@Moon Finally sat down and read this. I love the aquatic imagery, the mustard aisle, and the $100 bonus. Is it wrong that I got excited envisioning a future where this kind of shopping experience is possible?
Shopping made me feel like a hungry ghost
This is why I write and read fiction. To stumble upon perfectly-strung-together word clusters like this one. Love it.
@hellojed Impressed with how you managed to make this short piece feel like it's part of a much larger and longstanding world. That, to me, is a challenging thing to do. Also intrigued by the spice clan and all that implies.
@whatsarobot one of my absolute favorite things in the world to do is worldbuilding via throwaway lines, so I try to do that as much as possible.
This one is definitely a first draft, but there‘s something here I’d like to return to and explore more deeply in the future.
It wasn't that nobody understood Sachiko. It was that nobody made her feel understood the way Lily did. And really, wasn't that the characteristic that defined a companion? For long stretches of each of Sachiko's eight decades on this earth, she had grappled with loneliness, sometimes to the point of near-paralysis. Never had she felt so far removed from that great dark pit of despair as when Lily had come into her life. Now, Sachiko knew what it felt like to be loved. Truly loved, not merely relied upon or _needed_.
And to think, the churlish skepticism Sachiko had shown, when her youngest son had mentioned the idea of investing in a PetBot! That was how he had referred to it, after all. An investment. Since she insisted on living unassisted, he had asked, could he really afford not to spend some amount of money on ensuring that his mother wasn't totally alone?
Sachiko had been certain that this was merely Shunsuke's way of monitoring her. He'd always been a meddler. Always loved prying into other people's affairs, especially hers. Never gave her a moment of privacy until he'd started elementary school. But Shunsuke assured her that, no, in fact, he'd only suggested the possibility of a PetBot because she'd made her stance on keeping a pet – a live animal, in her home – so clear.
Yes, thinking back on it now, Sachiko was willing to admit that she'd been wrong, and Shunsuke had been right. She'd even debated telling him so during one of their terse and infrequent phone calls, but he already had so much to be smug and self-satisfied about, as a successful bank manager with two children at private school and a wife who "worked" as a presenter on television. Why add fuel to that fire?
To his credit, however, Shunsuke was persistent. When he got an idea in his head that he was convinced was a good one, he simply would not let it go. And so it was that one weekday in late April – Sachiko remembered because she had been planning to go and observe the blossoming sakura trees before all the tourists flooded the area at the weekend – a delivery man showed up at her door with a white cardboard box the size of a mini refrigerator. On one side of the box, a magenta heart logo with the words _Joy Group_ emblazoned across it seemed to announce an important arrival. Sachiko had tried hard to convince the delivery man that he'd got the wrong house, that she hadn't ordered anything from – or even ever _heard_ of any Joy Group – but the shipping slip had her name and address on it, and so she'd had no choice but to relent. I'll bet this delivery man has never properly enjoyed a sakura blossom in his life, she had thought to herself.
A sound like a dolphin doing an impression of a clarinet interrupted Sachiko's reverie. It was a sound that brought her more joy than anything. That Group had truly earned its name, she mused for the millionth time. A doting smile on her face, she looked down at the robot, who had just rolled up next to her. Its eyes were about level with her knee. It gazed back up at her, flapping its little wing-shaped arms in a bid to be lifted up into Sachiko's lap. Lily did this whenever Sachiko sat on the lavender-coloured two-seat sofa (which was often).
Lily didn't come out of the box bearing the name Lily. (The literature she came with made all sorts of flowery references to "your new family member" being "born" and "taking its time to get to know you," but Sachiko still couldn't help thinking about the whole situation in literal terms: a robot was manufactured somewhere, stuffed in a cardboard box, and shipped to its destination.) On that unsuspecting day in April, Sachiko had opened the box (which she had fortunately found surprisingly lightweight) and found something resembling two beach balls stacked on top of one another in an effort to impersonate a penguin. If it hadn't come with an instruction manual the size of a phone book (Sachiko remembered those), she wouldn't have known what to do with it.
Each PetBot comes with its own charging station, to which the PetBot knows to return once its battery starts running low. The first time is the only time its owner (its "lifemate" according to the literature — "parent" might have alienated someone, perhaps) has to manually plug it in. Given that the start to their relationship had been entirely under Sachiko's control, it shouldn't be hard to imagine how startled she was the first time her new PetBot cooed happily and rolled out of its charging station, ready to be showered with affection.
Showered, however, it was not. At least not at first. Sachiko had telephoned Shunsuke that first day, demanding to know what she was meant to do with the little rolling robot.
"Just show it affection," Shunsuke said. "Like you would a pet." Or a child, he had thought, but had not said.
Sachiko contemplated this, then asked, "And what am I supposed to feed it?"
"Robots don't eat, mother."
Sachiko hummed through her nose. "Do I have to take it out for walks?"
"I think that's entirely up to you," Shunsuke said. But, just in case, added, "What does the owner's manual say about it?"
And so, Sachiko had set about reading the entire owner's manual, cover to cover. It took her most of the day, and by the end, she was reading aloud, to the approving coos and boops of her PetBot. Sachiko had begun to find those noises rather amusing, in spite of herself.
By the time she'd read the whole manual, it was time for dinner, and Sachiko was indeed a bit peckish. She was still skeptical about the whole robot-ownership enterprise, but by then it had been too dark to go looking at sakura blossoms anyway, so Sachiko decided to allow the PetBot to be her houseguest for that night, so long as it didn't beep or coo too loudly while she tried to sleep.
PetBots are programmed such that they become more familiar with their surroundings over time, and more affectionate with the people occupying those surroundings. After just a few weeks of living with Sachiko, Lily had learned what time of day was optimal for making an appeal to be picked up and held. Lily understood not to make a sound between the hours of 10 PM and 6:35 AM (except on Sundays when Lily remained silent until 7:00 — Sachiko liked to sleep in on Sundays). Whenever Sachiko left the house, Lily knew to return immediately to the charging station. That way, Lily was certain to have the required battery power to glide over to the front door and perform a little welcome-home dance when Sachiko returned. (This dance, as well, was subject to constant and incremental improvement. Each time Lily incorporated a new action or sequence of lights, the camera embedded in Lily's "horn" (a clever name for the protuberance which rose from the top of Lily's head, which also contained gyroscopes and infrared depth tracking sensors) captured Sachiko's reaction, and fine-tuned the algorithm. Sachiko was privy to none of this, of course, and liked it just fine that way.
Sachiko's husband – a borderline-alcoholic former public transit official who had grown more curmudgeonly with each passing year following his retirement at age 60 – had never been very affectionate or considerate, but he'd at least had the decency to pass on to the next world while Sachiko was still relatively spry. He'd left her with a healthy amount in a savings account as well, so she never wanted for anything. "Only because I've never had expensive taste, mind you," Sachiko would occasionally mutter to herself with a sniff.
Sachiko's children, on the other hand, were another matter entirely. The three of them never could leave well enough alone. Ryosuke, her eldest, rarely called, which was fine with Sachiko, but he had the tendency to show up unannounced for visits. Once, he and his wife dropped their children off and didn't return until late in the evening! Well, Sachiko was many things, but she was no one's babysitter, and she made that perfectly clear. So Ryosuke didn't dare try that again.
Sana, Sachiko's daughter, was a middle child through and through, contrarian just for the sake of it. Sachiko could count on one hand the number of conversations they'd had together that remained civil start to finish. If only Sana could get it through her head that her mother knew what was best for her, she probably never would have married – and divorced, but who didn't see that coming? – that airheaded hair stylist she'd met in Osaka.
And then there was Shunsuke. He hadn't been planned for, like Ryosuke and Sana were, but he'd never been a burden, either. He'd mostly stayed in Sachiko's good books – a position which he cemented for himself by ordering that PetBot.
Outside of the family, Sachiko had always had more acquaintances than she'd had friends. Since her days as a schoolgirl, she'd prided herself on being a lone wolf.
Sachiko chose the name Lily because the animations that appeared on the two round LCD screens that represented the PetBot's eyes reminded Sachiko of large white flower petals with drops of dew on them. Sachiko was not a flower expert, and couldn't have confidently identified a lily from the selection offered by the local florist, but the name struck her as cute, and so it stuck. And indeed, their relationship did blossom over the weeks and months they spent together. Sachiko appreciated the way Lily validated her every choice. Pleasant coos greeted her musical selections (mostly enka recordings from the 1960s), and if Sachiko felt like eating white rice with natto at dinner every day for a week, she wasn't chided for making suboptimal nutritional choices.
Such was the extent of Lily's powers of validation that Sachiko even felt vindicated for bold decisions she'd made in the past. When her children had offered to buy her a computer so that they could mail each other electronically, Sachiko had scoffed. "Have you forgotten how to write by hand?" Ryosuke had gifted her some sort of tablet device for her birthday one year, but she had rejected it, citing statistics she had read about similar devices causing brain decay and eyesight erosion (she had in fact read no such statistics, but they sounded plausible to her). Lily demanded so little, and yet gave so much joy, so selflessly, in return.
Though they'd never tell their mother, Sachiko's three children took it in turns to reach out to her, mostly to ensure that she was still alive, and not because any of them felt any great desire to chat. They'd been doing this for years, and each had their own individual way of convincing themselves not to feel guilty for not making more of an effort to care for the old woman. Love, they each knew, required great effort to express, especially when it didn't always feel reciprocated. But their mother never asked them for anything (even when they sometimes wished she would), and seemed entirely self-sufficient, not to mention odds-defyingly healthy. And so they left well enough alone.
Initially, Shunsuke had been curious about how Sachiko had adapted to life with her PetBot. He knew his mother well enough not to expect any outpourings of gratitude, but on the occasions when he did inquire directly, she'd only reply, "Oh, just fine," and refuse to elaborate. But he noticed more of a lilt in her voice than before. He took that as a sign that things were going well.
Without discussing it directly with one another, Ryosuke, Sana, and Shunsuke all came to the conclusion that Lily had given their mother whatever it was that she required, and each of them felt relieved of the burden of having to reach out.
And so it went, for a couple of years. Four separate households, maintaining four separate versions of day-to-day mundanity. The PetBot stopped being a topic of conversation, and eventually stopped being thought about entirely (in three of those households, at least).
That was, until, after finding out that Sachiko had passed away in her sleep one night, thanks to an automatic call to the police placed by the PetBot. The children were not surprised to find that their mother had prepared a will. They were, however, surprised to find that her estate and all of her savings had been bequeathed to someone called Lily. No surname given. That was when things really got interesting.
This week I have some snippets of things I'm working on.
**Carcass**
It was 7 days to find a job and get a work pass, after being let into the boarder, after a humiliating screening process, which I won't get into. Police could check your papers at any time and send you away.
I remember passing my data processing test and getting a provisional pass, renewed every 30 days, contingent on me passing quota every period. It felt like I had breathing room again. By then I was like the others, sleeping in borrowed tents, draped in layers of canvas to keep the rain out. The luckier ones who came in cars could live in those, or pile into a large and inert caravan someone else had managed to drive here. The luckiest of us lived 9 to a room in the condos, after getting a work sponsorship. Such were the advantages of being a data processor.
I stuck my head into the display box every day, reading numbers and entering correct ones. There was no rhyme or reason to any of them, and so it was impossible to ever zone out and think of other things. By day's end I sparsely had the energy to heat up noodle's on our apartment's shared oven.
There was no time to think of a future, and there was no time to remember the past. You could get arrested for anything. It felt like everyone around you was like a knife at the ready, coiled like a spring, just in case.
I had found a small group that wanted to form a band. I played Violin before all this, and so I set off to find an example of the instrument. A band member, Fitzwilly, told me of an old man in The Stacks who might have one. "I must come along" they said "you'll understand when we get there"
[things happen]
"Everyone's been arrested, I can't renew my work permit without a residency endorsement" I said
"It's the perfect time to go on tour" Fitzwilly replied.
**Nicodemus**
There was a big warehouse in the middle of settlement full of food, supplies, stuff people made, and you could just take whatever you wanted. I couldn't belive it. I looked at the huge piles of Wheat in the back, and saw the loaves of bread laid out next to it, and the barrels of beer alongside it. All for the taking. It was overwhelming to me so I tried to reason with the idea.
"How does someone just not take everything" I asked
"Well" my guide said "where would you keep it? And lets say you took all the bread and could only eat a little, the rest would go bad, that wouldn't be fair to the baker. It would just be rude"
I began to wonder if there was a pile of money lying around, and then I saw it, a neat box completely filled with Republic Notes. Thousands in tidy little stacks. What I could buy with those notes when I got back to Carcass.
"Does that go for the money?" I asked
"Well, money can't buy you anything here" My guide said plainly. "That's for groups that are traveling out of Nicodemus"
I looked at those little stacks, I had seen so many people struggle and die to get them back in Carcass, just one might have bought me a car to live in, or bought a share in a carvan's bunk. My guide must have seen staring, she said "If you want some, feel free to take some"
Finished this one on Friday, but I haven't been able to figure out what to call it.
I don't think my kids believe me when I tell them that we didn't used to have to wear masks all the time, everywhere we went. I don't mean we, as a family. I mean we, as a society. They don't believe it. I've shown them old photos and videos, but with the internet being what it is these days, the kids insist that everything can be faked, so they'll trust their own version of the truth, thanks. Fair enough.
Fact is, though, I'm old enough to remember back when folks talked about "the pandemic," which, over time, transitioned into more scientific-sounding talk about waves and strains. It almost sounds funny these days, but back then, we thought this was an isolated thing, which we could contain, or defeat, or just eventually learn to live with. Then again, I guess we have learned to live with it, in a way. Just not in the way we originally had hoped. For a few years there, I remember everyone thinking (maybe hoping is the better word) our lives would go back to normal if we all took the right amount of precaution. I couldn't believe how resistant some people were to wearing masks—like it was some kind of infringement on their freedom, or some kind of nefarious mind control. But once we passed the nine- or ten-year mark, it became pretty clear to everybody: if you absolutely had to venture outside of your home, you covered as much of your face as you could. That didn't guarantee your survival of course, but it definitely raised the odds in your favor.
There have been kids born since all that mess got started who've spent their whole lives wearing masks, or near enough. Just as natural as wearing clothes. Baby pops out, the nurses swaddle it up, and put a little infant-sized mask over the mouth and nose. There was resistance to it at first, just like any new idea from the medical establishment. There has to be a better way, people said. The babies'll suffocate! Well, none ever did, as far as I know. Millions of babies went right on wearing masks, too, just about twenty-four hours a day, right up until today. Some of those babies are nearly set to enter middle school, from what I hear, and to them, not wearing a mask would be as scandalous as going about your daily business with no clothes on. Hard as it is for me to wrap my head around it, my son tells me that some of the older kids he knows watch videos online of other kids doing stripteases, only none of their clothes come off, just the mask. Real slow and seductive. They get the same kick out of it that I used to, back when Pornhub was the go-to. And, not unrelated I suppose, both of my kids wouldn't let me catch them dead without their masks on. Haven't seen either of their faces since they were real little, and bath time was something we did together. At least they've stopped making those exaggerated barfing sounds whenever their mom and I would take our masks off to enjoy a meal together. I know other families don't necessarily operate like ours does, but my wife and I still believe in eating together when we're in the sanctity of our own home. And I don't know about her, but I still miss restaurants. She says having food delivered to our place is just as good, but I don't know about that. The ambience isn't bad, I guess, but it's always the same.
Anyway, the thing that really gets under my skin, and has for years, is these guys who go around dick-nosing it. You'll have to pardon the rude turn of phrase—that's just how I think of it. You know who I'm talking about. These guys who put the mask on, but let their nose stick out, uncovered. I can't help but wonder whether they do it as a way of flipping the bird to everyone around them, or whether they genuinely don't understand the purpose of masking up in the first place. I try not to think about it too much though—as is so often the case, that seems like the best way to stay sane. Ignore the idiots as best you can, and move along. Of course, that's what everyone thinks they're doing, and it's not possible that we're all succeeding.
Point is, if my kids aren't even willing to believe me about mundane, basic facts, they sure as hell wouldn't believe me about what I encountered on the train the other day. I'm still not sure I believe it myself, but I've never been given to hallucinations or flights of fancy. I try to keep a level head. Stay off social media, limit my news intake. I still stay what we used to call "mindful," as best I can.
As a general rule, I only take the train when I absolutely have no other option. Which is sort of funny, because I insisted on moving my family to this city partly because of its rail coverage. Something like the lowest car per capita in the country, I think it was. Top five, anyway. Lot more people driving cars now, though there still aren't enough places to park them. Or charge them. Mostly, people just stay at home. Or walk, if they're not going too far. There are exceptions, like the delivery drivers who still haven't been automated. But they mostly get their vehicles supplied by their employers.
I've always considered myself fortunate, because I can do most of my working from home. I analyze and monitor security video recordings for a few fairly high-end clients. High-end in their demands, and in the way they use network slicing to keep video latency low, except when a Figure of Interest enters the field of view, and everything switches to 16K ultra hi-def. Thing is, anyone dedicated enough to try breaking into one of these clients' facilities is also savvy enough to know that they need to at least attempt to trick the video feed into staying standard definition. Doesn't happen often, but when they're successful at it, these lowlifes show up on screen looking all blurred out and pixelated. Don't ask me how they do it. If I knew, I'd be in their line of work, not this one. Guess that'd make me a lowlife, too. Well, it's hard not to feel like a lowlife sometimes, way things are going.
I won't go into too much detail, but my job involves cleaning up that pixelation and trying to kind of reverse-HD-ify the video feed after the fact. Very occasionally, I have to visit a facility and check on what may or may not be faulty hardware. Why they don't have techs to come in and do this, I don't know. Shouldn't really be my job. But the people who pay me for my services do so precisely because they can't be bothered with knowing this stuff—bigger fish to fry, right?
So that's why I was on the train the other day. Had to go all the way across town, way out to the end of the local subway line, where I'd hop onto one of the big, cross-country passenger carriers to my destination.
Part of being mindful is counting your blessings, even when they're few and far between. Personally, I've been thankful for the past few years that packed rush hour trains are a thing of the past. These days, if you're willing to roll the dice by stepping onto a train in the first place, you're usually rewarded with a seat. More often than not, you've got your pick of seats, in fact. That was the case for me. I got on one of the train's middle cars, wearing my best antimicrobial polypropylene mask. Custom fitted, with the Hanshin Tigers logo on one side—tastefully small, not too garish. I looked around. No dick-nosers in sight. Good.
I wandered over to a row of seats beneath an already open window, and sat down. Sat right in the middle, because there was an old lump sleeping importantly with his arms folded across his chest on one end, and a youngish femme-presenting person on their phone at the other end. I like as much personal space as I can get.
I was about to pull my phone out too – because what the hell else are you going to do on the train? – when I noticed the guy across from me, staring at me like he's got some kind of grudge. This happens to me from time to time, and I figure it happens to lots of people. I don't know what other people do about it when it happens, but my response is to stare right back, just to see how the other person will react. Usually, they're not staring for any particular reason, and quickly look away, or close their eyes, and we both move on with our lives. Once in a while, the other person will keep staring, sometimes because they're interested in me (used to happen a lot more often than it does now) or because they think they know me (they usually don't). But this guy, with his dull brass doorknob eyes, was clearly not going to break eye contact before I did. He was making that very clear.
Well I started taking it personally. I tried furrowing my brow at him. No reaction. Didn't even flinch. I tried the opposite approach, raising my eyebrows and trying to project the question, "Are we going to have a problem?" Nothing. He just sat there. But his body language was so passive, I started getting a little confused. That's when I heard his voice in my head. I knew it was his voice because his head tilted almost imperceptibly to the right when I heard the words, "Relax. I mean you no harm." Right between my ears. Like I had earbuds in. Except I don't even own any earbuds.
At that point, I couldn't help but look away. I glanced to my right, where the old sleeper was still catching winks. Glanced to my left. Still glued to the phone. They weren't noticing anything unusual. I took one quick look down at my hands before hesitantly meeting the guy's eyes again. I was tempted to address him, but didn't want to shout across the way.
"Remain calm," he said. Or broadcasted. I don't know. "You can hear me. Yes?"
I nodded.
"Excellent. You will ride this train to its terminal, correct?"
I couldn't tell if he already knew the answer to that question, but it felt like a strong possibility. I nodded again.
"Indeed. I shall speak to you then," he said. Then his eyes rolled all the way back in his head, leaving me a split-second glimpse at two dull white orbs before the lids closed.
I immediately got up out of my seat and walked to the end of the car, looking over my shoulder only once. The guy wore all black, but regular clothes. A kind of puffy jacket, nondescript pants and boots, black ski cap on his head. The hat was pulled down nearly to his eyebrows, and even if he hadn't had a mask on, the collar on the jacket went up high enough that his face still would have been mostly obscured. He had his hands in his pockets. Now he looked like just another train sleeper, like the lump across from him.
I debated getting off the train and hopping on the next one, but then I remembered that I was on the express, which only came around once or twice in an hour, and I didn't want to chance getting on a local. I'd be late. But I also had about half an hour before this train reached the end of the line. So, to be safe, I opened the sliding door and stepped into the next car. Still didn't feel like I was out of the woods, so I put that entire car between me and the weirdo, and went through another sliding door.
Ka-chunk. It shut behind me, and I sat down essentially in the same spot I'd occupied two cars ago. The second my ass hit the seat – I shit you not, the exact second – I hear, "You may sit wherever you like." Same voice. Same volume and clarity. I glared back at the door I'd just come through, and it's still shut tight.
"Oh, what the fuck is this," I whisper to myself. It's not a question. Just an exasperated noise. Again, I debated getting on the next train at my earliest opportunity, but I have to admit that part of me was curious as to how this would play out. And, bizarre as the situation was, I didn't exactly feel threatened. Didn't wonder if I was losing my mind or anything like that, either. It felt more like losing a tooth for the first time, or figuring out how to whistle. Something my body had never done before, and suddenly was doing.
My phone stayed in my pocket for the whole ride, I can tell you that much. After resigning myself to the strange new situation I was facing, I became the psycho trying to make eye contact with everyone on the train. Who else could I pick up telepathic messages from? No one, it turned out. But I spent the entire time trying. Whenever the train stopped and a new passenger got on, I'd lock eyes with them. Got a couple of disgusted looks, and one person straight up turned around and walked right off the train again. Can't say I blame them, in retrospect.
By the time the train got to the end of the line, I had almost forgotten why I'd even left the house in the first place. But whether you remember why you're riding or not, you don't stay on the train when it gets to the end of the line unless you're fast asleep or dead drunk. So I got to my feet, and headed for the nearest exit.
A few steps from the stairs leading up to street level, I had to pause and do a double take. Sure enough, it was him. The guy, all in black, sitting in the exact same position I'd seen him in before, looking like he'd had the idea of going as a pile of trash bags for Halloween. Except now he was on the plastic seats by the vending machines.
"Come. Sit," he said.
Now that we were off the train, it felt acceptable to speak out loud.
"Nah, man. I don't know how you're doing that, but knock it off, alright?"
He shook his head, looking slightly annoyed, as if he was trying to communicate with someone who didn't speak the same language. "Just for a moment. This won't take long."
I shoved my hands in my pockets, and looked around. The few passengers still on the platform weren't paying us any mind, all headed toward their next destinations. Then it was my turn to shake my head. In bewilderment, mostly. I didn't know what the hell else to do, so I went over and sat near the guy, leaving one plastic seat in between us, as a buffer.
"So what do you want?" I asked him.
"I must share something with you," he said.
I say "said," but even at this proximity, it sounded like he was still broadcasting straight into my brain, as opposed to talking the traditional way. I thought, you've shared more than enough already, pal. But I decided to humour him. I shrugged my shoulders and looked him in the eye again to show that I was game for whatever it was he had in mind.
It was eerie, how still he remained, even when communicating. I felt like I was staring at a statue.
"We have always been here," he said. "But only recently have we gained the confidence to venture among you, for what will, I think, become obvious reasons."
That was enough for me to regret my decision to humour him. But I could tell he was only just getting started.
"I have been selected as something of an ambassador," he said. "Historically, we have not succeeded in establishing meaningful connections with you. It is our understanding that we horrify you."
I did not like where this was going. Not just the words he was saying, but the way he spoke. The stilted cadence, and the awkward pauses. It was obvious that he was working very hard to communicate in a way I'd understand. He seemed to vibrate, but minutely. I don't know how to explain it. It was sort of like when I was a kid, with those old CRT TVs—I could tell when one had been left on in the room, even if there was nothing on the screen, and the sound was off. This guy radiated something similar.
"We do not bear you any grudge. It is your right to respond to us as you will. Long ago, we resigned ourselves to an existence separate from yours."
Though he couldn't see it, my mouth hung open. I wanted to say something, but I didn't know what that something should be. And I also felt bad, somehow, about the thought of interrupting him. This confession, or whatever it was, seemed challenging enough for him as it was.
"Few of your kind are able to hear. But here, today, you have done me the kindness of hearing. I am grateful. And so, if you are in agreement, I would like to proceed to the next stage of interaction."
I waited for more, but he was, evidently, also waiting for me to respond. I suppose that in his mind, what he'd said counted as a question. But before I could articulate any kind of reply, he grabbed hold of my right forearm in a blur of motion. It felt as if a boa constrictor had just gotten ahold of me. I looked down and confirmed that his arm – or what I'd assumed was his arm – was coiled around mine. With his other arm, he gestured for me to return my attention to his face. When I did, his mask – or what I'd assumed was his mask – simply slid down his face of its own accord. Like a car window being rolled down.
What it revealed was… Well, it was the most revolting thing I've ever encountered. Thankfully, I resisted the urge to vomit, as that would have left me with a fine mess to contend with beneath my own mask. It was like witnessing a fatal car crash that stretched back from the current moment to prehistoric times. It was an industrial strength blender made of jagged bone and viscera. It undulated and thrashed like a rainforest centipede being stabbed at with a pitchfork.
Then, just as smoothly as it had lowered, his mask slid back up into place, stopping just below his nose. His perfectly normal, human-looking nose.
"You are aghast." He announced this to me.
"God damn right I am," I said. My voice was a rickety croak.
"I see," he said, sounding crestfallen. His arm uncoiled from around mine. Incredibly, I didn't bolt. Despite what I'd just witnessed, I felt strangely calm.
"Allow me one last trespass before you go on your way," he said. "I assume, based on your reaction, that our interaction cannot be deemed a success. Is this a safe assumption?"
"Uh… Yeah," I hacked. "Safe."
"A pity," he said. "But, very well. Thank you, at least, for making an effort. Please be on your way. You will have forgotten about our encounter by the time you arrive at your next destination."
I got up, stumbled backward a few steps, and made my way up the stairs on wobbly legs. I didn't look back.
Somehow, I made it through the rest of the day as if nothing had happened. It was like I was under some kind of mental anesthetic. Logically, it felt as though I should be panicking, or running for the hills. But I made it through my work appointment – the cameras on the premises hadn't been connected to the right layer of the network, it turned out – and back home uneventfully. Had dinner with the family, went to bed.
But I haven't forgotten. Quite the opposite. So all I can do now is wonder what that guy meant by "next destination."
@hellojed Love the idea of a place called Carcass. Fitzwilly is also a great character name. This is a post-apocalyptic world I'd read more about, gladly.
@whatsarobot I like how your stories feel like the first chapter in something much bigger.
**Fields of FishGrain**
We were working the fields when the news came out that our lord, Tengron, had sold the Feifdom to Parron of the south, and that we’d be joining together. We talked among ourselves sitting in the ditch while we waited for the water cart to arrive.
“Parron” sighed Tip “Do you think they’ll be any better than Tengron?”
“I hope so” I said, lying down in the cut crops.
Tengron had owned the fiefdom for 17 or 18 years now, and as a lord is to do, they buy up or conquer a surrounding fiefdom, with the assets (that is, the land, the villages, and the serfs) to go along with it. In the 2 decades Tengron had bough up all the surrounding lands, with the fields turned to the cash crop of Fish Grain. Their last was a village of toymakers, who had made toys for the lord for some time, but papers were signed, and now the entire village was raised and turned into Fish Grain fields.
We call it fish grain because it’s grain that smells like fish.
I was brought to Tengron’s fiefdom after a year of imprisonment for being unable to work, appealing to many different lords for my skills in tractor and small engine repair. Every time they had found another repairer who had specific knowledge of the tractors or machinery that they used. It was frustrating because, well, farm equipment across the land is always extensively modified for individual crops and harvests, not to mention terrain. It was terrible to read the words “you aren’t a good fit” from the light of a jailhouse candle, as if I were a cog that were simply made in the wrong shape. The equipment used by Tengron’s were very old, having been modified and maintained for Fish Grain over the years, nobody working outside the fiefdom could decipher the tangled mechanics of it, so learning on the job was a must. By some fortune they acquired me.
I enjoyed this work, such as it was, until the end of the harvest, when we processed the grain by hand. The grain grinder machinery had to be manually operated, and was equally cobbled together hastily for the harvest. We resulted to manual tools. Deliveries were constantly late. I thought I could relax after the harvest, but we were working harder than ever. My hands were bleeding by days end, and I collapsed into bed every night with my comrades, wondering how long I could keep going.
I knew tractors and I knew mechanics, I had to learn grain processing, and this was now my job, one I could not stand to do.
For months this went on, I had told the foreman I could not go on, but we went on, and I told them I was thinking going offland, which is slang for running away without work, something that would land me back into prison from which I had been so desperate to get out of. Nothing had changed and the work had been grinding on, until today, when we got the news.
“I hope we switch to another crop” I said, with the water cart approaching.
“Did you hear the news?” Davies asked, who pulled the cart and was a welcome sight, said as he ambled up.
“We’ll still be processing this grain, by hand, for months” Tip muttered “I do hope we switch to another crop, something that doesn’t smell so bad”
“Nobody can be as bad as Tengron” Davies said. Tengrons atrocities were widely known, he was widely hated by the other lords (not to mention us serfs, but our true bile was reserved for codewords). I speculated he would die on the throne before abdicating, but selling out never entered my mind, as the land he owned was far too big for any sum of money. Turns out, if you have enough gold, anything is yours.
As I turned this over in my head, I thought about the old Citroen 2CV that was rotting next to the shed. It looked worse than it actually was, I knew with a few bits of wire and some new spark plugs, and a clean of the fuel system, it would fire up. I’d throw some tarp over the the top for a roof, and get some blankets to put on the seat springs. Me and Tip could be gone into the night. And Davies too. but where would we go? This last question, it kept me there, for so long. I did not have an answer.
With the purchase, Parron was now the third largest Fiefdom, and perhaps building up to a battle with the other biggest two. But what difference does a new master make, anyway?
@hellojed Thanks! Hopefully, someday, maybe, that‘s what they’ll become!
trying something new this week
Writing badly on purpose
“Please please please explain how this caravaning system all works” Yishick begged me.
I needed to write the worst short story of the year, if I‘m to maintain writing a short story once a week, every week, for 52 weeks straight, well logically one of the stories had to be the worst one. I needed to break the good story streak. But my assistant Yishick continued to ask me questions I didn’t have the answers so.
“I don't know how caravaning works, people rent one and then go off for a few months” I replied
“What do they do?”
“I DON'T KNOW!” I yelled. I saw Yishick recoil in horror and I quickly aplogized. “I‘m sorry, I’m on a deadline you see”
“What story are you trying to write?” Yishick asked
“A bad one” I replied
“Well if you want a bad story, you should write about writing, those are the worst stories” Yishick said. I mulled this over when suddenly Yishick produced a huge [WATER PIPE] and then proceeded to smoke the entire [REDACTED] in a single breath, collapsing into my bean bag chair where he would remain for another few hours.
“Writing about writing” I said “what a bad idea”. I got out my personal recorder and began to dictate something off the top of my head
"Worstchire Genald was the greatest writer of his generation and had many fabulous books, each one greater than the last. His secret was he sold his soul to the devil so that everything he wrote would be a wild success. He set off the write The Worst Book of all time, which he had determined was about a writing professor, in the area of America known as New England, working at an unnamed elite school, who has an affair while suffering from a long case of writer's block. Worstchire sat down at his magic keyboard, which was made of the bones of a hundred extinct birds, and sat down, his fingers creating a menacing clacking noise as he giggled to himself, imagining the name of this insufferable professor and what kind of car he drove, the hours ticked by in a haze, he looked over the long scroll of the manuscript, which read…
</s><i> </i>"Cathy it's the worst case of writer's block yet" Drew said into his car phone, brushing aside his auburn hair in the vanity mirror of his Mercedes Benz . "Babe where are you?" Cathy asked in a tinny voice "I'm in my car Babe, it's a car phone" Drew replied. "It comes standard with every Mercedes Benz, hold on I'm getting another call" Drew felt important that he was getting a second call, it was enough to balance the indignity of the entire bag of Combos he had just eaten in the 7-11 parking lot. The call was from his Adjunct. "Mister McIntire" The voice said "When are you going to come in for a class, the students are actually wanting you to come in and teach" "Really?" Drew said "No it's mainly the parents, who keep bragging that their kid is being taught by Fameous Author Drew McIntire, but word got out that you haven't released the 7th part of your bestselling series Golddust in the Stardust. "I've been busy having an affair" Drew said matter of factly. "Well, if you don't submit a manuscript soon, everyone on the squash court and lacross feild will start to gossip, maybe if you showed up to the gala this afternoon with something it'll throw the scent off" the Adjunct said "That's a great idea" drew said "I'll do that right now" Drew fished the final crumbs from his bag of Combos and sat down to type on his very expensive typewriter in the 7-11 parking lot.<i> </i><e>>
“Swords are no match for The Rat King!” The rat king snarled before taking the mace to the face of Stardust
> “You can‘t do this to me, I’m stardust” stardust said, before dying instantly
`"Oh shit I just killed the main character" Drew said "and I'm out of correction tape, the fans are gonna kill me"`
"Worstchire Genald!!!" a booming voice came from the bones keyboard "You've written the worst novel in a thousand years, the deal is off"
"No! I sold my soul to you, we had a deal!" Worstchire said, pleading, slowling realizing his mistake.
"Worstchire this is the worst shit I'm not even joking" the devil said "
Thats when my tape recorder reached the end of my tape. I was going to get more, when I discovered Yishick had unspooled all of my remaining blanks and knitted himself a hat. At least the streak of good writing was over.
@hellojed Haha wow this is admirable! I just took the week off last week, because I didn't feel I had enough time (which sucks, after only three successful weeks), but you stuck with it and produced something which was entertaining to read. Nice!
@whatsarobot thank you! a lot of writing advice I've read has to do with giving oneself permission to write the worst stuff on the page, so I decided to try that
If you'd asked Sharyl before the start of her shift that night at Chubby's, she would have defiantly told you that she'd seen everything before. Nothing under the sun could surprise her.
"A lot of people don't know this," she'd likely have said, "but serving staff who work the overnight shift at "budget-friendly" 24-hour restaurants? Some of the toughest, take-no-shit people you're ever likely to meet. Have to be. Some of the stuff we see? Well, it makes me wonder why I put up with it. Not like the tips are worth the aggravation. If you can even call what I get tips. Seems like half the people eating here these days think a note written on their check will somehow help me put food on my own table."
If you'd asked her again, though, by the time her break rolled around that one night, Sharyl would have had to admit that, in fact, yes, she still had some surprise left in her. Only thing is, if you'd seen her during that break, you would have known to steer clear, and give the lady her space. If there'd been a responsible manager on the premises, that person would have told Sharyl to head home and take the rest of the night off. But with her years of tenure, Sharyl had long ago been granted managerial duties for the night shift by Don, the owner and former kitchen boss, who now preferred to spend as little time at Chubby's as he could get away with. Which was a lot, it turned out.
Sharyl had seen the come in – no one set foot inside Chubby's going unnoticed by Sharyl – and gave them a friendly half-nod, like she did every customer. That had been less than two hours ago, she was sure. At the time, nothing about them had alarmed her. No, that's an overstatement. Nothing about them had even registered on her radar (and a well-developed radar it is). Just two parents and a kid. Somewhat odd, given the time of night, but not as odd as you might think. They could've been a weary family in the middle of a road trip. Maybe they were visiting relatives in town. Hell, it's even possible that they were on vacation. Having spent her whole life in this city, Sharyl never could quite believe it when people told her they'd chosen, of their own accord, to pay her little burg a visit. But there was no accounting for some people's preferences. If there'd ever been any doubt of that, you only had to spend an hour or two poking around on the internet to confirm that any proclivity you could imagine – and many you would never dare to – was alive and thriving for somebody, somewhere.
So it was a family of three, or so Sharyl supposed. They'd want one of the booths by the window, she'd assumed. And she'd been right on that hunch. They shuffled over to it, all gray polycotton blends, blue denim and athletic support shoes (which mainly seemed to be the shoes worn by the least athletic folks, but hey, everyone deserves a little extra cushion in their step). Sharyl watched them out of the corner of her eye as she refilled a couple of coffee mugs at the table nearest the entrance. A large, lumbering father figure, a spindly and slightly knock-kneed mother, and a nondescript teenage son, who had that sullen air about him. Sharyl didn't know if teens throughout history had been that way, but all the ones she encountered (her own included) never seemed to want to be wherever they were at any given time.
When they got to their booth, the family flumped down into their seats, but instead of grabbing one of the menus standing next to the napkin dispenser, or waving to get Sharyl's attention, they all three put their heads together, down low near the table, and started whispering. That got Sharyl's attention. It wasn't a conspiratorial sort of whispering, from what she could tell. With the parents on one side, and their child opposite them, they reminded Sharyl of nothing so much as a football team entering the huddle, but in a public library. Maybe that wouldn't make sense to anyone else, but that was the image that hit Sharyl immediately.
On low alert, Sharyl approached the newcomers.
"Evening, folks," she said to them.
All three sat bolt upright, with dazed expressions, as if Sharyl speaking to them had roused them from a hypnosis-induced stupor. And that's when they began to change. Either that, or Sharyl was only able to notice their peculiarities now that she was within an arm's length of them.
The two larger ones – the ones Sharyl had assumed were the parents – didn't appear to have any discernible gender at all. The bigger of the two huffed like an exhausted marathon runner. Its skin was gray and rough-looking, bringing to mind a rhinoceros made of concrete. Its eyes were all black—no whites, no irises. It stared straight ahead, the way a blind person might.
The spindly one kept bringing its hands (or what should have been hands—they looked more like the kind of soft spatula you might use for scrambling eggs) to its mouth, then up across its face and around its head in jerky, circular motions. Too-fast motions, like a fly cleaning its face. It made Sharyl sick to her stomach, watching that. And her nausea wasn't helped by the fact that its eyes were on its temples, like a fish.
The teenage son, at least, looked exactly like a teenage son should look. Dark brown hair, swept to one side. A light dusting of acne across the bridge of his nose. A few bold facial hairs sprouting, too few and far between to bother shaving off. Facial features that hadn't quite settled into place yet. Looking at him provide Sharyl with a brief moment of normalcy, almost enough to catch her breath. But then the boy's whole face began… dripping. Like a candle's wax melting, only much faster than that. Maybe more like a popsicle on a hot day. Drip, drip. Not like sweat. His entire face. It was like a cartoon. When a fat drop splashed onto the table, Sharyl turned, and walked stoically back in the direction she'd come from.
"Cindy?" Sharyl knew how to project her voice without having to shout. Cindy was likely in the kitchen, chatting with the new guy who'd just come on as sous-chef. Don and his fancy-ass titles. "Cindy? Girl, get out here."
The double doors swung open, and an older-than-she-looks-at-first blond sauntered out. "Right here, Share. What do you need?"
"Got some folks say they know you. Over in booth three." It wasn't a kind thing to do to Cindy. Even in the moment, Sharyl knew it. "Everyone else is refilled and happy. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to take my fifteen minutes."
"Okay. See you in a bit," Cindy said.
Sharyl was pretty sure she'd need a little more than fifteen minutes.
@whatsarobot I like how body horror in unexpected places is a motif that keeps coming up in your stories. I could see these being strung together into something longer.
Keeping with the body horror theme I finished this very tiny story, which is basically
**Kafka's "Metamorphasis" but Gregor Sansa does Yoga**
As Gregor Samsa awoke one morning from uneasy dreams he found himself transformed in his bed into a giant insect. “This fucking rules” Gregor said. He immediately became accustomed to his various new limbs and his ability to crawl up and along the walls, and upon the ceiling. He clicked his new mandibles together, like someone clacking metal tongs together before turning over a steak at a Barbecue.
“Mother, Father, Come look!” Gregor said, manipulating the door open and skittering outside of his room “I’m a bug!”
“Wow Son” Gregor’s father said “You indeed are a huge bug”
“Do you have any new special moves?” Gregor’s mother asked
“Yeah! I can climb on the ceiling!” Gregor said, and then demonstrated by crawling up the walls and above the family, changing out a lightbulb in the kitchen shandiliere.
“Hey while you’re up there” Dad said “Why don’t you dust the cabinets” And everybody laughed.
“I think I can do thrice as much work, as an accountant, with thrice as many limbs” Gregor said, donning his hat and scuttling out the front door to work.
Gregor felt the the sunshine warm the many segments of his body. He thought it weird to be naked in public, but he was a bug now and that didn’t matter.
“Gee-Gregor?” his boss said as Gregor scuttled into the office.
“How do you do Herr Kreimer” Gregor said “What accounting work do you have for me today?”
“We have the new McGinnis account, there’s no way we’ll be able to do it in time” Kreimer said, sweat drenching his brow in anxiety, not just at the looming deadline, but his best accountant was now a huge bug.
Gregor puffed up his middle segment (?) and said confidently “Set up three stations for me, I will do three times the work because I have segmented eyes and multiple limbs”
And so he did, and Gregor worked from the start of the day until the end of it ceaselessly while his boss tossed apples at him to eat.
“I’m getting so much work done today” Gregor said “this is the best day of my life”
“Gregor” Kreimer said “You live a meaningless existance, work a grueling job, and you just transformed into a bug, all these things would break a lesser person, how do you do it?”
“Its easy” Gregor said “I do Yoga and practice Mindfulness”
this one is silly and unfinished, and so i‘ve never shared it anywhere, but given today’s events, i want this to act as my statement of protest
---
The Cap and Anvil was the kind of pub where guys went to have the kinds of discussions that happen in low lighting, with the sounds of carousing and billiard balls clacking in the background. The bar staff were friendly but unobtrusive – always game to take part in a debate when called upon to do so, but courteous enough to become furniture when the need arose. A variety of domestic and imported beers were available, and in the right ratio. The music that played in the background never offended, and lingered in the memory not a moment past exiting the premises.
And so it was that the Cap and Anvil attracted regulars along the likes of Phil Hattersworn and Reggie Fuller. Most nights, you could find some combination of Phil, Reggie, and a handful of other regulars, bellied up to the bar and opining on the matters of the day. Occasionally, their conversations turned philosophical, and more than a few tall tales were shared there. The kinds of tales that grew taller as the night wore on and the beer glasses got refilled.
One night, in the middle of March, Phil arrived at the Cap to find Reggie already occupying his usual stool. Phil took the one next to Reggie, clapping his buddy on the shoulder.
“There you are,” said Reggie. “Was starting to wonder.”
“Sorry to keep you waiting, old pal,” Phil said with a wry grin.
“Some kind of special occasion tonight, fellas?” Ted, the tattooed and plaid-wearing barman said.
“Yeah,” said Reggie. “It’s Tuesday.”
Ted nodded knowingly, handed Phil his glass without having to be asked, and receded. Phil raised his glass, Reggie clinked his own against it, and they both drank.
“Question for you,” Phil said. “Been thinking about this most of the day.”
“Lay it on me,” Reggie said. In the hundreds, the number of conversations between them that had started exactly this way. If not the thousands.
“With the internet, everything’s become a little too easy, right?” Phil said. He liked to lay down a lot of context for his questions. Help establish the parameters. Set the tone. “You can get whatever you want. See whatever you want. See a lot of stuff you don’t want to see, matter of fact.”
“Yeah,” Reggie said, nodding slowly.
“But there’s still some stuff the internet can’t get you. Not for too much longer, maybe, what with deepfakes and all.”
“And NFTs,” Reggie interjected.
“And NFTs,” Phil allowed. “So hold that thought, right? That’s where my mind went wandering today. What would I want to see, right here and now, that the internet couldn’t give me?”
“A pay stub made out in your name worth more than three figures?” Reggie said. Somewhere off to the side, Ted might have laughed, or might have just cleared his throat. Who could say?
“Drinks are on you tonight, huh, moneybags?” Phil had to chuckle too. “Anyway, listen. I got to thinking, even with all the porn online… Which has got to be, what?”
“At least sixty percent,” Reggie offered.
“Yeah, sixty sounds about right,” Phil said. “Even with sixty percent of the internet consisting of who knows what kinds of crazy porn, there’s still gotta be somebody you’d pay money to see naked. Right?”
Reggie sat quietly.
“Right?” Phil asked again.
Reggie tilted his head to one side. Phil waited patiently. When Reggie tilted his head that way, it was usually worth waiting to hear what he’d say.
“Vladimir Putin,” Reggie said.
Phil nearly spit his beer. “Putin, huh? Gotta say, Reggie, that’s what I love about you. You’re full of surprises.”
“Him or maybe what’s his name. Ping?”
“Ping?”
“China, you know.”
“Xi Jinping?”
“That’s him.”
Now it was Phil’s turn to tilt his own head, raise his eyebrows, and frown with perplexed amusement.
“Any particular reason why?” Phil asked.
“Think about how much they’d hate it. Either one of ‘em. They’d go crazy, knowing someone like me was scrutinizing their hog from a distance.”
Phil had to admit, Reggie had a point. Both men laughed.
“I really thought you’d say some famous actress or something,” Phil said.
“Ah, there’s no famous actresses these days,” Reggie said. “Not famous like actresses used to be. They all come and go so fast these days.”
“Could be somebody from the nineties,” Phil said.
“At their nineties age?” Reggie asked.
“Well then we’d be getting into questions of time travel,” Phil said. “I hadn’t thought that far ahead.”
“Nah, gimme Putin or Ping,” Reggie said. “Posed all nice on a bearskin rug.”
I am two weeks late with this one because, uh, reasons. whatsarobot mentioned that they wanted to see more stories from Carcass and I kind of wanted to explore that a bit more, so I decided to do just that.
I'm going to link to my zonelets blog instead of pasting a wall of text, but if y'all would prefer the text be in the thread let me know.
https://hellojed.neocities.org/posts/2022-03-09-Tales-from-carcass-three-wheeler.html
@hellojed links are good! if i had some other place to link to, i would!
also, definitely feeling your cited reasons. i'm suffering from acute reasons lately as well.
i am so impressed and inspired by people who can make fiction writing a regular part of their lives.