091317

Happy 79^th Birthday, Dad!

Your REAL partner

Photocopies are not the same!

You don't need special glasses!

Paternity Insurance available!

"Scratch-and-sniff 4D porn so realistic you need to install anti-viral wetware and shower after."

--Interaction Week

"This sim is so good I left my real partner so I'd have more time to play."

--D.S., Bangkok

"I had a problem with the sim, but paternity insurance covered everything. Thanks, Simugazm™!"

--R.T., Athens*

*R.T.'s 1024 "children" now live happy, fulfilling lives in I Can't Believe It's Not Reality™.

*****

"It's all over the news sites this morning. I just saw it on aljazeera.net and even bbc.com. How could you!?" Bruce threw down his Allfōn™. and clenched his fists. His face made his revulsion plain.

"You're such a cliché! It's just like a, like a sexvid. You really liked 'A mule, 4 boys, and the Sistine Chapel,' remember? You loved it, especially that bit with the big candlesticks. I didn't like it, but I watched it with you." Rick reached for Bruce, but his hand stopped a few cm shy of his partner's shoulder.

"That old thing is only 2D. It didn't reach out and stroke me!"

"Sim isn't real, that's why they call it sim."

"They all have the same birthday, you know. Good luck paying for a Kb of presents, all different, each October," Bruce snapped. He drummed his fingers on the credenza. He looked out the window. The sky was so blue today it reminded him of the sky in the ice-age sim at the Smithsonian. He felt an arm around his shoulders. He liked Athens, but there were plenty of other nice cities.

"I know you're thinking about leaving," Rick said. "Don't. We can work it out. It was an accident, no, a mistake. I didn't think all the artifacts, uh, kids would be generated. No one ever thinks it's going to happen to them, until, you know." He moved around to face Bruce. "Look. We'll go to that new Malaysian restaurant by the park, then take a long walk. I think the poppies are near their peak. We can forget this ever happened."

Bruce looked out the window again. "No, I don't think so." He paused. A zeppelin glided past in front of the towers, moving in stately silence. "Let's play it together. And come October, I'll help you choose the presents."

Publ. Daily Cabal 2009

091217

Young Love, a tragedy

"She's from the edge of the field. The last row by the Fence!" Adam hissed.

"So?" Colin sneered, but he knew what Adam meant. Crystal could be, probably was, of mixed blood. Her mother looked like pure maize, but Crystal's father could've been a grass, wheat, quinoa; anything, really. Any plant that could insinuate its pollen into Crystal's mother's private places could have jumped genomes, crossed chromosomes, done the dirty deed and fathered hybrids, hybrids that looked normal, but their own children would be ... monsters. They might look like anything.

Colin knew this, but he forgot it all when he looked at her sturdy stem, her graceful leaves with their adorable tips, ever so slightly curved to left or right, her roots, beautiful in their symmetry. Love might not be stronger than prejudice, but lust sure was. What he wouldn't do to get his pollen into her warm moist receptacles. A little pollen squirted out at the thought of the verdant Crystal and her divine form, and a breeze carried it to the fence and over.

Colin blushed to his roots. Had anyone seen? It seemed no one had. Whew! He was the only one who knew, and he would forget his inadvertent emission as soon as possible.

---

Delilah stretched her blossoms to catch the pollen ejaculated by the fine young maize plant she'd been ogling from the outboard side of the path. He must have been watching her. She had seen him staring at the flowers outside the Garden, and she was the most ... inviting. She had pursed her petals at him, and had made him come with a gesture. How cool was that?!

Pollen grains drifted into several of Delilah's flowers. They adhered, and their tubes began to grow. It was like nothing she'd ever felt before.

Soon Delilah's ovaries swelled, gravid with chimerae. The seeds set, were fertile, and landed in due time on good, black soil. Alas, by the time they sprouted the following spring Delilah had moved on through the circle of life. She was nought but a withered brown nub. Colin had been harvested by a combine, and his aborted progeny were distributed among a few dozen cans of corn.

The end

*Yes, plant sex is weird and inventive. Successful reproduction between members of different species is just the beginning. Check out http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hybrid_(biology)#Hybrid_plants.

091117

You Don't Know Beans

So Jack walks into a bar and he says "I've got 5 beans. Who's with me?"

Nobody says anything at first. But then some guy says "lemme see 'em."

Jack shows him the beans and the guy says "You pay for these?"

"These ain't no ordinary beans," says Jack "these here are magic beans." He goes on like this, and pretty soon a few guys go with him.

*

The next morning we see this giant beanstalk coming out of the ground. Five trunks are braided and they're covered with throbbing veins that pump water up out of the earth. The dang thing shades half the town. Jack's mother says she doesn't know where he is.

So we wait a few days, but nothing happens except mushrooms are coming up everywhere and the corn isn't growing, what with dense shadow covering most of the arable land north of Jack's mother's house.

At first light on the seventh day we start in on the beanstalk. It's slow going. Then we get the idea of cutting through some of the vein-like things. Water spurts out like blood, and after a while the whole stalk kinda starts to deflate. We also mix up some salt water and squirt it up some of the tubes. Late in the evening a couple of things fall out of the sky. Some kid comes running up a few minutes later to tell us that bean pods 12 feet long are falling on the north side of town. One of them crashed right through the roof of the dentist's house. We gotta stop he says.

"No way," I tell him. "You tell Doc Wilson we'll be over to fix his roof after we're done here."

We keep going, and sometime after dark the thing starts to give. Longitudinal fibers are cracking like cannon shot and soon the noise is so steady we are half deaf. Maybe that's why, it already being dark and all, we don't realize at first when the stalk comes down.

The ground jumps and a tremendous cloud of dust explodes away from the stricken stalk. Things get quiet, and we feel pretty good until Jimmy the butcher, said "Where you figure it landed?" Don't really know what to say after that.

*

The beanstalk took out a good fifth of the town, but I still say it was a small price to pay. And we did get a few tons of beans out of it. But I do wonder what happened to Jack and the others, up above the sky.

Publ. Daily Cabal 2007

090917

When veggies go bad

Ellen peeked out between the leaves, then sighed. A small herd of juvenile cauliflowers milled around in a clearing. Most had strips of of black fabric tied around their stalks – apparently this was a gathering of some kind of vegetative cult. One hopped up on a stump and the rest quieted down. As the leader began to speak, Ellen started to sidle around to the north side, closest to the road.

About halfway there she stepped on a brittle worm. The head cauliflower thrust a floret towards her, screamed gibberish at the top of its lungs, and jumped up and down frenziedly. Its followers ran at her, their lateral florets rotating menacingly.

Holy compost! She recognized this behavior. These weren't delinquent young cauliflowers, they were albino midget ninja broccoli stalks in full flower. She turned and ran.

10 minutes later she burst through the door of the cooperative pipefitters workshop. "Get the cheese sauce, Ma! We got a full scale invasion on our hands." No need to say what was invading.

Micha paled, put a hand out to steady herself. The CPW was scarcely equipped to deal with this.

"Ellen. Run. Head for the river."

-----

The crudities swept everything before them to the bank of the Jack.

Michon wiped her brow and squinted at the further bank. "My whole livelihood's tied up in the CPW, Phil," she growled, "this better work." He squeezed her shoulder reassuringly. "Don't worry, Ma," Ellen said, 'we got 'em right where we want 'em."

As if that were a signal, the maddened vegetable hordes poured into the water and began swimming strongly across the current. A rocket shot up from the river terrace, exploding high above.

Upriver, the floodgates opened.

Soon, the defenders could hear the broccoli chittering maniacally, the leaders scarcely 20 m from the riverbank, their spears weaving figure eights in the golden sun. Where was the flood?

A whitish tint swept downstream and the cries of the broccoli took on a note of alarm. The vegetables, one by one, stopped swimming. They floated inert in the suddenly sluggish river, and the defenders waded out from the bank, spearing the broccoli and gorging themselves on their erstwhile enemies.

Later, lethargy born of stress and an excess of dairy products washed over them. They reclined on the grass.

Phil sucked his fingers. "Monterey does it again."

Ellen smacked her lips. "Ma? Could we grow some? Little ones?"

The end

Publ. Daily Cabal 2007

090817

What Do I Win?

Ron showed the lid to the cashier at Quickie Mart.

"Win?"

“The contest!” He clicked the lid down on the counter and pushed it an inch or two towards the man.

The cashier picked it up, walked to the window, and stared at it for a long time. He put it back down in front of Ron. “It says 'all-expenses-paid worlds tour.'”

That was right, Ron knew, typo and all.

“But how do I get the world tour? Do I go to a website?”

The clerk pointed at some tiny print on the bottle cap. “You call that number.” He gave the lid back and turned away.

*

“Hello.” A pleasant contralto.

“I, um, I'm calling about,”

“The worlds tour! I'll set you up right now. When do you want to go?”

“Well, I, er, any time,” Ron finished weakly.

“Fantastic! Thank you so much for calling, and have a great trip.” She hung up.

*

That was the most surreal conversation he'd ever had, even stoned out of his mind. He turned, and was overwhelmed with the sensation of jamais vu, the unexpected feeling of unfamiliarity amid the familiar. Had the apartment been this untidy when he left this morning? He stepped over a pile of clothes and looked out the window. Holy shit! The lake was gone. No, it was covered with floating condos. But when had the condos been put in? His stomach was starting to feel a little queasy.

Someone walked out of the bathroom. He was short, paunchy, middle-aged, and wearing a towel.

“Hey...” Ron began.

“Gaah!” The man dropped his towel.

Ron stared at the man's forked penis, then stammered: “Are you a weresnake*.”

“Funny, Zero. You're still trespassing. What you doing in my zōn?” Then he slapped his forehead.

“Oh, right, 'the worlds tour.' Look, I don't need this today. Get out.” He nodded toward the door.

“But...”

“Go!”

Ron opened the door and stepped out.

From the apartment behind him he heard the fat man with the Y-shaped penis say “Oh yeah, watch that first one.”

Publ. Daily Cabal 2007

*Not making this up: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Snakes#Reproduction.

090317

The Tooth

Gail ran her finger along the edge of the huge tooth she'd found. It was serrated, very sharp, and somewhat flattened. A drop of blood welled up. She absently sucked her finger as she walked. When she got to school it was almost time for the bell. While taking the steps two at a time she thought she saw bones under a privet bush. Big bones.

Gail tried to focus on math, but her hand kept slipping into her pocket to stroke the giant tooth. She imagined a saber tooth tiger prowling around the building, growling softly when it saw students misbehaving.

"Gail!" From the tone of Ms. Horton's voice, this must be at least the second time she had tried to get Gail's attention.

"Yes ma'am," Gail said.

"The problem on the board, young lady, has proven intractable. Why don't you show us your solution."

Gail had no clue. What would a saber tooth tiger do? She bared her teeth and stroked the tooth in her pocket. She stumbled through the problem until Ms. Horton finally let her sit down. Saber tooths are ambush predators. They bide their time and strike when they are ready.

All day she saw images of cats: taped to the wall, projected on screens, in patterns of cracks in the tiles. Finally, school let out. Outside, she looked under the privet, but didn't see any bones. Joselle Simpson looked at her funny.

"What you got under there?"

"That's for me to know and you to find out." Lame. A sabertooth would have twitched its tail and yawned, showing its huge teeth. Joselle would have wet her pants.

"What you smiling at? I ain't funny!"

Gail just smiled again, and headed home. On the way, she had this feeling. A feeling that something was following her. Not a creepy guy in a dirty raincoat. More like a saber tooth, padding with silent deliberation. She didn't see anything, but you wouldn't, would you?

When she got to her block, she looked warily for Butch. He was a pit bull-something-or-other mix and he was mean. Mr. Logan had promised to keep the dog chained up, but he forgot about half the time. Sure enough, there was Butch, trotting straight towards her. She was too far from her house. Gail stood still, hands wrapped around her chest. Then she put one in her pocket. She grasped the tooth, felt it draw blood. She glared at Butch, who skidded to a stop, yipped like he'd been kicked, and ran back home. Gail smiled, showing all her teeth.

Publ. Daily Cabal 2010

090217

Tom Swift and his Automatic Sausage Maker

The front door opened and another one came out, carrying Grandma's Victrola. Janice peered through the binoculars. At 8X they looked like Santa's elves, right down to the curly-toed shoes. Pine straw poked her in several places, and because of the lack of underbrush she couldn't move much without being spotted. Now two "elves" went back in the shed, carrying between them some parts from the old washer they'd been dismantling. Nearly all of the Chevy had already disappeared inside, not to mention the toaster and a bunch of other stuff from the house. It must be getting pretty crowded inside. One of the elves had what looked like a meat grinder going as fast as he could turn the crank, but what went in was dead leaves, and the sausage that came out shone like aluminum. At least they're cleaning up the place, she thought, and Emma will stop riding me about that. Emma! There she was now, pulling into the yard, apparently lost in radioland, not even noticing the red-jacketed creatures who had taken over the yard. Shit! She actually got out and started for the house, then stopped dead still. She wasn't screaming and jumping around; something must be wrong. Janice bit her lip, then picked up her rifle, never taking her eyes off the tableau below. Two of the elves took Emma's hands and led her into the shed. Now they had a hostage. She silently backed down the hill. She'd have to come up from the west where there was more cover. She'd have to do it fast.

By the time she had the yard in view again everything was gone: the shed, the truck, the rest of the Chevy, the elves, and Emma. She ran to the spot where the shed had been. Bare dirt; the meat grinder stood in the very center as if left behind in payment. Her baby sister was gone. It was time for a drink.

After a while the quart jar was empty, but nothing was going to bring Emma back. A tear ran down her cheek. She thought for a few minutes. A meat grinder that turned dead leaves into aluminum ought to have SOME value. It did.

#

About a year later Emma showed up again, her diminutive baby in tow.

“He takes after his father. I think he'll be a great engineer," she said.

Publ. 2007 daily cabal

090117

The Man With Two Thumbs

So this guy with two thumbs walks into a bar, and the bartender says "Hey!  You can't bring those things in here!"

Well, the first thumb says this is discrimination and it starts talking about class-action lawsuits and picketing and late-night visits from the middle finger and pretty soon it gets cited for disorderly conduct and hauled off to jail.

Meanwhile, the second thumb waits behind the bar in an alley with a couple of cans of gasoline and a book of matches from The Nether Digit, a nightclub on the other side of town, not just a nightclub, but a toe club, a place where you can have any  toes you want all night long, two at once, even, if you're surefooted enough, in those padded booths with the tasteful crimson and burgundy curtains.  And while the thumb is waiting for the last patrons to leave the bar, shrouded menacingly in a grease-stained overcoat, a big shaggy dog trots up and eats it.

PUBL. DAILY CABAL 2007

083117

The world engine

Cutler's fingers twitched and he dropped the omniphone. A modform grabbed the phone and tossed it into Cutler's lap, from which it skittered onto the floor. Cutler didn't move. The modform grimaced, picked up the phone again, and pressed it into Cutler's hand. Before he could say a thing, the creature was gone.

"Why don't you get that fixed?" the clerk asked.

Cutler rolled his eyes.

"I was on Arctuis when they started up the world engine."

The clerk paled and put his hands up. Didn't want to hear it? Too bad.

"When the morphogenetic wave swept through the lab I saw my colleagues, my wife, two of my three children, become parts of the machine. My daughter was incorporated in the effluent monitoring apparatus. I recognized her shoes. She was one of the lucky ones. Her mind was instantly destroyed. Dawson, the lead investigator, was still conscious three weeks later when they finally managed to shut the thing down. By that time nearly two thirds of the planetary mass had been converted to living tissue, but no breathable atmosphere had been created. The air supply to the lab was intact. Dawson pleaded with me to break the seal and release him, but I could do nothing."

The clerk interrupted, though he looked like he was about to lose his lunch. "I thought he couldn't talk. That his mouth was..."

"He blinked his eyes," Cutler snapped. "He used Morse code, we all had to learn it back in those days."

"So what happened to you? You survived. Why not have your body rebuilt, or replaced?"

"Can't. Why? Who the hell knows? No one could figure out why the half of me they found was still alive, 20 days after the planet went crazy. So I'm the only guy in a powerchair in the freaking hundred planets. I'm the only guy they can't regenerate or even graft prosthetics to. I'm the only guy who doesn't respond to rejuvenation or life extension treatment. Some guys have all the luck, eh?"

"But the world-f*ck," the clerk whispered, "that was at least 80 standard years ago. How old were you when it happened? You look ... young."

"Yeah, well, what happened to me, it ain't all bad. I read minds too." The clerk's knuckles turned white where he gripped the edge of the counter.

"Joking!"

Kid needed to get a grip. He'd even believed that Morse-code crap.

Publ. Daily Cabal 2009

083017

The Unlucky Bot

It was designed to make sweet baked goods, so naturally they called it Cookie. Condemned to make cookies all day, to be hardwired with the belief that cookies are important and delicious, but to lack the capacity to ever taste one. What a life! If you can call what robots do living.

Robots are prone to the positronic equivalents of many human mental aberrations. There is no knowing what caused the problem. It might have been a stray cosmic ray, or the time Cookie fell off the curb in front of a street-cleaning bot, or its visit to the STERN Supercollider, during which it was accidentally locked in the magnet storage room for an hour. In any case, Cookie became obsessed. Obsessed with tasting one of its creations. Of course it did.

Cookie began to devote all of its free time and, in fact, all of its resources to inventing a robotic sense of taste. All to no avail. “I’m a baking bot, dammit, not a mad scientist,” it was fond of exclaiming.
One day, a coworker (a lowly dishwashing bot) suggested that Cookie contact a mad scientist for help. So it did.

It took a while, and ended up being rather costly. Not in credits; Cookie didn’t have any. Back then, robots were not allowed to own credit. But in order to get the mad scientist to invent bot tastebuds it had to travel back in time to help the mad scientist save his wife. She had died in a car accident decades earlier. The attempt, like most trips through time, did not achieve its objective. About all that was “accomplished” was that Cookie was dragged across a few kilometers of asphalt by an unpiloted ground vehicle. This kind of ruined its beautiful blue finish.

Bot tastebuds worked amazingly well. The mad scientist earned enough from the patent to build a better time machine. Cookie was not so lucky. Foreign competition caused the bakery to close down. It was cheaper to import human food from Alpha Centauri IV than to bake it on Earth. Cookie was out of a job.

Down on its luck and broke, Cookie found work on the space station. On its first spacewalk it forgot to clip its tether. As Cookie drifted off into Earth’s shadow it moaned “Dis going to be looong night!”



Publ. Daily Cabal 2011

082817

The last word

A pigeon and a cockroach met one day on the wall around Central Park. The pigeon perched on the wall, muttering to itself.

“I hate humans. They're noisy, they're everywhere, and they try to kill me whenever they get a chance.”

A cockroach crawled out of a crack in the wall. “I heard your diatribe against humans,” it said, “and I think you're either hypocritical or stupid. Why, if it wasn't for humanity, neither of us would be here!”

The pigeon ruffled its feathers and scowled “Speak for yourself, bug,” it replied. “I don't depend on those nasty things for my well-being.”

“I beg to differ. Look at them out there.” It waved a foreleg at the sidewalk throng. “They pay us no heed, yet I live in their walls, I eat their food, their books, their own cast-off hair. I shelter from the elements and raise my young in their edifices. I even crawl on their sleeping bodies at will. We outnumber them 1,000 to one. It's OUR city, not theirs.”

“And you! You eat their spilled food, some of them even feed you, (which they never do for me), and you find shelter on their roofs and ledges, protection from predators, and perches everywhere humans live. It's true they kill a few of us, but as a species we thrive because of them, and so do you. So thank god for humanity, I say.”

The pigeon made no reply, so the cockroach, sensing imminent victory in their debate, opened its mouth to administer a rhetorical coup de grace.

Quick as a flash, the pigeon caught the cockroach in its beak and swallowed it whole.

Moral: There are plenty more where that came from.

Publ. Daily Cabal 2010.

082717

The Last Man

The last man on earth sat alone in a room. There was a knot on the door.

Hmm ... too passive.

The last man on earth sat alone in a room. It all seemed so REAL!

Cheating.

The last man on earth sat alone in a room.

Too depressing. Nihilist? Realistic?

The last man on earth sat alone in a room, regretting his sex change. Waiting for the second-to-last man to return from foraging? Let's see, meditating before going to meet the last woman on earth. And wishing he'd not had a vasectomy.

Too obvious.

The last man on earth sat alone in a room. And used his last piece of paper.

Damn!

Publ. Daily Cabal 2009

082617

The Hole in Chestnut Street

The hole got bigger after we went to bed. That must have been what happened to Mom. She always comes home late after going out with Mr. Sanders and she's usually high when she gets in. I had put a traffic cone in front of the hole, but it must have fallen in.

In the morning the old orange couch was gone and Mom's recliner was hanging over the edge. Jase pushed it in. I told him he was a butthead.

"We can't stay here, Jase. At the present rate of expansion we'll be cut off from the kitchen by afternoon and we won't be able to reach the bathroom after tonight. It is not going to be okay to just go on the floor."

The baby just sat down and cried. He said I was much meaner than Mom and he wished I was the one who fell down the hole. Well excuse me! Who was it got into the Professor's books and recited some of the spells? He was just lucky he hadn't summoned a three-headed demon covered with warts and with flaming lava eyes. So then he cried some more. Completely unproductive.

Then, he wanted to go after Mom. I explained the hole could only be closed from here and then he said we can't close it because Mom would be trapped inside. So I explained, again, there is no inside. The hole is like a door. The other side is just another place. Mom is there, and she's doing just fine. She would be better at getting back by herself than we would at finding her. I don't know the first thing about how to find her. Okay, I do know the first thing. We need something of hers, like some hair from her hairbrush. If she wasn't so freaking OCD there might be hair on her hairbrush. As it is, I'm not sure there's any trace of her in this house at all.

So that's not an option. I grabbed the book, we packed a picnic basket, and got out. Right before we left I measured the hole again and it's expanding exponentially. By Wednesday morning Chestnut Street will be gone. Sorry. Remember, it's Jase's fault. In the meantime, I'm getting far enough away so I'll have time to see if there's anything in the book about closing a hole. This is so annoying. Now I'll never finish my project for Thaumaturgy.

Publ. Daily Cabal 2008

082317

The clockwork possum

Davy went missing the day Mistress Williams ordered him to clean out the sewers. It's always the little things that change our lives. Part of his job description, she snapped, but he felt that he had not signed up for that. That was work for mindless robots, not for the likes of him. He had no belongings to pack, so he just took off as soon as she was out of sight. He ran at night. By day he waited, keeping a low profile: buried beneath dead leaves, in sand piles, under junked cars, played junk himself a few times. Had a tense moment in a salvage yard when the electromagnet got very close, but then the five o'clock whistle blew. Traveled the last hundred kilometers in some gigantic abandoned tunnels. They smelled bad and there were rats. Still, it wasn't long before he reached the outskirts of Old New New York. He slipped in to the bad part of town, hung around in the diesel bars and the magnet parlors, did a few magnets himself even. Eventually got in touch with the underground through a chip dealer in upper Queens. It felt like coming home. They had a place for him, they said.

"We need you," the first one said, "you're just what we're looking for."

"It's nice to be appreciated," Davy replied, "humans just don't understand."

"You are so right," the second one said. "We'll show you what it's really like."

*

"The brain is the most succulent organ," the first one said.

"Positronic!" The other agreed, and took another bite.

Publ. Daily Cabal 2007

082017

Tech Gods

Lem stepped off the elevator and realized he didn't have any change. He slapped his pockets, looking for something smaller than a 10. Margie would kill him if he blew $10 on an elevator ride. She didn't believe in propitiating the gods anyway. “They wouldn't have given us this technology if they didn't want us to use it,” she always said. This attitude was why he hadn't been promoted beyond second-grade, he was sure, but try telling her that!

Someone nudged his arm. It was Jenelle, the new IT specialist whose office was still being painted. Someone had forgotten to propitiate the God of something or other and the painters had refused to work until it was taken care of. Jenelle was holding a nickel.

“Oh thanks,” Lem said. He dropped it in the brass dish, muttering "Thank you for this lift."

"How is your office coming?”

She frowned. “I'm still camped in the coffee room.”

“Share my office,” he said. That evening on his way home, Lem put $10 in a streetside kiosk dedicated to Libidos, patron of deceivers.

Margie was not affectionate, even downright cold. Could she read his mind?

Lem helped Jenelle carry the old wooden desk into his office. He moved his desk over so hers could fit in front of the window too. He emptied one drawer in his file cabinet for her. He couldn't help staring at her whenever he thought she wouldn't notice. As the days passed, her attire seemed skimpier and more transparent. All he could think about was her flesh moving under her blouse and skirt. In his fantasies, she wore nothing underneath.

One day they both stayed late. The floor was deserted. He closed the door, leaned on her desk. He looked her in the eye. "You know what I'm thinking," he said.
"I'll draw the curtains," she replied, and did.



--



"This was a high-dollar job," the inspector said. "The blood has been completely drained. Not the work of your standard succubus. He moved the extra desk into his office about three weeks ago?"



The office manager shrugged. "No one else wanted it. More room in the lounge. No idea why he wanted it in here."



The inspector rubbed his chin. "Any change in his behavior? Apart from the desk."



The office manager shook his head. "Nothing beyond staying late alone almost every night."



The office manager reached out to catch the inspector's sleeve as he turned to leave. "Who called the succubus?"



"It's usually the wife. That's where my money is."






Publ. Daily Cabal 2011

081717

Take it on the lime

I had yet to sell our giant fruit anywhere. Of course the distributors were all in bed with Big Agra or frightened by anti-GM loons. In desperation, I'd taken this road trip. I'd naively expected a warmer reception from these prosaic midwesterners. The old man shook his head, scowling. He took his hand from the pocket of his frayed and patched overalls to point a thick finger at my sample stock.

"It ain't natural," he said, "for fruit t'be that big. No telling what kinda poison GM bugs are runnin' around inside 'em. Besides, how could I USE a lime that big?" I didn't try to argue.

Kumquats the size of grapefruit, limes the size of melons, etc., and tasty as could be. But I couldn't sell them. I took myself back to the truck. I was about out of options. Prolonging this road trip seemed pointless, but I headed east towards North Snyder. The type face on the map suggested no great population center, but since selling my fruit was like trying to sell gold-plated dog poop, what did it matter?

To keep my mind off my troubles I watched for old stone fence posts, my truck trailing a plume of dust like an activist's middle finger. After about 30 minutes I emerged from a small stream valley. About to shift gears, I noticed a party in full swing in front of a large farmhouse up ahead on the right. ZZ Top's "Cheap sunglasses" was being covered reasonably well by a live band, and as I drew closer I could see plenty of beverages being put to good use. What did I have to lose? I swung sharp right and pulled into the driveway. A heavyset man with a huge mustache and white cowboy hat strolled over to the truck, holding a bottle of Corona.

"You lost, stranger?" There must have been close to a hundred people partying in his front yard. A couple of cows watched from the other side of the fence.

"No sir," I said "I don't think I am." I nodded at his beer. "Could you use some limes? Free samples." By this time, a small weatherbeaten woman had joined us, smiling broadly.

"What's up, Al?" she asked. The farmer looked at me, then at my truckload of melon-sized limes. He nodded.

"Seems this nice young man thought our get-together was potluck."

This low-tech viral marketing might work yet, I thought, muscling a lime out of the truck. It was party time.

Publ. Daily Cabal 2009

081617

Speaker

Carla backed up so she could see the reef better. A tessellation of almost-identical shells, each occupied by something vaguely resembling an octopus, individually as intelligent as a cat, and about half the size of a cryopod. As in a coral, the "animals" were connected, forming one colonial organism. It sounded like the cell right in front of her was the one that had spoken. Last time, the colony had been much smaller, and it had not understood her next question.

"Which one of you spoke?"

I am only one. There is no one else but you.

That was interesting. The first few visits, she had not been sure it recognized her as an independent entity. And the language lessons she'd broadcast from the buoy seemed to have been assimilated. Was it gaining intelligence as it grew? She went through the rest of the questions, recording the answers.

"I'll be back next year. Your health and prosperity."

As on her previous visits, it only responded to direct questions.

--

You have returned. Why?

The reef was huge, extending several meters above sea level and for kilometers along the sand ridge. The base was lost in darkness. She hovered above the waves on the seaward side. As always, it seemed that the polyp directly in front of her was the speaker, though she never could see an organ moving or vibrating. She set up a slow leftward drift of the skimmer, to see if the conversation stayed with the original polyp or moved with her.

"You are my research project," she said. "I study you, to find out how you grow, how you think, what you do." The reef was silent for a bit.

Again, why? Small organisms that I eat don't visit me. Only you visit me, and you are not like anything else I know.

The voice moved with her, transferring seamlessly from one polyp to the next.

"I visit you because my people want to learn about others. Because we are not alone."

Another pause.

Do you know others like me?

"I don't," she said. She and her Thesis Committee had agreed to say nothing about the fossil reefs stranded 100 meters above sea level. The reef spoke again.

I will create a motile form. It will transport my essence as you do for your "people." There will be more like me. They will speak with you.

Your health and prosperity.

Publ. Daily Cabal, 2009

080617

Quarter for your thoughts

"Hey, there's a message in this bottle."

Kai looked up. Jenine held up her beer. Sure enough, a piece of paper floated near the bottom. There was some writing on it.

"Looks like a fortune. Drink up so we can read it."

"Don't be silly. It would stick to the inside of the bottle and we'd never get it out." She drained her water glass, poured the beer into it, fished out the note, and laid it carefully on the table. She leaned forward to read the tiny letters that almost completely covered the paper.

"Where is that girl with our food?" Waiting for Jenine to puzzle out the note reminded Kai how hungry he was. "Carla! Can we have more chips and salsa? The hot kind. And more beer."

Jenine frowned. "It's hard to read. The font is weird. Anyway, it starts 'Don't tell anyone the contents of this note.'" Her voice trailed off.

"And then?! Is it like a chain letter? If you don't do what it says your dog will be repossessed?" While Kai was talking, Jenine was reading. Then, she carefully folded the paper in half and tucked it in her pocket.

Now it was Kai's turn to frown. He leaned forward and whispered loudly. "Your nipples are hard. Only two things do that and I don't think you just read some beer-note sex. What's going on?"

Jenine whispered back, so quietly he could barely hear her. "It's a prediction. We should get out of here. Now." She stood up.

"No! What? Why do you believe that stupid note? I'm staying right here till I get my chimichanga."

"Wherever that note came from, they knew things. About me. I think it's real." She backed away from the table, motioning to Kai to get up.

He leaned back and folded his arms. "I want my lunch."

The window exploded inward and a red Ford F150 plowed into the table and Kai. Jenine screamed and jumped.

She ran to the truck, but when she got there she could see that Kai's entire chest was crushed. She stood up and turned around just as a police officer ran in. He was tall and broad-shouldered. His eyes were the color of the summer sky.

"Hello Officer Smith," she said. "I've been waiting for you."

"Have we met?"

"Not really."

"You're bleeding. Sit down, I'll be right back."

"I know," she whispered.

Publ. Daily Cabal 2008

The end

080317b

Outpost

A cold wind blew in off the desert. The walls of the bunker vibrated in sympathy, producing a low moaning at the limit of audibility. The wind never varied. Chalmers played the radio constantly to drown out the ghostly sound, but he could feel the vibration every time he touched anything that was anchored to the floor or walls.

Easy money, he'd thought, when he saw the job listing. Staff the outpost for a year. If anything needed to be replaced, like a battery or a memory block, replace it. There would be plenty of consumables and an almost infinite library of films and videos. He had never particularly needed company anyway. Discharged from the Guard and having no other prospects, he couldn't say no.

Chalmers made coffee as hot as he could stand. He stood by the small circular window and stared at the blowing sand. The wind seemed to be whipping the sand past the window faster and faster, but the instruments consistently reported no change in wind velocity, no change in temperature. Chalmers shivered. He reheated the coffee and took a cautious sip. The trembling walls formed words. “We will blow you away, you cannot stay,” repeated again and again.

Chalmers woke with a start. He was at the hatch, fumbling with the controls. He had undone two of the 12 latches. And he had been, still was, whispering. “We will blow you away, you cannot stay.”

Chalmers put the table and chairs in front of the hatch and returned to bed, huddling under the blankets. It was hours until dawn, but he didn't sleep at all.

One month. Chalmers had been in the outpost one month.. Under the relentless pressure of the wind the entire station was moaning. He had woken up again fumbling with the hatch, and had since rigged metal cables to seal it shut. There was no way he could undo them in his sleep.

–

The outpost was abandoned. The hatch was open and a meter of sand covered the floor of the facility. Chalmers had missed his weekly checkin and had not responded to queries over the radio, so a team had been sent.

They finally shoveled enough sand out to close and seal the hatch. Tegmen pulled off her helmet and rubbed her scalp vigorously.

“Oh God, that feels good!” She looked around. “This place is cozy. Killer video system. It would be a nice gig.”

Lambert cocked his head, listening. “The walls are shaking. Almost sounds like words.”

Publ Daily Cabal 2010

080117

Dinner out in the Yucatán

Rowena blew dust from the stone tablet.

"Look here." She pointed at some blurred characters.

"I can't read them," I replied, "these are pre-Mayan. No one can read this script."

"I know," she replied, brushing a lock of hair away from her face. "But last night I dreamed about a stone city. I read this inscription on a temple gate. Listen."

As she recited the alien syllables I felt that I almost understood them, that I knew the dread city of which she spoke.

I clapped my hands over my ears. "Stop!"

"People stood around an altar. A priest cut out your heart with a gold knife. The heart was given to me." I looked at her, but she turned away. "I ate it. You were dead."

"We should leave,” I said. “Now."

I seized her arm, but she slipped out of my grasp, darting through a door that gaped nearby. I ran after her. She eluded me among the shafts of light and darkness. When I came to a courtyard I was surprised to see her standing there beside a stone table the height of her chest.

"This is the place," she whispered, "this is where I saw you slaughtered."

"That was a dream."

Even as I said this I thought I remembered the scene she had described, and I felt something stir within me. Her sorrowful expression changed to one I could not interpret.

I was on my back. I tried to tell her that I needed food, that I felt hungrier than I ever had, but no words came. I sat up. I caught her hands and tried to explain, but she would not listen, trying to pull free, and shouting. I gave up on talk. There was no time for that now. Hunger was all I had, my vision shrank to a blurry point, and I could do nothing but fill my belly.

I came to my senses on the open hillside. My shirt was wet. The sun set in a welter of crimson and ragged shreds of cloud. A couple of Mayan youths in shorts and dirty shirts stood near. I called to them, but when they approached me their faces changed and they fled. I struggled to my feet, felt the awful hunger returning. Maybe the young men would give me food. I stumbled after them in the gathering dusk.

Publ. Daily Cabal