2014

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Collision

I spend the morning commute going over the status report in my head while weaving through traffic. Everything is on schedule with the software for AutoKitty, our first product and hopefully the must-have cybertoy this Christmas. This will be my first meeting with KG, the company president, and I want to make a good impression. I even have some questions prepared to show him I’m thinking ahead. My future is looking… NO!

The sickening crunch knocks me out of my daydream. My Yaris has just mated with some 1940’s era clunker. It’s totally undamaged; my car is just totalled. I’ll never make my meeting now.

A screaming rage born of shattered hope propels me out of my car and toward the offending vehicle. “Why you… I oughtta… why weren’t you …!”  I can’t even form complete sentences as I approach whatever ancient geezer drives this rolling junkpile. I bang my fist on the tinted window and roar in frustration. I stop short when the driver door opens. I was expecting Mr. Midlife Crisis; I got a robot.

It? She? She's five-foot two and thin, looking like somebody animated a life-sized obsidian statue of a grade-nine schoolgirl. Chrome highlights give her lines, and her face is dominated by huge round eyes like windows into a silicon soul. I don’t know if I want to dismantle her and see how she works or kiss her.

I barely register the back door of the car opening until a female voice addresses me.

“Are you all right, Mr. Robertson?”

“I...” The words die on my lips as I look at this kid. She looks like the robot girl, only a couple of inches shorter and in full colour. Blue jeans and a red tee-shirt, brown hair in a bob and big round glasses thick as a slice of toast. In about five years she’ll be something to look at. I kind of pity her. “I’m okay, I guess. But my car…”

“Sorry about that. Driverbot’s supposed to only land the car if the lane is clear.”

“Wait! How do you know my name?”

“I know all my employees’ names. I’m Kay Gunderson, but you can call me KG. We’re supposed to meet this morning.”

“But you’re...”

“Young? I’m older than you, boy. Short? You can give me the status report on your knees if that bothers you.”

Something about the surreality of the whole thing hits me. I drop to my knees and deliver my report, which makes her giggle. The robot girl and her identical twin from inside the car direct traffic while we wait for the police.

KG loves my ideas, especially how they mesh with her plans to make the AutoKitties steal information from their owners. When we get to the office she gives me a girlbot as a lab assistant. I’m even part of the escape plan if the FBI catches on!

I know it’s evil, but so much corporate stuff is. I don’t care; this is Nerdvana!

A Walk in the Forest

FX: Jungle sounds.

GRAMS: Ringtone, “Does Your Mama Know?”

FX: Cell phone.

JANE (responses): Hi Mom. Wait. Calm down, Mom! What’s wrong? (pause)  Frozen solid? Yeah, I get it: ‘block of ice’ solid. Okay Mom, don’t worry; I’ll handle it.

FX: Phone call ends.

JANE: Kerry O’Toole, you get out here right now! What have you done to my father?

KERRY: Just what you asked, lass. You said you wanted a popsicle...

JANE: That is *not* what I meant! You’re supposed to be helping me!

KERRY: You’re lucky I didn’t turn you into a drug-sniffing dog.

JANE: No, instead you zapped me to God-knows-where in South America so I can find you some type of weed that hasn’t been grown since my mother was in diapers.

KERRY: Columbian Gold! My favourite. The real stuff’s very rare these days. And faith, lass, it was sure an’ you that burned my stash!

JANE: Come on, Kerry! Most leprechauns hide a pot of gold at the rainbow’s end.

KERRY: I did! The pot was more... metaphorical. A bit o’ blarney to confuse the curious. How was I to know some slip of a girl would come along and destroy it? You’ve earned the wrath of the wee folk!

JANE: I get it! Now I can’t cross the Eighth Street Bridge without some troll popping out and demanding a tribute, and every night you reset my computer clock to 20 years in the future. And what you did to poor Rachel!

KERRY: That was her fault, Janie. She’s the one that said I was truly one of the wee folk!

JANE: Well you shouldn’t have made a pass at her! She’s a lesbian!

KERRY: And I turned her into a fairy! Verisimilitude of the spirit; outies match innies, if ye get my drift. And I was drunk at the time.

JANE: You’re always drunk, Kerry.

KERRY: Guilty as charged, yer honour.

JANE: Yeah, I know. And the sentence is twenty years hard liquor. Are all magical creatures substance-abusing perverts?

KERRY: No! Only a few. And they fair an’ give a bad name to the rest of us!

FX: Thrashing plant noises.

JANE: Look! Here’s some cannabis. Is this what you want?

KERRY: Begorrah! That’s the stuff! Now the other part...

JANE: What ‘other part’?

KERRY: It has to be harvested by a naked virgin.

JANE: You just made that up!

KERRY: True, but now that I have...

JANE: But I’m not naked!

KERRY: Easy solution, love.

JANE: And I’m not a...

KERRY: Billy Peterson doesn’t count. Now hurry up, your father’s probably melting.

FX: Sound of clothes being dropped onto plants.

KERRY: You have lovely insteps.

JANE: I’m surprised you’re not commenting on something else.

KERRY: I’ll work my way up.

GRAMS: Does Your Momma Know?

JANE (responses): Hi Mom. He’s better? Great. I’ll call you later Mom, I’m incurring roaming charges here. Love you, bye.

FX: Pulling and cutting.

JANE: There! Now I’ll get dressed and we can go home!

KERRY: Actually, love, I sent your clothes on ahead. Lovely spot for a picnic, isn’t it?

FX: Slap.

Not Human

I stare at my so-called locker. Normally I’d carry my Journal with me, but today I left it in the locker for ‘safe’ keeping. Now it’s gone and I am in deep trouble. I scrape my cloven hoof on the ground, leaving a mark in the fake marble. I’m drawing a crowd, but that’s what today has been like. It started in second period … no, it started at breakfast.

I began the day as a (relatively) normal guy. When I came down for breakfast Mom wished me happy birthday, then got this serious look on her face. She told me there was something I had to know now that I was eighteen.

“Tyler, you’re not human. You’re a magical creature called a ‘spiritus scriptus’, that your father and I summoned eighteen years ago. You know your Journal? That’s your true form; your human body is a convenience for interacting with people.”

“You know how crazy this sounds, Mom? Here’s a clue: Really, Really, Crazy!”

“You need proof? Write ‘I’m wearing my new watch’ in your Journal.”

“I don’t have a new watch.”

“Just write.”

I did. Then I stared at the brand-new Rolex on my wrist.

After that I got the talk about keeping the Journal safe; whatever was written in it would come true for me. I decided to leave it in my locker so I wouldn’t be tempted to use it until I’d had a chance to think about the implications.

I turned into a robot halfway through Chemistry class. After that I became a tree, and then a tentacled alien; now I’m a unicorn. I guess keeping this secret isn’t an option. The weirdest part about being a unicorn is being able to look at someone and know whether they’re a virgin. Stacy Engels is, which is why I had no problem with her sitting on my back and combing my mane.

Stacy dropped into my front seat. It took a moment to get used to suddenly being a car, but at least I could communicate. I used the radio, like those robots in that movie.

“Stacy, can you help me? It’s Tyler. Somebody stole my Journal and I have to get it back.”

“Tyler Harrison? Nerdy Tyler?”

“The one and only.”

“I never knew you were cool. Can you turn into other stuff?”

“Not without my Journal.”

Whatever the speed limit was in the hallway, we more than tripled it. With Stacy at the wheel we found the perps in seconds: a matched pair of stoners in a stairwell who were taking turns doodling all over my life.

Stacy demanded the book. One stoner suggested a price, but when Stacy twisted his arm he reduced it to “Just let go! Please!”

“Great work, Stacy. Can you turn me human again?”

She took out a pen and started writing. Finally she put the book away and climbed onto my back. One hand grabbed my mane and the other caressed my spiral horn.

“Eventually.”

The Elevator

Just like clockwork, the overweight indicator for Number Seven came on. It was stuck halfway between the third and fourth floors. I hit the intercom and adopted my best professional voice. “Hello, is anyone there?”

“Yeah, we’re in here. The elevator’s stuck.”

“I know. How many people are in there?”

“Ummm … ten.”

“That elevator is only rated for eight. It must be pretty crowded. I’ll get Steve to manually lower it back to three. Just hang tight, you’ll be out soon.”

I left the receiver open so I could hear if something went wrong. Of course their tinny little voices all sounded alike through the ancient speaker system.

 

“Perfect. Just perfect.”

“Did you tell him we’re overloaded?”

“Yes, he knows.”

“Thursday night.”

“This can’t be happening!”

“And the lights are flickering?”

“Don’t worry, it’ll be okay.”

“No, but it doesn’t matter.”

“Aaaaaaugh!”

“Keep away from me!”

“I can’t. There’s too many people in here.”

“So you’re an elevator expert now?”

“Hey, something touched my leg. Eew gross! What’s wrong, lady?”

“Have you got the emergency phone?”

“Mother!”

“It’s time!”

“Time for … aaugh!”

THUD!

“I don’t care. Just keep away from me.”

“What is this stuff? Trevor, help me up.”

“But he doesn’t know about the light!”

“I can’t keep away from you!”

“Ugh! What’s on your hands?”

“Aaaugh!”

“He does now! Stay calm, mother.”

“Right up front if you can.”

“Did you try the doors?”

“Change of plans. Trevor, grab her!”

“Grab who?”

“You just touched me!”

“What’s he saying?”

“Bear down!”

“No I didn’t! It was that pervy guy behind you.”

“Of course I tried the doors.”

“Gnnnnh!”

“Don’t bring me into this!”

“Grrrah! Aaaaugh!”

“How soon until we get out?”

“What about the escape hatch?”

“Now PUSH!”

“Do I look that tall, mother?”

“You touched me!”

“She’ll be eating out of my pants if this works.”

“Again!”

SLAP!

“Ow! What’s your problem, lady?”

“Aaaagh! Owwwww!”

“One more!”

“What’s that smell? I’m going to barf!”

“Is that blood? Get me out of here!”

“Stop shouting in my ear!”

“Here lady, get behind me.”

“Eeeyahhh-unh!”

SPLAT!

“So you can grope me in the corner?”

“Thanks, Sid.”

“Eeew!”

“I have a meeting at 1:00.”

“No! So you can get away from the blood.”

“Okay. Thank you.”

“Gahguu.”

“Hi there, cutie!”

“Don’t come near me, pervert!”

“I’m the store detective!”

“Get me out of here! I’ll pay you!”

“What the hell’s going on? What was that bump?”

“Like I haven’t heard that before.”

“Waaaah!”

“Cut me some slack, lady.”

“Hey Don, it’s Steve! I got her open! Yuck; wet clean-up needed in Elevator Seven.”

 

Later Steve and I compared notes. He let eleven out: a couple of busiensessmen, one still on his cell phone; Pete Simmons, the store dick; two nervous shopper ladies, a middle-aged guy and his whiny mother; two college kids, one covered in blood; and a formerly pregnant lady with her newborn daughter. I won the bet.

Dear Maggot ...

(the challenge was to write a 'Dear John' letter from a piece of furniture)

The first thing I noticed was the plunger hiding under the kitchen table. Its wooden handle was trembling like it had just been kicked. When I reached down to pick it up, I could swear it was actually trying to pull away. Of course it didn’t have a chance. Few inanimate objects can evade me for long.

As I picked it up I noticed a roll of toilet paper on the table near the cookie jar. That was odd enough in itself, but the t.p. had writing on it. I couldn’t help but read.

 

Dear Maggot;

What kind of man are you? When you admired me at the hardware store I thought you were a man of discerning taste. I thought I would be fitted into the latrine of your Command Centre where I would help you think of ways to commit your troops against the Enemies of America!

Instead I find myself imprisoned in a second-story washroom with a Flower Print Bathmat and little dolphins in the tub! And instead of counteragents to biochemical weapons, you stock your latrine with Mousse And Hair Conditioner! Are You Trying To Defeat The Enemy Or Are You Going To Take Him Out On A Date?

And speaking of your unmanly lifestyle, just what is it you’re eating? I am built to withstand a full-on assault from Five Alarm Chile, and you give me salad? You have a cheese steak while I wait for an overstuffed foot-long bratwurst with all the fixings Including Sauerkraut! Suck On That, Jerry! Eat three pounds of rice with half a pound of wasabi and Let The Bombs Drop! Tojo Will Be Cowering In His Diapers! A few Inter-Continental Ballistic Meatballs With Nucular Sauce Would Have The Russkies Bolting For Their Babushkas! In short, Maggot, I am an American Standard military grade toilet, made to withstand every piece of crap you might throw at me. NOW THROW SOME!

But no. You have to watch your ‘delicate constitution’ and your ‘refined palate’. You are the ultimate sissy: you are not a man, you are Not Even A Mouse. You do not deserve to have a toilet like me. That’s why I joined up.

If you can find a set of cojones, ship out to Afghanistan and find me. There’s some Al-Qaeda A-holes there that desperately need wiping.

Signed,

 

Your Toilet.

cc: The United States Marine Corps. Boo Ya! GIVE ‘EM HELL!

Julie's Furniture

Julie woke up about 10:00 pm. It had been another stress-filled crazy hectic day and all she’d managed on getting home from work was to pick up the note off the kitchen table and then crash on the couch. She didn’t remember leaving a note for herself, but these days that didn’t mean much.

Her stomach rumbled in disapproval as she pushed herself up on her elbows and stared bleary-eyed at the note. Let me guess, she thought, I have to buy toilet paper. But it wasn’t; it was an actual letter. She skipped past the blithery part at the beginning and got right to the meat of it.

 

I find this very hard to write, dearest Julie. I understand that you are very busy at work and have little time for me, but I must deliver an ultimatum. Come back to me, Julie; the sofa does not love you as I do, he does not pine to feel your comfortable weight on his pocket coils. He doesn’t even have pocket coils! Come back to me dearest! Let me fold you in my warm blankets! Let my comforter be your comforter! Please lie again with me and whisper your secrets into my pillow. Let me massage your muscles while balancing my firm support with the soft caressing of your sensuous curves. Mister Humm is waiting in the bedside table, batteries fresh and charged. We shall make a threesome; just please sleep with me again and I will prove that I am all the bed you shall ever need. Or tell me, and I shall go and find some tawdry motel, and hence be out of your life.

 

Julie blinked. Is my bed propositioning me? I suppose I should sleep there; it’s better than the couch. She dropped the note and went into the kitchen to make a quick snack to stave off hunger until morning. As she worked she found herself starting to warm to the idea. Maybe a night with Mister Humm and a warm soft bed is exactly what I need. Eventually she took her food and retreated to the bedroom for some relaxation.

“Is she gone?” The ottoman seemed anxious.

The hall mirror answered. “She went upstairs, and now she has music playing.”

“Finally! I’m glad the fake letter thing worked.” said the sofa. “I can’t stand when she falls asleep on me. She drools, you know.”

“We know!” piped in the ottoman and the easy chair. “And her snoring keeps all of us awake at night.” The drinking bird nodded, and the coffee table purred. The lamp beamed in happiness.

Just then Julie ran down the stairs wearing nothing but her bunny slippers and flipped off the lamp. In a second she was on her way upstairs again. The TV remote stood up straight in its cup but nobody noticed except the easy chair, who gave a vaguely disgusted sigh.

The Rescue

I paused just outside the chamber and sensed. My Psychic Legion was almost half a station away and there were only three people in the Command Centre. My beloved Lena would be a non-combatant; that meant the other two were Count Ispar and a bodyguard. I formed up my Epee de Pneuma, 70 centimeters of concentrated psychic energy, and stepped in.

“All right, Ispar, time to…what?”

Count Ispar wasn’t there. Lena stood by a small bed, along with an Amazon Guard who was holding her arm shields at the ready. I didn’t see the third person at first, because they were only 60 centimeters long, lying in the bed making babbling sounds.

“Run, My Lady! I’ll hold him off!”

And she was on me. The first arm-shield deflected my blade and the second whooshed past my face. I staggered back a half-step so I was fighting in the doorway. No room to swing.

I lunged forward, hoping to push her back and get some freedom to move. She was too skilled. Her arms wrapped around mine, crushing me in a bear hug. When she let go it was worse; I gasped in a full breath of the pheromones the Amazons used as a secondary weapon. It was part of why they were so effective: no man could fight them with a clear head.

I made a desperate sweep across her shoulder; it cut and her left arm went limp. A second swipe was deftly blocked by her right arm guard. I should have been watching her eyes but I was staring at her chest. Damned pheromones!

Something knocked my feet out from under me and I dropped, landing on my back with a thud that rocked me from tailbone to neck. She dropped on top of me, her one useful arm pinning my sword-arm to the ground. I was beaten, and all I could think about was this heaving beauty sitting on me, beads of sweat running down her neck to where I shouldn’t be looking.

“Menay, stop. Please!” It was Lena.

Like I had a choice; I let my blade vanish. “Where is Count Ispar? Why won’t he show himself?”

“Menay, there is no Count Ispar!”

“But this fortress! We’ve had it under siege for a year! Over a thousand ships!”

“I had to get away until it was done.” She held up the small humanoid. “It’s a baby, Menay, a little human. I grew it inside myself; no cloning chamber required.”

“How?”

“My implant failed. I couldn’t face the shame, or the surgery to remove it, so I faked my kidnapping. But you had to go to war; you were supposed to negotiate!”

“That’s a human? It’s so small!”

“They come out that size, dear. And it hurts like hell when they do, but I’m not giving her up.” She looked at me with that steel in her eyes as her guard let me up. “My men are surrendering. You can come say hello to your daughter.”

Card Counting

We were escorted to a room with four concrete walls, two wooden chairs, and three linebackers, all here just to see us. I was sweating more bullets than Bonnie and Clyde’s car, but Jimmy was a cucumber. He had that half-smirk he gets just before somebody else’s day gets ruined.

“What’s going on?” I asked the pit boss who’d dragged us here. He answered with a voice straight from the gravel pit.

“Your friend here’s been counting cards. We don’t approve of that here.”

Jimmy smiled. “I was counting all right, Dutch. You had three decks in play and only 147 cards. What’d you take out to stack the deck?”

“I don’t like your tone, boy.”

“I guess not. You won’t like this, either.” He flipped open a faded Nevada Gaming Commission ID.

Dutch wasn’t impressed. “You find that in a Cracker Jack box? They ain’t used that design since the 60’s.” He nodded and the defensive line moved in.

A three-goon orchestra started playing the Black and Blue Danube on our skulls and I got lost in the music pretty quickly. The next thing I remembered was Jimmy waking me up.

“Come on, Doug. We gotta scram.”

I opened the one eye that was willing to allow it. Jimmy looked like he’d just been to the butcher shop as a pig. I scanned the room to see how the other guy did and found the three bruisers – in half a dozen places.

“What the hell, Jimmy?”

“They had an accident. Now come on!”

He dragged me to my feet and out the door. We were both limping, and I saw the end of a broken chair leg sticking out his back. The other end was sticking out of his stomach.

“God Jimmy, doesn’t that hurt?”

“Nah, they missed my vital spots. We gotta get out of here before Dutch gets back.”

“Why? Is he bringing a bazooka?”

“Worse. Holy water.”

“What are you, Jimmy, some kind of vampire?”

“Yeah. I thought I told you.”

“I thought you were just shitting me. You’re really a vampire?”

“Have been since ’64. I ran into something worse than a crooked casino owner; now I’ve got the whole bloodsucking immortal thing going on.”

I thought about it. Jimmy didn’t go out in the daytime, and he showed up in church less often than Satan.  He was smoother than rum and coke and always ordered his steak veterinarian rare. All in all being a vampire didn’t seem to have done badly by him.

“You know Jimmy, that actually sounds pretty cool.”

“It isn’t. The vampire thing is awful.”

“Why?”

“Italian food just isn’t right without garlic.”

 

Originally posted to Writer's Digest.

Just Like Old Times.

He sat in the bar alone, nursing a Diet Coke. The echo of the phone call lingered in his head. “Noon, at Joey’s pub,” and “There’s something I have to tell you.” After almost ten years of not seeing her, it all came back. The joy of seeing her smile, the hugs and the kisses (oh, the kisses), the sheer joy of being in her company. The pain of the breakup, such as it was; there were no fireworks, only the dark silence of the embers cooling. He had no idea what had possessed him to call her after all those years.

He’d carried the torch for years, told himself that somehow they’d get back together. When a common friend ran into her he’d ask how she was, hoping to hear that she’d mentioned him or asked after him, but nothing. The problem with “I love you forever” is that it doesn’t go away, even if that makes it inconvenient.

Other patrons came and went. Noon came and went. He continued to drink, watching the door and waiting. She walked in wearing a flowing white wedding dress, looking just like she had fifteen years before. But it wasn’t her; she ran over the man next to him at the bar and took his hands.

“I’m supposed to be getting married today, but…”

He tuned out, deliberately directing his attention anywhere else. They talked for a couple of minutes and then left hand in hand.

And he waited. Noon passed unnoticed, then one, two, and three. He wished he could drink to wash away the feelings passing over him. After what seemed like eternity, a raven-haired beauty came up and smiled at him. It was just like old times.

“Excuse me sir, we’re closing to set up for the evening rush.”

He set down the glass and went home. About 8 o’clock he got up the courage to call; she’d probably got busy doing something else, or had been too disorganized to call him back. A girl, about half drunk, answered the phone. The girl told him he’d just missed her, and that she and Mark had just left for their honeymoon.

He thanked her, hung up the phone, and sat while the room slowly grew dark. Just like old times.

Originally posted to Writers Digest.

I Was Supposed to be Getting Married ...

Corinne McAllister was a girl I’d dated precisely three times in high school, but who still managed to get an unbreakable grip on my heart. When her dad was transferred to Seattle my world was devastated. Now, ten years later, an anonymous e-mail told me she was back in town. We arranged to meet at S.U.D.S., a friendly bar not far from my apartment.

When she walked in I knew her in an instant. She had the same gorgeous blonde hair, the same lithe figure, the same button nose. I hadn’t expected the form-fitting satin wedding gown. Her eyes lit up when she saw me.

“Jack! You look fantastic!”

“Thanks, Corinne, you too. But?” I gestured at the gown.

“I’m supposed to be getting married today, but things have gone south. I need a big favour.”

Despite the fact that my heart was being torn out through my chest, I had no choice. For her, anything. “Sure, what is it?”

“I need a groom.”

“What? What’s going on, Corinne?”

“Will you do it? Come on, we can talk when we get there.”

She towed me out the door and across the street to a small church. The minister looked a bit confused as we went into a small dressing room. There was a tuxedo waiting, which looked fairly close to my size.

“Put this on while I explain.”

While I dressed she told me that she was part of a secret anti-terrorist organization that was trying to stop some major league crazies from releasing a biological weapon in downtown Chicago. The wedding was a front; the real goal was the five star resort in Colorado where we would be going on our honeymoon, and where they were headquartered. The guy that was supposed to be her partner had come down with a case of steel-jacketed lead poisoning a couple of days ago. That was where I came in.

“Isn’t this a little complicated, Corinne?”

“It’s all we’ve got. The resort is booked up for months, and our only way in is a contest prize won by one of our sleeper agents. Don’t worry, I’ll be there to protect you.”

“But marriage?”

“It won’t be a legal marriage, silly; we’re both using assumed names. I’m Cindy McWilliams and you’re John Appleby. Do you still do target shooting on Thursday nights?”

I was surprised she remembered. “Yes, but …”

“I’ll give you a gun; hopefully you won’t need it. Protecting yourself is like target shooting, except the targets move and fire back.”

“What about the, um, sleeping arrangements?”

“In two hours you’ll be my husband. I’ve been waiting ten years to take advantage of that. If we can make this team work, we should be able to stay together for a long time.”

It was dangerous, it was insane. It was probably suicidal. But it was either run off with a gorgeous spy on a dangerous adventure or go back to selling men’s wear at the department store. I kissed the bride.

Originally posted to Writer's Digest.

Medical Device

A triangle of snow marks the gap in the french doors leading to the motel room’s balcony. Madison is sitting on the bed with her nose in an adventure novel while I stare out the window. The weather has changed from “heavy snowfall” to “blizzard” to “storm of the century.” I’m glad we’re indoors rather than braving the weather in my Ford Fiesta.

My cell phone rings; I pick it up without bothering to look.

“Hello, Justin; how’re things at the office?”

“I’m not at the office, Britt; I just got home. Where are my kids?”

“Everybody’s safe, Justin.”

“That’s not what I asked. Where are you?”

“I dropped Hannah and Jake off at Mom’s. Maddie’s with me, out of reach of your goons from ‘Health’ Canada and their mind-control devices!”

“It’s not mind control, it’s a medical device.”

“An experimental medical device!”

“We’re not going through this again, Britt. Play your game if you want, but make sure Madison is back in time for school on Monday. I mean it!”

Justin hangs up on me. He used his pull in the government to get 12-year old Madison enrolled in the clinical trial of the Sleepwalker device, a headband that’s supposed to suppress her telepathy. Madison says it’s like being partially deaf, and I believe her. After all, I’ve been hearing thoughts since I was her age. It totally screwed up my adolescence.

“Aunt Brittney, your moping is distracting me.”

“Sorry, dear. Dealing with your dad just gets me so frustrated.”

“I know. But he’s just doing what he thinks is best, same as you are.”

She’s a remarkably forgiving kid. But I guess knowing people’s intentions as they talk to you makes it easier. I brush her hair back from her eyes and she smiles. This kind of tender moment is easy with Madison; we really do have an unspoken bond.

An intense thought rises through the floor. It’s a young couple, and they are definitely in the mood.

“Maddie, we’re getting out of here.” I will not expose her to any of this!

“Why, what’s … eeew!”

She jumps for her backpack while I grab our coats. But rather than grab it and run she’s digging into it.

“Maddie!”

“Just a second. Have you got a screwdriver, Auntie?”

Why would I have a screwdriver? “Will a dime do?”

“I guess. Give it.”

The couple below are getting up to steam. I’ve overheard sex before; to me it’s just disturbing. Madison looks like she’s about to vomit. She pulls out the Sleepwalker Device, finds a screw on the inside of the headband and cranks it around three-quarters of a turn. Then she rams the thing onto her head and breathes a sigh of relief.

When we make it to the car I relax a bit. Distance and the blizzard have cut back on the emotions I’m hearing.

“Maddy, I thought you hated that thing. You said it dulled your mental hearing.”

“Sometimes not hearing is a good thing, Auntie. Let’s go home.”

Nodding, I start the car and pull out onto the highway, heading back toward Mom’s.

 

Originally posted to Writer's Digest.

Everything You Know

The park where Gillman’s Theatre used to stand was nearly empty. A mother was watching her daughter on the swing set, some punk teenager was reading a book on the bench by the tree, and a man in a business suit was sucking water from the fountain like there was an impending drought. Any of them could be Mark. Eve called up the e-mail again.

Subject: Everything you know is a lie.

Act calm so as to not alert anyone, but everyone around you is not who they say they are. You need to quietly get out of there and meet me at the spot where you had your first kiss. You know the place. My name is Mark.

Eve had a pretty good idea who “Mark” was, and if she was right her next move would certainly piss him off. He deserved it.

“Mark! Mark Two!”

They all looked when she shouted it; the girl with the book got up and walked over while the others returned to ignoring her.

“Way to subtle, Macie.”

“I’m not my Macie. My mother is dead; all I’ve got is 60% of her code and about half her memories. Including what you did. So, WTF Mark?”

“Those synthoids you were working with were Coalition agents.”

“I knew that. And when you sent your stupid e-mail they knew I knew. I’m trying to infiltrate them, Mark. I’m trying to locate Radiant Nine.”

“Radiant Nine is a myth! It was never more than a fake handle!”

“Radiant Nine exists! Your people just don’t like the idea that there’s an AI out there that can play you like Pong. Now you’ve screwed up over a year’s work trying to get my foot in the door to find it. Thanks a lot, Mark.”

“Look, Macie…”

“Eve!”

“Whatever. Eve, then; the Coalition is not a group for amateurs to deal with; leave it to us.”

“No dice, Mark. You people had your chance and you blew it like a two-dollar hooker. Your organization has more holes in it than Swiss cheese.”

“Oh, and you’re somehow better because you, an Actroid, once played a super-spy?”

“No, I’m better because my hardware and software are too ‘primitive’ to be infected by the kind of crap the Coalition is throwing around. All your ‘advances’ in neural AI have just created new exploits in the security code. You might as well build weapons and hand them over to your enemies.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I don’t? Dance for me, Mark!”

She dropped a tiny piece of code into Mark’s neural net and the synthoid started doing a dance from over a century ago. Eve’s irony subroutine made her smile: it was ‘the Robot’. Sure his antivirals would take care of it in a few minutes, but by then she’d be long gone.

As she left the park she activated the randomizer to create a new plan to get into the Coalition.

[a tiny bit of backstory can be found here]

A Night on the Couch

I’m not all that sure where the farm was; I was doing the Good Samaritan thing and dropping off a couple of farm kids on my way from Brooks to Drumheller, so I guess it’s along that road. While we were driving the sky opened up and visibility dropped to just shy of zero. Greta and Marlene, the two kids, offered to let me stay the night at the farmhouse, where I could sleep on the couch in the living room. That was the first warning sign I missed.

It was another hour of driving on something as much river as road to get to the place; the lights were all off. Greta explained that mama, papa and Gunther were down in Lethbridge and probably wouldn’t chance driving home in this weather. Which meant we we’d be all alone for the night. That was the second sign.

Marlene lit a lantern, explaining as she did that the house didn’t have electricity, and that they were in a cellular dead zone. That’s why the girls had hitched a ride down to Brooks for the show; with no power, no TV, and no phone, there wasn’t much for two 18-year olds to do. The alarms were going full blare by then, but I wasn’t listening.

If this sounds like a raunchy story to you, well it did to me too. But the girls just wanted me to sing for them. I went through my entire repertoire, then faked it for a few country classics, and they just ate it up. It was after eleven when Marlene started tousling my hair and Greta stripped down. Before I knew what was happening, Greta was all over me and Marlene was getting warmed up. Aside from the lack of sleep, this night was looking pretty good from my point of view.

About two o’clock the clouds finally broke up and the pale moonlight shone in the window. I was pretty tuckered and the girls were cuddled up to me, and then it happened. Greta stretched and grew a tail. Marlene started getting all hairy and developed a wolf-snout.

Now I’m more open-minded than most, but there’s something about being torn apart by werewolves that just doesn’t sit right with me. I started to jump up, but Greta grabbed something in her teeth that I didn’t really want bit off. So instead I stayed there.

Turns out they just wanted to play some more, and by morning when the moon went down and they turned back I was still alive, though plenty scratched up. The girls apologized and tended my wounds; they even made breakfast and give me a snack for the road. It was a pretty scary night, but I guess all’s well that ends well.

Now, the reason I told you all this is I’m gonna have to cancel my gigs on the 17th and 18th: those are the two nights of the full moon this month, right? Fraid I won’t really be myself.

What Have I Gotten Myself Into?

Part 1. In the Car.

“You know, Eileen, I was a bit smashed last night…”

“No Bill, you were a lot smashed last night. Vodka, whiskey, tequilas. I’m surprised you didn’t spend all morning throwing up.”

“I did. And I don’t really remember…”

“Agreeing to help out at Peter and Nancy’s wedding shower? I can’t wait to see the look on Nancy’s face. She’ll be so surprised. Peter too.”

“But what are we…”

“Trust me, it’ll be great. And now that you’ve agreed, I’m not giving you any chance to back out. That’s why I’m driving.”

“Okay, where are we going?”

“To the hall. That’s where the shower’s going to be. The wedding’s not till tomorrow; tonight is the pre-nuptial party.”

“A party sounds good. What are we doing there?”

“We’re going to jump out of the cake. We’ll dress up like a bride and groom and jump out of a breakaway cake.”

This was your New Year’s resolution?”

“One of them. Thanks a bunch for helping; this will be a night to remember.”

 

Part 2. At the Hall.

“Come on, Bill! We have to get in position before the others get here!”

“I’m almost ready. This fake tux is a nightmare to get into.”

“Do you want me to come in and help you?”

“No, I’m ready. Here, how do I look?”

“Dashing. What about me?”

“Gorgeous. I don’t think Nancy could fill out that dress as well as you do.”

“Why thank you, Bill. Now let’s go cozy up in the cake.”

 

Part 3. Inside the Cake.

“Are you sure they haven’t forgotten us?”

“Don’t worry, Bill. We’re supposed to pop out when they play ‘Wonderful Tonight’.”

“Okay, I guess. I’m just not very comfortable with confined spaces. And pressed up tight against you like this is a little …”

“I can tell, Bill. Does this help?”

“Eileen? Um, not that I object, but is this really the right place?”

“It’s private.”

“But what if they start the song and you have your hand …”

“Shhh. There’s plenty of time before our cue. In fact, if you undo the zip on my dress I’ll stop using my hand…”

“Eileen! It’s going to be hard to get this tux back on in here.”

“Shut up and undress me, Bill. Now!”

 

Part 4. A Short Time Later.

“Bill, are you okay?”

“Uh … uh …”

“Funny the way the cake just sort of fell away like that, isn’t it?”

“Gah …”

“Aren’t the looks on their faces priceless?”

“Ei … Ei …”

“I’m glad you decided to join me in my resolution to shed my inhibitions and get naked in public. It was worth it, Bill. I feel so free and alive!”

“Hnh! Hnh!”

“Just smile and take a bow, Bill. Smile and take a bow. And maybe next year cut down on the drinking at New Year’s.”