Flash Fiction 2.0 Story Thread

September 2010

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Sep 14 - lutzr(42)

[lutzr]

I'm putting the stories for the Flash Fiction contest in this thread.  Good reading!  (Make sure you keep reading to page 2.)

Just a reminder, send me your votes via e-mail, to russell.lutz@iotacycle.com.

[lutzr]

THREE MILLION BC


“Are you ready, Rupert?” Dr. Dumont asked.

“Yes, Sir.”

“Still comfortable?” the doctor asked, checking a computer screen for signs of anxiety.

“Very,” said Rupert, as a peculiar mechanical whine emerged from somewhere in the research pavilion.

“I’m starting the countdown.  When I reach ten, concentrate on the word prehistory.  OK, here we go.  Twenty....nineteen....”

The table on which Rupert was strapped began to turn counterclockwise.

“Five....four....”

The table spun almost beyond human endurance.

“Two...one....zero!”

“Oh my God!” screamed a research assistant a moment before she collapsed.  Two scientists rushed to her aid.  Three others threw up. 

Dumont scanned gauges and switches.  “Scofield, you idiot, you set the degrobilzer to 99.750 percent.  It’s supposed to be 99.749. Look what happened!”

Panicked, Scofield fled. 

“Quick!” Dumont yelled.  Check the emergency procedures!”

 Only a part of the table remained.  Resting on it were Rupert’s legs, but only from the knees down. Rupert’s toes were wiggling. 

Dumont’s stomach lurched at the sight.  It reminded him of decapitated chickens whose wings flapped for minutes afterward. “We must bring him back, immediately!”

“I’m reducing renticular renification by zero point three,” said an associate.  “Everything should rematerialize within 90 seconds.”

Meanwhile, Rupert floated onto a jungle-like floor, landing softly on his back.  Trying to stand, he discovered his legs below the knees were gone. 

Suddenly, the ground shook from tremendous thumps. Rupert rolled toward a thicket.  “Bring me back,” he screamed. “Part of me was left behind.  I can’t walk.  Hurry.  Something’s coming.”

A huge Maximus Tarydoctilicepithus with gigantic claws slashed treetops.  One fell on the monster’s head, crushing its minuscule brain.

In the giant dinosaur’s shadow was a short, three-legged, blade-carrying creature.  Spotting Rupert and sensing unfamiliar flesh, the six-eyed thing lunged.  Rupert twisted aside when the blade plunged into the soil.  Yanking it free, he slashed the creature three times. 

Instead of expiring, the screaming creature snapped a claw off the Tarydoctilicepithus’ foot and sliced Rupert’s arm.   Lunging again, the creature slashed Rupert’s chest.   Somehow, Rupert managed to ram the blade into one of the creature's eyes. 

The next thing Rupert knew, he was on a table surrounded by familiar faces.

“I saw a huge Maximus Tarydoctilicepithus,” he said.

“Hmm.  I’d place that at Three Million BC,” said Dumont. 

“Then I was attacked by a three-legged creature with six eyes.  He had a blade.  But I got it, and we fought. He used a piece of dinosaur claw to slash my arm—right here.  And my chest right across here.”

“Hallucinations,” Dumont said, examining Rupert’s intact arm and chest.

“But it was so real.  I felt the sting and saw my blood.”

Rupert didn’t mention how the combat had exhilarated him.  He'd never fought anything in his life.  Now he craved more. 

If only my dad could’ve seen me fighting a weird creature, after surviving an attack by a prehistoric dinosaur.  And with half my legs missing. 

That’d make his dad proud. No more calling Rupert a pipsqueak, a useless piss ant.  That’d make his dad want to parade him around bars and yell to rum pots, “Hey guys! I want you to meet my son, terror of the jungle.  He’s tough as nails.  Took on a hundred foot tall dinosaur. Then went hand-to-hand with a three-legged sonovabitch with six freakin’ eyes.  Got the bastard good.  Did him in with his own knife.  My son the knife fighter.  My son the jungle terrorist.”   

Then all the boozers would slap Rupert’s back, shake his hand, buy him shots and beers.  They'd put him on their shoulders, and carry him to a bawdy house.   

He called his dad. 

“Well if it ain’t the piss ant.  What the hell do you want?  A handout?”

“I wanted you to know you’re gonna be proud of me.”

”For what?  Stealing a baby’s lollypop?” The old man snickered, then hung up.

Rupert asked Dr. Dumont to send him back to Three Million BC.   

“I can’t.  The university canceled my project when they found out that part of you remained in the present, while the rest of you disappeared into prehistory.”

“But I gotta get back.  I gotta kill one of those creatures and bring it back to the present.”

“Sorry, Rupert. The fools destroyed my equipment and burned my research notes.  My experiments were leading edge. Nobody can help you.”       

Rupert paid nerds to construct a rotating table and a time machine. 

Setting the machine for Three Million BC, he strapped on a bandolier loaded with knives, lay on the table, and pressed START. 

He went nowhere, except to the hospital for treatment of extreme dizziness.

The nerds made adjustments.  He tried again.  This time his hospital stay was longer.

Two months later, Rupert walked into Louie’s Lounge, and threw a bloody, three-legged, six-eyed creature onto the bar. 

“What the hell is this,” his dad asked, noticing Rupert’s blood-soaked clothes.

“I caught this thing trying to rape a woman.  Killed the sonovabitch.  He cut me.  See?”

All the wet brains gathered in awe.  Some poked fingers into the creature’s bloody wounds.

“You done this?” asked Rupert’s dad. “How?”

“With this pen knife.”

Swaying on a barstool, his dad examined the knife.  His wet brain expanded the size so that it looked to him like a bloody dagger.  The other sots saw everything from a bayonet to a sword.

“Hey guys!  Meet my son, the hero!  He just killed this three-legged sonovabitch with six freakin’ eyes.  Saved a woman from rape.  Killed him with this here dagger.” 

Everybody cheered, shook Rupert’s hand, bought him shots and beers.  Pooling cash, they took him to a bawdy house and treated him to a good time.

Afterward, they sipped buck-a-bottle wine while cremating the creature’s body. 

The next morning, Rupert wrote a check and thank you note.  Tucking them into an envelope he addressed it to:  Set Department, Universal Studios, California.       
   

[lutzr]

ROBBIE


Robbie studied his metallic face in the mirror. He looked intently as the cold unemotional face staring back at him.

‘I am such a fine looking robot,’ he thought, ‘surely the finest the world has ever seen.’

He trundled to a black lacquered book case and gazed at the books. His eyes fell on an Isaac Asimov anthology.

‘I love it when I am read his stories,’ he thought. “What an amazing imagination Asimov had.”

He spun about and trundled along the grey carpet of the large apartment overlooking the Thames River, and gazed out of the window.

‘Oh how I long to be outside,’ he thought to himself. “Whatever would people make of me? I am sure they have never seen a robot such as me before.”

He trundled back along the grey carpet and came to a coffee table positioned in the middle of the room. He looked at the table and analyzed the pictures that were sat upon it in bright silver frames.

His focused on the image of a man and a woman in their early forties, arm in arm, in front of a large statue of a horse.

‘They have taught me well my creators,’ he thought. ‘I must protect and obey them always.’

Then he focused his attention to the picture next to it. This picture contained an image of a young  boy with bright red hair and a plethora of freckles.

‘What a goofy looking creature he is,’ Robbie considered.

He then trundled his way back over to the window, and gazed out of it again.

“I can not wait to start exterminating people, the time is surely close,” he uttered out loud in a cold mechanical voice.

At that moment a door opened suddenly and a tall strawberry-blonde lady came into the room.

Robbie turned and looked at the face of her; it was the same one as the photograph.

Robbie began to move towards her…

“I have made you fish sticks and chips for tea luv,” she said studying Robbie.

Her pretty face morphed into an enormous smile.

“Boy you have that robot trundle movement down pat…It is perfect!”

She made her way over to her son.

“Then afterwards, your dad and I will go with you and watch on as you go trick and treating outside.”

“Thanks mum,” Robbie said, as he pulled the silver painted cardboard box from his head. “You are the best…and I am sure everyone is going to love this wicked Robot costume you and dad made for me. Boy I simply love Halloween. I wonder how much candy I am going to get this year!”

The end.

[lutzr]

PAINTING


The house was alive. It lived breathed and hated. It tolerated no one save for a few house staff and its owner whom it loathed more than anyone for the owner gave it life and gave it soul and held it captive. It seethed with the ache to break from him yet it knew it never would.

The man was a bad man if a man at all. He lived alone save for the butler the maid and the house. Every day he left early in the morning and every night he returned. Always he returned with a victim. Today it was a woman. The previous two days it had been men.

Slipping his cloven feet into specially made shoes the man had gone out as he did everyday: in trim black jacket, a broad grey striped tie, and with a murderous club.

Have the grinder cleaned and ready for my return he would say everyday to the butler who never spoke but nodded. He left written instructions for the maid, who was upstairs making the beds. As he left the house it screamed at him, a thunderous cacophony of layers and layers and layers of voices.

On a street in the city he found the next one. Checking her face against the portrait in his mind he smiled. Without warning he walked up to her, blonde, pretty, unsuspecting, raised his club and brought it down with enough force to kill her. No one saw, no one knew, no one understood as he hoisted her lifeless form onto his shoulder and carried her home.

Using Solomon’s dark and ancient magic he brought her dead body to consciousness. Awareness awaking, she found herself chained to a timber beam in the basement. Her hands tied at the wrist and hoisted above her. Her legs dangling over a vicious machine below.

This is the grinder he said seeing the terror on her face. And it’s going to hurt. The butler turned on the switch and went upstairs as the machine blades hummed. The man stepped forward, his cloven feet unshod and clopping around the dirt floor. Slowly he turned a wheel and the woman began to sink toward the grinder. She started screaming and kicking. The sound was fear but became a much different sound when the grinder first caught her feet.

God, oh god, please, no. crunch. the pain, it hurts so much. grind. dear god, help me. shred. someone please help me. rend. for god’s sake help me she screamed. God? The man laughed. God has forsaken you. You are unworthy and so are mine. Then he smiled and said the pain will never end.

She screamed and he laughed out loud. No one can hear you save us. We feed upon the sound. Scream, my pretty, scream.

The red juice from her masticated body poured through the other end of the grinder pooling in a large galvanized bucket. She screamed oh god, please no, help me, god, help me, even as the last of her was lowered into the grinder. Her neck and her jaw and her skull and her hair and the screaming never stopped. She poured into the bucket. Nothing left but a gooey sticky flow of red and the endless screams of pain.

Then the man carried the bucket upstairs. The butler and the maid had spread out a drop cloth. They had paintbrushes in hand. The red walls of the house shouted at them but they ignored the sound. The man set the still screaming bucket down.

Let’s begin he said and the three dipped their horsehair brushes into the bucket of woman and spread her screaming on the walls.

[lutzr]

YOU HEAR IT TOO, DON’T YOU?


It was something you did not want to hear after you’d tucked yourself in for the night.  Definitely a thumping sound, and definitely something unusual to your new house.  You had almost dozed off with a good book in your hands, but now the noise has you wide-awake and feeling somewhat apprehensive.  Instinctively you put the book down on the nightstand and raise your head off the pillow, listening intently.  Two distinct footsteps fall upon the wooden kitchen floor directly below your bedroom.  You drop your head back and pull the blankets over you.  Panic takes grip, and your breath shortens to a wisp.  Is there a burglar downstairs, or are you just jumping to conclusions again? And in case it is a prowler, you can’t chalk up a straight idea to save your life, which, at the moment, is exactly what you need most.

You had just finished the final chapter of a Dean Koontz suspense novel, and all those other books you’d read about murderers and unsoundly stalkers were doing little good, except to force a tear down your face as you lay shivering under the blanket.

Moments later things quiet down.  Perhaps they weren’t footsteps after all, but the loose shutter above the refrigerator you’ve refused to fix for so long.  You give a sigh of relief, and a thin smile begins to cross your face.  You whisper to yourself aloud, “Silly.  Probably just the wind.  I’ll bet I forgot to close the kitchen window again.” For a second there you even consider the neighbor’s cat, jumping back and forth off the ledge.

You lay still for a few more minutes before convincing yourself to turn off the lamp and drop the blanket from your head—but you still want to be sure.  You ease your legs out of bed and put on your slippers.  Before that the floor felt frozen beneath your feet, and you dimmed the lights to where you could just feel your way around the room or, just in case, duck in some shadows.

As you approach the door, your steps touch the parquet tiles ever so slightly, almost as if you’re walking on the balls of your feet.  You did your best to remain silent, even though you were sure it was the wind.  You kept telling yourself over and over it was only your imagination, and that everything was going to be all right.  But then you curse your own weakness as a floorboard creaks, protesting your own passage.  You’d made it all the way to the top of the stairs when you noticed the lights were on.  You had already stopped in your tracks, upset at yourself, when you heard that new sound issue forth from the kitchen, along with part of what looked like a human shadow.

A man’s voice, deep and throaty, cries out, “Hurumph!” Uh-oh, the footsteps are crossing the kitchen floor again, this time approaching the base of the stairs.  You turn and bolt back into the bedroom and slam the door shut.  You lock the door and slide a chair against the knob.  You run to the phone on the nearby bedstand and, very frightened, sit on the floor against the wall just beside the bathroom door, trying to figure out what number you should dial.  A friend? Immediate family? 911 for emergency? Your fear has catapulted you into a state of utter confusion.

The bathroom next to you has two doors: one from this bedroom and one from the other.  You rush inside, practically tripping over the bathmat and pull the little gold latch.  As you tighten your grip on the portable phone you slide down to your knees and bang your head along the side of the tub.  Your ears are now ringing, and your face is glued to the synthetic-tile wall.  For a split second you listen, barely able to halt your panicked cries and deep breaths.

Thump! Thump! Thump!

The sound of heavy boots is coming up the stairs at a rapid pace—in fact probably already at the top! You force yourself up, go to the bathroom window and scream at the top of your lungs, but no one hears your desperate cries.  Then you decide to try the phone again.  With some fumbling you set it to your ear.  You’ve dialed 611 instead of 911, so terrified that you mistook the 6 for a 9.

Wait! Outside the bedroom, the intruder fiddles with the doorknob, and as if by magic the lock clicks and the door opens.  The chair that acted as a wedge fell and the intruder entered.  It’s now become nothing more than an obstacle for the prowler’s footsteps.  On top of that, you suddenly realize you left the key in the hole on the other side. 

You didn’t wait around to face whoever it is that’s stalking you.  You unbolt the gold latch that leads to the guest bedroom.  You flee inside and swing the door shut.  You want to scream again but fear has choked you as if a thick hand’s wrapped around your larynx.  You try to gather yourself but a trickle of blood—the result of the tub two minutes ago, remember?—rolls down your head and causes the room to spin.  You rock in gentle circles ready to lose control and perhaps consciousness at any moment, but the sound of the door being forced open keeps you awake and fully aware. 

The intruder now comes in full sight of you, appearing in the arch of the doorway.  He used the same key on this door that he used on the other.  And he’s got a big ass cake knife in his hand with your name on it.  Boy, did you marry the wrong person! You gasp for air, as the blade slashes your throat, the person you cared for no better than the murders and unsoundly stalkers in those novels you once loved so much.

-END-

[lutzr]

DO THEY CRY CRIMSON TEARS?


We hurried through the fire escape as quickly as we could. The crush of people was tremendous. Behind Geoff, a mother puked onto her six-year old boy. Christ, he was so shocked from what he'd seen in the auditorium that he didn't even notice the hot bile running down his face.

Ahead of us, the young Down's syndrome girl who used to water the plants in our garden in summer had fallen. Blood ran freely from her eyes, nose and mouth and it was only the morning after that I remembered puncturing her stomach with one of my stilettos.

God it was awful; I mean it was truly horrific. Geoff told me later that once we'd cleared the doors, he looked back and saw Mr. Clayton from the bakery on Town Street having a heart attack in the doorway. His four hundred-pound frame was stopping people behind him from getting out, so they punched and kicked him and tore his hair out.

Eventually he went to the ground and they just walked right over him.

The images we saw, the sounds we heard, the words we tried to ignore - they brought out the absolute worst in us all.

We spilled out into the night where the rain fell and the thunder cracked. Those of us left standing shouted out in relief and thumped one another on the back. Out in the rain soaked car park we felt home and dry.

Christ, the film company went way too far with that picture. There's no wonder Geoff and four of the other men agreed to do what they did next.

[lutzr]

THE EMPTY TIME OF VIRGIL MARZ


Virgil Marz was as ordinary as they came.

He wished.

It wasn't because he was the only living man born on Mars. Nope. And it wasn't because of his third eye. Because he didn't have one.

Virgil was extraordinary because of his unique ability to forget.

It wasn't that he was forgetful, certainly not. In fact, he had the best known tested memory on the planet. On Earth.

His gift, was being able to forget anything he chose. Bad Jokes, bad food, bad life. Because of this, he was tested relentlessly. Now ordinarily this kind of invasiveness would have driven anyone crazy, but Virgil chose to "forget", so it never bothered him. Unfortunately, this left huge gaps of "nothing" in his mind. It was as though his brain contained "empty time".

It was on one particularly beautiful autumn day in October that Virgil began to question his unique ability. He was thinking about his dear friend Caroline, who had a most difficult childhood, and whom envied the fact that Virgil could erase bad memories at will. She had longed for the ability to forget the tormenting memories that kept her up most nights. The physical and mental abuse her father put her through as a young child. But Caroline had grown into a wonderfully sensitive woman, a beautiful woman, who had devoted her life to helping others. She was a wonderful human being.

While Virgil, although a handsome and successful mathematician, had the sensitivity of a Dung Beetle. After all, if he said the wrong thing, did the wrong thing, or had a very very bad day, he could simply "forget about it". He would never actually "learn" from those experiences. He would never grow. He was beginning to realize that perhaps his ability was stifling him. But then Virgil, being who he was in spite of his gift, stopped his silly train of thought, and realized; he didn't really care! So he made himself forget the whole silly thought process.

Then came the following day.

It was a particularly beautiful autumn day in October...

End

[lutzr]

AND THE DEAD SHALL MAKE OUR BEDS


The small band of men sat high upon a hill overlooking the town. They had been there for some hours in the cold autumn chill, sitting just behind a stand of leafless pecan trees.

Observing this population, unseen, had not presented a problem. No one seemed to notice that they were there or if they did, no one cared or seemed , in the least, upset by their presence or by the fact that they were foreigners.

The town was quiet. It had been quiet for a long time. The townspeople went about their business on foot, the cars having been out of gas for years, so there was no noise of traffic. No horns, no rush of tires on pavement, no noise at all except for the slightest shuffling sound made as the citizens plodded along with their stumbling gait and their starring eyes.

There were small children on their way home from school in groups of twos and threes, women out for just an afternoon stroll to pass the time and hollow-eyed men,  mostly alone trudging back and forth.

No sound was ever heard from any of them… no laughing, no arguing, no complaining… They looked and moved much like a legion of the lost would do.. whole villages and counties, peopled with the dead, still walking and moving.

Back and forth they went, between their homes, their work, and their schools.. except for on Sundays, when they all walked, dressed in their finest clothes, to the little church in the corner of the town square. It was silent inside there, too. No singing was ever heard  …no ringing of church bells .The truth be known, the towns people did not speak anymore. They had no need of words .

There was housework done, clothes washed and pressed… daily rituals were still  kept. The work was quicker now that no meals had to be cooked, no marketing done  , no gardens kept. or dishes to be washed,  for you see, there was no need, as no one ever got hungry. That was all very well,  for the land was no longer able to yield anything safe to eat after the cloud had passed over it.

They  just did not want to eat anymore. You see, they did not need to, because they were dead.. all dead, the whole town, and the neighboring villages around them. In fact, this was the scene in all of the seven states that had been affected in the south.

It had occurred ,that there was an overload, at the nuclear plant. All had been assured that everything was under control and that no one had need to fear for his or her safety. Mistakes had been made. Calculations were off and the result was this undead population that had refused to lie down and be buried.


The older ones had become so dry and brittle that they had broken up into dust and just been scattered by the wind .The rest of them still walked about and did various jobs around the towns and country sides where they lived. Though dead, they still carried on certain aspects of their former lives.

Who knew how long it would be before they would all be dried up and gone ? It had been years, and still they walked, worked and kept their villages and farms. It was if fate had frozen them into their routines for eternity.

Captain Anson Carter rubbed his hands together to get the chill out of them .He and his men had been observing the goings on in the little village all morning and most of the afternoon.

Much of this continent had been utterly destroyed. It had only been in the past ten years or so that it was even  halfway safe for anyone else to venture here. The Captain and his crew had sailed here on mere speculation that there might be something salvageable left .

Most people did not know of these walking dead who ‘lived’ here, but the good Captain was going to enlighten them soon .Oh, yes.. very soon.


His plan was to herd them into his ships, store them in cages, and take them to the other side of the world where there would be work for them as household servants, factory workers and field hands. The children might even be worth something, too,  as playmates, for some of the families with an only child.

Captain Carter could see, in his minds` eye,  large monetary amounts tallying up, as he touted his undead servants to the public on his  home continent. Everyone would want an undead servant when they found out just how low the upkeep on one would be.. The possibilities were endless.

“Hell”, the Captain thought, “I just might take me a young, good looking female one home, myself,  to liven up my own household.”

[lutzr]

AYE EYE 357 EM


“Boss, lookit that!”

“What have you got Yard Dog?”

“Dunno fer sure but ah think it’s an Aye Eye 357 Em.”

“Let me have your seat Yard, go get me an espresso beer. I want to study this thing some before we get out and collect it.”

“Comin’ right up boss, wanna toke to go wit it?”

“No, save that for desert tonight. We’re running low and it’s a long way back to Pegasus 51. We are a week from stocking up.”

Yard Dog headed for the galley and Raquel studied the stationary robot in the monitor. Zooming in to the two foot level, she studied the high tensile stainless beryllium hide. Not a rivet out of place but one small dent above and behind the left leg. Someone had probably tried to shoot it from a distance with a high caliber projectile gun.

This meant someone had at least survived the initial attack and tried to plug it from a distance as it left. They made two fatal decisions. They let the AI357m know they were still alive and they pissed it off.

“Careful boss, it’s hot.”

“Ah, thanks Yard.”

Raquel set the steaming thermos mug near the monitor and noted with satisfaction the slim steam thread winding up from the sip hole.

“Whacha think Boss?”

“Easy Yard, run an EEG scan on this tomato can.”

“I did boss, nuthin’”

“Ok, run it again and this time keep it running. I want to tickle it some to see what happens. The damn thing has moss growing up around its feet, rain sediment, build up and dust all over its camera shield. The picture I see here is this thing has sat still for some time now, but you can’t trust an AI357m. It could, be exactly the picture it wants us to see.”

“Dammit all Boss, Why the hell did they ever create self learning AI’s with no directive?”

“Yard Dog, you have heard the arguments for 150 years now. The politically correct bullshit peaked with the theory that AI self learning robots should be treated as equals. Now run an electronic charge scan too. I want to know if there is any battery life in the tin beast.”

Rachel moved the ship to ‘observe rotate’ mode and soaked every detail into her 180 year old brain cells. No bells went off except for the lack of bells. Captain Rachel and Yard Dog ran every test they had in their arsenal including tickling beams, gamma, x-ray and every other scan they had on deck. Nothing.

Lu-Ten-Tant came in with news.

“Boss, the league just sent a bulletin.  The AI’s are active in this grid again. They have evidence of terrorist activity in the colonies. The closest action is about 8 light years from here.”

“Thanks Lute, prepare the ship for express to home. Garbage collection simply doesn’t pay enough to play with those tin brains. I’m not feeling good about this one. It’s too damn dead. We should see some evidence of battery at least.”

“You got it Boss” Lu-Ten-Tant left.

“Yard, what are you up too?”

“Getting’ ready to get physical Boss, the manual says the next step is the drill.”

“Hmm, I’m a little nervous now, but what the hell. This would bring some good coin if it is dead.”

Yard Dog launched a probe-bot and the drill attachment loaded a beryllium bit. Drilling was started into the chest of the AI statue with no result but a neat tunnel into its lube tank... There was no bleeding.

“Jeeze, Its dry Boss.”

“OK Yard, That’s enough. There are two many questions connected with this scrap node. We’re leaving it here until this whole uprising thing has been solved. Mark the co-ords and let’s get back to the Blu Munes Tavern. I want to prep the ship for a trip in the other damn direction while the league clears this area. Pull in the probe and let’s haul ass.”

“Boss… Ah can’t see the probe… It’s gone.”

“What do you mean gone?”

“It ain’t in communication and I don’t see it on the monitor.”

Rachel swung to the monitor and scanned the area around the AI.

“There it is. About a cubit toward the ship, lying on the ground.”

“Ah see it now, but its dead. Layin' on its side.”

“Throw the winch on it. Pull it right into the contamination bay”

“Got it boss.”

The monitor showed the defunct prob-bot streaming toward the ship.

“Com.  Bailey, a probe-bot is entering the contam bay. Get a team on it on the double. I want an autopsy in my hands within an hour with anything important in my hands as you find it.”

“In motion Boss.”

Captain Rachel took a satisfying sip of her hot, caffinated beer, pulled it away from her face to contemplate the steam and the ship blew the cockpit module into a far higher orbit.

Yard dog woke with his chair perched upside down over his body. His left arm was useless and he was covered in cuts and scrapes.

Unsteady, he stood leaning on the wall for support. Accessing the mess he saw the boss under the navigation consol and he was pretty sure her body couldn’t fold itself in that position in any natural way. With a quick check for breathing and pulse, it was not long before his mind concluded he was alone one hell of a long way from home.

Yard Dog hit the mayday screen and one finger typed a single page log explaining what happened. He checked the co-ords and found Lute had him set for ‘Home Express’.

He found an empty consol chair that was not damaged, tenderly settled in, assumed position and pressed the restraints button. His body was clamped. He pressed launch.

When Yard Dog woke again, the monitor showed streaming stars.

The com port was lit up but Yard Dog could only cry.

[lutzr]

ON DISPLAY


“Henry! We have to leave now!” Janet Lyon yelled up the stairs to her son. Her sandy blonde hair was brushed back, a headband holding it in place. A few strands hung over the band as Janet brushed them away. Janet looked at the small plasma screen installed in the front door of her home she shared with her son. A real live picture showed gray clouds overcastting the sky, moving across the screen like a screensaver of a computer. The sky called to those below, announcing that rain was to come. Janet quickly grabbed her overcoat and slipped it on, flipping her hair over the collar, as she primed in the pinhole camera hidden in the door of her home as the screen turned to her reflection. The camera broadcasted Janet’s image back, brightening her fair skin and blue eyes. The hanging crystal chandelier in the foyer caused Janet’s pale skin to glow under its illumination.
   
Footfall pounded down the stairs as fourteen-year-old Henry raced toward his mother. He wore a black ski cap over his hair, the same color as his mother, and a black jacket, draped over his arm. The screen quickly switched back to the view outside as Janet turned to her son. His skin was as pale as hers, almost translucent under the house lights. Janet pushed back a lose stand of hair that floated into his pale blue eyes.

“Ready?”

“Come now, before they close up,” The mother and son moved out into the windy air as clouds moved quickly across the sky. From the strong breeze and clouds, one would never suspect that it was the end of spring, turning soon to summer. Janet pulled the family car out of the driveway and made her way to the newly open zoo.

Cars and trucks filled the large parking lot of the glass and steel building that rose above the small city. Janet and Henry quickly joined the line that formed near the entrance of the newest attraction.

“There are lots of people here,” Janet said looking over the sandy colored heads ahead of her.

“New York got one six months ago, so it’s a big thing here,” Henry said, stuffing his hands into his thin jacket. The lone moved quickly, letting Janet and Henry only stand for a few seconds before moving upward in the line.
   

Inside the two-story building, men and women moved about either with children or alone. Dimmed chandelier lights hung from the high ceiling, as each display area was light brightly. Elevator music played in the atmosphere as Henry pulled his mother across the clear polished floor.

“Here’s the first one,” Henry released his mother’s hand and looked at the large print on the paper in his hand. Janet adjusted her reading glasses, as she looked at the plaque on side the display case.

“It says that the C.H.S. was thought to be the origin of the species along with the A.H.S. Their coats ranged from very light to brown. Their hair ranged from reds to browns to blonde,” Janet read as Henry quickly dictated.

“Does it say what happen to them?” Henry asked, not looking up from his writing.

“It says their species became embroiled in a conflict with the other species and was overcome by them. Simply making them reduce in number.” Within the display, a family, consisting of a man, woman, and two young children sat in different areas. The female C.H.S. stood over a black cauldron, stirring and tossing in different vegetation from around the living area. The male sat at a desk, writing into a small notepad and tapping at the keys of a computer. The two younger ones, one female, one male, sat together, playing with an assortment of toys and electronics. Each busy with their own thing.

“Began to reduce, and that’s the C.H.S.?”

“Caucasian Homo sapiens.” Janet read the bold letters on the plague.

“Okay, now I need the Hispanic Homo sapiens and the African Homo sapiens.”

“I would have thought they would have albinism, since it is predominated race of  the world now,” Janet and Henry moved on to the next display as an older couple moved into their space, their skin pale white. Her aging hair was a bland white with the only color coming from their almost sunken purple-blue eyes.

“Don’t know. Didn’t I say a human zoo would be a great thing for this city?”

“It will bring in a lot of tourism.”

[lutzr]

TRUE LUST
                             

Allison Parker could not sleep. In fact she could never sleep easily when her husband Julian wasn't there. She hated him being away on those business trips. Allison gazed at the half empty king sized bed and snuggled closer to his old faded denim shirt. Lifting it to her nose she drank it the aroma of musk mingled with dried sweat As she buried her nose deeper into the shirt she felt the familiar tinge of excitement between her delicate creamy white thighs…

Two thousand miles away, in a small Italian town, Julian was also  wide awake. He too was having a hard time unwinding. He also hated these trips; he hated the cheap hotels, he hated being away from London, but especially he hated being away from Allison, his wife of almost ten years. He reached under the pillow, and retrieved the pair of her unwashed panties he had secretly brought with them. And precisely as Allison had done with his old shirt, he lovingly lifted the pink silk to his nose. Closing his eyes he eagerly drank in her tantalizing fragrance. Julian experienced passionate lust stirring deep within him as he felt himself becoming erect.

Keeping his eyes closed he concentrated on the sensation and allowed one of his beloved sensual memories to replay in his mind. Allison, so far away, suddenly ached for him and she also felt the compulsion to close her. Allison could sense his firm purposeful, yet still gentle, touch against her now trembling responsive flesh. She breathed in the scent of his shirt once more, which seemed now even more intense and intoxicating. Suddenly she had the sensation of Julian’s manhood thrusting deep inside of her and moaned receptively. As Julian lay there he visualized passionately penetrating her warmth…The two of them, two thousand miles away, simultaneously began writhing and moaning in intense pleasure.

"This can't be happening," they both thought.

All at once Julian exploded as Allison, trembling, screamed his name out loud and imagined her long red fingernails tearing into his back Opening her eyes sweating, panting and satisfied she noticed, with bemusement, that the tell tale sign of a wet spot was on her sheets and a familiar pungent scent now tantalized her keen senses. Julian also reached under the sheets, expecting to discover a sticky sweet mess, and to his amazement he found no evidence of his heavy ejaculation. It was at that moment that Julian discovered to his bewilderment that his back had been scratched.

“It was almost as if…” they both thought in the very same instance. Then shook there heads together in disbelief.

Soon, content and satiated the two of them drifted off into a blissful, contented sleep.

[lutzr]

CHATTING WITH THE GHOST OF DR. FREUD
 

I appreciate you seeing me on such short notice, Doc.  This couch is soft, and your photograph looks nice taped to the ceiling like that.  I can’t remember what we’re supposed to do.  Delve into my subconscious?  Scour the bottom of my dark, hidden heart?  Play word association games?  Call me attention-span deficit, but I’m easily bored.  My Id craves stimuli.  I lose focus if I stare at something too long.  Hey, that cigar you’re holding…is it a real cigar or a symbol from some future dream I’m going to have?

By way of introduction, consider me a Woody Guthrie song in the flesh.  I reject “hobo,” “bum,” or “transient,” though I will confess to having migratory tendencies.  But I am not lazy.  It’s just that standing still and staying put equal rigor mortis in my book.  Versatility is my strongest virtue.  So, I’m a dishwasher, farmhand, cabdriver, and part-time landscaper who sometimes heads south in winter to drill for oil on offshore rigs.  I can lay pipeline or cable, concrete or brick, and when necessary, I sleep in my truck.  Mimicry makes all things possible. 

My relationship with my mother?  Oh, Doc, she gave me my nomadic soul.  My name is not recorded in any family bible handed down from generation to generation. I think of myself as the product of selective breeding, a hybrid deposited like a cowbird’s egg in a robin’s nest.  Wanderlust is my inheritance.

Routine affects me like an itch that I can't reach.  But I'll be alright.  I’m neither criminal nor insane.  I just can’t remain in one place too long.  A tank of gas and some cash in my wallet, that’s all I need.  In motion, I come to life.   

Maybe I am just redefining rugged individualism for the twenty-first century, carving out my own version of the American Dream.  It’s not the Horatio Alger version, but it’s the only version I can stomach.  Family and community?  Chains and shackles.  A picket fence or barbed wire? Any distinction is lost on me.

So, I live in this new, fluid frontier because I need diversity, plain and simple.  My actions got nothing to do with repressed desires or symbolic dreams.  Sometimes, a cigar is just a cigar, right?  By rejecting the tethers of kinship in favor of a loner’s lifestyle, I am simply expressing my individuality.  Thank God I live in a country where it’s perfectly legal to do so.  Tomay-to, tomah-to, and to each his own.

What do you think of my analysis, Doc?  It works for me, mostly.  Except for running into your ghost from time to time, in town after town, I’d probably never question why I dream of empty boots.

[lutzr]

THE IMMORTAL


I am the One Who Is Called Jahber, and I sit at the edge of the world.  From me wills this message: I am become the Archon God-Emperor of the universe.  From this crag I can see the cradle of man limned in flame, as the luminescent particles follow uninterrupted paths into the void.  I am as unable to fear as I am to die.  I had always believed myself different than the others.  When the end came for them, I did not.  I ascended.  I became.  I am outside of life.

In the spaces between oaths of repentance and the wails of galaxies of damned souls, I can feel the knifelike purpose of the seraphs.  I am not responsible for them, or whatever they do.  They seem singularly to know their business.  Their faces are vicious and clean, eyes downturned from me.  Their hands are called Doom on mortal lips. 

I do not know what finally broke the great, long apathy.  An unknowable clock sprocket toothed its way into the prophesied position, and I felt the snapping-to of my soul.  Across my birthplace, and an infinity of others, sweeps the purifying flame.  The dark curve at the edge of what is becomes irregular.  The cosmic Titans warp and spin in their ellipticals, and the shimmering of a thousand thousand fragmentations plays a spectrum across my face.

Aside from me in the darkness is One Who Swings a Hammer, and beneath it the celestial bodies of rock and gas are smashed.  With each blow all hope for life is glassily shattered.

It was written in holy books and across the stars that IN THE BEGINNING THERE WAS CHAOS.  From me wills this message: chaos has returned. 

[lutzr]

HOMELESS CEO


If you walk the streets long enough you realize people throw out anything. Barry knew this. Barry was what they refer to as a seasoned veteran of the streets. Not something you can purchase anywhere, real street credit.

It started back in the late eighties when he stumbled upon his first IBM PC Jr. It was judged outdated and obsolete, taken to the streets to be thrown away. Printers, phones, video equipment, it piles up fast. Within a couple years, before he knew it, Barry had half a block of equipment, mostly working, the rest used for parts.

When wireless technology started Barry saw an idea. He was able to hook up the computers (stealing wireless internet access from local businesses), and charge a dollar for use. Everything from the daily news to prison pornography: instant access. No rules.

If you Google “things to do with a hammer” you receive 3,020,000 hits.

If you Google “naked amish” you receive 836,000 hits.

Commuters on their way to work. Area deli and coffee shops. Tourists. They all stopped to use Barry’s street side internet access. Nothing planned, it just happened. Barry was a natural with computers and now was able to supply a service.

If you Google “business plans” you receive 148,000,000 hits.

Barry wakes everyday, runs his business, and though not very profitable he is able to eat and no one bothers him on the street. The only life he knows, completely independent, no authority figure, and no commute.

It’s when Abdul approaches that things begin changing.

Abdul owns a deli and wants to give his customers internet access. Business has been down and the competition will shut him down if he doesn’t act fact.

If you Google “New York deli’s” you receive 1,300,000 hits.

Barry agrees to help Abdul for food and the customers enjoy the new amenity Abdul has given them. In fact, after a month passes the two computers are not enough to sustain the need of his crowds.

Abdul propositions Barry. Convert the deli into an Internet Café. Partners. The next two nights Barry doesn’t sleep, just sits in the park, contemplating Abdul’s offer. Change is not always good.

They go to work, taking out loans for renovations, installing the new computer system. Advertising. Barry rents an apartment, due to lack of credit, the new equipment (and old equipment) is used as collateral.

The grand opening is successful. Lots of positive feedback and the patrons are enjoying themselves, not too mention the food sales were as high as ever despite only half the room dedicated to eating. Abdul and Barry expand. More loans, more collateral, more stress.

If you Google “MBA programs” you receive 13,600,000 hits.

Once the new systems are implemented they see a sharp decline. Businesses around them are closing. Tourism is down. Supply vs. Demand.

Now taxes are due, the owner of the building is calling, Barry’s rent is due.

If you Google “debt collectors” you receive 836,000 hits.

Tax Collectors. Repo-men. Collection Agencies.

Borrow more. Bargain with creditors. Buy time. Lie. Do anything necessary to extend payment for a month, a week, even a day.

What can take months or years financially to create takes less than a month to bring down. It’s the flipside of the American dream.  The side they don’t tell you about.

Barry is back on the streets, now with nothing. The equipment is gone, the repo-men took it all, including the IBM PC jr.

If you Google “entrepreneur” you receive 19,300,000 hits.

Sleeping on the street, near the man-hole covers for warmth, Barry wakes up and looks across the street. There sitting is a Dell, last years model. Barry looks both ways as he crosses the street and drags the machine back to his side.

If you Google “new business start ups” you receive 26,300,000 hits.

[lutzr]

A NEW YORK MONDAY


In between my subway exit and the coffee stop my iPod earphone fell from my ear in a very dramatic, insanely swaying fashion, scraping my face on its way down. Even more upsetting was the realization that I had lost the little "earsponge" covering the damn earphones. That's just great, happy Monday to you too. 

On to get my coffee, sugar-free, taste-free muffin, and out I go, 2 more blocks to the office. Almost there, I can do this. 

I reach up to put my now naked ear-bud into my ear and I felt it. The sponge was still in my ear. The cheap excuse for an earphone cover had found a home in my ear. It must come out; I start to frantically garb at my ear. A middle-aged man with half a head of hair waiting at the light looks over at me in disgust. I shoot him back the same disgusted look; after all, he was after all wearing a brown suit with black shoes. 

Finally, after a frenzied ear-numbing dig, I get the blessed sponge half-way through the intersection. I triumphantly raise my head with confidence as if I had just run a marathon. I shoot glare over to the man as to say "I won" but he refuses eye contact with me. Whatever. I got the sponge, I had probably achieved the most important task of my entire day and I feel great. Good thing I didn’t cut my nails last night. I carefully place the sponge back on making sure not to do such a half-assed job; we don’t need that happening again. I blast some Black Crows. A smile returns to my face.

I make it to my desk, sit down, and throw some classic rock on the radio. Just starting to enjoy my first sip of the hazelnut coffee and my VP appears from no where, asking for a favor. I look to the clock and see that it’s only 8:30. Why do I come in early?

She would like for me to run to Grand Central and look for a store called Papruys and get a couple of her favorite markers for her to use during the big meeting in exactly one hour. 

I look to my clock, still finishing my bite of the gluten-free muffin (which requires 2x more chews for the record), and confirm that yes, it is still 8:30. I look back up to the VP and desperately search to find any bit of sarcasm on her face. Nothing. She's serious. Why does she need these? Is this important? Are these markers going to bring respect to your otherwise pathetically inane meeting?

For a moment I silently cry.

I wanted to scream out in terror.

I wanted to tell her that I only come in early because without coffee: I'm volatile.

I need to digest solid caffeine for at least a half-hour to insure that there will not be any murders, how dare you test this!

Instead I find myself nodding a half-witted "yes." As I start to contemplate how to go about getting there and back on a gloomy, angry Monday morning rush hour, and how to pronounce the name "Papruys" it happens.

"What's on your ear?" asks the VP. 

I reach up slowly, and sure as shit, it’s the sponge. My VP walks away laughing hysterically. 

I look back to my coffee, wishing it was large enough to drown in.
 

[lutzr]

SKIPPING


“So you read and signed the waiver?” professor Ashkalal asked while looking at his clipboard.

“Yeah, it’s signed,” John Valentine answered.

John was an Ohio State University student just looking to make a quick buck. He heard from a friend that a research project needed some volunteers and they were paying, so he thought, ‘Hell Yeah!’

Professor Ashkalal was a tall, thin Indian with a bushy mustache and a thick accent. John didn’t much like being questioned by the professor. Sometimes they came across with an air of superiority. He couldn’t help thinking, ‘you’re in America, damn it!’

“Hopefully you read it carefully; this is a risky experiment. That is why we are paying so much.”

“Of course. But who is going to turn down ten thousand dollars?”

“There are some who would. The worrisome type, or those who are older and feel they have more at risk. Just remember the waiver absolves the university and myself of any responsibility and cuts off any recourse for litigation on your part in case anything goes wrong.”

“Yeah Doc, I realize the risk, let’s just get on with it.”

“Soon enough. The nurse has to hook you up first.”

Okay. Whatever. A nurse with a slightly worried look on her face came over to attach some medical equipment to his body. What was that look all about? He was getting just a little worried himself. But ten thousand dollars! That’s a lot of party and beer! The nurse was busy attaching an IV drip in his arm and electrodes all over his chest, head and feet.

“Doc, what’s this experiment about anyway?”

“I can’t tell you too much; it might affect your responses and the outcome. But I will tell you that I’m trying to prove a theory of mine using chemicals where I thought complex electromagnetic fields and particles streams would be necessary.”

“Wow – sounds complicated.”

“Doctor, he’s ready now. We can begin anytime,” Nurse Flaherty said.

“Just a moment – I need to set up his brainwave activity baseline first.”

“Yes Doctor.”

“All right, that’s finished. Go ahead and bring around the drug cart and crash kit. John, once we start, We’ll be injecting two different chemicals in a timed release. The first may make you feel like you are floating. I’ve included a tranquilizer so as not to cause you any panic. The second is the one I’m actually experimenting with. That’s all I can tell you now. If successful, we will go through a debriefing after the drugs have worn off.”

“Sure.” John was starting to feel a little more nervous.

“Are you ready?”

“Yeah, let’s do it.”

“Nurse, start releasing the first drug.”

John started to feel a funny tingle run through his body. Doc was right; he was starting to feel like he was floating a little above the table. Thankfully he had included the tranquilizers.

“Nurse, begin the second drug sequence.”

This time the sensation was different. John felt as if he was being pulled somewhere, but he couldn’t pinpoint the direction. The room and everything in it was beginning to dim from view.  He felt his right hand reaching for –

skip

the next rung on the ladder leading up to the police rescue copter as he tried to haul the teenage boy out of the turbulent Scioto River. The boy had become trapped during a flash flood. John reached down to get a better handhold and –

skip

drove the piton home as hard as he could into the icy shelf above him. He would be one of those counted as conquering Mount Everest or die trying. But the piton just busted the ice shelf loose and he began to fall backwards! John grabbed for the safety rope tied to the other climbers and –

skip

securely fastened the silencer to his Sig-Sauer 9 mm. He had snuck in silently avoiding the security cameras per the blueprints given to him by his client. ‘I want him out of the way and I want it to be quiet’, the client said. But John was always quiet and stealthy. He was proud to be deemed ‘the invisible hitman’ by the press. The mark always worked late, so he should be by himself. John slowly opened the unlocked outer office door. No one – good. He opened the inner office door graveyard quiet and saw the mark facing away from him, working on the computer. All the better. When they don’t know it’s coming there is a lot less hassle. John aimed the gun at the back of the mark’s head, pulled the trigger and –

skip

adjusted her bra quickly before putting on her sweater. Her supervisor had told Janice if she was late again she would be let go. Can’t afford that, she thought. Not with trying to raise three kids on her own since her bastard husband had abandoned her. She had no idea where he was and that made it difficult to press any kind of charges. Bastard! She ran down the steps to her old Volkswagen bug, hoping it would start. Reaching for the door handle she –

skip

felt his whole body jerk. He was suddenly back on the examination table looking up at professor Ashkalal and nurse Flaherty.

“What the hell was that!?”, John gasped.

“We’re just glad your back, John. That was part of the risk; that we might lose you forever.”

“But what was it? Some kind of acid trip?”

“No – definitely not an acid trip. Describe it to me.”

“I felt like I kept changing situations, bodies, being different people: but I also felt I was still myself all along.”

“That sounds reasonable. But you weren’t here except for physically. Your mind was skipping timelines and realities.”

“But Doc, how can you be sure?”

“Your brainwave pattern disappeared off the screen. You’re mind had essentially ceased to exist in this reality. You weren’t here, John.”