Don't Delete Chain Mail - Paramecium

 [In response to the zombie post jhowe challenged me to do a paramecium post. Pattypans suggested I resist. Here it is.]

Sigh. Sorry, Pattypans, resistance is futile. Here goes:

Slubloop waved its cilia in sequence, propelling itself through the water. It sensed a change in the medium in that direction, which usually meant food. If a paramecium could be said to hurry, it was hurrying toward its next meal.

But the thing it approached was not a meal. It was a substance the Slubloop had never encountered before. Even if it had been told this was an electrical contact, it would not have understood. After all, it had no brain. It touched the new thing with its cilia, not out of curiosity but because it happened to be there.

Immediately reversing direction it bumped into the other one. Microamps of current coursed through its body, causing its cilia to all stand out like a porcupine. The other paramecia would have laughed, if they could have seen Slubloop’s distress. Assuming they knew what a porcupine was. Or what humour was.

In an instant Slubloop was granted full cosmic awareness of the import of its action. The short circuit it caused had started a cascade which totally erased the hard disk of a college student (whatever that was) and in turn brought bad luck on it for ten years (whatever years were). Slubloop didn’t really care though, because its membrane had dissociated, spilling all of its insides into the medium where they would serve only to feed its fellow microbes. Shubloop would have cried if it had had tear ducts.

“Shit!” said Steve. “I just spilled my bio-experiment on my laptop keyboard! And I was just about to send that stupid chain letter right back to Tim! What rotten luck!”

(original post) 

Don't Delete Chain Mail - Zombies

[seliz made a comment that zombie apocalypse and chain e-mails
don't always go hand in hand ... this is my response]

The car is surrounded, but they seem to be ignoring me. So far. I crouch down on the floor, trying to be as small as I can and hoping none of them look in. I wish I’d forwarded that damned e-mail. I don’t believe in luck, good or bad, but right now I’ll take anything I can get.

It’s Romero-Snyder Syndrome. There’s been an outbreak here in town; people appear to die, then they get up and start moving again. And the fever makes them little more than mindless husks, ravenous for any food they can get, even other humans. Especially other humans.

The radio said there were three confirmed cases at City General. Well, there are at least 20 more in the street outside my office now, and probably more coming. Right now they’re just shambling around moaning, but any sign of life and they’ll get nasty. I try to crouch lower, but that’s probably impossible.

At least that noisy cat has stopped its yowling.

My hand slips and my elbow knocks the gas pedal. With a low rumble the engine finally comes to life. The moaning stops as they all turn toward my vehicle …

(original post)

Don't Delete Chain Mail

Writer's Digest post

You delete a chain email that says if you don’t forward it to ten people, you will have bad luck for ten years. On your way out of the office, a black cat passes you. Then you find a parking ticket on your car. And, to top it off, your car won’t start. Was it actually the email? Write your response to the bad luck, as well as other ensuing events that make you wonder about hitting the delete button.

 *  *  *

I awoke on the pavement as a piano crescendo faded in my ears. Three Jennies were staring down at me as they slowly merged into one.

“Timimaryouokayayay?”

I shook my head a couple of times. “Jenny?”

“Are you okay, Tim? A piano fell on your car.”

“A piano?”

“Yeah, they were moving it to the second floor of the Arts building and the crane let go. I think you were knocked back.”

I looked at my car, now a Baby Grand Smart. The parking ticket still flapped under the one remaining windshield wiper. I tried to remember what brought me to the parking lot.

“There was a bottle of Aspirin in my car. I tripped over Inky.”

“Mrs. Grundy’s cat?” I nodded. “Let’s go back to my room.”

She helped me up and we made our way across campus to her dorm. Along the way I tripped over my loose shoelace and fell face-first into a slab of cake being moved between buildings. When I stood up some workmen went by with a ladder, which I hit my head on. As we got inside I heard a boom behind me.

Jenny looked back. “Small plane crash. The world has really got it in for you today, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah, I guess. What’s going on?”

“Well, let’s see. It’s Friday the thirteenth and there’s a full moon tonight. Did you do anything else unlucky?”

“No. Oh wait, I deleted that chain letter.”

“You deleted a chain letter on a paranormal nexus day? Ouch!”

Jennifer Nelson was my girlfriend, a foreign exchange student from fairyland. She was a wood sprite who used magic to assume human form, and she knew about this magical crap, so I trusted her. When we got to her room she took out my laptop while I collapsed.

“We’re in luck! It’s in your Deleted Items. Okay, one, two, three, … , twelve! Oh no, you’re the thirteenth link in the chain. This is really bad. You’re going to have to send it on.”

“But I don’t forward chain letters.”

“You’d better forward this one. It says ten years’ bad luck! Look what it’s done the first day!”

The fire alarm went off and the sprinklers activated in her room. She took out an umbrella and held it over the laptop.

“Come on, Tim. You have to send it, not me. Otherwise the luck doesn’t break.”

I picked ten names from my contacts list – people I didn’t particularly like. I made sure Steve, my lab partner, was one of them. Admittedly his dumbass stunt in chem lab had introduced me to Jenny, but other than that he was a total screwup. When I hit ‘send’ nothing happened.

“What’s wrong with this thing?”

“I think you have to apologize for deleting it.”

“Apologize? To an e-mail?”

“Just do it, Tim.”

I felt like an idiot. “I’m sorry for deleting you, chain letter. Please let me send you on.”

The message went into my outbox. At last it was over.

The Contract

Writer's Digest post

The used car salesman seems a little fishy, and it takes some serious convincing on his part to get you to sign the contract. And once you do sign, he seems to have a smug look on his face – more so than usual. He says you should have read the fine print. When you look at it now, what does it say?

 *  *  *

“Sign here, lad, and the car is yours.”

I signed on the buyer’s line, and he signed on the seller’s. Both copies. The dealership secretary witnessed. Finally he handed over the contract and the keys. It had taken a couple of hours of bargaining, but I’d managed to get him down to a price I could afford; in fact, it was even lower than I had hoped for.

I had a sudden thought, “What if I find out I don’t like the car?”

“All sales final, kid. Read the fine print. In fact, I suggest you read it VERY thoroughly.”

That caused me to worry, but I didn’t want to show it in front of him or his secretary, so I waited until I got to the car before cracking the contract. I had to turn on the overhead light because the sunlight was failing.

I glanced over the basics, then scanned the small print. Owner assumes all responsibility, no liability to Stophie’s Used Cars, no refunds or exchanges, slave to the Dark Mistress, no warranty express or implied, yada yada … what!?

I stared at the paper for a moment. My mouth opened and closed. I rubbed my eyes a couple of times and looked again. It was still there. A clause in the contract that I had just signed said I was now a slave of the Dark Mistress. Whoever the hell that was.

A pale slender hand with very sharp-looking fingernails reached over my shoulder from the back seat and teased my shirt buttons, slicing the top one off effortlessly. A forked tongue tasted my earlobe just before a female voice whispered, “Take me home, boy.”

[ part two ]

The Worst News is No News - Crazy Lady

Writer's Digest post

You are a local news reporter for a failing network. Your boss tells you to ramp up the news by getting “creative” and constructing your own stories. What’s the first fake news story you create and broadcast on air?

*  *  *

I don’t know where this woman came from, or how she got into the studio, but somehow she managed to walk right up to my desk and confront me in the middle of the newscast. She was dripping wet and wrapped only in a bath towel that nearly covered everything. She would likely be very happy for those little black bars on the screen later.

“You irresponsible idiot! What do you think you’re doing?” She poked my chest with her index finger. “Caprona! Caprona! You thought people wouldn’t bother checking your facts, didn’t you? You needed a fictional minor country to rattle its sabre at America and you chose them! Were you born stupid, or did you take lessons?”

“Young lady, I don’t know what you’re talking about! Caprona is a real place, with real people.” Yeah, the People That Time Forgot, from that old movie. I invented the scare because nothing brings in viewers better than the threat of war, especially with a tiny ineffectual country.

“Of course it is!” Her towel bounced in time with her angry speech; only her clenched hand kept it from falling. “Population Lenore Allen—my mother—and her cronies. They saw your damned newscasts and went back in time to set it up. And they DO have spies in this country!”

Back in time? This woman was obviously some kind of nut. But her rant and her clothing would likely boost our ratings through the roof and might even go viral. I decided to play along.

“That’s what I mean! These people are a real threat, and the public needs to be informed.”

“Yes, but she’s using YOUR fake stories for ideas!” She shook her silky black hair out of her eyes and splatted water onto my desk. “She’s planning something dangerous enough that the Window called me out of the shower to deal with it! Now, what are you going to be reporting tonight? I have to go and stop it before somebody gets hurt, or worse!”

I reached for the papers on my desk. Sure we had the teleprompter, but the papers made me look more scholarly, and were a good backup in case the ‘prompter quit. She snatched them up before I could and started riffling through them. The towel came open at the bottom and I really hoped the camera wasn’t watching me stare (I saw the footage later; it was).

She found what she wanted and grabbed the towel back together. “Commando strike! Dallas! Are you sure my father is hiding in Dallas?”

“Well, I…”

“Never mind! I have to go prevent a murder! You just lucked out, newsman!”

She stormed off the set, leaving a trail of water drops behind her; I admired her tight glutes for a moment, then turned back to the camera.

“Well that was arousing – er, interesting. More on the Capronian commando raid in Dallas later, but now a word from our sponsor…”

It went viral. WA-HOO!

The Worst News is No News - Big Break

Writer's Digest post

You are a local news reporter for a failing network. Your boss tells you to ramp up the news by getting “creative” and constructing your own stories. What’s the first fake news story you create and broadcast on air?

 *  *  *

“Hello, Milwaukee! Welcome to another edition of Farrah’s Fugitives, where we listen to the other side of the APB. We begin with an update on Gareth Gordon, last week’s fugitive. He was picked up in Madison on Tuesday and is now in custody. His preliminary hearing is next week.”

That’s Farrah St. Peter, the rising star at my station. She’s a natural in front of the camera, and forms an instant bond with anyone she interviews. Her big break came two weeks ago when Weatherbee, our producer, gathered the staff for a meeting.

“We need to spice up the news, people. We’re dead last in viewership. I know you kids won’t like it, but we have to get creative with the news.”

“You mean fake stories, don’t you?” Brock, was our anchor. “Not going to happen, Bee. That kills careers faster than anchoring the last broadcast of the newsroom.”

Everyone agreed. We had to think of our jobs after this sweatshop shut down. That’s when Farrah had The Idea.

“Why don’t we air the back side of the news? Interview people we normally can’t?”

“Why don’t we just air your backside, Farrah? That would be news.” Terry Coventry had always been a pig.

“I mean it! Choose something controversial: how about people running from the police? They’d definitely have stories to tell.”

Weatherbee agreed to give it a trial. The first Friday we aired an interview with Steve Donald, on the run for robbing a bank. It was a  hit. Gordon came second: embezzlement. We knew we had a winner.

“Today we’re meeting with Rob Edelmeier, wanted in connection with a murder in Wausau. So, Mr. Edelmeier, what’s your story? Why do the police want to speak with you?”

“Hello, Farrah. The police are accusing me of the murder of Wanda Schiller, a convenience store clerk whose naked mutilated body was found yesterday. They say it was done by a big man.”

He smiled, showing off his six-foot seven frame and arms like tree trunks. The shaved head and unshaved face didn’t help the impression. I figured him for a good suspect.

“But I’m setting the record straight. I didn’t kill her, she died after she got away from me. I did kill the other four, though.”

Farrah turned to run but a huge hand grabbed her face and dragged her back. He turned toward me as I backed away.

“Now you! Camera girly. You finish this story, and if it don’t air tomorrow I’ll start sending Farrah back in little boxes. Got it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“So this is Faith Devereaux, concluding the segment with a plea to Mr. Edelmeier. Please don’t hurt Farrah; everyone at the station wants her back safe and sound. Please, turn yourself in so you can get the help you need.” I shut the camera off in tears.

“That what you wanted, girl?”

“Yup. My big break. And you’re sure she’ll never be seen again?”

“Not all at once.” His hand muffled Farrah’s scream.

The Face Outside - Delilah

Writer's Digest post

You’re awoken from your midnight sleep in your favorite chair to your dog barking wildly in the living room. Pulling her aside, you look out the window, only to see a face staring right back at you. Whose is it? Why are they there?

*  *  *

Delilah woke up to Wells’s barking. Not again, she thought. Don’t they ever give it a rest? It’s the middle of the damned night. She pulled her housecoat tight around her lithe figure and slid out of the comfortable chair. Wells was sitting by the time window, barking her doggy little head off. This was the fourth time tonight.

She picked Wells up and petted her. Wells was a purebred beagle, the only species of dog that could naturally see into the timestream. She got a treat, which was devoured rapaciously, and then went back to lie on her cushion.

Delilah turned to the window. She looked through to see the scene. It was Dad’s study, circa 2105 from the looks of it. He was staring straight at her, but she knew he could only see what was outside his window. Of course the fact that she was seeing this meant Mom was somewhere around. It was bad enough when their marriage fell apart, but then he broke her time machine and had her buried alive in a sarcophagus in Egypt. Little Delilah took Dad’s backup time machine and rescued her, and the fight was on in earnest.

It had been going on for almost 30 years now, Delilah time. She was often tempted to just let one of them win, but she couldn’t settle on which one. Mom was a psychopath and Dad was a sociopath; potayto, potahto, as far as she was concerned. And they both had working time machines.

She opened the french door and stepped through, right into the barrel of her 63-year old daddy’s revolver.

“Lenore?”

“No Dad, it’s Delilah. Would Mom come after you in a housecoat?”

“Point taken.” He lowered the gun but kept it ready. “What are you doing here? Going to save her again?”

“If I have to. Look, Dad, have you considered calling off the feud? Go back to the good times?”

“The good times were an illusion, dear. The killing, this is the real us. You know Carl’s gotten involved now.”

“I know. He got her away from the Inquisition, but he’s having a little time-out right now.”

“He’s dead.”

“Same thing. And he’s not coming back until I explain to him why 12-year olds shouldn’t time travel.”

“You were only ten when you started.”

“Don’t remind me. Dumbest thing I ever did.”

Lenore chose that moment to come inside. She didn’t say a word; they all knew each other. The first two bullets went into Dad; the third grazed Delilah's torso. Dad’s return shot got her right through the heart. Guess she had one after all.

Delilah limped back to her sanctuary. It would take a few days for their support people to pull them out of the mutual death, and she looked forward to a good night’s sleep for once.

The Face Outside - Lenore

Writer's Digest post

You’re awoken from your midnight sleep in your favorite chair to your dog barking wildly in the living room. Pulling her aside, you look out the window, only to see a face staring right back at you. Whose is it? Why are they there?

 *  *  *

Ah distinctly I remember, it was in the bleak December; New Year’s Eve to be precise. I’d fallen asleep reading the 10-year old copy of Poe my grandson had given me when Max woke me up. A Newfoundland is not usually a vocal dog but something had him totally riled up and he was barking continually. His nose was against the french doors, leaving wide trails of doggy snot on the glass as he tried to sniff his way through it.

I moved the book off my lap, shifted the blanked aside, and pried my body out of the armchair. When you’re 103 years old you’re allowed to take your time. The arthritis in my right knee was acting up again and I leaned heavily on my cane as I hobbled over to see what had got Max going.

I looked out and into the face of a raven; a raven-haired young woman, that is. It was Lenore, my ex-wife. I hadn’t seen her in nearly 60 years, and some shred of a memory tore at my mind. I was certain she had died years ago, so maybe she was a ghost and this was my time.

Lenore didn’t look a day over 30. Her straight black hair hung down just past her shoulders. The red trench coat highlighted her lithe figure nicely. Her aquiline features were still as pretty as I remembered them and, just like usual, the brilliant red smile on her face ended long before it reached her cold green eyes. The gun in her hand was a vintage 1945 Luger, the one she’d picked up on our first foray.

“What brings you here, Lenore? I thought you were dead.” In fact I’d taken steps to ensure she was dead.

“Your grandson Carl got nostalgic and rebuilt the time machine. He wanted to see his grandma. I can’t believe that boy’s mother came out from between my legs.”

“What did you do to him, Lenore?”

“I killed him. What did you expect? Just like I’m going to kill you tonight.”

“I’ll stop you, you know. I always do.”

“Not this time.” The report of the gun was deafening in the small den. Three shots into my chest. “See you in ten years, Ed.”

—

There was a rapping, as of someone gently tapping at my french door. Max, my Newfoundland puppy, was giddy with excitement. I put down the copy of Poe I’d been given by my grandson Carl the week before and took the revolver out of my reading table. Lenore was nothing if not predictable, and I didn’t live to the age of 93 by letting her catch me off guard.

Someone Else is Living Here

Writer's Digest post

Your kids love watching CSI, so you buy them a forensic starter’s kit for Christmas. They begin running simple, fake experiments, collecting DNA, and dusting for fingerprints around the house. When you look at all of the powder and prints they pull, you find there are more fingerprints there then just you and your family’s. Whose are they?

 *  *  *

I stared at the results in disbelief. My family had owned the house for decades! We were a good 10 miles out of town, and we hadn’t had visitors in six months. Our daughter was home-schooled, and we ordered our groceries online and had them delivered to our mail drop at the end of the road.

It all started when we got Emily, our 8-year old daughter, the forensics kit: you know, the one they advertised last Christmas. The whole family were wild fans of CSI, NCIS, and all those ‘cop science’ shows. A junior forensics kit was the kind of thing she could have hours of fun with. And she did.

Emily dusted the attic and found a treasure trove. She was a whiz, and had assembled fingerprint profiles for us, my parents, and my brother and sister and their families, based on latent prints lifted off various pieces of junk in the attic. She even had a couple of prints that I think were my grandfather’s.

Once she had reference samples, Emily had started dusting the main floor of the house. We couldn’t look across a room without seeing black powder. But even that was only a nuisance; the problem was what she found. It was my brother Brian’s prints, along with those of his wife Mary and son Tyler. That was strange enough given that they hadn’t been up in over a year, but the worst of it was they were dead.

Brian and his family had been coming up the mountain to visit us for Christmas when they lost control of the minivan on the icy road and went into Shuyler’s Gorge. They pulled the three burned bodies out of the wreckage on Christmas Eve. We still observed Christmas, for Emily’s sake, but it was pretty subdued.

And yet here were Brian’s fingerprints on a brass table lamp that had been polished three days ago.

I’m a rational man, and I didn’t believe in ghosts before all this started. But this left me at a total loss. I tried to e-mail my sister Kate, but the connection was down – again. It had been pretty spotty for months.

Later that day I saw my first apparition. It looked like Tyler playing among some boxes in the living room. He was semi-transparent. I called his name and he looked around, but didn’t seem to notice me. I tried a few more times to get his attention but he ignored me. I’d heard ghosts often don’t react to the living.

Emily made a game of running back and forth through Mary’s ghost. She apparently talked to Brian about it, but we couldn’t hear a word either of them were saying.

That night Elizabeth screamed when spectral Brian laid down in bed next to her and put his arm through something a bit too personal. We were both so shaken we slept on the couch.

The next morning Brian and Mary started shifting the furniture around and bringing boxes in from his car. The Chevy sedan he’d owned for years.

Then I finally remembered: I was the one driving my family home in the minivan.