Archive for the ‘Authors’ Category
Just Because You’re Paranoid
Thursday, January 20th, 2011
Robbie was in trouble. The traffic signals were communicating with one another using a variant of Morse code. The lights were against him.
In the park, clockwork birds shadowed his footsteps, pretending to be sparrows hunting for seeds in the dirt. He stomped a few.
Robbie hurried toward the courthouse. Despite his monitoring apps he was surprised when a black hole opened directly beneath his feet.
The manhole cover had been booby trapped. Robbie’s security software hadn’t warned him. “Crap!” he thought as his “Z” value plummeted.
Thank Designer he couldn’t smell! Access ladder gone, shaft too wide for him to brace himself against the walls and inch his way up.
Claws scritch on stone, wet black scales, rows of shiny white teeth. So it wasn’t just an urban legend! Fortunately, he had a jet pack.
Steering these things is tricky, he caromed. Good thing they don’t let humans have them. He stratosphered uffishly.
Calculating tangents and trajectories, reaction mass and resistance, Robbie figured he’d skip off the atmosphere in 3.672 years.
If he slingshot round the sun, he could go where no bot had gone. Solar vanes out, limbs aflexin, Robbie hit the sleep mode with his best pregnancy pillow of the just.
end
The Vampire Harold
Wednesday, January 19th, 2011
A vampire, right down the hall in the finance department. She told her boss. She told HR. She told security. Just because his name was Harold, and he was an accountant, and short and round. Just because sometimes she drank a cocktail or so at lunch. Just because sometimes she might seem a little lonely.
They didn’t believe her. Even though his cubicle stunk of the coconut sunscreen he reapplied every hour, and he wore hats. Indoors and every day. He wore his collar upturned. And the smell—bad meat, grave dirt. His skin, what you could see of it, translucent. When he caught her eyes with his rheumy, bloodshot gaze, she felt the weight of all his years bearing down on her and burying her alive. And then he hissed.
She knew he was the one who left the oranges on her desk, every day. Two perfect puncture marks, welling up with sweet juice. Her phone was always sticky, and the combination of scents, the citrus and the smell of blood made her clutch her throat, heaving over her tiny little trash can. “You’ll have to file an official grievance,” the HR man said, pushing his glasses up his nose. Her boss offered her a tissue and a weak, confused smile, and the gentle suggestion that maybe she ought to take a couple of days off. Security asked her to leave the office immediately, or they’d be forced to escort her off the premises. He was spinning on his office chair, around and around and around, when she marched by his cubicle on her way out of the security office. As he swung around he bared his teeth at her, and waggled his bony, earth-stained fingers and swept away again. There was a sack of oranges under his desk.
There were oranges on her desk, every day, and the smell seemed to fade away more and more quickly. You get used to anything, after awhile. You start to pick up the orange and hold it for a moment, before you toss it away. You lick your fingers clean of the juice. You squeeze the fruit between your fingers and feel the peel give and stickiness run down to your elbow. And you start to look almost look forward to it, every day. The orange, with two perfect puncture marks, sitting on your desk every day.