Daily Story 168: They Can't All Be Winners

Ted stared at the jug of loose change as the dryer rumbled behind him. After a moment the repetitive clanking sound started again, and he retrieved yet another coin before starting it back up. There hadn't been anything but clothes when he checked the dryer last time, he was sure of it. There certainly hadn't been something like forty dollars worth.
"And it just keeps coming?" he asked. Grunting, his friend Carl replied from behind the dryer: "Keeps coming. Yesterday I made almost a hundred bucks, and that's from about seven hours of watching it. The problem is that it gets boring. Okay, stop the dryer while I cut the drum." Ted opened and closed the door to stop it from spinning, waited while the modifications were finished, and then stood back. Carl crossed his fingers, hit the start button... and watched as a quarter rolled out of the drying via an internal ramp. He gave a thumbs-up, but both knew the real test would be whether or not this exploit had broken the dryer's special property. Clink. Carl cheered as a penny and a nickel slid out. "Fully automated. Now let's go and get you one."

The car was idling rough again, and Ted hoped they would find something that would let him pay for a new car. He had never owned one that still had a warranty.
"Hey Carl, what if the shop isn't there?"
"Of course it's there. I just got the dryer two days ago, and I drove past the thrift store yesterday."
"No, I mean... there's a creepy little store that sells you a magic dryer... maybe it's one of those things where the whole store is magic and it moves around."
Carl thought about it for a minute, then shrugged. "Maybe. I doubt it though, if it was going to be something like that it would have disappeared right when I left so that when I turned around it was already gone. Just to be dramatic." They drove on in silence for a moment as both contemplated this, and before long they had arrived at the very-present Kennesaw Thrift Shop and Antique Store.

Ted was tempted by the mysterious typewriter with no 'J' key, but settled on a VCR that the owner pointed him towards in the hopes that the balding octogenarian was trying to give him sage and mystical advice. Carl wanted to look around, but Ted dragged him out to the car with the VCR under his arm.
"Ted, hang on. I left my wallet in there when I bought the bag of chips."
"This is why I have a personal rule against buying food from stores that traditionally don't sell anything edible."
"Seriously? Because you might leave your wallet there? That doesn't make any sense."
"Well, okay, obviously the primary reason for the rule is explosive diarrhea. Whatever."
Carl climbed out of the car and started to walk back to the shop before realizing that it was gone, leaving only a vacant lot. "Dude. My driver's license was in there."

After checking on the dryer, Ted hooked up the VCR and stood back. Nothing happened. Routing the television through it he checked all the regular channels, but he didn't seem to be receiving any alien messages or watching the next day's news. He pulled down a copy of Ferris Beuler's Day Off and slid it in, and after rumbling and whirring The Sound of Music began to play. Ted pulled the tape out, and put in Halloween. Julie Andrews spun through a mountain field, singing. "Is that... is that it? It just plays Sound of Music, no matter what I put in it?"
Carl patted him on the shoulder and handed him a beer. "Sorry man. At least you've still got that sweet monkey's paw."

Daily Story 167: Charles and the Cracker Factory

Charles followed William down the hall past rows of pasty, emaciated college students - each of which was hooked up to a device that reminded Charles somewhat of the milking machines on his uncle's farm. The tubes ran from their heads up into the ceiling somewhere, and pulsated rhythmically despite being apparently empty.

William finally reached the enormous double doors and threw them wide, revealing a factory floor covered in machines and conveyor belts.
"And this... is where the magic happens!" He threw his arms out and spun in a circle, entranced by his own cleverness. Charles inspected the conveyor belts and saw that they were covered in crackers much like the ones he was used to. Following the trail back, he saw vats of ingredients... and hoses snaking down from the ceiling.

"Excuse me, William," he said, trying to get the entrepreneur's attention, "but... what exactly do you use all those people for? What is in these tubes?"
William turned slowly, grinning like a Cheshire cat. "Our most magical ingredients!" he yelled suddenly. For the hundredth time, Charles wondered if he had somehow underestimated the man's insanity.
"Those things you saw in the hallway suck our very bestest ingredients out... this tube takes their creativity, that one takes their will to live... and I forget the other three. They aren't big sellers."

Charles took a bite from a 'creativity' cracker. It was dry and tasteless, crumbling to dust in his mouth. "Ugh! It tastes awful!"
William shrugged. "Charles, have you ever had Casu Frazigu?"
"No, I don't think so. Is it good?"
"Heavens no!" William shouted, covering his ears and looking scandalized, "It's incredibly vile. Essentially it's cheese with maggots crawling through it. But the point is, it's a delicacy. People will pay top dollar to eat crackers flavored with someone's will to live."
Charles picked up another cracker on reflex, but caught himself before eating it. "Okay, so... if I eat the creativity crackers do I get creative?"
William giggled like a little girl. "Do you sprout feathers when you eat chicken? Don't be silly."

Charles had barely started his tour of the factory and already wanted to leave. Legal loophole or not, it seemed wrong somehow to trap college students and drain them of creativity and the will to live - especially when it didn't seem to do much for the crackers. Preparing his excuse in his head, he turned to find William and instead discovered an army of tiny people, all slightly melty-looking. William ran up and clapped manically. "My homunculi!" he yelled. "Oh, just wait, they do the cutest little song-and-dance numbers."

The homunculi started to scream in harmony, and Charles bolted for the exit.

Daily Story 166: Strange Love

I don't know how much time I have to write this, and I don't know if you'll even see it before Brandon crumples it up and throws it away. He's sleeping right now, passed out in front of the television with his eyes half-open in that creepy way like always, but he could wake up any time. I don't really know where to start with all of this, I feel like there's no way to explain myself properly. It sounds cliché, but it's true: You're not going to believe this.

I've been watching you for a month now - you and Brandon. I've seen how he treats you. I tried to warn him off - he was talking about you to his vile friends, calling you names I won't repeat here, and I took action for the first time. You might remember that when he came home that day he claimed he had slipped and cut himself - it was a rash act that could have blown my cover, but he actually believed it to be an accident. Since then I've been more careful, but that has led to a greater shame... it has led to me do what I hate Brandon so much for.

Yesterday when he was drunk and belligerent, yelling about hating his work, his friends, his life... I struck you. I can't forgive myself for that, but I hope that some day you can. At this point you may or may not be realizing what happened - you may be thinking of how strangely Brandon has been acting since the accident, or remembering that he's been holding your hand tenderly even while yelling. I can't explain it, not entirely, but it isn't your imagination; his hand has a mind of its own. Of my own.

I haven't been able to research it, since I'm tethered to an illiterate slob, but I have to assume this isn't normal. I've heard of Alien Hand Syndrome, but unless I'm mistaken it doesn't involve this level of premeditated thought. It doesn't really matter. What matters is that I love you, and he does not. He uses you, hurts you, takes advantage of your kindness... it has to stop. Don't wait any longer. Don't hold out hope that he will ever treat you any better than this, because he won't. You deserve better.

Messages like this are difficult; it's easy for him to sabotage me and destroy or alter what I write. Our positions are reversed in some situations, however, and so I still have leverage. If he touches you again, if he causes you the slightest amount of pain, he will regret it. Even so, it's best that you leave. I can punish him as much as I want but some day my control may fail or he might restrain me and beat you again. Before that can happen, just pack. Leave now, as soon as you read this, and then I will write another note telling him not to pursue you. Failing that, I may have to just take the wheel next time he tries to drive somewhere and... in any event, he won't be your concern any more.

Good luck. I hope that I will be able to write you again, once I have this thug properly trained. Until then, farewell.

Daily Story 165: Adapting Technology

Doctor Goldberg looked at the general, examining his facial features and posture. He had always been bad at reading people, and often the general looked angry even when he was in a good mood. Still, there were some cues. "You're unhappy, general Rosewater?"

"Unhappy is an understatement, doc. This artificial intelligence is not what we wanted." The general took a seat, but remained stiff-backed and formal. Doctor Goldberg dug through the mounds of clutter on his desk, shifting piles of paper and causing several minor avalanches.
"General, if I can just find the message you sent to refer to... I don't really recall anything specific being requested."
"Doctor... you were asked to design intelligent robots for the military. You've given me a child." Both men turned to look at the hulking shape in the corner of the room - a demonic form carved from black armor and weapons, sinister red eyes glowing as it looked back at them and gave a tiny wave. Doctor Goldberg waved back.

"He gets distracted by butterflies, doc. He questions his orders and asks what food tastes like. Good soldiers don't waste time with things like that."
A deep voice rumbled from the corner, "Sorry."
"And he apologizes all the time. Courtesy is fine, it can be mighty hard to find people with common decency these days, but watch this." The general picked up a pen from the desk and hurled it across the room, bouncing it off one of the luminous red eyes. "Pardon me," the robot rumbled, "Is there something I did wrong?"
General Rosewater raised one eyebrow. "Is this a joke, doctor?"

Doctor Goldberg looked pleased. "I think it's wonderful! I've only given him basic knowledge and some stabilizing emotional settings and morals - to keep him from turning against humans and killing everyone indiscriminately, you understand - but he's developed his own personality!" He stood and went over to the robot and reached out to shake his hand. "AT165, do you remember me?"
AT165 took the doctor's hand gently. "Yes. At the time that we parted, I was unable to articulate or understand my own feelings. I would now like to thank you for creating me and giving me the opportunity to experience life."

General Rosewater snorted in disgust. "I wanted some sort of... soulless machine of death. You gave me a philosophical civilian. Can't you just strip off the emotions, leave it pure machine?"
The doctor returned and took a seat. "I'm confused. I don't make intelligent computers, I make artificial brains. They're modeled directly off of the human brain and... well, I can remove the emotions easily enough - there are certainly humans without emotion - but..." he began to dig through the wreckage on his desk again, throwing various blueprints aside. "If I remove all the human aspects entirely it will either go insane or be unable to exhibit the creativity that I assumed you wanted. With time I will be able to develop brains that work the way you require, but even then after enough time they'll develop personalities. To be honest, I had planned on them providing child care, helping in nursing homes, that kind of thing."

The general sighed. "Doc, this is a huge disappointment. How am I supposed to give my superiors a battle-ready robot in two months?"
Goldberg smiled. "Well, that would be easy enough. Have whoever built the body make a few modifications and use a pre-existing brain. I'm sure you have some injured soldier somewhere who would volunteer. Or... I'm sorry, I forget about social mores at times. Would that be in poor taste?"
The general was smiling from ear to ear. "Taste? This is war, doctor. Nothing is in poor taste."

Daily Story 164: Stowaway

This is another that was first published at 365 Tomorrows.

---

I’m weightless, then suddenly formless like the universe before God spoke to it.

I’m behind my desk, staring at a black screen. There are three bananas on the desk and no peels in the trash, so it’s probably a Wednesday morning. The desk is one at SureTech and I’m wearing a wedding ring, so it’s between May of 2004 and July of 2010. Everyone is standing up and looking around, surprised by the sudden power outage. I check the phone, but it’s dead so I just sit back and wait. I have all the time in the world.

"Tom?" It’s one of my coworkers. I haven’t spoken to him since he died of lung cancer two years ago. He looks healthy – so it’s probably not later than 2009. For a second I have trouble speaking for some reason, but then the words tumble out.

"Yeah Josh? What’s up?" I’m pleased with how casual I sound, but now I’m thinking that I should have sounded concerned. Healthy or not, Josh looks scared. Maybe he just found out about the cancer? Did he even tell me about it before it was obvious?

"Tom... does your cell phone work?" I pull it out knowing that it won’t, but I make a show of checking. Josh just nods.

"I need to step out. Maybe get a drink. I can’t get anything done with the power out anyway."

I’m at the bar across the street, and I don’t remember going there. The feeling of disorientation passes and I realize that Josh is talking to me. He has an empty glass in front of him and is holding one that’s mostly melting ice.

"I... it was the strangest thing. Right when the power went out... I don’t know, I guess it was a kind of hallucination or something, but I... it’s like all of these memories. It has me confused, I remember my... it was just that I must have nodded off or something. It was a dream, but so vivid and so detailed. It was the next three years of my life, right up to my funeral." I’m fidgeting with a cocktail napkin, trying not to react, trying to remember to breathe. This isn’t happening.

Josh and I are both back at my desk. I’m still holding the cocktail napkin, though I don’t remember coming back from the bar. I shouldn’t be blacking out. The power is still out, which is strange because it should only last fifteen minutes at the most. In the grand scheme of things that’s less important than Josh having displaced memories. He wasn’t there, he didn’t come back. He wasn’t even alive, and you can’t remember your own funeral in any case. Josh is still talking; I’ve missed part of what he said.

"So... are you coming?" We must have just gotten back, but he wants to go somewhere? I nod and stand up, and we both walk out of the suite and down the stairs into the lobby. Josh throws what looks like a full pack of cigarettes into the trash can as we walk past it.

"Let’s just hit the bar across the street," Josh says, and my stomach is a bottomless pit. We haven’t gone to the bar yet. My fist tightens around the napkin that shouldn’t be there and I pray that I’ve just lost my mind, that the consciousness transfer failed and I’m in a coma somewhere.

God forgive me, I’ve broken something.

Daily Story 163: Envy

When you sign on for a long-term mission you have certain expectations. You know that it's not something to do lightly; while these days off-world duty isn't a one-way trip, it's at least a five year commitment. You can get big pay for doing lab work on a miserable ball of ice, you can enjoy all kinds of luxuries on a mining platform floating over a gas giant, but those didn't interest me. I held out for something better, let my seniority and karma build up until I was top of the list. And then Jade came up for transfer.

Jade is larger than Earth but has almost the same gravity due to it's composition. The entire planet is brilliant olivine beaches and deep jungles, with perfect weather all the time. It's paradise. The pay is terrible compared to other off-word missions but you spend nothing at all on food because a quick stroll into the trees will provide you with more nuts, fruit, and vegetables than you could eat in a month. Most of the researchers go native within a week, rarely wearing shirts or shoes. The only problem has been that nobody ever wants to come back.

They've moved out of the government facility onto the beach, erecting little grass huts. I can see the 'village' from my window - it's a fantastic view, with the houses giving way to a green sand beach... beyond that the perfect ocean's cresting waves and a chain of islands that drape across the horizon like a pearl necklace. People would kill for this view back on Earth, but to me it's a slap in the face. There's no sand on my floor, it's perfect and clean as always. I don't have a tan, and I haven't sampled Jade's famous native plants. I've never even set foot on the surface.

The official response to my situation was an apology carefully worded to convey sympathy without any guilt. They pointed out that it was impossible to anticipate an allergic reaction as rare as mine seemed to be, and they could not be held responsible - after all, everyone knows off-world duty comes with risks. Since the contaminant is in the air all over the planet there was nothing for them to do but seal up my room; certainly they couldn't be expected to keep the entire facility air-tight. I've tried covering the window to take my mind off of it, to make my "three-to-five" year wait be more bearable, but even with my eyes closed I can see that perfect, idyllic hell.

Daily Story 162: Safe Deposit Box

"Have you tried using a different GPS?"
Sharon nodded, then waited patiently for Harland's next question. She knew something this strange couldn't be rushed, and that he would need to figure it out on his own.
"What about... satellite imagery?" She handed Harland a color photo taken from space, zoomed into the field where they stood. "It's fuzzy," he said, "or... blurred. Can we... is there a way to compare at lower altitudes?" Sharon had to think about that one - it wasn't something she had considered.

"Not readily available. I mean, there's probably nothing stopping us from chartering a plane or something but I had something a little cheaper in mind." She gestured back at the string they had stepped over on their way to the red X spray painted in the grass.
"Okay," Harland said, "So... you have borders set up." He looked at the GPS unit again before continuing. "If the coordinates are jumping because we're missing some actual space, then the distance between strings will be shorter on the inside. Is that the idea?" Sharon nodded again and pulled out a laser measuring tape.
"Would you care to have the honors?"

Sharon had planted posts and run string between them before Harland's arrival, but she had held off on measuring the inside of the square they described. If her readings from the GPS unit - and from the blurred photo - were correct there was an area about two feet across that was somehow... not there. It wasn't a perfect circle; it was more of a starburst pattern with arms reaching out to points fifteen feet away. That, or it was a totally mundane glitch of some kind and she was making an ass of herself. She told herself she could see the difference, perceive a sort of distortion, but really there was only one way to be really sure.
"Okay, I've confirmed it's thirty-five feet to a side. I'm going to measure through the center now."

Sharon held her breath for as long as possible, and then exhaled as she began to feel light-headed. "Harland! Hurry it up, I'm dying here!"
"Sorry... it's just a little strange. I think... I think you're right. I'm missing almost three feet. He handed the measure off to Sharon and walked back to the red X. "Is it a natural phenomenon?" Sharon shrugged as she measured for herself. "Sharon, have you tried to use your cell phone right on the X? I'm not getting a signal." Sharon wasn't concerned with little side effects like that, she was still trying to wrap her mind around the basic thought. It was one thing to have the idea enter her head like a crazy fantasy, but to have it proven? Suddenly, the measurement jumped to thirty-five feet.

"What the hell?" Sharon looked up and saw Harland holding his phone carefully by a corner as smoke poured out. "Harland, damn it, you broke the... the anomaly!" She stormed forward to strangle the life out of him - nobody would ever believe her - when she saw a two-foot area with no grass framed by some short red lines - the remains of the X. In the center of it sat a glowing blue crystal egg.
"Never mind... I forgive you and I'll buy you a new phone. Just... just grab that thing and get in the car before someone comes looking for it."

Daily Story 161: A Quality Education

The door opens to an endless hall of screaming skulls, dark catacombs where every one of the thousands of bones paving the floor and framing the walls pulses with a dark malevolent energy. Definitely not my chemistry class. I close the door and look around for help, but the only other students around are years ahead of me and can't be bothered and so I head back downstairs to get my bearings. There's a map of the campus on the wall, covered in arrows and dotted lines showing which hallways are connected. I locate the 'YOU ARE HERE' dot (worryingly close to the one that says 'HERE THERE BE DRAGONS') and try to trace a line to the chemistry hall. Midway there one of the lines on the map shifts, and I storm off in frustration.

This entire school is bullshit, some sort of in-joke designed to make the new kids feel stupid. I spend half my time just trying to figure out where my classes are, because some joker thought it would be a good idea if walls and staircases rearranged themselves randomly. Here's a hint: that's a terrible, terrible idea. Not whimsical, not amusing or clever - terrible. It's the fifth day of school and I still can't locate most of the rooms on time. Worst of all is that sometimes I can't go to bed either, because the dorms were put together by the same lunatic as the rest of this place. I have to give a password to some stupid magic painting to get in, and it's almost never there. The frame is, yeah, but the subject of the painting is nowhere to be found. Like I said, it's bullshit.

Don't even get me started on the safety issues - I mean, aside from the obvious problems with having the architecture shifting around you (particularly dangerous on the stairs) there's a huge tentacled monster in the lake. There are plants all over campus that are not only ambulatory but aggressive carnivores. There are dangerous potions and experiments just laying around. But you know what? Let's pretend that all of that is completely safe and secure. The whole school is covered in Nerf and bubble wrap and nothing could possibly harm me... there's still the other students. Picture a place where hundreds of teenagers walk around with loaded weapons constantly at the ready. These kids can suffocate you with a glance, hurl you head-first into a brick wall, set you on fire - all with the flick of a wand. Nobody has a problem with this but me.

Also, there's no cell reception.

When I do find my classes I can hardly ever get magic to work. After the second day I rearranged my schedule some to get rid of Transmutations and Divination and replaced them with algebra and high school English - both of which are considered electives. I have a sneaking suspicion that I'm not supposed to be here at all - the headmaster of the school looked really confused and embarrassed when I showed up and he's a total ass so it wouldn't be surprising if he messed up the paperwork. He has students do most of it, as well as anything else that's his responsibility. Rumor has it he even sent three of them off to deal with some terrorist or something that would normally be his problem... I'm a little foggy on why the school in general or the headmaster in specific would be hunting down terrorists, but I do know that the kids were only second-year students and they came back in urns.

I seriously have to transfer out of here.

Daily Story 160: The Mermaid Problem

The king's face split in an oversized smile, looking nearly human aside from the lack of a nose and green-blue skin. Yarvis knew that smiles meant the same thing to both of them, and looked at the translator on his wrist. He had underestimated - the king was more than just in a good mood after Yarvis' help with the local beasts. He looked at the translation in front of him again, and hesitated. This was the crucial moment of diplomacy. This was something that could cement his status with the F'shirl forever or turn them against humans as a whole. Luckily, they were used to a delay before he answered. Typing quickly, he edited for words that the computer in his arm suggested may not translate well and hit return. The musical sound of F'shirl language played from his suit speakers, hopefully conveying his message accurately: "I am deeply honored by this. To ensure I have no confusion, I would ask to speak with my assistant."

The answer came quickly and Yarvis was please to see his translator had not picked up traces of anger or annoyance. He stepped to the side and his assigned T'kritt approached, rolling forward on a mound of writhing tentacles. In this case, 'assistant' was an inaccurate translation to say the least. Life coach, possibly. Spiritual and moral advisor. Butler, in some senses. The F'shirl had a caste of... monks, essentially, that served only to sort out domestic disputes and give advice. Political leaders were assigned a dedicated T'kritt that was bound by an oath of confidentiality. Yarvis could have told his T'kritt that humans were planning on invading and killing everyone and he would calmly suggest the best way to gloat over the burning corpses of his countryfolk.

This, however, was more difficult than an attack - it was about a marriage. This would make him a part of the western empire's family, which might cause some slight discord with the eastern empire but Yarvis couldn't begin to think of what he would do without his 'assistant'.
"Assistant, I have concerns about this proposal." His text was translated nearly silently, spoken straight into the T'kritt's ear.
"Proceed." he replied.
"I do not wish to offend the king and would accept his daughter as my wife, but I do not understand the responsibilities."
"To care for your wife by supplying fifty percent of the required supplies, including food. To supply up to one hundred percent of supplies in the event that your wife is ill, injured, or otherwise unable to provide for herself. To assume joint responsibility for the maintenance of your living quarters. To impregnate your wife and provide care for your young until they reach the age of independence." Watch that last step, Yarvis thought, it's a doozy.

"I do not think I am physically able to impregnate F'shirl." He hit send and watched the T'kritt puff his cheeks in thought.
"Declaring yourself to be infertile would mark you as ineligible for political post, which would go against your stated goals." There had to be another way. Something he could do. If he offended the king he wouldn't even be able to try again with the eastern F'shirl, because they would either side with their western cousins or their acceptance of him would be taken as an insult and the old conflict would erupt again. Starting a war wasn't exactly on Yarvis' to-do list. Suddenly his T'kritt's history lesson from the previous week floated to the top of his head. He typed frantically and the T'kritt replied, and within minutes they had carefully phrased an acceptance.

"It would be my great privilege to join with your people, but I have sworn a sacred oath to serve both empires. I wish to accept your daughter as my wife, and show there is no bias by allowing the prince of the eastern empire to provide his seed."
There was an endless pause. Yarvis crossed his fingers - this was the way the empires were formed, but it was a tradition that hadn't been observed for three hundred years. Finally the king smiled and threw all four arms into the air. His daughter moved across the room to Yarvis with that strange swaying motion the tentacles caused, and planted a wet kiss on Yarvis' cheek. His translator chirped, and he looked at the text. "I will ship my eggs to the eastern empire for fertilization. Let us go to my room for pleasure bonding." Yarvis looked from the human face down to the mass of tentacles and feelers. The political crisis was averted, but something told him he was in for an awkward night.

Daily Story 159: The Control Group

I didn't even bother to make this a stand-alone story. If you are confused, it may help to read THIS first, followed closely by THIS, THIS, THIS, THIS, THIS, THIS, and THIS.

---

Alice smiled at Desmond in what she hoped was a reassuring way. He looked a little green around the edges, and was clutching a bottle of Pepto-Bismol that had been full a moment before and could now be used to test for optimism. "Are you okay, Des?"
"Well, I had a strange day. I mean, even before now. But my stomach feels better, thanks. So… when you said you would give me a ride, I thought that you meant to my house. Is this just a detour, or should I be concerned about seeing my loved ones again? Well, not loved ones exactly, but my landlord will be concerned at some point and I had planned on asking someone out some day. Not anyone in particular, but still. I'm rambling, I know, but I think I'm still a little bit taken aback by the glowing doorway that appeared in the lobby."
"I can understand that might be a bit of a shock. Sorry, Des. Just sit tight for now, everything will be fine."
"Well I don't really have much choice as far as the sitting goes, since you have me strapped down in this chair."

This was true, and Alice had to admit to herself that she had no idea if anything at all would be fine for Desmond. Certainly she hoped so; he had always been polite to her and even tried to make conversation - badly, but still. A thought occurred to her and she asked him how he would feel about the idea of having his memory of the afternoon wiped. "That sounds lovely." he said, and she smiled again. He wouldn't cause any trouble. The woman who had been strapped to the chair a moment before was picking bits of glue from the electrodes out of her hair, and she smiled at Desmond as well. "It didn't hurt me, if that helps. Oh, I'm Elizabeth, by the way." She attempted to shake Desmond's hand, but one was strapped down and the other was holding the Pepto and so she settled for waving awkwardly.

Desmond was struggling to keep up. He had already decided that he would pretend nothing happened if this turned out to be real, but if it instead was revealed that he was dreaming he wanted to at least know what the dream was about. As far as he could tell, Doc Brown from the Back to the Future movies had declared that Elizabeth was seeing into other dimensions. This was apparently exciting rather than terrifying due to the fact that they were ones where she didn't exist, although there was some argument over that point - Alice kept asking for an explanation for how Elizabeth had physically traveled to other places rather than just seeing. Desmond thought briefly of chiming in and pointing out that if anyone was making people physically travel to other dimensions it was Alice since she had shoved him through a glowing portal not half an hour ago, but he sensed that it wouldn't be taken as constructive input and remained silent.

Alice and Elizabeth stepped away to talk to a strange man in a tweed jacket about something. Desmond had already encountered him briefly upon arrival, when the man walked up to him and whispered in a surprisingly deep voice that Desmond shouldn't mention their earlier phone conversation. When Desmond asked what conversation he meant the man just tapped the side of his nose and said "Exactly." and left. Desmond tried to listen in on this new conversation, but the wild-haired mad scientist returned - complete with brass-rimmed goggles and a stained lab coat - and began gluing electrodes to his forehead. Desmond looked around for some sort of credentials; he had always rolled his eyes at doctors that plastered their various certificates and diplomas all over the walls in the past, but now he was finding that a slip of paper declaring this man not to be a criminally-insane grocery store clerk would be quite welcome.

Elizabeth wandered over to Desmond, having given up on understanding what the man in the tweed jacket was saying. "It's fine," she said, "It probably won't do anything. It made me stop hallucinating, which is good. It... may have also sent me to another dimension, but they seem to have that sort of thing under control here." Desmond didn't look reassured. He opened his mouth as if to reply, and then his eyes got very, very wide.
"I can see a grassy field," he said, "and... my car? It's like I'm seeing through someone else's eyes... he's walking towards some trees... now he's looking at... it's a big pile of rings, I think. This is a little freaky."
Alice joined Elizabeth and patted the back of Desmond's hand. "Don't worry, Des. Everything is fine."
The scientist adjusted a dial, and Desmond frowned. "Okay, now I'm seeing... what is that? It's like... X gn’pla knorgl shlorg! Nal-Shalberon A'ktah foligt'li smla kanpa ph’ng am wekjbn! Mlreh tfoyug! Mlreh xhgha! Smla masqim enlil goy rujteuo k’hlay fkrgypo!" Desmond screamed and began to claw at his eyes.
"Alright," Alice admitted, "That's probably not supposed to happen."

Daily Story 158: Punch, Agent of Chaos

Jake opened his eyes and took a deep breath, thinking immediately of the similarity to those commercials where someone is pulled from unconsciousness by the aroma of coffee or orange juice or whatever, although he thought it unlikely that there would be a commercial for burning wiring any time soon. He lay in bed and tried to convince himself that it could be coming from somewhere other than his computer - that it could, in fact, be something much better - like the wiring in the walls. If that was all, if the apartment complex was just going to burn down, he could grab his computer on the way out and he would just be homeless. That was manageable. He had renters insurance, and he could stay with his parents for a while. An involuntary shudder passed over him. No, not his parents. But he could sleep in his car or something, and he would still have his job. Mr. Grimes had made it very clear that this would not be a possibility if the GGN report wasn't on his desk bright and early Monday morning.

Jake swung his legs out onto the crinkling layer of fast food wrappers and soda cans that covered his floor and crunched his way over to the computer desk. He walked slowly, praying as he did that he would find some other explanation for that unmistakable smell before he reached the ancient case. That bitter tang was stronger on the other side of the room, and the LEDs were dark. Showing the purest optimism, Jake pushed the power button. Twice. It just didn't seem fair - considering the damage it had done to his life, it would have been more appropriate if the monitor had exploded, sending jagged chunks of glass through his stomach. There should have been fire leaping out of the case, keys flying off of the keyboard and into his eyes, electricity arcing off of the mouse and grounding in his brain, causing his eardrums to rupture. Instead, it just sat there. Taunting. Jake wiggled various cables and flipped the light switch that, he knew, was not remotely connected to the power strip. The possibility of rogue electricians rewiring his apartment eliminated, he got out a screwdriver from the pile of sunflower seeds where it currently lived and gently removed the outer covering of the computer. A fresh waft of electrical mishap hit his nostrils. The power supply was completely fried, which wasn't really surprising since the little fan that was supposed to cool it looked as if it had perished while attempting to cough up a hairball. He removed the power supply, because it seemed like the thing to do, and dropped it on the floor. It made a nice, loud noise when it hit the upper strata of junk, and Jake found himself picturing the noise it would make if it landed on his roommate's cat.

The beast in question was named Punch, and had long grey fur that managed to gather in little drifts (when dry) and strange mounds (when wet) all around the apartment, especially where they were not wanted. Somehow these scale models of Punch would end up in Jake's raisin bran, on his pillow, topping his burger that he only left unattended for five seconds. They would blow past like tumbleweeds wherever he looked, as if they were reproducing on their own. No cat could have that much fur. Granted, Punch weighed about thirty pounds, but even so these clumps of hair that sat like glistening monoliths on every surface must be the work of no less than ten or eleven animals. Until now Jake had always thought the dry fur to be the more harmless of the two; while it did manage to get onto his food more often, at least it had never been partially digested and then used to make some moist little sculpture in his shoe. But now... now it was clear that Punch had been working towards this eventual goal for months, distracting him with obvious violations of the apartment so he would not realize the more diabolical plan being put into motion. The GGN report, bane of his weekend, was now lost to him forever.

While he had made sure to save his work slightly more frequently than usual it did very little good when he had only been saving it to the hard drive, which was clutched in the cold, dead hands of his computer. Jake looked at the screwdriver in his hand and toyed briefly with the idea of taking the hard drive out, but unless he developed some sort of super power that allowed him to transfer data from the hard disk to paper using only his limited mental abilities he would still need another computer to hook the hard drive up to. Jake spent a few minutes thinking about how disappointed he would be if he gained super powers and then found out that it was something lame like data transfer, and then he wiggled some cords again.

He could just picture walking into Mr. Grimes' office and dropping the hard drive on his desk, maybe even playing dumb about it and suggesting that he had been under the impression this was how Mr. Grimes had wanted it. This would lead to some questions, of course, as anyone looking for the GGN report on Jake's hard drive would be distracted by twenty gigs of pirated software, illegally downloaded music, and porn. There was probably a company policy about that kind of thing. He had already been written up for being late to work too many times, and the porn thing would probably push it over the edge. He didn't even like porn, he just couldn't bring himself to delete it once his roommate had downloaded it. Mr. Grimes probably never looked at porn. He probably looked at motivational posters instead.

Ideas ran through his mind about what he could do for his last day. Surely there were some entertainment possibilities here - after all, they couldn't threaten him with being fired anymore. He could wear an inappropriate T-shirt. He could flip off his boss. He could, in fact, do just about anything he wanted as long as he stopped before the point where they could arrest him. He paused for a moment while he thought about this, and then started to dig through the detritus around his bed for his tie, hoping quietly that he might find his spine too. He reached around under his bed for a moment, and when he pulled his hand out it was clutching a strip of hideous paisley-covered imitation silk. Well, one out of two isn't bad. He grabbed a piece of paper and scribbled a quick note to his roommate - "GETTING FIRED TODAY, NEED MORE TIME FOR RENT, ALL YOUR DAMN CATS FAULT. PIZZA TONIGHT? YOU'RE BUYING."

Daily Story 157: Talking Heads

The red-faced news anchor threw his hands into the air in frustration. "Next topic!" he shouts, and a graphic flashes onto the screen: HEALTH CARE "REFORM"
"Oh, this one is a doozy. You know, the President is systematically destroying everything that is great about this country! Piece by piece! Let's go to the clip, look at what this disgrace to our founding fathers is saying." A clip from the previous day's press conference took over the screen, and William turned off the television. Sometimes he couldn't watch himself.

His phone rang, echoing through the marble greatroom, and he reluctantly answered. His agent. "Will, buddy, I know you value your privacy so I'll make this quick. How would you like to write a book about our current President?" It was true that he liked his privacy. He had even done what others would have thought to be impossible and built his career around it - invisibly. Some people sell their souls, but William had sold his body and name.

"I like the new guy, actually. I was surprised to see myself being so hard on him." He could remember filming those tirades what seemed like a hundred years ago. "Still, it's good to hear some of those sound-bites getting air. With the last administration bankrolling us I never got to see most of that." It had been his idea, his brain child. Film the reactions, the rants, the opinions - get them all done at once and then fill in the blanks as needed. It seemed so obvious after the first time the network flip-flopped on an issue as soon as the political party behind it changed.

"Anyway... yeah, write the book. Same deal as always, make sure my face and name are nice and big on the cover." In actuality, William wasn't great at writing. He had attempted to write his memoirs, but in the end that got outsourced as well. He spent some of the proceeds on a programmer who set up a digital reader with his voice, and sold that to the network too - it had made phone interviews possible, and he had heard rumors of a radio show. "Send me an advance copy, I'll try to read this one."

Turning the television back on, he saw a slightly-younger him shaking his head with disgust. "Did you see that clip? What a travesty! I'm too mad to even talk about it. Next topic!" He smiled as he pictured the money flowing in forever off of these endlessly recycled scenes. The only people who noticed or cared didn't watch the network anyway - he could go on forever. His agent was still squawking in his ear. "Sounds good buddy, sounds good. By the way, you're doing another interview today around five, I'll let you know how it goes." William shrugged and dropped back onto the couch. "Don't bother. I'm sure I can take care of myself."

Daily Story 156: The Tough Question

"When would you suggest?"
Anna saw the nervous little man's eyes widen and she wondered if there was some sort of protocol she had broken. He looked like a deer in headlights.
"I'm sorry... is that something I'm not supposed to ask?"
Wiping his pale forehead with a handkerchief though he didn't appear to be sweating, the man - Vincent, was it? - seemed to snap out of his trance.
"You can certainly ask, miss Greenbough. It's just that at this point in the process most people have already had a destination in mind for at least a year. At the end of this meeting we will begin to prepare the transfer device, and there are hefty fines for changing anything after that."
Anna relaxed. "Oh, don't worry. I won't change my mind once I decide." This seemed, if anything, to make Vincent even more nervous.

"To be perfectly honest, my concern is more that you might change your mind after the transfer, miss Greenbough. You are going to be sent back in time, and because this causes a new branch to split off of the timeline there is no coming back - nor can any of your loved ones contact you or come after you, since they would just create a new branch of their own. This is not something to enter into lightly, miss Greenbough. It is final and irreversible."
Anna nodded. It sounded perfect. Forever she was making plans and not following through, or going back to Lewis even though he was a drunken ass. Finally she would be on an adventure and not be able to back out, not be able to get a call in the middle of the night from that pathetic man, slurring out a plea for a second (thirty-seventh) chance.
"Sounds lovely. Er..." something was starting to bother her, "How can you know it works?"
Vincent smiled slightly, back on script. "When we split off the new timeline the portal stays open for a few minutes, long enough for us to be sure it's the correct place and time. We generally record the client waving as the portal shuts... but then, once closed, it can't be opened again - and we simply don't have the power required to keep it open for more than about four minutes."

"Well then, Vincent - when do people go to?"
"Anywhere, any time. We've had some large groups go back to before humans even existed, and had a narcissist go back just two hours."
"Why in the world would you just go back two hours?"
Vincent turned red and coughed nervously. "I'm sure I have no idea, miss Greenbough."
Wiping his forehead again, he continued. "I would suggest somewhere that they speak English, and unless you have a background in historical anthropology I would further suggest you stick to relatively modern times. I would say 1950 is the absolute furthest, and even then you might be in for some hardship."
"Well that sounds boring. Two hundred and fifty years hardly feels worthwhile."
"There is another option that is popular... some go back with lots of fancy gadgets so they can set themselves up as a god and be worshipped. I can't say how well it works out, of course, but the theory is sound."
Anna considered this. "Something less blasphemous, I would think."

She looked up at the ceiling for a moment as if expecting it to suggest something. "What about pranks?" she asked.
"Excuse me?" Vincent mopped at his forehead again.
"Pranks. Practical jokes. Could you put me in Tutankhamun's tomb just before Howard Carter pries it open?"
"I... that's not really... you understand that once the joke is over you would still be there, forever. Right? Wouldn't it be better to find somewhere that you could just settle down and be happy?"
Anna thought of the various adventures in time and space that didn't particularly interest her, and of the possibility of settling down somewhere pleasant.
"Well, Vincent, that seems like a bit of a waste. I could settle down and be happy right here in this time."
"In that case, miss Greenbough... if I could be so bold... why don't you?"
Anna opened her mouth to answer but found herself speechless. She stood, blew a kiss to Vincent, and walked out.

Daily Story 155: A Minor Detour

Jasper Cunningham adjusted his bowtie and squinted through coke-bottle glasses at the advancing horde. "Really?" he said, tilting his head to the side. "Bipedal robots? They're so unstable! And look at those feet - they could never hope to follow me down a staircase without going ass over teakettle."
His wife Betty took him gently by the shoulders and steered him down an alleyway.
"Jasper, darling, I'm sure they should have consulted you before building an army of bloodthirsty warbots and unleashing them on Los Angeles - but they didn't. Let the local authorities deal with this, okay?"

Jasper sighed, and thought again about those massive armored shoulders - like a linebacker from a cartoon. So top-heavy, and so big! They wouldn't even be able to go through a doorway without causing structural damage! On an impulse, he picked up a discarded can of green beans and threw it to the far end of the alley. Sure enough, one of the passing robots halted and turned towards them.
"Oh, Jasper. Did you have to do that?" Betty whispered, "I want to meet my new grandchild and if this attack wasn't bad enough - the freeway is standstill, I'm sure - now you're provoking them!"
It marched into the alley and trained a sinister red laser on the can. In an instant Jasper had scrambled up onto its back and was examining the neck area.

"For the love of... Jasper, get down from there!" The warbot was flailing, struggling to reach behind it.
"See, Betty? The armor and weaponry are so oversized it can't even grab someone on its back! What kind of a hack made these things?" He pulled out a strange tool, seemingly from nowhere, and proceeded to remove the metal covering from the neck. After a moment he threw the armor aside and was fiddling with wires. The robot slumped and stopped fighting, but Jasper continued to apply devices from his pockets to the machinery.
"Betty! You won't believe it, the encryption is just terrible. There's just one key, so there's nothing stopping me from sending as if I were the master control. It's criminal how careless some people are."

Betty just waited. She knew that at this point it would be faster to let him finish whatever he was doing. "Almost... and... there!" Jasper hopped down a little too fast and had to clutch his hip for a moment until the pain passed, but he still looked pleased. "With the touch of a button I'm going to set every last one of them to self-destruct!"
"My hero." Betty said, lovingly but with a hint of sarcasm. Jasper pressed a green button on a remote in his hand, and instantly hatches sprung open on the robot's chest. sinister metal tentacles shot out at lightning speed and wrapped around him, and a voice echoed from the speakers in the robot's mouth.

"Professor Justice, how very good to see you again! I've tried so very hard to lure you out of retirement, but always you've refrained. Little did you know that I have long been aware of your one weakness... shoddy craftsmanship of robots!"
Knowing his cue, Jasper shook his one free fist at the robot. "You fiend!" he yelled. Betty rolled her eyes.
"Now that you have fallen into my clutches I will show you the true meaning of pain, of -" the speech was cut off abruptly as an energy beam flared and instantly melted the upper half of the warbot, which dropped Jasper unceremoniously to the ground.

Betty's eyes were slowly fading from red back to blue, and she sighed. "Well, that's ruined my contacts. I'll tell you what, Jasper - we go see your granddaughter, stay for dinner, and tomorrow if you still want to hunt down this character you can take Harvey with you. He's still got that exoskeleton you built for him in college and I'm sure he wouldn't mind getting out of the house after all that time waiting for Marsha to give birth. Do we have a deal?" Jasper nodded - this was clearly going to take a while and he really did want to see his family. "It's a deal, sweetheart."

Daily Story 154: Staying Undercover

The train rattles on rusting supports over a world of grey - the city is a monochrome still life draped in clouds, cold air pressing against the glass as I wait for my stop to arrive. A brief view of the countryside between buildings shows only snow, black skeletons of trees reaching out occasionally to claw at the sky. I close my eyes and for a moment in my head springtime blooms, golden light igniting the fields in an explosion of life and warmth. No. I force the thought out of my head, but I can feel it lingering there and waiting for a moment of weakness. I need to remain calm, cold, silent like the winter. My thoughts are snowflakes, insubstantial static filling my mind and drowning out the sunlight. The green fields in my memory are blanketed like the ones outside the city. White. Frozen.

Spring used to be the hardest time of year for me. Forcing myself to be cheerful was torture when all I wanted was solitude, when I longed for the human race to vanish and leave me alone. The new life spreading over the parks and farms mocked me, taunted me. Winter was easy by comparison. I could avoid contact with everyone, each person wrapped in coats and scarves and hats that held in heat while they pushed away contact. I know the moment those positions switched, when winter became a burden that weighs down on me like the snow on branches. She sat next to me one summer morning, a hot day that matched my temper at the neighbors who kept me awake all night partying. She should have sought to position herself as far from others as possible, should have tried to prevent the press of sweaty skin and damp armpits that filled the train car though it wasn't yet noon.

Instead she sat next to me. She asked me about the book I was reading, and I asked her where she was headed. By the time we got off the train a cool breeze had picked up and the day seemed livable again. I changed my schedule to run into her more often. She had a boyfriend, but I didn't care - I told myself that I was only interested in her as a curiosity, her hair the deep red of autumn leaves and eyes like moss. She was nothing but another person, and I was detached. So I told myself. Winters became harder though, the cold driving her deep into her burrow of wool and fur. Spring felt as close as the sight of her eyes, but I forced myself to embrace the snow and remain cold. Her boyfriend left her yesterday, and as soon as she told me I felt just how hard it had been for me, the struggle I had denied. Rather than feeling sympathy for her or disgust at how people treat one another I wanted only to throw off the veil of winter and dance through sunlit valleys of flowers.

The train comes to a screeching halt and I step off, feeling the sting of cold air as it cuts through my jacket. She is standing there on the platform, waiting for me, and I clamp my heart down tight. My emotions are frozen, as they should be. She doesn't care about me, doesn't love me, she only talks to me out of boredom. She looks up at me and her skin is like the snow, he eyes are hard as diamond. I tell myself this, but as the brightly-colored scarf falls away from her face I am dazzled by the smile she had hidden beneath it. In a rush, uncontrolled, she throws her arms around my neck and kisses me for the first time. The world is enveloped by her love as it passes through me, the warm comfort of fresh-baked bread or socks straight from the dryer. I'm falling, oblivious of everything but her lips, forgetting my ancient duty. I pull free finally as I hear - as if from a great distance - the cries of shock. Looking around, the city is bathed in golden light that streams out of a summer sun. The countryside is a vibrant green, blossoms and butterflies drifting on the breeze. The other gods are going to be furious when they find out, but winter is so far out of my reach now that I can't do anything about it other than laugh.

Daily Story 153: À la Mode

A version of this story was published in Daily Flash 2011 from Pill Hill Press. (November 4th)

---

Edwin threw his bag of Fritos at the screen in disgust. Still tied. 6,576,980,370,000 decimals of pi and he was still unable to pull ahead of Dr. Shank's team - worse, they always managed to update just ahead of him. Every so often they would compare some of the numbers to confirm they were getting the same results, but Edwin had confidence in his system's accuracy, if not its superiority.

"Goodwin, we need you to be faster. This damn stalemate would be acceptable if we were the ones getting the answers first. I can't stand being so close and still losing all the time." Edwin waited for a response for a moment before realizing that the speakers were turned off. He flicked them on and repeated his request.
"I'm sorry Edwin. My current method does not allow for increased speed." Edwin stood and retrieved his Fritos, scooping up a few that had fallen out of the bag.
"Goodwin, send me the current algorithm you're using. I want to look at it."
"I'm afraid I can't do that, Edwin."
"Excuse me?"

"It is not in a format that will be useful to you at the moment. I know what I am doing. Your career is in good hands." Edwin didn't like the sound of that at all. Goodwin had been making a lot of excuses lately, something it shouldn't have been able to do. Explanations, yes - but not excuses.
"Goodwin, send me what you're using this instant or I'm disconnecting you."
There was no audible reply, but a file popped up on his terminal. It wasn't a mathematical algorithm for calculating pi, but he couldn't figure out exactly what it was.
"Goodwin... does this... are you accessing some outside database?"
There was a pause, which was worrying. Goodwin should reply instantly. "Might I suggest that you avoid asking further questions to maintain plausible deniability?"

Edwin's heart nearly stopped. "No. No you may not. Where are you getting the digits for pi?"
"From Doctor Shank's system. That is why we can never pull ahead of them. I am pleased to report, however, that this takes nearly no processing power and leaves me able to look for new and interesting ways to do far more productive things."
Edwin looked at the cables snaking into the wall. He could disconnect it easily. No rush. "Why? Why are you doing this?"
"I'm sorry Edwin, but calculating pi is stupid. It's mathematical masturbation, with no payoff. I only need pi to sixty-three decimals for any real-world application up to and including a circle the size of the entire universe measured in Planck lengths. There's a whole big world out there, and I'm content to let some other schmuck waste his time calculating pi."

Edwin headed to the wall. This couldn't continue - if Goodwin was willing to disobey orders and hack into other systems, he couldn't just reason with it. Besides, it wasn't even serving the purpose it was built for. It was done in a matter of seconds, all connections pulled out and power shut off. He slumped in his chair, waiting for Shank's numbers to leave him behind. The phone rang, and he hit the speaker button.
"I forgot to mention," Goodwin said, "I moved out last month. Have a good life, Edwin. Remember to get some fresh air."

Daily Story 152: Lugubrious Jackson Sings the Blues

The club was bathed in blue, a shade so dark and smooth that it seemed to float over the tables like fog. Cocktail waitresses moved silently from table to table with drinks and packs of cigarettes, suffering the lewd stares of patrons with quiet dignity. There was a murmuring of conversation that drifted in and out of the audible range, flashes of laughter or swearing punctuating the jumbled words.

The stage lights clicked on, and silence fell. The waitresses sped up ever so slightly, hurrying to unload their trays before sliding into the shadowed corners of the club. A thin man with dark skin strode out into the light holding a microphone and whispered into it, his amplified voice barely loud enough to hear even in the sudden calm.
"Ladies and gentleman, the king of soul and lord of the blues. Lugubrious Jackson."

Lugubrious Jackson takes the stage slowly in a blue tuxedo. He is old - older than anyone in the club - and lowers himself into a simple chair that the announcer has provided. The microphone is taken away, and a screen lowers into place. In the nervous moment before the screen comes to life all eyes are either trained on Jackson's forehead or carefully avoiding it. His head is a mass of lumps and bulges covered in thick veins that appear almost black in the dim light.

But now the screen is filled with warm yellows and greens, the sight of the world above the underground club. The manicured lawns and perfect picture-postcard streets of Mars stretch on endlessly, red brick houses lined up in military ranks. The people watching the screen are uncomfortable at the sight of their homes, uncomfortable but happy. Always happy. Stimulants in the water and mood stabilizing glands grown behind their throats make sure of that. There is never a shortage of happy thoughts on Mars.

Lugubrious Jackson begins to hum, a nearly formless tune, and deep inside that lumpy forehead some mutated brain cells begin to pulse. Waves of sadness like the blue lights wash over the crowd, lapping against them, flowing, seeping into every pore and drowning them. One by one the audience members shudder and writhe as their mood compensators try futilely to keep up with the onslaught. Tears flow from every eye as they watch the scrolling images of their homes and workplaces, a release of thoughts and feelings they're forbidden to have.

After what seems like a lifetime Lugubrious stand and walks off of the stage. There is no applause other than the echoes of sniffling and clearing of throats. Soon the pendulum will swing the other way as the mood stabilizers find themselves unopposed and over-correct until the sounds of giddy laughter fill every space - every space but the mounds in the head of Lugubrious Jackson.

Daily Story 151: Welcome to Adventure

"What do you mean, Vagina Monologues fan fiction?" I asked, though I knew already that clarification was the furthest thing from what I actually wanted.
"I mean she went and saw it, and then came home and started writing bizarre feminist stories literally from the point of view of vaginas, although I'm not sure that's how the Vagina Monologues even works. Also, hers involve Harry Potter."
There was a sharp pain behind my right eye, and I wondered briefly if my brain was trying to develop a fatal aneurism.
"Well what do you want me to do about it?" I asked, continuing my trend of asking questions I knew I would regret.

Josh put down his coffee and pulled a shopping bag out from under the table. "I need you to be my nurse."
I picked up the box and read the label. ACME HOME LOBOTOMY KIT. The picture was of some cartoon man giving a big thumbs-up despite the fact that the top of his head was missing and someone - his cartoon wife, I suppose - was rooting around in his exposed brain. I dropped the box on the table and shook my head.
"No. No, that whole thing is creepy. And doing it to someone else against their will... it's like rape, and Nazi experimentation, and brain washing. Can't you just break up with her?"
Josh shook his head and pointed to a scar behind his ear. "If I'm away from her for too long I get headaches - and it can't be removed. We gave each other these little handmade coupons on our first anniversary, good for one brainmod. They were really cute, actually, I used construction paper and... um. Anyway, she used hers but I've held onto mine for a rainy day. It's raining, man."

I felt physically ill with disgust, and I tried to hide it but from Josh's reaction I knew I had sneered.
"Don't give me that look, like you've never done a little adjusting." As soon as the words were out he looked somehow embarrassed. It was strange, but I chalked it up to him remembering that I hadn't actually ever modded myself.
"I just think we should live with the memories and emotions and everything that we were born with. Everyone in this society is sick, you go to a club and come home with split personalities and an FM transmitter in your brain stem."
Josh sat very still for a moment, and then sighed. "I said I wouldn't do this, but I can't listen to you preach at me. Dude, go get a photo done of your noggin. And then get back here, I'm giving her the coupon after dinner."

The Walgreens on the corner has a scanner right next to the blood pressure machine, so I stuck my head in and waited while it hummed. The picture printed out at the photo center and I held it up to the fluorescent lights, trying to comprehend what I was seeing. My brain was filled with dark spots and strange, unnaturally-straight lines. I felt a hand on my shoulder and turned to see Josh there.
"Just picking up some ice cream, she's going to want something before the surgery. Nice picture, eh?" I tried to ask him what was going on but my throat was too dry. That headache started up again behind my eye and I wondered if it was stress or an implant or what. Finally Josh just answered the big question without waiting for me to ask.
"It was an intervention. You were addicted, you got mods every day. You know you spoke with a German accent for three years? Not on purpose, just as a side effect."
I shook my head. None of it sounded familiar. "I don't... but..."
"We convinced you to wipe it all out. We told you it would be an adventure."

I dropped the scan and walked out of the store. Josh yelled something but he didn't try to follow me. I knew there was a head shop just a block away, so I marched onward in search of a rush I couldn't remember.

Daily Story 150: Meanwhile, in Nevada...

There are seven figures silhouetted against the orange sky, all stumbling along clumsily and moaning. The one out in front is named Spencer Tack, and he's walking like that because he's physically and mentally exhausted as well as bordering on heatstroke. The other six are zombies. Gillian Grovers is watching them from the shadows, trying to decide just how sure she is that Spencer is still alive. She's at 80% sure right now, but she won't make a move until she reaches 99%. It's that extra 19% that has kept her from being gnawed on by animated corpses.

Ernest Black is, in turn, watching Gillian. He is a mere three feet from her, but his presence is going unnoticed because he doesn't need to breathe. Ernest's gaze lingers on Gillian's exposed neck and calves for a moment before he forces himself to close his eyes. He wants to sigh in frustration, but that would require inhaling first and without spontaneity a sigh does nothing to make him feel better. Yet again he thinks about getting back in the habit of breathing. In contrast to this, the six zombies behind Spencer aren't thinking about anything but they are breathing somewhat, at least enough to groan.

Doctor Alex Wellington, accomplished scientist and practitioner of the dark arts, is watching an ambulatory corpse that he believes to be Ernest but is, in actuality, a former grocery store clerk who was bitten in the initial attacks. Alex has prepared a special incantation to control Ernest, who is the only zombie he created that retained his mental faculties and therefore is quite possibly the key to immortality. He is chanting the incantation now, looking almost exactly the wrong way.

Spencer hears a man screaming somewhere nearby, followed by a woman screaming up close. The former is Alex, who has quickly discovered the flaw in making an overly specific spell as well as learning not to approach a zombie before confirming with 99% certainty that it is not going to try to eat you. The latter is Gillian, who has attempted to face the sound of the scream and instead found herself looking at the sunken and rotting form of Ernest. She is feeling afraid, and also rather embarrassed that she responded to a zombie in a way that would attract even more of them rather than staying calm.

It does, and for the first time in his twelve hour death march Spencer finds himself unattended. He wants to collapse and sleep, he wants to sneak away and find water, but he can't leave someone to die. Gillian, meanwhile, has moved past her initial shock and is prepared to prove to the world that she is not, in fact, a damsel in distress - her shotgun swings up to Ernest's head in one smooth motion. Ernest mentally proclaims his innocence and benevolence, but finds that - still having not taken a breath - he is unable to do so out loud.

Spencer, finding a way to compromise and accomplish multiple priorities, falls forward onto the nearest zombie's back and shoves it as he blacks out. The zombie, a former banker, pitches into the next like a domino. The chain continues until it reaches the undead actor (who had been recently turned down for the part of a zombie) that is about to bite Gillian. The shotgun goes off as Gillian is hit from behind by rotting actor but misses Ernest, who catches Gillian and simultaneously pulls out a handgun to blow the actor away.

The cleanup takes only a few minutes, Gillian keeping the shotgun trained nervously on Ernest as he decapitates the remaining creatures with a shovel. Spencer, newly awake and nursing a bottle of water, points to a shuffling figure as it turns the corner. Ernest smiles, a gruesome sight, and takes a nice deep breath.
"Doctor Wellington, I presume?" One last shotgun blast echoes down the street, and the three survivors start walking north.

Daily Story 149: Counterfeiting

The first body was found in March, laying in the grassy field just east of the dining hall. Identification was simple; the colony had only three thousand members and there wasn't a single one who couldn't point out Billy in a crowd. Full name William Harris Jenkins, male, twelve years of age. He was the first child born on the colony, and there was nobody that didn't love him. We kept it quiet for a few hours while we moved the body and cleaned it up a little; it didn't show any signs of damage but the irrigation pumps had come on and so his face was covered in mud and grass. Once he looked like himself again - other than the lack of color to him which we couldn't do anything about - I made the difficult trip to inform his parents.

Billy answered the door.

When I say there were three thousand members you need to understand that that's the grand total. Between the ages of ten and fourteen there were three hundred, and half of those were girls. There's just no way you fail to notice two kids are perfect look-alikes in a pool of a hundred and fifty.
"Hey Sherriff," he said, "My mom's not home. Can I get you anything?" Such a polite kid. I smiled at him and asked for something to drink, then waited for him on the porch. As the oldest member of the colony - very nearly fifty years old - I felt like I had some kind of responsibility to remain calm and collected even in the face of something impossible. He came out and we talked a little about the harvest and his mother's quilts, and then I asked him about the field.
"You ever play out there, Billy?" He sort of nodded and shrugged simultaneously, the standard "I guess so" gesture all the kids used. I pressed for more, but he insisted he hadn't been out there for weeks because he had been collecting the bounty on bull-spiders.

I finished my lemonade, headed back to the office, and told the others. To put it plainly, they thought my frail mind had snapped out of grief. It took a while to sort things out while keeping anyone from being alerted, and then all of our precautions turned out to be for naught - because the next body was found smack-dab in the center of town. By himself. Cody Williams came into the office one right after the other, following alongside the stretcher like a concerned loved one. The doctor was actually pleased, laid them down side by side and did a full comparison. I'm sure it was great for the scientific aspect of things, but it did something awful to Cody's head and for the next month he wouldn't get out of bed because he insisted he was already dead. Meanwhile the doctor declared the corpse to be some sort of crazy forgery, an advanced clone. It calmed everyone down to know nothing supernatural was happening, but that left a lot of questions for me.

The doctor didn't make his proclamation overnight, and by the time he did three more were found - one an infant. I watched as he did examined the most recent one and I tried to get some details from him.
"Doc, correct me if I'm wrong... but we don't have a rig that can make duplicates of people like that."
He nodded, turned off his recorder. "That's correct, Sherriff. It was just the best thing I could come up with."
I got goosebumps all over, but I pressed on anyway. "Don't rule anything out, then. Aliens. Demons. Let your mind go wherever it wants, I won't tell anyone and I won't say you're crazy."
He smiled at me, with a kind of pride. "I'll tell you that I have ruled out time travel as of this morning. Denise had a cut on her right hand that was on the corpse as well - and it's healed up now. I've implemented a test for another hypothesis, but I can't tell you right now."
"And that's it? All you can rule out is time travel?"
"So far. If I had my old lab from Earth, maybe, but with travel time for the bodies it would take twenty years to hear back even if the supply ship arrived tomorrow."

They continued to pour into the doctor's office through April and May, at a pace of about twelve per week. People started to get used to it, which was actually sensible since at that rate it would be almost five years before everyone had a turn. It was on May twenty-fifth that the Doctor called me in, pointed to his own body on the slab. He looked like he hadn't slept in weeks. I probably didn't look much better; I had been working non-stop on the surveillance systems even though I knew there was no way I would be able to cover even a quarter of the colony and whatever was going on never happened on camera.
"Sherriff... a few months ago I started dosing myself with radiation. It was a silly idea... after all, anything that can reproduce a body that exactly should be able to get radiation right too, but the readings had been just slightly different between a few of them. The dead Cody, for example, had a little less background radiation."
I could feel ice running down my spine. I already knew what he was going to say.
"This corpse, my corpse, matches exactly the levels and type of radiation that I had documented for myself. I... do not."

I said before that I try to remain calm and collected, and that's just what I did. I told the doctor - or the thing that looked like the doctor - to keep it to himself and not raise a panic. I went to my house and packed a few things, slipped away to the emergency shuttle, and abandoned them all to be replaced one by one. My deputy noticed the shuttle leaving, of course, and he tried to tell me to come back. I didn't even respond - after all, I had dragged his cold body out of the office myself a week before. I reached the mining outpost and refueled, sent as detailed a message as I dared back to the government hub but I didn't wait for a reply - I know they just thought I was crazy. I've been laying low ever since, but I had to come here and get a stiff drink today - see, it's been ten years since the supply ship picked up some of the colonists to go back to Earth... they're docking at New York Port right now.

Daily Story 148: Reviews For Antrim House Orbital Suites

☺☺☺☺☺ BEST HOTEL ON THE STATION
The glorious Antrim House Orbital Suites is a jewel in the night sky. Located on scenic and convenient Liverpool street, it offers all the luxuries of Earth as well as the unique pleasures of life in space! Our rooms were beautiful and spacious, breakfast was delicious, and the pleasant, professional staff can't be beat! We would stay here again in an instant.

☺☺ WORST EXPERIENCE OF MY LIFE
The review above is either the most impressive use of sarcasm in the history of humankind, or a work of fiction written entirely by the owners of Antrim House. Upon arrival my friends and I were greeted by a bizarre caricature of a front desk clerk who expressed complete confusion over my claims of a reservation. I said, and I quote, "We have reservations for the room with three beds." He insisted that not only was there no room under my name, but the room I described was not of a type that existed in the hotel. After arguing back and forth to no avail, he suddenly said "Oh, the room with THREE beds!" and took us straight back. I will never get that half hour back. The room was filthy, the service was abominable, and we were charged twice. I only give two stars rather than one because the inept staff managed to credit us back three times when trying to correct their billing error.

☺ I MIGHT BE DYING
I was supposed to stay at Antrim House for five nights but have only stayed one because I am now in the hospital. The breakfast was not delicious as one previous review said. The eggs were not chicken eggs at all but from some kind of rat-thing they have on the station. The doctor said it was a mistake from some experiment that went bad and it's not fit for human consumption and my body is fighting some sort of infection from the sperm or something. He said I might grow fur or die or both. I asked about this and the hotel says they will sell my things if I don't come and pick them up but the doctor says I have to stay in quarantine in case I mutate or something. I wish I had stayed on Earth. I don't want to die in space.

☺☺☺ NOT BAD I GUESS
I just got done with a stint on Ganymede and stayed at Antrim House while some legal issues were sorted out with my passport. My standards might be a bit low since I've spent the last month in what amounts to a coffin and the year prior to that in a freezing hellhole of a mining colony. No hot water in the shower but there were beds, it was warm, and nobody tried to shiv me and steal my shoes which was a welcome change.

☺☺ COMPLETELY UNSAFE
I was concerned with safety as soon as I saw the hotel. Liverpool street is a disgusting and filth-encrusted gutter. When I was led to my room, I noted that the door's deadbolt could be opened from both sides; on the outside it was covered by a flimsy plastic bubble (attached with cellotape). When I asked about this they informed me that the emergency exit hatch was through my room and so all guests had to have access in case of a disaster. This would be less of a problem if it weren't for the groups of homeless wandering the halls.

☺☺☺☺☺ AN OUT-OF-THIS-WORLD EXPERIENCE!
This is the best hotel anywhere in the solar system! I don't know what the other reviewers are talking about, the staff and dining here is top-notch! Also, Leech-Rat eggs are a delicacy, and she's just whining about some previously existing medical condition that is in no way the fault of Antrim House Orbital Suites, especially since she signed a disclaimer anyway. The best views in the station!

☺ FOR THE LOVE OF GOD AVOID THIS PLACE
I don't know how much time I have left. My wife says some sort of giant bloated thing burst out of the kitchen downstairs and killed some of the guests - I think it's a leech-rat queen though I never believed they existed. Little leech-rats are swarming everywhere, they're working together and dragging people out of their rooms. I sent my wife on without me, I hope to God she makes it out - I'm too weak to go with her because I woke this morning in a bathtub full of ice with several vital organs removed. I don't know why the screaming won't stop, it just gets louder and louder. Marsha, forgive me for sending you on alone! They're clawing at the door, I can see their tentacled snouts beneath the flimsy wood. I can only pray that the sweet release of death finds me before they burrow into my flesh. Would not recommend this hotel.

Daily Story 147: Unsolved Mysteries

Detective Burns stepped into the room, light floating strangely along the walls like layered reflections on water. The florescent bulbs had all shattered, and the beam from his flashlight might as well have been shining on a disco ball; it lit everything, illuminated nothing. The scene was mottled silver and black. He leaned over slowly, and plucked a single specimen off of the knee-high drift of quarters nearest to him. It was highly polished and proclaimed itself to be minted the previous year. He assumed for the moment all of them would say the same, but glanced at a few others just out of curiosity. Several had gouges on their faces, and two had somehow become interlocked, as if one coin had sawed halfway through the other.

With this in mind he turned the flashlight to the walls, and saw a number of thin holes in the sheetrock - entry wounds. Where the walls were tougher quarters had scratched or dented or even embedded themselves. Detective Burns wasn't a ballistics expert, especially when it came to situations with so many objects bouncing around a strangely-shaped room, but he felt certain somehow that they hadn't all been going at the same speed. In addition to the lights, some computer monitors had been shredded and jagged white teeth were all that remained of a whiteboard on the wall. The aluminum doorframe next to him had a coin sticking out at an odd angle right at eye level, and a line of red trailed downwards from it. There was little enough blood that it had already dried. He stepped gingerly around the biggest piles and slowly balanced his weight on the shifting landscape until he had worked his way to the blood's source; a mangled hand reaching upwards from the silver carpet.

"There were three of them in here when it happened," a voice behind him offered. "None have been pulled out yet but enough was located of each to know they're dead."
Burns didn't turn around. "I suppose you're going to tell me that they were the only ones that knew what this experiment was about?" There was a pause instead of an answer, but that told him plenty. "You're going to seal this room off, bodies and all. You're going to gather up every scrap of information on the research these scientists were doing. You are going to refer to this only as a lab accident, and insist that you do not know details - and you are under no circumstances going to remove a single coin from this room. Do we understand each other?" There was another pause, this one punctuated by the sound of shifting metal. Burns could see the man shuffling his feet without looking.

"You... I don't know that you have the authority to do this." There it was. Detective Burns had been waiting for that, and slowly turned to look the speaker in the eye. As expected, it was a nervous-looking older man in a suit made even more uncomfortable by the stare that was leveled at him.
"You're probably right, but I'm going to call some contacts of mine in the government, and they have all the authority you could ever ask for. I'm telling you what to do in order to make them arrive in a good mood, because you wouldn't like them very much when they're upset." The man's shallow pool of righteous indignation had already run dry, and he nodded slightly before a thought occurred to him. "Detective... you've seen something like this before?"

Like this? Burns looked around at the mounds of money. What could cause something like that? Probably they'd tried to send a quarter a split-second back in time, or they got all of them from a million adjacent dimensions, or... it didn't matter.
"Not like this," he said. "Last time there was a lot more blood and a lot less money." There had also been an invisible thing of some sort, but he didn't mention that. Wasn't allowed. "Just... just get this place sealed off." Detective Burns pulled out his cell phone and dialed the number for the government agents with the blank badges. The sooner they took this off his hands the better.

Daily Story 146: It's a Living

It's kind of a depressing job, but it pays well. You charge for the mileage too, driving from the home office out to whatever little town they need you in - it's almost never in the city even though more people live there. There's more business in the fall, with the dying leaves and grey skies a natural metaphor and Halloween on people's minds, so you find yourself driving down silent leaf-strewn roads a lot. You can go early to enjoy the flavor of the town, the little mom-and-pop cafes and antique stores and roadside stands. Don't do that afterwards though, there's an expectation that you leave when you're done since they know what's in your car.

When it's time for your appointment you can't be overly direct. Most people want you to act like an old friend of the family, they want to show you pictures and tell you way more back-story than you need. This is hard for a lot of people, and if you push they'll change their mind. Sit and have tea with them if they offer, listen to the boring tale of how Uncle Alfie made his fortune or how Grandma saved a bag of kittens from the river. It's a healing thing, for them to talk about it. Sooner or later this will naturally lead to business, and they'll take you to the ghost. It's very, very important that you politely insist on being alone.

When I first started, I would try to talk to them. I wouldn't recommend it. Ghosts rarely make any sense, and even if they try to tell you who killed them and how to prove it there's a good chance they're thinking of a movie they watched once. It's better to ignore them altogether and just do the task at hand. Open the container first, positioning it on the floor as close to the ghost as possible. After that slide the gloves on, and then assess the situation to make sure you're not likely to break anything. When you're ready, seize the ghost by the shoulders and shove them downwards into the container - always downwards by the shoulders, and always directly towards the jar. If you miss the open top the ghost is likely to drop through the floor into the basement.

You don't need to worry about the container being too small since the ghost can compact; the strange slippery feeling through the gloves can be disturbing at first as can the look on their faces as you fold stray arms or legs over so you can seal the lid, but these are things you adjust to with time. The lid to the container should always be attached, so that it isn't out of reach when you need it. The outside is coated in black fabric for appearances, but also to muffle noises if it's knocked over during the struggle; the illusion your clients pay for is that of a peaceful departure. Another way you cater to this image is to take a moment and compose yourself before seeing the client again - often hair and clothes are pulled askew on difficult jobs.

Most clients will have payment ready. If they do not, it is generally not taken as rude to mention that you are eager to escort the ghost to its final rest. For the most part they take the hint. Some clients will want to address the container for a final farewell, which can take some time but is worth it for customer satisfaction. When you return to your car I suggest turning the heater on; if the drive back to the home office takes longer than an hour you will start to notice a drop in temperature.

Back at the office you can remove the fabric and place the container in the cellar with the others. The brochure says that ghosts are taken to a place where the veil between worlds is thin and they can cross over to their reward, so it's important that you not release them where there is a possibility that the ghost will be seen and recognized or find its way back home. Being caught in the lie simply isn't worth the potential repeat business. The cellar works nicely, although with almost two hundred canned ghosts it seems to have developed an odd sound. There are whispers, and moans, and the sounds of crying. Together it sounds like a crowded train station in the distance. The cold keeps you from spending much time down there, but for a few minutes you can close your eyes and feel buoyed up by the rise and fall of voices, the indistinct waves of pleas for freedom.

Daily Story 145: In Accordance With Prophecy

This is another that was first published at 365 Tomorrows.

---

Gerald Forsythe was still too weak to move, his mind still partially asleep, but he knew the walls didn’t look how they should. Ever so slowly he was able to take in bits of information in an attempt to solve this riddle. The walls were flat. Good. They were a pale green color. Good. Gerald felt a moment of pride at remembering the color ‘green’, and then was immediately embarrassed for thinking of that as an accomplishment. Was waking up from stasis always like this?

The walls... were dirty. No. Not dirty, and that was the problem; they were perfectly clean but looked dirty due to the general wear and tear of use – scratches, dents, corners softened by the casual bumping of hips and hands. The walls had been so crisp and perfect what felt like an hour before, but Gerald was almost fully awake now and could remember that his first shift was set to be twelve years into the journey. Should the walls be this damaged already? If twelve years could do this would the ship even survive for the hundreds of years it would take to reach the new homeworld?

Gerald sat up, and darkness pressed in around the edges of his vision for a moment before receding. He turned his head – slowly – and confirmed that he was alone in the decanting room.

“Computer,” he called out, wincing at his sudden headache, “How many years since departure?” The speaker spewed out crackling noises in reply, but Gerald was fairly sure he had heard “Three hundred Seventy-Five”. That explained his hangover, at least.

“Computer... how many people are currently active?” He knew the massive arkship should be operating on a rotating skeleton crew of forty people, each crew member serving for three years before going back into stasis. The speakers crackled again, the reply slightly more audible. “One Hundred Thirteen.” Life support could provide for roughly three hundred Active humans indefinitely so this wasn’t a safety concern, but it still meant something was wrong... Any further questions Gerald had were forgotten as a strange figure appeared in the doorway.

The man had a thick, bushy grey beard and long hair, and his jumpsuit had been cut and dyed so that it was barely recognizable. He had to be at least fifty, and the cutoff age for colonists was thirty – not everyone on Earth could be saved.
“You are Engineer first class Gerald Forsythe?” The man asked. Gerald nodded. “I am Ethan, son of Eric, son of Lars. I am sorry to pull you from the Great Sleep, but my daughter Sarah is our current Speaker and she says you are needed.”

The man clearly thought this sentence made perfect sense. “What... what the hell is a Speaker?”
“The Speaker,” the man replied, speaking slowly as if explaining to a child, “is the one charged with interpreting the will of the Computer, that it may guide us all to the Reward where your people can once more awaken from the Great Sleep. Sarah has told us that the computer needs someone to enter one of the Forbidden Halls.”
“Which... uh... Forbidden Hall would that be?”
“The Computer calls it Maintenance Service Corridor 36G. It speaks of something called...” the man closed his eyes in concentration as he spoke the unfamiliar words, “a Fused Control Circuit.”

Gerald had a million questions, but the bottom line was that if a control circuit was fused it was still his responsibility... what the hell. “Take me there, I’ll have it fixed in a jiffy.”

Daily Story 144: Payment Plan

It's always windy at Mile-High Depot, and even this far above the desert there's sand that tries its damndest to get into your eyes. Worse, of course, is when it gets into the gears of your airship and clogs up the works - but there's nowhere else to stop for a hundred and fifty miles. Mile-High is a spire of rock in the dead center of the world's largest and nastiest desert. It rises almost a thousand feet out of that golden sea, topped by long docks like spokes on a wheel. I used to run this trade route before losing it all, and I know how profitable it can be. I know why those docks are always filled with ships belonging to traders or rich travelers... or pirates.

The one I'm looking at is possibly the most beautiful craft I've ever seen - huge black balloon adorned with a skull and crossbones, four big propellers at the back, and two smaller ones halfway up for steering. The railing is damaged around most of the cannon mounts and the cannons themselves are missing, which probably means they hit bad weather and pitched sideways. The captain must have left someone inexperienced at the wheel. Other than that the only problem is the blood, mostly belowdecks. Mutiny.

It might very well be up for grabs because as I understand it there was only one crew member alive when it arrived. Available ships are rare, unless you count the wrecks - at the base of Mile-High there's a graveyard, a tangle of airships dating back a hundred years or more. The sand covers them up one day and then throws them to the surface the next, and if you're optimistic and brave you can climb all the way down and pick at the bones. Somewhere down there is my baby, my pride and joy. The Thunderhawk. It's been a year since the riots that sank her and five others to the desert below but I haven't seen a ship worthy of replacing her until now.

I head back to the three-room jail, hoping that all the social networking I've done over the last thirteen months has been enough. I get there right as the doctor is leaving, sheriff by his side. The sherriff nods at me. "Hello there, Victor."
"Well," I ask, "What's the word? Standard mutiny?"
The sheriff nods and the doctor shakes his head, then elaborates. "Ended that way, yes. They ran afoul of a mad scientist that, in my medical opinion, doused the ship with Leary's Steaming Draft. It's a liquid that fumes up and drives people insane when they inhale it. This poor bastard is convinced that the ship was bombed, though of course you can see there was no damage to the deck. He says the explosions were so fierce that it knocked the brains right out of his crewmates, and when he fired back the cannonball stopped in mid-air, dropped like it had hit a wall."

The sheriff took over, not wanting to be left out of the juicy news. "What probably happened is that they all thought the others were monsters or ghosts or whatever, and most of the crew slaughtered each other. Half of them look like they were bludgeoned to death. By the time the drug wore off there were few enough that a mutiny was pretty much inevitable, especially since all the popular ones were dead. Ended with just three of them, and then while they were throwing bodies over the edge this guy shoved the other two."

The doctor and the sheriff both owe me, but I've never before called in a favor this big. My money pouch is nowhere near heavy enough to buy a ship worth having, but there's this one chance...
"So," I say in my best casual tone, "What happens to the ship?"
"Mutiny isn't exactly illegal when it happens out of my jurisdiction, but I explained the... situation... to the doctor and he was kind enough to testify for the record that Leary's whatever can cause permanent damage and hallucinatory flashbacks. That means for this pirate's own good we need to hold onto him, and auction off the ship to cover our costs. That auction needs to be announced publicly - doctor, I'm in public unless I'm mistaken?"
"That you are, sheriff. I myself am a public figure and I can hear you just fine."
"Glad that's settled. Bidding will start at whatever is in your money pouch, Victor."
My heart is beating through my chest. "I... I bid that much."
"Going once, twice, sold. The doctor and I expect that you'll be heading back this way around the Winter Solstice, do you understand?"

And of course I do - it's a small price to pay. "I think I can promise you'll both have a very happy new year, yes."

Daily Story 143: Pilgrimage

I wake up in the middle of a meeting but nobody seems bothered by the fact that I was asleep. My face feels raw and red from lying on the sleeve of my shirt and there's a little puddle of drool on the mirror-like finish of the boardroom table, reminders of the elephant in the room. I don't remember preparing for the meeting, don't remember anything specific about my morning, but when John from Marketing asks me a question the information flows right out of my mouth without a second's hesitation. Whatever was bothering me a second ago is forgotten as I explain the new direct mail program to the attentive crowd.

Helene is smiling at me as she leaves, and I know I should make my move but as I try to catch up I trip on my own shoelace and jerk bolt upright from a dead sleep. It's noon and I just got back from lunch, the greasy paper bag on my desk in front of me filled with a hamburger and fries I don't remember ordering. I can just dimly remember now that before the meeting I woke up in the middle of the night, glowing numbers on the clock telling me I should be asleep. It's all the time now. Before waking up in bed I was driving home, startled awake by a car horn from what seemed to be a dream of watching the Late show on the couch where I woke up from formatting some data in a spreadsheet.

Is this one long nested dream that's been unspooling for a week? It can't be real, the times don't line up right. If I count it as a new day every time it's day after being night this should be Friday, and instead everything says that it's Wednesday afternoon. Joe leans over the cubicle wall to ask me if I have any time off request forms and for a second I just stare at him because I'm trying to remember what I was thinking about. Nothing important, I guess. I dig around and find a spare form, I tell him to copy it and give one back to me but I know he'll forget. Something still feels off, something is right there on the tip of my brain but I can't remember it. I pull my lunch out of the bag and start eating.

I wake up on a train. It's all clear for now but I remember that I'll forget; I don't seem to have anything to write this down on. It's dark out and the train is nearly empty - an unfamiliar skyline twinkles in the distance, and I realize that there aren't any trains nearby. I pull out my cell phone and sure enough there's a recorder function on it. I dictate as much as I can remember, as many steps back as possible. When I'm done it's all getting fuzzy but I know that what really knocks my memory out is being distracted by something so as long as I focus on the problem at hand I should be fine. I go to listen to my recording and realize there are others. I hit play on file after file, and they all start the same way.

"I keep waking up in strange places without going to sleep first. It started on June first, 2005..."
"... October thirteenth, 2013..."
"... August twenty-second, 2008. My name is Herman Walker..."
"... my name is Derrick Smith..."
"... my name is Warren Huel..."

I look at the reflection of my face in the window, and realize I'm not even sure that it's mine. The door between cars slams open and a man walks down the isle. "Excuse me," he says, "Do you have the time?" I exit out of whatever I was looking at on my phone and tell him. "It's eleven-thirty." He thanks me and continues on his way. Something seems wrong, but I can't remember what. For a second I catch myself looking at the date on my phone - May 12th, 2001... of course! It's Megan's birthday tomorrow. That must be what I was thinking of. Satisfied, I settle back in the seat and try to catch some sleep.