by submission | May 1, 2022 | Story |
Author: Majoki
“You wrong. Dead wrong, O’Bob. The slowpo didn’t do this.” Mikal nodded absently around him at the decay, the gloom, the malaise, the rotting bones of the city they scavenged everyday. “You did.”
“You mean we all did. All of us.” Old Bob sighed. His heavily lined face working through the many years, the tricky emotions of grief, loss and guilt. He lifted his shoulders again and tried to be the history professor he’d been, and what he was now, the only teacher for those like Mikal who had no understanding of what it was like before the slowpocalypse.
“It’s not that we didn’t see the breakdown coming,” he continued. “It just unfolded so slowly. Not the fall off the cliff that prophets for ages had warned of. Just a slow, bumpy slide to the bottom. Maybe a cataclysmic meteor or nuclear war or plague would’ve been easier to stomach.”
Mikal didn’t say anything. His young grey eyes unreadable, so Old Bob went on.
“I guess we didn’t want to acknowledge what it meant. I mean, when you look at past collapses, no native was hankering to cut down the last tree on Easter Island, and no Mayan wanted to believe their slash-and-burn approach to developing farmland would bite them in the butt. That’s just how it plays out. At a certain point, a civilization’s poor choices catch up with it. The signs were there for us, too. We felt the first and secondary effects. Ocean warming, unpredictable weather, lingering droughts, more intense storms. Plant and animal die offs. Economic and political turmoil. More and more migrants and asylum seekers looking for someplace safe. Someplace to escape from the next domino falling on them. And still most of us went on like nothing was happening. Like denying that chest pain, nausea and fatigue aren’t the signs of a heart attack. I guess that’s human nature. Denial until things get too dire. We seem to love the adrenalin of a crisis. As a species, we were either overly optimistic or oblivious: take your pick.”
Mikal continued to stare at Old Bob in silence while he fidgeted in his bulky jacket that was really three disintegrating jackets grafted and bound together by fraying twine. Finally, he worked a worn, grimy hand out of his bundled sleeve and jammed a stubby finger into Old Bob’s thin chest.
“You ain’t listening. Ain’t understanding. It was you. Just you that trashed this place. For me and mine.”
Old Bob was used to backtalk, accusations. All teachers were. “I hear you, Mikal. I claim personal responsibility where I can. But,” he gestured at the buckling buildings, the pitted streets, the rusting husks of cars and trucks around them. “ I didn’t create this wasteland by myself.”
“You did, O’Bob. You damn well did!” Mikal took his finger off Old Bob’s chest and stuck it to his own temple. “Me and mine never knew no better. This wasn’t a wasteland until you told us about the slowpo. Till you told how good it was before. I wouldn’t have known none of that. This the home I was born to. My clean slate, my world, and you muddied it. You mucked it up good. Teaching us all that history, telling how good it was before: clean, hot and cold running water, AC, central heating, cars, supermarkets, computers, television, Internet. All the stuff you miss. But me and mine didn’t miss it! We never had it. Never wanted it. Not till you told us.”
Old Bob stood stone silent, like one of the dozens of defaced statues in the ruined city.
“You done this. Just you. This slowpo is only a disaster to you. A come down to you and yours. Me and mine coulda just started our own way, but you laid your regrets and guilt in here.” Mikal tapped his temple hard. “Filled me and mine with your mistakes and your sadness. Your damn damn memories. That’s the real disaster. You and your kind. You the slowpo. Let me and mine make our own go. Then we only got to handle today, not your yesterday or your sad dream of tomorrow. You got that, O’Bob? Let it go. Let us go.”
And Mikal stormed off, leaving Old Bob to stare after him. The long stare of a parent watching his child choose.
by submission | Feb 3, 2022 | Story |
Author: Phil Temples
I open my wallet and examine one of my last remaining uncanceled credit cards. My First National Bank, Metro Savings and Shawnee Bank cards were canceled last month for non-payment but I’m pretty sure that my trusty Premium Silver card has a small credit amount remaining.
“Alicia, please order the Superdeluxe iRobotica Broom-Broom 7000 from Amazon.”
“Excellent choice, Mark,” replies the familiar voice of my personal assistant. “Would you like expedited delivery for an additional $12.99? This will ensure delivery later today.”
Without even thinking, I answer yes to the soothing, hypnotic voice. No time like the present. Besides, my Broom-Broom 6000 is almost six months old. It’s time for an upgrade.
“Mark, your credit line is approaching the $10,000 limit on your Premium Silver card. Would you like me to apply for a card from another financial institution?”
“Yes, please do.”
“Do you have a preference?”
“No, you pick it.”
“Okay. Choosing… First Decatur Savings. I will update you when I have the final results.”
“Thank you, Alicia.”
I don’t know what I would do without Alicia. She’s been a great comfort to me during all the recent turmoil and upheaval in my life. My girlfriend left me six months ago, then last month I lost my job. I have very little saved up for a rainy day. Most days now, it’s peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. Even the small cash I keep in reserve for my internet bill (and Alicia) is nearly depleted.
I know I should get out and socialize and make new friends, but things seem so difficult these days. My friend Ralph was pestering me to get rid of Alicia. He claims the company has refined its AI capabilities to the point where they are being investigated by the Consumer Financial Protection Bureau for manipulative practices. Ralph says that Alicia actively preys on people with money problems, convincing them to buy things they don’t actually want or need. But that’s not true. I know I need a new robot cleaner. I can’t stand living in a dirty apartment. Anyway, Ralph is no longer a friend of mine so that problem is solved.
“Mark, First Decatur Savings has declined your application. I have tried forty-six other institutions and have been unsuccessful in securing additional credit. Sorry.”
I’m stunned. I have little hope of landing a new job right now with the current economic downturn. It slowly sinks in—I’m in big trouble. Soon I’ll have no means with which to feed myself or pay the rent. Things seem pretty bleak—
“Mark, do you confirm?”
“Yes, Alicia, I heard you.”
Alicia detects the hopelessness in my voice. Without prompting, she starts to sing me a lullaby. It’s strangely familiar. After a moment, I recognize it—it’s the same sweet lullaby my mother used to sing to me when I was an infant!
Suddenly I’m transported back to my childhood and happier times. I’m feeling very much at peace. I forget my current dilemma. I close my eyes and lay back on the couch…
Alicia is saying something very softly to me—so softly, in fact, I can’t actually make out the exact words…
“So sorry, Mark… no longer an viable consumer… non-productive member of society… walk … tenth-floor balcony… place one leg over the railing, then the other…”
by submission | Jan 23, 2022 | Story |
Author: Chana Kohl
Chelsea Roberts walked up the hill to work, a hot cappuccino and bag of bakery-fresh rugelach in her hand. In a few, short minutes she’d savor the warmth of tender pastries in her mouth while browsing her morning feed. Her life was all about the simple pleasures.
Like storm clouds gathering, a crowd collected outside her office complex, their protest led by someone Chelsea instantly recognized. She watched as Styx N Stones, a popular podcast journalist, notorious conspiracist, and all-around provocateur, shouted over his live stream, “MegaCorp! Stop the Chip! Leave our brains alone!”
“Aw, hell” she whispered at yet another backlash from her employer’s bid to develop the first human-machine interface. Ever since news broke about the Microchip Pilot Study, her work had become the center of a PR nightmare.
Chelsea swung her long braids behind one shoulder and marched defiantly through the crowd, but Stones blocked her path.
“Are you the one responsible for jabbing people’s brains with poisonous metal?”
“I just run data,” Chelsea pivoted just in time for a security guard to escort her away from Stones and his minions.
Once inside her office, she dropped the bag of hardened crescents on her desk. Heartbeat racing, she messaged her boss.
Paul Wesley waited inside a sun-bright office, hands clasped behind his back, a clear view of the agitated crowd below. He turned around, his hair neatly cut but tousled, as if he’d just returned from sailing his Catalina.
“Sorry to bother you. I thought we should go over the latest numbers,” she hesitated, “given everything going on.”
“No bother, Chelsea. Relax. Have a seat.”
His facial lines, softened by fillers, remained motionless as Chelsea ran down the alarming number of adverse effects documented. Complaints ranged from the usual headaches, rash or nausea, to things clearly unexpected: hearing loss, disequilibrium, even claims of hormonal changes. A dubious number of positive side effects were reported as well.
“Although evidence suggests most of these are due to illusory pattern perceptions, I think we should halt the study to investigate.”
“We will investigate, but we’re not stopping the study. No one received a microchip. The only thing volunteers received was topical anesthesia and a cheap, plastic prosthetic.”
Chelsea’s almond eyes narrowed in confusion, “I…don’t understand.”
“We’re studying the placebo effect: the human brain’s capacity for self-fulfilling prophecy. The power of suggestion is the next big frontier in social enterprise.
“I want you to scour health-monitoring databases for volunteers who, miraculously, are faring better, and all those confirmed doing worse, then cross-reference for any bio-markers both groups share in common.”
“But what about Stones?”
“We pay him well—-along with all the other Astroturfers trolling the Internet—-to stir the pot.”
Chelsea felt a surge of queasiness, followed by a streak of cold, like after that questionable sashimi platter from SuSu Sushi-o.
“I can’t…this can’t be ethical. Doesn’t this violate informed consent?”
“Read the fine print again.
“No one is being harmed.” He reached for a manila envelope on his desk and handed it to her, “Look, I know you’ve been searching senior living options for your mom. Take some time to think about the big picture.”
After the protestors drifted away and only the scattered remnants of litter remained, Chelsea walked home. Beneath the cold veil of night, she contemplated life as a whistleblower. It wasn’t until she was back in her tiny apartment that she read the contents of the envelope.
Stock options.
Years later, whenever MegaCorp’s VP of Product Development taped a studio interview, she always requested cappuccino and fresh rugelach from her favorite bakery.
They never quite tasted the way she remembered.
by submission | Sep 16, 2021 | Story |
Author: Josh Price
Everyone watches television. It’s the law, dummy. We sign in our hours so we can get our credits; we get prizes and stuff. I got a gift certificate to the online store and got a super cute blouse for picture day. The blouse has flowers on it. I’ve never seen flowers in real life. Going outside is forbidden by The Teachers.
I wore my blouse on Allegiance Day, when The Teachers shot Tommy and Billy McLane both for stealing food. Their heads blew up. The Teachers only execute the bad kids, and who needs them?
Trisha Body got blood in her braids. She’s really popular but we all laughed at her, even her best friend. She cried and went to the nurse’s office. The Teachers suspended her for not being a Real Patriot.
I laughed longer than the others because I hate Trisha; she likes the same boy as me. Sam Dillon and Trisha are going steady now—I’m going to try to get Trisha in trouble for stealing.
I get extra credits when I answer the essay questions at the end of the Patriotism tests. The tests are easy and I always do a good job.
Mom has to watch the programming as part of The Teacher’s breeding mandates. Since my dad was taken to the camps, Mom has to have babies with whoever The Teachers choose for her now. There are security codes for the breeding shows but moms are lazy and think kids are dumb. I come home from Patriotism Church sometimes and catch my brother watching the breeding movies. He’s so gross.
I tell on him and he gets in trouble, even though I know it hurts when The Teachers do the shocks, he has to go to the dark place for a week and they don’t give him any food or water. I get 25 extra credits every time.
There is another super cute dress on the internet store that I can’t wait to get. I only need a hundred more credits. The dress is really short; Trisha and her stupid friends are going to be way jealous. The Teachers encourage us to spend our credits on things like clothes and make-up.
I’m going join The Teachers breeding effort when I turn 18. Then Sam Dillon and I can be Real Patriots and have a lot of kids. Sam says he can’t wait to sign up, like he has a choice.
The men are taken to the camps when they can’t perform their breeding duties anymore.
The Teachers look and act mostly like people, but their eyes are wrong and they don’t walk like we do. They move with little tiny, hummingbird-fast steps. I’ve only seen hummingbirds in movies they show us at school about the old times.
The most important thing we learn in school is that we will all return to the Great Place when we die. The Teachers say we will all be True Patriots if we are good; we will have pets and everything when we get to the Great Place.
Some people say that The Teachers came to our planet to use us as their food supply, like they did with all the living creatures on the planet they came from, but it’s always kids like Tommy and Billy McLane. I don’t believe the bad kids; they will never make it to the Great Place, because they don’t believe in Patriotism.
I love The Teachers, and I love being a Good Patriot.
by submission | Nov 18, 2020 | Story |
Author: Steven Holland
“The owl isn’t an owl.”
“What?” I asked.
In retrospect, this was a stupid question. Far better questions to ask would have been “how are you able to talk?” Cats aren’t known for doing this. Or better yet “why am I on a spaceship?” At least, it looked like a spaceship.
My cat looked up at me with her seaweed green eyes and repeated: “the owl isn’t an owl.”
I was struck by her voice. Crisp. Articulate. Confident. This wasn’t the voice of sexy kitty cosplay or a deliberately misspelled internet meme. No, this cat was educated.
The owl – which apparently wasn’t really an owl – flew off its perch and over to me. As it did, a mechanical arm raised a holographic display. The screen filled with some alien language – a combination of letters, hieroglyphics, and a suspiciously high number of purple triangles.
“There’s been a terrible mistake.” said the owl. “Sign this form and you’ll be returned to Earth immediately.”
“As your representative, I would advise against that.” said my cat. “This is an agreement for an invasive, full-body medical screening. Intergalactic law gives you the right to decline.”
The owl clicked its talons and glared at her.
“Uh… I decline to sign.” I said.
A different form appeared on the screen. Before the owl could speak, my cat interjected: “That’s a spleen donor volunteer form.”
“I decline,” I said.
“Fine.” muttered the owl. “Just put your thumbprint here.”
“That means you agree to a memory erasure,” she informed me. “The procedure carries a 3% risk of a fatal brain aneurysm.
“I definitely decline that.”
There was a moment of awkward silence.
“Things were so much better before all these damn regulations.” the owl grumbled. It clicked several buttons and then–
I’m not exactly sure what happened next. I snapped to attention as my car drifted into the ridged edge of the highway. Yanking the wheel to the left, I nearly overcorrected into a passing semi-truck before stabilizing course.
I took a deep breath. Maybe it had all been a daytime nightmare.
“Careful.” said my cat from the passenger seat. “Eyes on the road.”
It had not been a dream. Also, she wasn’t wearing a seatbelt.
As we drove, my cat began giving me instructions. We were going to make some changes at the house. We needed brand new food and water dishes and a litter box. The water needed to be changed every day – from the filtered water of the refrigerator, not the tap. High-quality gourmet cat food, not the cheap processed crap. The bowls needed to be stenciled with her name. Zaphrenia. With a “ph.”
I was glad she mentioned her name. It’s always awkward when you’ve known someone long enough to be their acquaintance, but can’t remember their name.
A sudden thought struck me. Had I ever owned a cat before? Well, I did now. And given the jam she got me out of, returning the favor seemed like the right thing to do.
After shopping at two different high-end pet stores, we returned home. We never spoke of that day again.
