by submission | Oct 5, 2022 | Story |
Author: Hillary Lyon
“So we’re outside, drinking on the patio like we do sometimes after work, when Ellie looks up at the sky and goes—”
“I said, ‘What is THAT?’” Ellie laughed awkwardly. From his seat next to the sofa, the interviewer, Mister Guest, leaned towards her, holding his small recorder. He wore a black suit and skinny tie, plain white shirt, and highly polished shoes. Very professional, Ellie thought.
“Continue,” Guest encouraged.
“Around sunset that day the clouds looked like buttered popcorn—and I’m daydreaming when suddenly this THING slips out from the clouds and glides, real slow, towards us.”
“Daydreaming?” Ellie could hear the puzzlement in Guest’s voice.
She sighed. “Like wondering what life would be like if I, I mean we, lived somewhere else, somewhere with exotic cultures and beautiful landscapes and fascinating histories.”
Listening, Guest tilted his head. His oddly-pointy ears perked up. “What did this ‘thing’ look like?”
“HUGE and silent. Triangle-shaped, dark gray. Color-changing lights on each corner—white to purple, then orange, then back to white. And in the very middle of this thing, there’s a big glass globe. Like a crystal ball.” She scrunched her eyebrows together.“You could see the sky and clouds through it, but they looked distorted.”
“Hell, I saw that, too,” Trent said, slurping his beer.
“What did it sound like?” Guest asked Ellie, ignoring Trent’s interruption.
“Nothing.” Ellie answered. “No engine roar or motor hum or propellers buzzing—”
“Speak for yourself,” Trent snorted. He was annoyed; this was supposed to be his interview. He’s the one who looked up Extra-Terrestrial Investigators, Inc., online. He’s the one who made the call to set up the interview.
“Oh?” Guest said, still pointing the recorder at Ellie.
Trent leaned in and spoke loudly. “I heard this ‘mmmmmmmm’.” Trent’s eyes became unfocused as he fell under the spell of creating his own fiction. “Like a heavenly choir holding one long note, getting louder and louder until it was rattlin’ my bones!”
Ellie put her head in her hands.
Trent took a long pull on his beer. “That UFO sent out sound-waves to hypnotize us! It was gonna beam us up to be probed or who knows what, if I hadn’t dragged Ellie back into the house. I’m the hero. That’s your story, mister.”
“Huh,” was all Guest said; he lightly touched Ellie’s shoulder. “You were saying?”
She looked up. “It hovered over us for a minute or two, then smoothly slipped back into the clouds and disappeared.” She shrugged.
Mister Guest clicked off his recorder. “Thanks for your time, and information.” He never took his eyes off Ellie. “We’ll be in touch.”
* * *
Back at headquarters, Mister Guest turned on his recorder. His supervisor, Director Cloak, listened closely, occasionally nodding. “So the male, though an absolute beast, was actually closer to the truth.”
“Yep,” Guest agreed. “He’s physically fit, steeped in Earth-culture UFO lore, and prone to gross exaggeration. No matter what we do to him, or how long we keep him, his peers won’t believe him.”
“An excellent find, then!” Cloak commended.“Well done.”
“One last thing,” Guest added.“My youngest has a birthday soon and, as this female is intelligent, docile yet adventurous, I think she’ll—”
“Make a good pet,” Cloak finished. “Go ahead. Schedule your follow-up interview.”
“Terrific!” Guest chirped. “I’ll wrap her up.”
by submission | Aug 12, 2022 | Story |
Author: Hillary Lyon
“It happened right here,” I breathlessly exclaim to my friend. She grins and looks towards the old office building. I point to a corner window on the topmost floor. The gaggle of tourists behind us gasp and raise their cameras to take snaps of the old five-story red brick building. My friend glances at me and smirks.
“Three shots,” I continue. I make a gun out of my upraised hand, like a kid playing cops and robbers. “Pow! Pow! Pow!”
My friend opens her eyes wide and puts her hands over her ears in mock horror. “Oh no!”
“Oh yes,” I say flatly. “The assassin was a crack shot.” I then stage-whisper, “Trained by our own special forces!” Behind us, the tourists mutter unintelligibly among themselves.
“On orders from his second in command.” I shake my head sadly. My friend puts her hand over her mouth to keep from laughing. “His very own right-hand man.”
The tourists’ mumbling rises in volume, becoming a discordant symphony of clicks and whines and staccato squeaks. I catch overtones of dismay, shock, and—disbelief? How dare these outsiders, these tourists, question my tale. I was born here, after all; I should know. That’s what I’ll say if one of them contradicts me.
My friend can no longer smother her laughter, but being the fine actress she is, converts her convulsions to weeping. She really should win an award for these performances.
I turn to face the group clustered behind us. Embarrassed to be caught stalking and eavesdropping, they rub their stick-like forelegs together and pivot their multi-faceted eyes away from the building. Their mouths quiver and sticky drool sparkles in the corners, threatening to drip down their darkly iridescent carapaces.
I look down my nose at them. “It’s all true. My father was a local police detective. My mother was a nurse at the hospital where they took his broken body.”
A tourist waddles over to me, places a spiked claw on my shoulder. I suppose it is an act of sympathy. In response, I wipe a non-existent tear away from my eye. I wasn’t upset; I was acting. Tourists can’t tell the difference.
My companion sighs and we continue our walk. The tourists scuttle along behind us, at a respectful distance, but close enough to listen to our conversation.
“And over there,” my friend prompts, waving towards the depression-era hotel across the street. “Isn’t that where . . .?”
“Ah, yes,” I finish for her. “That’s where notorious astronaut-turned-gangster, Boz McNally, was arrested for robbing a string of pizza joints. A bell-hop tipped off the cops. The police caught him climbing out a third story window, after he set the hotel ablaze. McNally gambled the fire would be a distraction—he lost that bet.”
“He was one bad hombre, that dare-devil spaceman,” my companion adds. “A rotten apple. A real no-goodnik.” The tourists chitter excitedly; they love our idioms.
They lose themselves in an orgy of picture-taking and outraged conversation. My friend and I take this opportunity to slip away into the first convenient, shadowed alley. They won’t follow us into such a dark, narrow space; they are famously claustrophobic.
Honestly, I can’t stand these tourists—they crawl over every historical site in our city, they over-run our parks, they crowd us out of our museums and cinemas. So hungry for stories, as they evidently have none of their own. Victors in the last war—supposedly brilliant strategists—yet they are so gullible.
But, hey, at least they spend their credits here.
by submission | Jul 2, 2022 | Story |
Author: Hillary Lyon
In a far corner of the town’s public dog park, K’wren took out a small soft cloth from her designer back-pack purse and began polishing her gold-plated robodog. “I love how you shine in the sun,” she gloated out loud. It wagged it’s tail.
“Now, that’s a beaut,” a young man, unknown to K’wren, offered as he sauntered up to her.
“We think so,” she smiled, standing up.
“What do you call it?” the young man queried. He had a mild manner and the wild hair so many idle youths sported these days.
“We wanted to call it Gizmo, but that name was already registered.” She shrugged. “So we decided on Gadget, instead.”
“Ah, so it’s registered as Gadget?” Hearing it’s name, the robodog displayed an open-mouthed smile, and looked from human to human. It again wagged its tail.
“We’ve been too busy, so—” K’wren, slightly embarrassed, continued awkwardly. “We haven’t gotten around to registering it.”
“It seems docile, affectionate, even,” the young man observed, changing the subject.
“Yeah, we paid extra for the affection upgrade—I insisted on that,” she stressed. “Like everyone else, my husband always wants the latest techno gadget—no pun intended. I agreed to the robodog, but only if it had the Pure-Love brand affection chip factory-installed.”
“Does it need exercise?” The young man wondered aloud, as he swept his arm to indicate the dog park. “Or fresh air?”
“Nah, but its owner does.” K’wren put the polishing cloth back in her jeans’ pocket. “Obviously, it doesn’t need sleep, or food—though it’s batteries need recharging every week or so, depending on use. And there’s no pooping, either,” K’wren giggled. “Which I appreciate.”
“Does it play fetch? Retrieve?” The young man teased. “Because if it did, that would make your robodog a—”
“No, it’s not a golden retriever,” K’wren blushed. Was he flirting with her?
“I suppose Gadget makes an excellent guard dog, though,” the young man winked at K’wren.
“Not at all,” she laughed again. “We didn’t opt for that upgrade. Where we live, we have security guards and gates, so we didn’t think we’d need it. And I mean, after all, the gold-plating was expensive enough!”
“May I?” The young man motioned to pet the robodog.
“Sure,” K’rewn replied. She loved the attention her Gadget attracted; in her mind, it made the robodog worth every shiny penny.
The young man knelt beside the robodog, reaching into the pocket of his second-hand coat as he did. Cooing sweet words and promises to Gadget, he surreptitiously withdrew his personal mini-taser.
“So,” K’wren sighed, relaxing in the warm glow of this friendly encounter with a handsome young stranger, “which of these dogs running around this park is yours?”
Wearing a mischievous grin, the young man rose to face K’wren. “Oh, I don’t have a pet,” he answered as his mini-taser connected with the bare skin of K’wren neck. She tumbled heavily to the ground like a dropped sack of dog food. The young man swept up the gold-plated robodog in his arms.
Gadget wagged its tail and licked his face with its silicon tongue. “But I do now.”
by submission | Apr 26, 2022 | Story |
Author: Hillary Lyon
“So, ponder this,” Drew began, “Thomas Jefferson was a Deist—he subscribed to the idea of the Clock-Maker. Remember?”
“Yes,” Brady nodded. “I recall.” He loved thought experiments. “The belief was, a cosmic clock-maker—God—created this perfect, intricate time-piece, and after approving of his work, placed it on a shelf, then went on to build another clock. A rather steam-punk theology, and—”
“And one of those clocks is our world,” Drew finished. “Anyway, that corresponds with this notion that our reality is a simulation. Does it not?” Drew walked over to the vertical fish tank in the corner of his home office. Neon red and blue striped fish darted about, a tiny snail slowly slid along one glass panel. “But rather than Clock-Maker, we suspect a Master Programmer is behind all of this.” He tapped the glass, causing the small school of fish to scatter in panic.
“Right,” Brady agreed.
“Well,” Drew turned to Brady. “If there’s Programmer, then our reality is code-based.” He waited for Brady to nod in agreement. “So if it’s code, what does that mean?”
“Uh, since code’s a string of numbers and letters and symbols,” Brady shrugged, “then, it’s, ah, mathematical?”
“This means, as with all code,” Drew leaned in close to Brady and whispered, “it can be tweaked.”
“To what end?” Brady asked incredulously. “And how?”
“As to what end, why Drew, my old friend—it means we can make the world into anything we want!” Drew raised his arms like a score keeper calling a goal. “And as for how—I truly believe I’ve already figured that out.”
* * *
Brady stood before the floor-to-ceiling window. “It’s all so beautiful—so perfect.” He watched aerodynamic vehicles glide in organized lines crisscrossing the air-space of the city. Lights twinkled like fireflies in the towering forest of buildings before them.
“It is, isn’t it,” Drew yawned.
“Clean air, pure water, a balanced population—an equal number of births and deaths.” Brady happily bounced on his toes.
“Yes, ‘tis all very Goldilocks, I suppose.” Drew examined the rings glittering on his fingers.
Brady spun away from the window. “It’s a wonderful world! No war, no disease, no hunger—” He walked over to Drew, who was slouched down in his over-stuffed chair. Why was he not thrilled with his handiwork? Brady wondered. “Drew, old pal, it’s all so—”
“Excruciatingly boring,” Drew murmured.
“Come on, Drew,” Brady encouraged, “let’s explore this world; take time to—”
“You mention time,” Drew said, his mood brightening. “Truly, it’s well past time—” Brady’s smile began to fade.
Reinvigorated, Drew rose from his chair like Zeus rising from his throne. “To tweak the code.”
* * *
“Back where we started, eh?” Brady muttered, looking around Drew’s home office.
“You don’t sound happy.” Drew sauntered over to the vertical tank in the corner. “What did you expect?”
“As you appeared bored,” Brady scoffed, “I thought you’d create someplace dangerously exciting—like a primordial swamp overrun with dinosaurs—or a magical forest populated with inscrutable wizards and menacing trolls—or a united world at war with invading space aliens—”
“You’ve seen too many blockbuster movies,” Drew said as he watched the neon red and blue striped jellyfish floating through the toxic ether of the tank’s atmosphere.
“I suppose,” Brady sighed, “there’s no place like home.”
Drew tapped the glass. As one, the jellyfish swarmed the glass in an attempt to attack the tip of Drew’s bejeweled finger. Tiny lightening bolts discharged from their effort, electrocuting the snail creeping along the glass, too slow to flee their territory.
“Who said anything about being ‘home’?”
by submission | Feb 18, 2022 | Story |
Author: Hillary Lyon
“Would you look at that,” Clarence said, with enthusiastic admiration. “The last remaining Orion series robot—what a unique example of animatronics united with early computing! Like something out of a mid-20th century, black and white sci-fi movie.”
“This thing?” His manager scoffed. “It’s hideous, from an aesthetic perspective. Too crude for my taste. Look at the boxy construction, the elongated, rectangular limbs. An aluminum block for a head, the rough seams, light bulbs for eyes, treads for feet . . . ugh, it’s like cubism come to life.”
“But it still operates, right? Like one of Edison’s original light bulbs in that New York firehouse, it might well run forever. So it’s body should be considered vintage, it’s internal components should be described as—”
“As garbage,” his manager interrupted. “It’s memory is minuscule, it’s processor is primitive.” He snorted. “And no wi-fi whatsoever.”
“I was going to say it might be described as ‘antiquated,’ yet—”
“Enough! Turn it off, cover it, and don’t forget to lock up when you leave.” His manager turned on his heel and marched out of the warehouse.
“Well,” Clarence murmured to the robot as he unfolded the coverlet, “I think you’re a fascinating piece of history, as well as a beautiful machine, in your own way. You belong in a tech museum, some place where the public might interact with you.” He stood back and looked the robot over. “Maybe I can arrange that.”
He reached for the robot’s on-off switch, but stopped short of flipping it. “I want to see for myself just how long you’ll run.” He covered the robot, straightened the corners of the sheet, smoothed the front.“I’ll come back to visit in a year—hell, I’ll come every year.”
In the quiet of that dimly-lit warehouse, Clarence listened to the faint clicking, whining, and whirring noises suddenly emitted from the robot’s inner workings.
* * *
On the 25th anniversary of the death of Clarence Oort from a cerebral aneurysm, the last Orion series robot stood beside the man’s grave, and unfurled a small linen sheet. No one else came to pay their respect, as Clarence’s biological family had long since died out.
“Disappointed your program was prematurely terminated due to a corrupted wet-ware component,” the robot said in it’s newly integrated 8-bit voice. It moved closer to Clarence’s tombstone, and laid the sheet over it.
“Humans are fragile, with built-in obsolescence.” The robot stated, straightening the cover’s corners, smoothing the fabric. “Like contemporary, mass produced light bulbs.”
The robot held out its rectangular limbs in an awkward pantomime of a hug, something it had learned from decades of interacting with curious human visitors to the tech museum where it was housed. “You were unique, Clarence Oort.”
As the robot dropped its limbs to its side, its inner workings made clicking, whining, and whirring noises. “You had a good run.” It then rolled away across the newly mown grass of the cemetery, leaving deep tracks behind.
