by J.R. Blackwell | Feb 8, 2008 | Story
Author : J.R. Blackwell, Staff Writer
“What this business needs is a Sherlock!†said Cupcake, who would become Rachell’s mother. “A Sherlock could really figure things out around here.â€
Cupcake rolled down to the local genetic engineering building, with its ionized windows and shiny tables, and signed up to get herself a Sherlock. She didn’t play with the formula much, never had been much on customization. All Cupcake added was pink hair so that mother and daughter would match. The printers in the building spat out a goo that could, and would, become a Sherlock. Cupcake spread herself wide and had herself implanted with a Sherlock.
Three hours, a glorified turkey baster and fifteen minutes with her feet in the air later, Cupcake found herself on the four month, fast track pace to a baby. She didn’t take the ultra fast, two-week route, because she heard that caused stretch marks, and Cupcake wanted to keep her figure. All those advances, and still no cure for stretch marks. Ain’t that always the way.
Cupcake wasn’t much on scanning the net for reviews, so it would come as no surprise to anyone that nine months later, she didn’t get what she expected. Sure, Rachell had pink hair, and sure, she did organize the storeroom when she was two, but the little thing was moody, she kept irregular hours and threw things at the mantle-piece.
Rachell catalogued items endlessly, breaking down their component parts. She caught shoplifters before they even stepped through the door. It was unnerving to other customers. At night, Cupcake had to lock up the sugar. Not candy, the girl had no interest in what she called “cheap thrills of children†but sugar, which is what the girl would eat at night with a spoon.
Sherlocks weren’t reviewed well, but Cupcake resolved to love the one she was with. “Children are a sacred commitment,†she said, because it sounded nice. She had heard somebody say that on a drama on the net. Cupcake’s parroting always made Rachell roll her eyes.
Forever annoyed at her mother, Rachell called Cupcake names like Simpleton, Cake-Brain and some other words that Cupcake didn’t understand. Sometimes Rachell just called Cupcake by her name, but said it like it was the worst possible insult in the world. But Rachell never changed her pink hair, though it wouldn’t be hard to do. Cupcake took that as a sign of love, and she took her love where she could get it.
The 365 Tomorrows Free Podcast:
Voices of Tomorrow
This is your future:
Submit your stories to 365 Tomorrows
by Stephen R. Smith | Feb 7, 2008 | Story
Author : Steve Smith, Staff Writer
Thom watched the two men approach him across the alleyway, leaving the crumpled figure they’d been beating to crawl moaning in amongst the piles of garbage.
“I told you to get the fuck out of here,” the taller man yelled, waving his hands, “are you deaf or stupid?”
“Either deaf or stupid,” Thom repeated, at first loud enough for the men to hear and then to himself “neither deaf nor stupid?”
“Not smart asshole!” The shorter, wider man reached him first, stepping into a wind up and letting a punch fly at Thom’s face. When the fist entered the place where Thom’s face had been, it simply was no longer there. Thom watched the fist streaking by, and pausing, first gently fractured the ulna and then with deliberate care shattered the humerus as they passed. He noted with interest the sudden shortening of the upper arm as the muscles contracted without resistance. “Humerus, but not funny,” again voicing the observation more to himself, but still out loud. Momentum carried the stocky man screaming into a heap on the pavement behind him.
“I’ll show you not funny.” The taller man was within striking distance, having brought both hands up shoulder high to swing them down hammer-like towards Thom’s ears. At the moment the two hands collided with each other, Thom studied from below with fascination the effect of the impact on their individual bones. “Carpals come and carpals go,” he whispered, plucking several out, moving to observe from the side. “Met a carpal, couldn’t stay,” he almost sang, extracting one of the longer bones with apparent care and adding it to the smaller two. “Phalanges, phalanges, one two three.” Smiling, he pocketed all six pieces before allowing the remaining bones to shatter amongst the pulpy mess of the resected hand.
There was barely any screaming from the tall one, rather he simply teared up silently as he fell to his knees, holding his ruined hands before him.
“Bits and pieces, again with me.” Thom continued humming the tune, enjoying the way the sounds displaced things in the air around him, continuing along the alley, until again he and his observations were no longer there.
The 365 Tomorrows Free Podcast:
Voices of Tomorrow
This is your future:
Submit your stories to 365 Tomorrows
by Duncan Shields | Feb 6, 2008 | Story
Author : Duncan Shields, Staff Writer
The housing of my pilot node rang with impact. I snapped out of my reverie and watched the six targets arc away from either side of my display. Missiles away. My helmet was crooked but I didn’t dare let go of the sticks for a second until I was sure I was in the green.
I wasn’t dead so I fired back. It’s amazing how much of war’s battles could be encapsulated in that single sentence.
Small flowers bloomed kilometers away from me in the desolation. No impacts.
My breathing was ragged. Something must have been damaged in the last attack because it was rapidly getting much too hot in the cockpit. No sensors were whining and hull integrity seemed stable but I was coated with battle sweat.
The six targets looped around. Panic-stricken, I watched their icons hit their apex of retreat and then start to enlarge as they returned for attack run number six.
Immediately the grid flashed up on my screen and the stars blotted out. The enemy ships became red triangles. My targeting comps clacked into life like overactive children.
I could only count four triangles.
I took my hands off the sticks and adjusted my helmet with a sigh. Two unaccounted targets could only mean one thing.
The housing of my pilot node rang again as one half of it pounded inwards, closing on my leg. I screamed as the alert beacon drowned me out.
My screen went to static and my stats came up.
I looked up in agony to the ceiling. Of course it was Andrea who opened the hatch. It just had to be the girl I had a crush on who was next in line. I had no kills, my leg hurt, I stank, and she didn’t even know my name.
I begged God to not let this time be the time that she remembered me.
Her large brown eyes looked down at me in amusement. She cocked her head. Her hair was just an inch longer than regulation but she hadn’t been reprimanded. Her scores were high. With the light shining behind her, she looked angelic.
“You okay soldier?†she asked with a mocking smile.
Later, in sick bay, I came up with about a dozen great replies to that question. All of them would have been better than the answer I stammered back.
“Uh, yeah. I guess.â€
The 365 Tomorrows Free Podcast:
Voices of Tomorrow
This is your future:
Submit your stories to 365 Tomorrows
by submission | Feb 5, 2008 | Story
Author : Ping Sharoda
The small man with the strange hands passed thru the smashed opening and moved into the large room. It was dimly lit from the holes in the roof and there was a door at the other end. He retracted his claws and clenched his fists.
“Be careful Puppyâ€, said the large man with the faceted eyes. He moved slowly, more cautiously, behind the small man. “You can’t tell where it might be and I don’t want you to get hurt again.â€
The steel wire muscles of the smaller man quivered slightly, his head bent forward. He opened his hands and his claws extended their full inch. “I smell it Johnny. It’s here, I can smell it,†he said and moved to the door.
The large man with the facetted eyes hung the rusty wire strung with rats on his belt. He put one hand to his temple and scanned the room for anything, any sign, any clue that would help them. There was only the disturbed dust trail and it headed to the door. He couldn’t smell anything.
I’m so hungry Johnny, and I can smell it.†There was a frayed edge to his voice. “I’m tired of rats and it hurt me…I want to get it…and kill it…and eat it.â€
Overhead, in the shadows, in the rafters, Becky giggled quietly to her self. Today’s game was to get some of the rats that the large speckle-eyed man had on the wire. She generally trapped her own food but she was hungry right now and so was her father; and today was her birthday. She could have anything she wanted on her birthday. Today she was ten.
Behind the door was Becky’s dog; a small metal military surplus monster that hovered a couple of feet off the ground. Its blades were extended and spinning and its static discharge pod was fully charged. It sounded like a purring cat as it waited in the dark.
“Open the door, Puppy,†said the large man with the faceted eyes.
Becky mouthed the words to Happy Birthday and her smile broadened as she watched the small man reach for the handle of the door. She was quiet and still as she sang soundlessly. She didn’t want to spoil the surprise.
The small man with the clawed hands turned the handle and pulled open the door.
When the commotion stopped she climbed down from the rafters and picked up the wire. Carrying the string of rats, she followed the trail of blood to the hole in the wall where the 2 men had first come in. She looked outside for the men and for her dog but saw neither. She shrugged her shoulders and thought,â€The dog will find his way home, he always doesâ€. Then she headed out, toward the trees, toward home, to show her father her birthday present.
The 365 Tomorrows Free Podcast:
Voices of Tomorrow
This is your future:
Submit your stories to 365 Tomorrows
by Sam Clough | Feb 4, 2008 | Story
Author : Sam Clough, Staff Writer
They met each other on the high wall that surrounded the empty city. It was truly empty now: even the soldiers had left, abandoning the surface, chasing the population underground, into bunkers or into the big groundstations in the desert.
He had a bag of food and drink, scavenged from shops and homes that had survived the evacuation intact. She looked like she’d just come from a party in the good end of town. She was wearing a long black dress, inset with reflective scraps so that it shimmered like the night sky, and she had a music box tucked under her arm.
When the evacuation order had come, they’d both separately judged that it would be pointless to run and hide. She was too proud, he was suspicious of the government. The cracks crazing across the sky drove them both to distraction.
The wall was as wide as a good road. The inside edge was a sheer drop, fifteen metres down into the leafy walldistricts. The outside edge was protected by a raised ledge about a metre high and the same wide.
He dropped his bag by the ledge, rummaged in it, and brought out a folded square of cloth. He spread it over the ledge: the edges draped over each side. He quickly unpacked a meal of bread, smoked meat and chopped vegetables that had been encased in clear plastic. Two tall metal beakers followed out of the pack. He poured wine into hers and water into his. Reflexively, he was deferring to her: she didn’t notice.
She sat delicately on the ledge opposite him, sipped his wine and took small bites of his meal. They didn’t say a word, but looked out from the city that had been their home, out into the desert that the walls had kept back. Every once in a while, one or the other of them would glance upwards at the sky, at the cracks which were perceptibly crawling across it.
The sun began to set. He produced several small lanterns from his bag and set them down on the wall, forming a wide circle of illumination. She placed her music box in the centre of that circle, and lightly tapped the top of it. And suddenly, they were not alone: the box grabbed photons out of the air, and reformed them, projecting four abstract figures. Blurry, unfocused musicians, each with a different instrument. For the first time since he’d seen her on the wall, he tried to speak, but found that he couldn’t. She pointed to the box and the phantom band, attempting to explain that the music box pre-emptively cancelled any other sounds. He didn’t understand, but shrugged and seemed to accept it.
The band struck up. She smiled, twirled and laughed silently, the lanternlight reflecting brilliantly from her dress. She hopped up onto the ledge, and beckoned him to follow. Slowly at first, but gathering courage and confidence with each measure the band played, they danced up and down the wall, within their pool of light.
The damage to the sky had reached a critical point, and fragments began to fall. They heard nothing, wrapped up in the music, the flash and whirl of it, the ever-quickening steps. A fragment crashed into the city, and they felt the shockwave. A moment of unsteadiness, but they carried on regardless: dancing under the light of a moon that neither of them had known was there.
The 365 Tomorrows Free Podcast:
Voices of Tomorrow
This is your future:
Submit your stories to 365 Tomorrows
