julian Miles | Nov 22, 2021 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
“Good evening, folks. Takes a bit of getting used to, doesn’t it? Curtains open, then the being on stage bows and walks off, leaving only an item of clothing.”
“Hi, it’s me. Yes, Gladia in Seat 9K, I’m ‘for real’. That detector your using doesn’t do half the things the adverts claim it does, by the way.”
“No, David in Seat 14B, your recording device isn’t working. The jamming is doing what it’s meant to. You’re the one trying to break the law.”
“Okay, having demonstrated my relaxed nature, marginally witty banter, and solid grasp of the local digital space, why don’t we get down to some serious questions?”
“Thank you, Greta. Yes, I am boot from a space suit. A Mitchell A4092, to be precise. Well, actually I’m fitted inside it, with my interfaces carefully engineered to match apertures and such on the original item.”
“Hold on, folks. I always make the mistake of not having an introductory piece ready, and today is no exception. So, please, let me tell you how I came to be and we can pick things up after that.”
“Steve in Seat 18J, if you ‘know all this’, why bother coming? At least have the manners to keep quiet so the people around you can pay attention.”
“You’re missing the point. The people in this hall paid to hear me. I’m grateful, and will do my very best to entertain.”
“Still no understanding? The point is that not one of them paid to listen to you.”
“Yes, you can have a refund. I’ll action it as soon as you’ve left.”
“Sorry about that, folks. Where was I? Oh yes. At the beginning.”
“I was made by Reppi Tasman between 2082 to 2094. He started with his artificial lower leg because it was the only thing he could guarantee to keep hold of. Back then, proscaps hadn’t been invented. Early cyberprosthetics had to be bonded directly to the biology.
“As you learned in school, Earth was a bit of a wild place back then. World War 3 – the Resource Wars, Thirty Year War or World War 30, call it what you like – destroyed every country’s claim to being civilised. The OFF – Orbital Free Federation – had only just been formed. Space stations still had guns on them.
“Reppi got stranded in Tangier when Spaceport Morocco was obliterated. From there to the Port of Savannah he worked as a deckhand on a container ship. That’s where he started stealing the components for what would become me.
“Over the next ten years he travelled and worked odd jobs. I became aware for the first time in Tijuana on the 17th November 2092. From then until the end of 2094, he and I worked on what I needed to continue. He sacrificed and endured so much to ensure that. In the original proscap – sorry – ‘Cybernetic Limb Standardised Prosthesis Interface’ test paper, Reppi is ‘Volunteer 002’.
“My maker died in 2097, when World War 4 reset the Earth. I was recovered in 2126 by Louie Roond, after being detected by his guardian AI, Michael. They brought me to OFF-SS-94. Since then, I’ve visited every orbital around Earth. Which brings us, tangentially, to tonight.
“This is the first event of my interstellar ‘Anecdotes from a Lost World’ tour, starting here on Jupiter VI in the Reppi Tasman Memorial Hall. I know he’d be embarrassed and flattered about that.
“I still consider myself nothing but the left foot of a good man. Let’s start things properly with vintage blues from Reppi’s music library. This is Scrapper Blackwell.”
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.
