It ain't what it used to be

“It kinda comes and goes, y’know? The nightmare. I just see Sophitia falling and my god damn jetpack isn’t going fast enough. Most times I don’t even wake up when she hits. I keep flying down until I hit too.”

“And then you wake up?”

“That’s usually enough, yeah.”

“I see.”

Marqus watched as his therapist scribbled a note on its pad. He couldn’t help but notice a screw coming loose from the neck.

“Hold still a second Biff. You got a screw coming loose.”

“Projecting isn’t conducive to treatment, doctor.”

“Oh, ha ha.”

He picked up one of the many cross-head screwdrivers lying around and, bracing Biff with his hand, tightened the screw. The robot’s glowing white eyes flickered and died, its arms stuck in note scribbling position. Marqus waited a few seconds for reboot until he noticed the tapping pen.

“Biff, knock it off.” He rapped the handle of the screwdriver against the metal skull and the eyes lit back up. “Honestly, why you had to develop a sense of humor.”

“I am programmed to understand the human psyche on such a level that developing such traits was all but a foregone conclusion.”

“Yeah. You mentioned something like that before. G’night, Biff.”

“But doctor, your session-” Marqus flipped the off switch. The way a robot’s voice lost momentum and wound down to stuttering groans when shut down would always unnerve him. To be sure it turned off he tapped Biff’s head again. Nothing.

He hadn’t always been so quick to shut down his robots but their constant mechanical whirring sounded best when it stopped. However, after years surrounded by them he could no longer stand straight up silence, so finding just the right balance between quiet and noisy was a never ending struggle. Even the otherwise inaudible buzz of light bulbs reached his ears. He turned out the lights as he left the room.

The spiral staircase creaked at every footfall and the wrought iron hand rail felt cold as death. Whenever it was windy, which was often, trips to and from his therapy sessions became a foreboding affair. Biff had commented on it before, going so far as to suggest they go elsewhere in the compound, making Marqus remind it of his long and perilous career that left mere creaking and chills a non-issue. He preferred to keep his past well removed and secure from his present and the east tower was perfect for that.

“Augh! What the-!” He felt a stinging sensation in his palm,  different from the dull ache of mild arthritis. A thin cut went across it, though only small sections were bleeding. He looked for the cause and found a fine point barely sticking out of the rail. In the dozens of times going up and down the steps he’d never come across it, so while he cursed his luck he couldn’t help but laugh at the odds. Examining the cut further he realized that it intersected a scar he got years before in heated combat. It faded to a pale streak over the years, but he could still make it out when he squinted.

~~~

continued in Stranger and Fiction Anthology 2

Beyond All Spheres of Force and Matter by Federico Piatti. Inspiration for this story.

Chalk

 Melanie loved to draw. Melanie did not, however, like to be outside. So when her father presented her with a brand new set of sidewalk chalk she was less than enthused.

           

“Sidewalk chalk? I like crayons an’ markers, dad. They don’t make my skin all bumply when I touch ‘em.”

“I know that you like them, Melanie. With markers and crayons you only have a small piece of paper, but you get a much bigger canvas with chalk.”

“Yeah, but-“

“Aren’t you always telling me how you need more and bigger paper?”

“So get bigger paper, please.” She hung her head as she said it, glancing sideways at the plastic clamshell container. She did like the soft, pastel colors. “I’ll try them.”

“You will? Not just for a few minutes like the watercolors?”

“The paper kept gettin’ soaked!”

“You’re right. We’ll just have to come back to that one day.”

Melanie loved the smooth and simple nature of watercolor art. When several attempts to replicate the style with her preferred mediums didn’t meet her exacting standards, she asked for a watercolor set. She was greatly disappointed when she couldn’t get it to work. Being five at the time didn’t help matters one whit.

Her father was always supportive when it came to her hobby. He didn’t have much free time with such a demanding career, so what little there was he used to bond with her over their shared love of art.

She picked up the container and, with the familiar assurance that dad would be in his office, she took it outside. The cement patio was fairly large and occupied by furniture. A set of rocking chairs next to a small, short table were perfect spots for stargazing. Rain from last night left flat craters on the dusty glass tops of two dinner tables, but the chairs around them were dry and warm from the unimpeded glow of the sun. It was gorgeous outside, making Melanie squint to see properly.

She held up a hand and looked for the source, flinching once she found it. Going back inside where the sun couldn’t reach sounded like a great idea. Yet her interest in seeing what some of the chalk would look like when scrawled across the cement sounded better. It took her a moment to decide on a spot. Moving furniture if she needed the room wouldn’t be much of a problem, but she liked to work with as few interruptions as possible. The neatly empty space next to the garden, she thought, would be perfect.

~~~

continued in Stranger and Fiction Anthology 2

Good Day, Sunshine by Russell Walks. Inspiration for this story.

Signal in the Concrete Sea

            Debris from the constant skirmishes warped the layout of the city into an unrecognizable state that hindered Emily’s progress to her waypoint. Buildings stood like corpses on display, their insides blown apart and scattered in the streets. Steel support beams stuck out from the rubble all gnarled and frayed. They made her think of scorched hands grasping for a world above the destruction. It helped her to ignore the real bodies.

            Her mission consisted of a single objective; to signal the resistance’s surrender. Their forces were crippled beyond recuperation and all communication was blocked. Even after weeks of sustained loss this decision wasn’t easily reached. Senior officials were whittled down to a handful that no longer held majority against the younger generation of leaders that wished to continue fighting. Rhetoric of honor found in death clashed with the sound advice of living to carry on the spirit and will of the people. It took a concentrated assault from Domain forces to draw the conclusion that surrender was best.

            Since contact with Domain was limited to firefights their options to convey the message were severely limited. A traditional blue signal flare would be the only certain way to get the message across. The only issue left was how to deliver it.

Emily had long been disillusioned with the war, so when the declaration was given it was as if she had suddenly been woken from a deep, numbing slumber. To be asleep while so much was at stake weighed on her, so before requests for a volunteer went out she demanded to be given the opportunity. Taking cover in the charred husk of a school bus did little to dissuade her from the mission.

Her overly large coat made it difficult to squeeze into and out of confined spaces, and the bulky flare constantly threatened to become dislodged from its clip on her shoulder holster. There weren’t many elements not conspiring against her at this point, but it only made her more determined, if not outright defiant. She would strip away Domain’s reasons for slaughtering citizens and extinguish its apparent lust for doing so.

All she needed was time.

***

            “I’m telling you, Commander, all we need is more time.” Captain Moore said, exasperation clear in his voice. “We are close to discovering their base of operations, and once we have that we can deliver a final blow to the resistance and be done with them forever!”

            “I understand your reasoning Moore, but compiling a majority of our forces into a single entity is an invitation for attack. Battles haven’t been fought like that in over a hundred years and for damn good reason.” Commander Dufresne took a slow drag from his cigarette then put it out to save it for later. He ignored Moore’s tantrum of knocking over a lamp and storming from the room, spitting out curses as he went.

In his long and storied military career there was no end of brash upstarts. The medals on his chest mattered less and less, apparently. For years it sickened him to be forced to deal with them, but the high turnover rate ensured their stay was strictly temporary. Soldiers he hated to bury; they fought with singular purpose: officers he gladly disposed of; they schemed to avoid the responsibility of war.  In that way he respected the rebels; they fought with purpose as well in spite of it being wholly wrong. They deserved to die; nothing less was acceptable.

            “Commander Dufresne?” said a voice over the intercom. Dufresne acknowledged it with a grunt, and the person continued. “We have intel that needs your attention, please report to central command.”

            “Noted. I’ll be there in a minute.”

            “Very well, commander.”

          

~~~

continued in Stranger and Fiction Anthology 2

The Signal by Ritche Sacilioc. Inspiration for this story.