It’s not in a war zone, it’s an ordinary town. But the roads in and out are impassable, dug up and barricaded. The bridges have been destroyed, swept away by floods. Even the tracks through the forest are overgrown and pitted with deep ruts. Vermin thrive on half eaten takeaways. The road signs have been removed and most of the street lights vandalised. Only the young, the old and the stubborn remain. Kidz spray graffiti on the once proud bank ‘YOUR NEXT’.
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“It’s a tie-clip.”
“That belonged to President Kennedy!” “Says who?” “The auctioneer…” “From Sotheby’s?” “Yes.” “And they’re never wrong.” My dad is the type that sits in an audience, arms folded, gruff expression on his face while he waits to be entertained. “Saint Thomas gets a bad rap because he wanted to touch the wounds of our Lord Jesus Christ...” This is dad in expansive mood. Or drunk. “How would Christianity have fared without his doubts?” The tie-clip was a useless piece of… Dad doesn’t gloat. Ever heard the phrase, how will it play in Peoria, Illinois? That’s my dad. The girl with the scars, she hid. There was one below her lip, another that traveled down her chest leaving a long, pink trail. The girl with the scars, would not speak of these wounds instead she roamed-roamed-roamed around in the grass. She spoke to birds, humming songs for God’s creatures. The girl with the scars, walked with a shovel planting yellow tulips, roses, everywhere. Months ago, she’d been rescued by a neighbor. He’d been renovating a shack miles away on family property. He’s a good man, selfless. Still, the girl with the scars remains numb.
She builds fences instead. My mother was a lefty protester who could have won the Worst Gift Giver contest hands down. For Christmas she gave us expired boxes of Stove Top Stuffing, sheets of gold star stickers with a few stars missing, toy rubber giraffes, a single tarnished spoon. When my daughter turned 15, a package arrived in the mail. I will never forget the look on her face as she unwrapped the present to find a set of tiny wooden clothes pins, each one no bigger than an almond. My mother had carefully written NO NUKES with a black pen on each one.
Simon’s not a stalker. Not really. At least, not until now.
His initial encounters with Dianne are coincidental. Meeting at a friend’s party. Running errands. Eating at a local restaurant. Casual conversation. Nothing more. “But there’s something about Dianne,” Simon muses to himself. “Beautiful, funny, smart, talented...” “Ok, maybe there’re several things about her,” he admits to himself, sitting in the park hoping for a glance of her. “Ask me out, or I’m calling the police,” Dianne says, walking up to him, an amused smile on her face. Caught, embarrassed and hopeful, he laughs, asks her out… She says yes. Once upon a time in a land of perfect children, a young mother sat on the kitchen floor, banging a wooden spoon against a pan cover and sobbing inconsolably.
“Whatever is the problem?” asked the young father. “Our perfect son has no sense of rhythm,” she sobbed. “He has no music!” “That’s no problem,” he responded. “We’ve a lifetime to teach him.” “He must learn now,” she insisted. “As music resides in the spaces between the tones, likewise love resides as the cosmic foam between an atom’s nucleus and electrons.” “Quick! Give me a spoon and cover!” the father cried. Five-year-old Billy ran to us, breathless.
“I was in the pantry, eating cookies,” he whispered. “Of course you were,” laughed Pansy, my twin sister. “And?” I said. “They said we’re getting an ‘addition’ to the family,” he said. “Addition means plus something.” “We know,” I said. “We learned that grades ago. It’s old news to us. But…that means…” “Oh no!” screamed Pansy, always dramatic. “We’re getting a sister…or another brother!” Billy burst into tears. “I want to be littlest!” I frowned. “Will we have to share a bedroom?” Then our parents brought in a puppy… And we cheered like crazy. When M8rtha found the images on Jo7n’s hard drive, we knew it was time to have the talk; the one about the birds, bees, nanites, cyborgs and holograms.
I felt my diodes pulse with awkwardness as I sat Jo7n down. “So son, have you any questions?” “How was I born D4d? Did the stork bring me?” “Yes, the Simulated Transfer of Reproductive Kode brought you to us. There’s some of me and your mother in you and probably some Russian malware as well!” “I see. And what’s my Dongle for?” I sighed. It was going to be a long evening. Helen wandered around her spring garden. Leafy shoots on the red rose her husband had given her were promises of love. In the shady corner were the white violets from her granny who taught her about forgiveness. Sprinkles of forget-me-nots sparkled memories of her mother's kindness. Iris were souvenirs of generous friends. Bleeding heart brought memories of a comforting friend. Flamboyant frilly pink peonies wafted the fragrance of her daughter's spirit. Sturdy sedums were gifted by a son who always supported her.
Smiling in the warm sunshine, Helen planned which plants she would give to family and friends. To my granddaughter, Maisie, I leave her future dream.
Thanks, Pops, but what’s the use of a dream that won’t come true, I asked myself. Clad in black leather, riding a gleaming black Harley Davidson down a “Highway to Hell” singing"Bad to the Bone", nerves throbbing beneath the pulsating power machine was my ultimate dream. Look under the tarp at the back of the garage, Maisie, stated Grandpa’s will. The Harley was a relic but mostly in one piece, and Pops had left me enough money to fix her up. Bon Scott and George Thorogood were already singing. A midnight kayak paddle in the phosphorescent water of Lough Hyne turned even more magical. An Aura of light magnificently painted the sky with colours capturing the solar storm. The sky shimmered undulations of purple and green. For a love-sick lonesome Jim, still reeling from a messy divorce, it awakened the image of a lone female pianist, on a cold Arctic shore filled with musical mist. He was drawn trance-like with no discernible propulsion towards the rapids of Barloge Creek by the melody that drowned out the percussive crash of the turbulent Atlantic waves, and out towards the endless Ocean.
We saw the simple sign every day on the way to school. “Burger Night Every Wednesday! Seven Dollars for a Burger, Chips, and Soda!”
“Daddy, you have to take us. Please?” The begging went on for weeks. Relentlessly. I finally caved and told them that, as soon as they each saved seven dollars from chores, we could go and get the burgers they had so adamantly begged for. The house had never been cleaner, the laundry never as nicely folded. They earned that seven dollars the hard way. Wednesday night came. Seven dollars. Burger. Chips. Soda. “Well?” “McDonald’s is better.” Harriet arrived today. Her first task was to sort the components of her packaging. Aaron showed her the recycling bins and demonstrated the garage door controls.
She has cobalt blue eyes framed by dark lashes against an alabaster skin, and a perfect smile. Her voice is unsettlingly deep—I’ll adjust that tomorrow. Aaron seems quite taken with her, he has a spring in his step I’ve never seen before. To think he was the first in the neighbourhood; now every household has one. Always ahead, I’m seriously upping my game with Harriet. I wonder what they’ll make for my dinner? The Knight dismounted at seeing the fair damsel asleep in the grass. Ahh. A vision of pure loveliness.
He approached softly so she wouldn’t startle, admiring the dreamy smile on her lips as she drank in the sun. Her eyes flew open when his shadow interrupted the warm rays. “What are you doing?” She jumped to her feet. “Bestowing a kiss.” “Get off my lawn, creep!” she cried, storming away with her towel. “Busted!” his teammates in Knights jerseys taunted from the nearby bus. Oh well, worth a shot. At least he won lunch for attempting the dare. Gordon's Choice I've actually had a suspicion about one of my own neighbours – GL It takes forever to get away. While, as a witch, I magically shrink luggage and reach my destination, using power is exhausting.
I’m now at my holiday cottage, toasting the humans next door with prosecco. Which will be in my experiment? We’re not supposed to use live specimens or be on a banned planet, but everyone who seeks to extend knowledge does this. I follow in hallowed footsteps. When it is time to leave, one of those two goes home, the other goes somewhere else, and I return to my world with notes. It’s time I had my big break. Lisa's Choice Dorothy thought others would happily pay for a life story of her opinions, travels, love affairs and hobbies of darts, drumming, dining and dance.
She was too lazy to write anything more than her signature so was intrigued by the classified ad, “Autobiographies Written While You Sleep!” She prepaid the costly invoice for “procedures,” was sedated and slept in a soundproof room for twenty-four hours with wires attached to her head. She woke up and found under her hand a 273-page hardcover book. Confused and with no memory, she spent the following hours reading about a boring stranger named Dorothy. Tom paused halfway up the hill. He removed his cap, wiping his forehead. He never tired of this view, and the sounds on the lake. A perfect mallard family with fluffy babies.
‘Help!’ shouted a boy running, jumping over the roots lining the rough pathway. Dropping his bike, Tom grabbed him as he slid on gravel. ‘She’s not talking. She won’t wake up.’ A car was blocking the road ahead, on its roof. The driver, young and female was covered in blood. Lifeless. Tom called the services, voice shaky. ‘Don’t worry son. It’s going to be fine’. But it wasn’t. The little girl walked over the rubble. She wanted to help the wounded white rabbit. The poor animal looked in pain. She was about to pick it up when her older brother stopped her.
“Watch and learn, Cate.” He hit the rabbit with a rock. The rabbit rolled up its eyes and changed into a long tentacle that projected out from its burrow. A snapping mouth with sharp teeth opened up on its underbelly and roared in anger. “You see! You cannot trust anything you see.” Cate nodded and the two siblings continued their way along the remnants of civilization. “You don’t need this.”
“I do, Bonnie. I missed Mom and Dad’s funerals, never saw their graves.” “Them. You owe them nothing. I’m dropping you here, but not coming back.” She sped away. Searching, I found the moldering headstones, stood transfixed. Strange. Distant downtown towers faded from view, the nearby traffic murmuration ceased. A black hearse inched forward in the gloaming. Surrounding graves yawned open. I’d made a terrible mistake. From nowhere our car appeared. Bonnie piled into the hearse’s rear, propelling the whole vision into another dimension. “Honey. I was disappearing.” “I know, dear. I couldn’t live without you.” Queen Elizabeth and I had always coordinated our spring garden party date. Her Majesty naturally had a direct line to Above. Year after year, the weather had been perfect for both our affairs – blue skies and a warm breeze.
Now she’s gone I asked Lillibet, up in the Above, to make the request on my behalf. I was certain she would do it. We had a long history, didn’t we? But instead she got Queen Camilla glorious weather. She didn’t even like Camilla! And I sit here with 35 guests under a party tent in my garden, rain thrumming down. Sean and Val had never met but spoke nearly every week, he from the London office, she from the Southampton branch. She loved his deep, resonant voice and he loved her girlish laugh.
One day she told him she was coming to London soon for a friend’s wedding and suggested they meet after work. On the appointed Friday they met at the front desk and stared at each other, both lost for words. Then at Sean’s suggestion they walked to the nearby wine bar. ‘So, when did you leave university, Sean?’ ‘Last year. When do you retire, Val?’ ‘Next year.’ Mack's been hiding in the forest for so many years he reckons the police must have stopped looking for him. Yet when the bloodlust descends, torturing animals isn't enough and the temptation to risk a return to civilisation becomes overwhelming...
The girl appears from nowhere. A hiker who's lost her way. His temples throb. He unsheathes his knife, ready to satisfy a decade-long desire but, as he raises the blade, a large paw swats it from his hand. Claws and jaws devastate his flesh until he chokes on his own, unheeded, screams for mercy. 'Good bear,' says the girl. (Dinner, Assisted Living, Desert Oasis)
Doreen: I’m tired of living. I’m ready to go. I want to be with Jim. Ruth: Who’s Jim? Doreen: My husband. He died twenty-three years ago. We’re going to meet in heaven when I die. Linda: What if he’s forgotten about you? Twenty-three years is a long time. Maybe he’s hooked up with another woman. You know how men are. Doreen: Jim wouldn’t do that. Caregiver: It’s time to go back to your apartment, Doreen. Ruth: Poor Doreen. Losing her husband. Nadine: Doreen never married. Linda: How do you know that? Nadine: She’s my sister. Life overwhelmed him sometimes. He wasn’t sure where he was, wasn’t sure where he was going, or where he’d prefer to be. He dreamed of writing a novel but it was easier to browse Facebook and numb his frustrations.
‘Here’s a thought…’ said a little voice, ‘why not pause Facebook and write just one more paragraph on your novel instead?’ ‘Five minutes and you’ll be one paragraph closer to that dream. ‘Who knows, maybe that one paragraph will lead to two, then three and maybe that novel will one day be finished. ‘Just a thought.’ He began to type… “Notice anything different?” I asked Bob after Zena Twelve took our lunch order.
“Yeah, she wrote nothing down. Nice legs, though.” Bob got the asparagus spears with peanut butter, maple syrup, and a bowl of uncooked dry macaroni when the meal came. He scrunched a face. I stared at my dish of raw clams with a side of pepperoncini swimming in oatmeal and signaled to the manager. “Paul, there’s a problem.” “Give the kid a break. She’s new.” “She’s not human.” “So?” “She’s an AI waitroid. Look at this food.” “You’re right; that’s supposed to be on tomorrow’s dinner menu.” |
"Classic"
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