Williamsburg, Brooklyn

Williamsburg, Brooklyn Story by ShaunWrites / art by Judyta

When the chaos came, the Nonbelievers destroyed all of New York except Williamsburg, Brooklyn. The residents who didn't bike away to greener pastures in Asheville, Portland, or Austin stayed in the city to rebuild.

A thriving new economy based on trading services for sunglasses emerged. Acting classes could be purchased for as little as one pair of gold-rimmed aviators. Bikram Yoga sessions could be purchased for two pairs of Wayfarers and an invitation to a rooftop party.

For 100 years, the area between the Bedford and Bushwick L-train stops became a utopian zone of cultural tolerance. Anyone, no matter their race, gender, or religion would be accepted, as long as they could afford to live there, and as long as they'd gone to a private liberal arts college, and as long as they weren't really all that religious.

I mean it's okay if you're "spiritual," that's cool. They're just a lot more suspicious of "organized religion," you know?

And you can't dress like you bought your shit from the Ed Hardy store at the mall. Nobody really wants to see that shit around there.

...

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KFC (Flash Fiction)

KFC Story by ShaunWrites / art by Judyta

In a bombed-out KFC twenty years after the revolution -- after they turned this place into a museum -- I read the poem she scratched into the countertop that started the war:

"Young cashier girls like hourglasses

Keep curving in the middle until the time they become women...

That’s why under these uniforms:

Our loose red button-up shirts, our blue baseball caps, our Colonel Sanders’ name tags.

We know there’s something dangerous that they’re trying to hide.

 But when the sand begins to run out

At the end of our shifts...

We remember these uniforms can't hide our real weapons:

Our mashed-potato minds, our batter-dipped hearts, our deep-fried souls.

We hope one day those will be worth more than just minimum wage."

...

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Delivery Room (Poem)

Delivery Room Poem by ShaunWrites / art by Judyta

You're a mom now.

You birthed the shit out of that baby.

Your womb was like some badass vehicle keeping our daughter safe.

You made a kid for nine months in your stomach AND found time to do other stuff, too: work, Sudoku, run your Etsy shop.

I've never done anything for a whole nine months in my life: held a job, held my breath. That's why I love you.

And I will write guitar solos for you as long as you and little Rebeckah live.

...

...

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W.A.S.T.E (Flash Fiction)

W.A.S.T.E  story by ShaunWrites / art by Judyta

The saw-toothed W.A.S.T.E. shoveler was scheduled to eat the entire house. For the W.A.S.T.E operator, this was just another routine eviction. But this was war for Starla and Xander, the owners of the dome half-dangling from the shovler's jaws.

Starla let go of Xander’s gloved hand and bounded over moon rocks in her pressure suit to make her stand between the shovler’s jaws and what was left of their dome. "If you wanna take everything, just take everything!" she screamed over every communication channel, even the S.O.S. frequency.

Starla didn't care that lunar taxes made homes like hers that weren't up to code cheaper to destroy than remodel. Corporate bullshit nonsense. They’d rather destroy their home than let them stay in it until they could fix it up? Bullshit bank. She’d rather die in her house than live in a shelter. Bullshit government. The operator idled the machine and shrugged. "Fuck you. You're gonna have to kill me, you motherfucker," she screamed over the radio channel. The operator shrugged again. He tapped the right side of his helmet three times with his pointer finger and pinky: the universal signal that his suit's radio was malfunctioning. He couldn't hear a thing she was saying. He politely raised his right elbow and palmed it three times: the universal signal to ask Starla to use lunar sign language. "Listen to me. Just fucking listen to me!" Starla screamed back over all channels, ignoring him, her hands flailing wildly. The operator drew a circle around his heart with his left palm and shook his right palm in from of his helmet: I'm sorry. I can't hear you. He showed her again that his radio wasn’t working, and then he covered his helmet with his right palm and pointed at her with his left hand: Who are you? He made a circle over his heart: I'm sorry. By now, Xander caught up with Starla. He placed his hand on her back. She stopped hyperventilating and her comm-channel went silent. He pulled her gloved hand into his and led her away from the jaws of the shoveler. As he led her away, the City’s emergency response unit responded to Starla over the S.O.S frequency: "State the nature of the emergency or the emergency code." Starla responded: "No assistance needed. Code 0000." "I want to confirm. Code 0000. False alarm. No danger to person or property. No immediate or future threat. No assistance required. Over…” Starla looked over at her dome, its metal guts already exposed like a bomb had gone off inside. Her eyes fixated on the concrete slab that used to hold their bed that was now already half-bulldozed. A bunch of gray rubble crumbling off and mixing with the gray lunar surface.

Emergency services tried again: “Repeat. Confirmation request number two. Code 0000. False alarm. No danger to person or property. No immediate or future threat. No assistance required. Over…”

"Confirmed. False alarm."

The W.A.S.T.E man looked confused: like he didn’t know who these people were and what everybody was standing around waiting for. He clapped his hands above his head: All clear? Starla didn't look up.

He waved over again to get their attention and clapped: All clear? At some point he got frustrated that no-one was responding, so he restarted the engine. The jaws grinded what was left of the dome into dust. 

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Interplanetary Relations (Flash Fiction)

Interplanetary Relations story by ShaunWrites / art by Jane Medvedskaya

Gau was in charge of interplanetary relations.

LyssaXVII, an old sentient planet, had just sent out a telepathic distress call that made his ship's monitors light up like solar flare. Gau reversed his regular course and double-timed it to get in communication range. Lyssa rarely ever complained, so there must've been something seriously wrong. By the time he was in range, he caught her in mid-sentence,"…I really don’t have much more time to talk," Lyssa's thoughts came through crackly on his ship's speakers. Gau adjusted some dials. "Gau, can you hear me? Can you hear me?" Gau had written his grad thesis on planetary psychology, specifically “celestial existential depression.” His conclusion? Crippling depression was common when planets reached a certain age.

In 240 single-spaced pages, Gau argued that this was because old planets couldn’t handle the thought that so many lifeforms depended on them. Young planets were free but bored. Middle-aged planets were proud of the quickly-evolving life they supported. Old planets had enough time to see all the chaos their highly-evolved life created. At some point, they decide they want no part of it anymore. He called it the "weight of the world" theory.

“Gau, can you hear me?” "Yes. I can hear you now, Lyssa," Gau said slowly and methodically. "I believe you sent out some type of distress call, I --" "Oh, no, no, there's no emergency. Don't get so wound up." "I’m very calm, I --" "I know, Gau. It's a joke, don't worry. You're the last thing in the galaxy that I would think would get 'too wound up' about anything." Gau admired Lyssa's nebulae from his window: her six trillion miles of rainbow colored gasses. Her orbit was easily the most beautiful part of the galaxy that he'd been to. He was always a little jealous of the 36 billion class-AA lifeforms that lived on her back who got to watch her three suns -- one blue, one red and one white -- rise and set. Paradise or not, Gau knew what happened to old planets no matter where they lived. Lyssa was the only living planet in a solar system of rocks and gas: a lonely island. "Do you know what it was like being around 100 million years ago, Gau?" "I wouldn't even try to guess." "It was a lot like this, actually. A lot like yesterday." Gau got into the habit of visiting Lyssa's solar system a decade ago while he was still a planetary relations intern. On patrols, he would stay up all night talking to her while the rest of the crew was asleep. In grad school, he would take the ship out to watch her suns set from low-orbit. He would keep her company, and she would help him with his thesis. Now, 5 years into his career as the sector's planetary relations manager, Lyssa told him something that no other planet ever had. She was going to kill herself. "Gau, I know this is really sudden, but if I don't do this right now, I don't think I'll ever get the courage up again." Gau stared out at her through his window. She was still an expressionless blue-green marble.  He didn’t know what to say, so he didn’t say anything. "I've done what I needed to do. Now, I'd like to see what else there is." "Is there anything I can do?" Gau asked dryly. "No, it's really alright. I've made my choice." "I don't understand then. Why did you call me?" He'd never encountered any research that discussed peculiar planetary behavior like this. This must’ve been the first documented case ever. "I wanted to know if you could somehow communicate with the people for me. Let them know they need to leave right away, and try to keep as many of them as safe as possible." The speakers inside the ship cracked and fizzed. "And I also wanted to say thank you, Gau. Everyone else only comes by to visit when there's an emergency." Gau took out a pad and began taking notes. "You know what I think?" She paused like she was waiting for him to answer, but Gau didn't say anything. "I think some of the other planets complain all the time just to get your attention. You know, to get some company." "I never really thought about it that way." "I didn't think you would have. Bye now, Gau." The communication channel went dead and LyssaXVII willed herself out of orbit by a few degrees, completely imperceptible except to Gau's computer readouts.

Within 48 hours, her blue sun would light the gases in her atmosphere and she'd become a fireball. In 72 hours, her flaming body would light the six trillion miles of hydrogen of her rainbow nebulae in a flash fire that would last only 10 seconds. In 500 years, mere seconds relative to how long Lyssa had been alive, she'd die when she was completely swallowed up by her white sun. Years after their goodbye, Gau would sometimes visit Lyssa, now engulfed in flame no longer able to communicate. He hoped she would say something to let him know it was all right and that she still thought she did the right thing. But one day, he thought of something that terrified him: it would take her longer just to die than he could ever live. And that scared him so much he never went back.

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The Last Days of Late Great Orlando, Florida (Flash Fiction)

The Last Days of Late Great Orlando, Florida story by ShaunWrites / art by Judyta

Orlando, Florida: the year one million. The Pope is at it again. Disney World has deployed the Buena Vista shock troops to keep Her pointy-hat goons out of Epcot Center, but it’s no use. Everything is fucked: organized religion, the government, big corporations.

And individuals who think for themselves are like *totally* S-O-L. And the only remedy to all this shit can be found in a secret room, at the end of a secret tunnel, inside the world's largest McDonald's Play Place on International Drive. If you want to know, I’ll tell you the story of what I found there…

Chapter 1: Here’s what’s up

There’s one plastic tube in the world’s largest McDonald’s Play Place where if you crawl down it just right, it’s not like the other ones. Because when you get to the end of this one, there’s this torch-type thing.

And the only way you can see it is if you’re crawling through it with a lit cigarette in your mouth like a flashlight kinda like I was. So you light the torch-thing with your cigarette, and after that you’re good to go ‘cause that’s like the signal.

Somebody pulls back this little hatch, and they ask you for a password. So the first time I was there, I was thinking, what password???, so I just said the first thing that came to my mind: “Fuck Applebees.”

So I said that, and the guy tells me, “Right on” and says I got it right and lets me in. He tells me, “Welcome to The Resistance,” and gives me a beret and signs me up for a Tumblr account.

And now, here I am.

...

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Food In the Fridge (Flash Fiction)

Food In the Fridge story by ShaunWrites / art by Judyta

Daniel, there is food in your fridge that has not been moved since our baby boy, Arthur, was born. Arthur is now, as you know, no longer a baby. He is now growing into a young man, having just graduated (with honors), from his first month of day care.

Uncleanliness is a contagious habit, Daniel. The contagion may take root in the bathroom: an errant towel on the floor, or a sullied washcloth from your woman's made-up face improperly disposed of. 

Just as frequently though, the disease first takes root in the kitchen: splashed oil from frying fritters left to putrefy; a casserole, half-eaten (but not disposed of), crusted onto the baking pan so thoroughly not even the flies could properly gorge on it without pick-axe-like mandibles.

Wherever it starts, the cancer quickly spreads. One dirty athletic sock stinking of the gym soon becomes a rash of clutter, and heaps, and smells like a Mumbai fish market during the lunch-time rush.

Daniel, I have smelled the apartment we rented to you from down the street. That is why, during your vacation, I installed holoreceivers in our apartment so that I could get 4-dimensional stereovision to see your goings-on inside. I understand that your reaction to this news may be sour. Your claims that this is an invasion of your privacy have been anticipated and duly noted.

My wife, Tabitha, and I have been taking turns watching you eat. Just as a goat disrespects the dirt it eats its garbage over, you seem to have an utter disregard for the surfaces we have rented to you. You chuck animal bones onto our hardwood floor with abandon during your meals. You spill caustic, dark-colored liquors on our poly-obsidian countertops during your drinking binges and you leave it there to soak, dry, and permanently stain. 

Do you have a hobby of collecting trash? Is that why you let it sit in our home instead of taking it out to the street? Do you believe you may have inadvertently thrown out an Édouard Manet painting but have not yet had the time to sort through all of your soaking wet garbage bags to find it? 

If this is the case, I would like you to rest assured that Tabitha and I have programmed our home’s central computer to track and record your movements 24 hours a day even when we sleep. We now spend hours watching you each day in shifts. To the best of my knowledge, you have not disposed of any valuable antiques during the time we've been monitoring you. Feel free to dispose of your filth without worry.

Admittedly Daniel, we did not inquire into your background before renting to you. I concede that you may have been born in some flyover-state hovel to a coal-faced miner father and a simple Okie mother without any formal education. Assuming this is the case, it's understandable that you do not know the proper way to care for and maintain a luxury apartment.

Perhaps we are being unfair to you. Maybe you were some young foundling raised in a black-mold infested orphanage who had to fight tooth-and-nail for scraps of chicken bones to survive. In light of that, the way you live your life now would be perfectly reasonable. 

Although slovenliness isn't against any law (it goes to show how well our lawmakers actually meet the public’s interests), treating our home in the manner you have is both irresponsible and unseemly. I would like to schedule a time to discuss this predicament with you in person. Of course, Tab and I would prefer to meet in a neutral, unpolluted location. Please get back to me with an ideal time and location at your convenience.

Finally, one word of caution: do not destroy our holoreceivers or rewrite our central computer’s programming. These modifications are very expensive and are on loan from another landlord suspicious of his tenants. 

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Garfield (Flash Fiction)

Garfield story by ShaunWrites / art by Judyta

Ronda had been steadily collecting cats. First one: an orange tabby. Then a second: an orange tabby. Then a third: an orange tabby. And so on.

  She wanted to build a tower of them -- each one like a cute little orange brick. She dreamed of the day she could stack them up to the stars… so high she could climb them like a staircase, cut a hole into heaven, and rob God at knifepoint.

  In exchange for His life, she would ask for the only thing she’d ever wanted: for Him to make her into an orange tabby. That way, she could finally live the way she should've been born… sleeping late, jumping onto high shelves, eating lasagna, and hating Mondays.

  But dreams were only dreams. So until she had the time, the cats, and the engineering ability to threaten God, she would remain a two-armed, two-legged, no-whiskered human abomination.

Shame.

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Ulysses (Flash Fiction)

Ulysses story by ShaunWrites / art by Pati

Rex hoped his increasingly cloudly thoughts were a sign of brewing mental instability. He wanted that elusive type of artistic insanity that kids from the midwest like him dream about catching like a disease when they move to New York to write their first novels. 

  If only he could find a way to feed this growing mental disease! But how? he thought. Maybe by reading Burroughs and drinking rye whiskey straight from the bottle. 

  He stepped away from his computer desk and picked up his unread copy of Ulysses from the stack of books next to his bed. He turned to the first page. If only he didn't hate reading so much. He closed the book. Whiskey-only for him tonight.  His plan was to get drunk and write something so sharp that it would sever the page. Thankfully the phone rang: that would be a good excuse for why he didn't end up writing anything tonight.

  "Hey, I'm coming over." Emmy said on the other line.

  "What's the special occasion?"

"Because you have my computer, and I need it back for work tomorrow."

  Rex's usual ritual was to write freehand during the week and type things out during the weekend when he borrowed Emmy's laptop. "I'll bring it to you," Rex offered.

  "No, I'm already on my way, don't bother."

  ...

...

...

  Emmy showed up a half-hour later: no pleasantries, just business. "I'd be okay with you borrowing my computer if you ever remembered to return it. But no, every week I have to go out of my way to come over here to pick it up."

  Actually, that was Rex's plan. Rex couldn't convince her to come over any other way anymore. "I'm really sorry I keep forgetting. You won't need to come over again," he said.

  "Whatever." She pointed to his desk. "Can I get the computer?" 

  He handed it to her. She took it, sat on the floor with her back propped against the corner and checked her email fuming in silence.

  He watched her out of the corner of his eye. He loved the sexy way she scrolled through websites. And oh, how the blue glow from the monitor reflected in her zebra-stripe framed glasses. And oh, how his fluorescent lights reflected off her tortoise-shell water-droplet shaped earrings.  And fuck! She wore a pearl necklace. As part of her regular wardrobe, too. And it wasn't even just for special occasions -- she could be cleaning a drain, and she'd still be wearing it.

  She looked up at him while her browser was loading and saw him staring longingly at her. "Don't let me stop you from doing whatever you do around this time."

  So Rex picked up his copy of Ulysses and turned to the front page again. "You ever read Ulysses?" "No." She went back to reading her email.

  "You should. It's a good book."

  "Oh?" She clicked her trackpad to close a browser window. "What's it about?"

Rex hesitated. "I don't know." He hadn’t read it. And it was only then that he just realized he hadn't even taken the time to read the summary on the back of the book jacket.

  "Oh." She sat back and got through her emails. Finally, she powered down her computer and got up. "I gotta go."

  "Can I get the computer back on next Friday? I need it to write."

  "We'll see."

  ...

...

...

  Emmy wasn't back that Friday, so Rex couldn’t type up his stories. It gave him less time to write but more time for his drugs. 

  He bought a couple sheets of Hypno-Paper from his dispensary. The way it worked was that they loaded it with enough hallucinogens that it made any words you wrote on it feel as real as real life.

  So when Emmy never came back with the computer, he wrote her back into his life. On the hypno-paper, he described her sitting there on the floor in the corner like she always did, checking her weekend emails, looking adorable with her tear drop earrings and zebra-stripe glasses.

  And God, she was so real. When he described her pearl necklace on the hypno-paper, it sparkled into real life.

  "Emmy? I uh --" He hesitated wondering what would be the first thing he said to her. "I don't know if you happened to read any of the drafts of the novels I was working on that I left on your computer. Don't worry. If you did, I'm not angry. They weren't private. I expected you might get curious and take a look. I just wanted to know... if you did read them, what'd you think?" He looked longingly at his hallucination of Emmy sitting on the floor in the corner and waited for her answer. 

  No response.

  That's when he realized he needed to put the words in her mouth. But shit! He had no idea what she'd say. How would she actually respond to a question like that? 

  Yeah, he knew that with all the drugs in the hypno-paper running through his brain, he was just talking to his corner: plaster wall, brown carpet, spider webs, wooden baseboard. But that real world was on hold. Right now, he needed to invent the words that she would say back to him. He wrote them on the paper:

  "I did read some of them. Oh my god! Like, how'd you know I would?" she told him.

  "I know how curious you are." Rex said back to the hallucination.

  "Ok, you caught me red-handed. I read all of them."

"And what did you think?" He scribbled a response for her on the hypno-paper.

  "I really, really loved them."

  Then, Rex described in detail how she would coyly smile at him. And she did.

  ...

...

...

Real Emmy did come back on a Tuesday evening, unannounced. She’d barged in, started organizing Rex’s stuff and stuffing his piles of trash into the garbage bags she brought. It was totally random. And the whole time she was there, she was berating him about having no future. What the fuck caused this?

  "I don't want you to come over here anymore if you're just going to be mean to me." Rex said watching Emmy separate his still fresh food from his half-eaten trash.

  "If telling you the truth is being mean to you, then I really don't want to be here either. You need to get a job that will pay your bills or you're gonna die here. That's it." She shook her black trash bag filled with his empty bags of chips.

  "Why are you being mean to me?"

  “You understand that I’m the only person who’s nice to you, right?”

  “Stop being mean to me. You just keep saying mean things.”

  "You don't go outside and meet people. How do you think writers get published? It's not what they write. They just know a lot of the right people. Stop thinking your stuff is something so special that a million other people couldn't write it."

  Rex heard himself squeal: "You don't know anything about what I write!"

  "Oh, you really want to go there? You think I didn't read some of the stuff that you left on my computer?"

  He felt his expression sink: in complete fucking terror about whatever she was going to say next.

  "It's like you left the files open every time you returned my computer purposely because you wanted me to read them."

  Increasing fear. Rex waited for her to tell him what she thought.

  "So since we're talking about it right now, I wanna let you know that I don't want you to write about me anymore."

  "I don't write about you."

"What about the girl who sleeps on the floor in the corner of the main character's tiny apartment. And then her mom dies, so now she lives somewhere else. Oh, and she comes to visit every week... How is that not about me?" She dropped the trash bag on the floor "All of it is just details from when we lived together. If you're gonna do that, at least don't make sound like some fantasy. I don't talk like that girl."

  "It's not you. I don’t write about you.”

  "I showed it to three different people, and they all instantly knew it was about me."

"You showed it other people?

  "A. You wrote it on my laptop that I let you borrow. B. You always leave the documents open. It's not like it’s a secret that you wanted me to read them. C. You wrote about me without my permission. I think that's enough to show it to other people. What if it gets published one day?"

  "Why'd you show it to someone else?..."

"I just told you."

  "...It wasn't finished!" He clenched his fists. "Most of those are like first drafts. They're months old. They don't even have any of the corrections in there."

  "They weren't reading it to critique you. I just wanted to see if I was being weird and reading too much into it or if they actually thought it was about me. And they proved it."

  "When I let you stay here, I thought you were my friend."

She kicked the trash bag. He was gonna get it now. She screwed up her face about to start yelling. And then suddenly she didn’t. She didn’t look angry at all, and that was so much worse.

  "I'm still enough of your friend to see when you need help… I was in the City for six  months -- in a really bad time in my life -- sleeping on your floor in the corner, and my life is still way more put together than yours. And you’ve been here for over a year." She crossed her arms and composed herself. "And a few days ago I realized that I got out of this hell and you haven't because you're like a wounded dog. And you being like this  didn't bother me when I was like you... when I didn't have any friends, and with everything happening with my mom... and I was broke. But now… whatever." She sighed "Maybe you should go back to Minnesota and live with your parents again. At least you'll save money. You're not really getting anything out of being in New York since you never go outside anymore anyway."

  "Is there anything else you think I need to hear?"

  "I know you're mad. But how do you think it makes feel when you describe me in your stories like some ungrateful cunt? You know I'm not like that at all. And if I was like that while I was staying here and all my shit was happening, I'm sorry." She put her hands together like she was praying. "I wouldn't be letting you borrow my stuff all the time, and clean up your place, and throw out your trash to make it presentable if I didn't appreciate everything you did for me."

  Rex couldn’t look her in the eyes.

  "But I'm not going to come over here anymore until you promise me you'll go outside and start actually living. Next time I come over, we’re going somewhere. And you can remember how good it feels to be normal. And stop writing about me so much. Okay?”

  Rex sat back down at his desk without looking at her.

  "Call me if you wanna do something, okay? I can introduce you to a friend of mine who's a book agent."

  "Do you have a boyfriend?" He asked without turning around.

"What?"

  "Do you have a boyfriend now?"

  "I don't think of you like that. We've talked about this."

  "I'm not asking if you're into me. I'm asking if you have a boyfriend."

"I guess I've been kinda seeing someone."

  "Spend time with him then. Don't worry about me."

"Alright, I'm leaving now."

... ...

...

Real Emmy never came back with the computer that next Friday or the Friday after that. 

  So Rex re-upped his supply of hypno-paper at the dispensary. And as the weeks went on, he wrote about Emmy coming over every night. 

  Rex and his hallucination of Emmy sat on the foot of his bed. "Don't you ever get sick of coming over here?" he asked her and then he scribbled down her response.

  "Never! You're so fun to be around."

  Rex described the way she'd scoot closer to him and slide her arms around his waist to comfort him, and she did.

  She leaned over, “Don’t you remember what I told you the day I moved out?” she asked. “You’re the only person I’ve ever been able to really trust.”

  He pushed away from her. "It's just that, I'm cooped up here all day everyday. I want to be able take you somewhere special." Then, he wrote her response:

  "I know you can't afford to go out and take me places. I've told you before, I'm alright with that. You don’t have take me anywhere special impress me. I like just staying here with you."

  "But where does this life end? What if I never actually make it?"

  "I'll always be here." She clasped her hand in his because he wrote that she would. "And I'll read everything you write. Someone as talented as you is going to make it, okay? It just takes time."

  "I'm afraid --" He thought about it for a second. "I'm afraid, that when I die, I'll never mean anything to anyone. And if you weren't here, I'd just be invisible."

  He considered having her respond, but realized he had more to say. He wrote that she just looked deep into his eyes and said nothing.

  "I just love you so much…" he said, as he described on the hypno-paper how the four walls of his apartment would fall down revealing a picture-postcard view on top of the Brooklyn Bridge. Just as he put the period on the sentence, the walls crumbled around them. The two of them were sharing a blanket on top of the Bridge, at sunset, staring out at the Manhattan skyline. "...I want to take you everywhere in the world with me."

  He wanted to make this absolutely perfect, so he made her interject: "But I can't. I have a job. And a new apartment. And new friends now. I can't just --"

He held her tight to calm her down. "No, don't speak. Shhhh... Just enjoy the sunset."

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Holiday In Arizona (Flash Fiction)

Holiday In Arizona story by ShaunWrites / art by Pati

The day a girl becomes a woman always comes so suddenly. Acceloright Robotics recommended that Nate schedule that day sometime between Dyna's fourteenth and fifteenth power cycle. That way, they could replace her childhood frame with parts that would grow with her into adulthood and switch out her 14 year-old dust trap for a clean one at the same time. A poorly-maintained dust trap, after all, was the most common way to die before your 15th cycle.

Nate had packed sandwiches for the long ride through the desert to the Acceloright Maintenance and Wellness facility. Dyna sat in the passenger seat, looking out the window, counting cacti. 

"Did you remember your ID?" Nate asked. 

"Umhmm"

  "You have a pen? Just in case you need to write something down.”

"Umhmm"

  "And when you get in there, if there's anything wrong with the appointment..."

  "I know, okay? I'll take care of it."

  "...call me alright? I'll talk to them. I'll handle it."

  "I got it. It's not going to be a problem."

  "They're just getting so sloppy over there. I remember when you could get an appointment easy, and then, when you got there... no problems. Now? Forget about it. I'm thinking about cancelling this appointment and taking you to Reno instead."

  "They're just fine over here."

  "Okay. Well we'll see when you get inside."

  "You have your ID?"

"You already asked. I said yes."

...

...

...

Dyna counted her 912th cactus before she realized how hot she was. She pointed the car’s air vents at her face and cranked the fan up full blast. She had defective pores, so she needed to prepare for when they'd have to turn off the AC while going up the desert hills. 

  "You see all the new construction out here?" Nate asked.

  "What new construction?" All Dyna saw were cracked desert flats and cacti.

  "That strip mall we passed by about 20 minutes ago. That whole lot wasn't there last time we came out here. Remember that?"

  "Haha, you mean when the car nearly exploded?"

  “It just overheated –“

  She laughed. “No seriously, when a car just stops, that means it ‘overheated.’ The car sounded straight-up angry.”

  “I wouldn’t drive you in a car that I thought was ever going to explode.”

  “I know. I’m just joking...”

  “You were little. You thought it was funny.”

  “It was.”

  He sighed. “I kept the air conditioner on because I know you get hot. I would break down a million times before I let you overheat.”

  “I know.”

  Nate suddenly derailed the conversation. "You have something on your face."

"No."

  "Yes you do. Look at the mirror."

  Dyna took the mirror out of the glove box and checked. "Come on, it's like a little thing, okay? Like a tiny, little eye crusty."

  "Did you wash your face this morning?"

  "Of course, I did."

"Why do you sound like that?"

"Because you're accusing me of not washing my face. Like basic hygiene."

"If you did, you wouldn't have that in your eyes, would you?" Nate paused. 

  Dyna hoped he'd lose interest and stop lecturing. He didn't.

  "Always take care of how you look. Look good. Clear your pores. You know how important it is to clear your pores."

  "I just want to go to sleep for the rest of the ride, can I do that?"

  "You're sitting in the passenger seat, now. It's not like when you were younger, and you could sleep in the back. The person who's in that seat needs to be watching the road."

  "Then pretend that you're driving by yourself then."

  "What if we get into an accident?" Nate looked over and saw Dyna slouched in her seat, eyes closed. "No, open your eyes."

...

...

...

Dyna counted her 2428th cactus. It was one of those saguaro ones: huge and prickly, with two hands thrown up in the air. It kinda reminded her of her dad. 

  "I made sandwiches." Nate said.

"Yeah?" 

Nate looked over. Dyna's arms were folded. She stared out her window brows furrowed, scowl-faced. 

Nate continued: "I thought we could stop off and eat them soon. Stretch our legs." He paused waiting for Dyna to say something. "There's not really anything around to eat for another couple hours until we get to the complex."

She didn't respond.

  "Mom would be so excited if she were here right now, you know? This is a big day," he said looking straight ahead at the road.

  "Umhmm."

  "What's the matter? You not feeling well? Do we have to pull over?"

"No."

  "You afraid you're gonna fall behind because you're missing school?"

  Finally, she turned and made eye-contact.  "Am I going to be alright after this treatment?"

  "This is just a routine thing, you know? Same thing as every year except this time they're using longer lasting parts that will grow with you."

  "So I'm going to be normal now? I won't have to do the maintenance anymore?"

"This is completely normal. All girls like you have to do this when you get this age. There isn't anything that's all that different, or scary, or dangerous about today."

  "But after this, I’m never gonna have to come back, yeah?"

  "Well..." he trailed off.

  She interrupted: "I mean, only if I get sick or something."

  "...It all depends on what they say once you get there."

  "These drives are just a lot weirder now," she said not looking up until about a minute of silence had passed.  Dyna read Nate's face. He looked like he just got punched in the gut.

  "I'm just trying to do right, Dyna. You know I would never do anything or take you anywhere that was going to hurt you."

  "No, no, it's not you. And it's not mom not being here. I know that’s what you think I mean." She stopped and took a moment to think. She needed words for what she was feeling. "It's like... I'm sick. I feel like a sick person because I have to do all this stuff, and nobody else I know does. Like all my friends don't have to go here, and get taken apart, and lie around in bed afterwards for two days. Like I don't have any friends who are Skins, so it’s not like I can talk to my friends about this stuff."

  "I told you not to use that word."

  "It's not a bad word."

  "It is a bad word."

  "Well, people don't use it like a bad word anymore."

  "Things are different now, but not that different. So I don't want you saying that word. And you don't let anyone call you that."

  "Okay, yeah sure. But I mean. I just feel like it's weird being the only person I know who has to do this."

  "You want me stop paying all that money I pay for private school and send you to the Acceloright school instead, so you can be with everyone else like you?"

  "No, that's not what I'm saying."

  "Because you know that's the only school they'll let you go to."

  "I know."

  "And you know what happens when you go there, right? No future."

"I know."

  "So I don't understand."

  "I just wanna know if they can do something so I don't have to ever go back anymore, like at all. Like, right now I have to make up excuses why I took three days off, so no-one will laugh at me."

  "That's good you didn't tell anyone. Don't tell anyone your business. Except for your family. It's just the two of us now, alright? If I die tomorrow, remember, don't trust anyone with your business."

  "Everyone at school thinks this is weird."

  "This isn't weird, Dyna. Be a leader, not a follower. You don't know what these kids did to get the things they have." Nate paused to check his rear view mirror. "You might think you're sick because you have to do this, but one day, they're going to get sick -- really sick -- and you're not." He stopped for a second, but it was clear he wanted to keep talking. "You were just telling me last week about how everyone was out from school because of chickenpox. And you can't get the chickenpox… See everyone is just different."

  "Can you just ask and see if the people at the Center can do something to make this the last time I have to come back?"

Nate paused and thought about it. "I'll ask."

  "No, really ask. Promise me. Okay?"

  Dyna saw Nate check the time on the dashboard. She read the big green highway sign on the side of the road. Whenever they reached that sign, Dyna knew they were only about 150 miles out. "Your mom would be really proud of you right now."

  "I know."

  "I'm not looking forward to when you turn sixteen, you know?"

"How come?"

  "You get your driver's license."

  "So..."

  "So I won't be able to drive you out here anymore." Nate turned off a side road to find a good place to stop the car. "I know you hate it, but driving around -- out here with you -- it's something I look forward to every year..."

  "Yeah, well..."

  "I'm gonna call the Center and see if they have any long-term or permanent maintenance options when we stop for lunch. Okay?"

  "Thanks, dad."

  "I made sandwiches."

  "Yeah, what kind?"

  "Did you remember your ID? Double check." 

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Videotape (Flash Fiction)

Videotape story by ShaunWrites / art by Pati

Chelsea Charm never remembered anything about the process of being deactivated. When she was off, she was dead. So after Daniel, her husband and builder, finally confessed to her that she that she was a robot, she told him she'd leave him unless he made a video to show her what it was like when she was off.

A few days later, they were about to call it a night -- turning off the lights in the living room and heading to the bedroom -- when Daniel handed her a videostick. He waited in the living room, arms folded, waiting for her to hit play.

“Is this?” she asked.

“Yeah. I made it yesterday.” He couldn’t look at her in the eyes.

"No, I don't want you to be here while I watch it," she told him.

"Are you sure?"

Of course she was sure. She didn't respond.

"I'll be in the bedroom. Let me know when you're done."

Chelsea sat on the living room floor in front of the TV and fumbled for the play button in the darkness. As she hit play, the screen glowed-on filling up the room in white light.

She saw a wide-angle shot of their bedroom. She figured from the angle, the camera was probably sitting on top of their dresser. The room buzzed with ambient noise like their air conditioner was running. The audio was distant and echo-y, but the camera's microphone was good enough to understand what everyone was saying.

She watched herself standing near the closet: naked, post-coital.

"Are you working today?" she heard herself ask Daniel as she watched herself putting on her bra.

"No, don't do that." Daniel's voice echoed.

"What?"

"I'm just gonna have to take that off again." She watched him pull the bra away and toss it back on the bed.

"I'm not going to sit around the house all day with no clothes on."

"I've got stuff to do. We can't hang out today."

"What about tonight?"

"Class."

She watched herself pick up the bra again to put it on.

"Seriously, don't do that."

"Okay, I'll just stand here then, and do nothing until you tell me I can."

"Don't be like that. I'm in a hurry. I gotta go, alright? Love you, Chelsea ."

She watched him as he deactivated her with a remote and her limbs went limp. She watched him catch her lifeless body and gently rest it on the bed before it hit the floor. She watched as he left the frame, her dead body still laying on the bed.

She wondered what was taking him so long to come back into frame. Was he just going to leave her body there the whole time he was at work? Suddenly, she heard dragging, scraping, and pulling. Drag, scrape, stop. Drag, scrape, stop. Drag, scrape, stop. And then, he was back in frame pulling a black metal case.

She watched Daniel pull her up by the shoulders and roll her body off of the bed onto the case. She watched her body slam onto the case harder than he'd hoped. She saw that her eyes had been open the whole time. She watched him fold her lifeless body into the case like she was a contortionist. First, he folded her arms in place. Then, he flopped one leg at a time in place until she was curled up like a fetus.

She watched Daniel shut the top of the heavy clamshell case up to seal her body. She watched him lock the metal hinges one at a time. She watched him itch his butt and take a deep breath. Then drag, scrape, stop; drag, scrape, stop until he pulled the case out of frame. After she watched about 30 seconds of empty bedroom, she stopped the video because there was nothing left to see.

In a day or a week, he'd reboot her when he needed to have sex or talk about his feelings. Until then, she just wouldn't exist. And when she was alive again, she wouldn't remember anything that happened within two hours of her shut down. Daniel had told her that was because of the way her brain's RAM worked.

Chelsea knocked on Daniel's bedroom door. That was the signal to let him know the video was over. He opened the door just a crack, and she saw him go back to sitting on the bed that she'd just watched herself die on. She looked at the wood floor near the bed and realized for the first time what had made all of the scuff marks.

She watched Daniel's expression: anxious waiting. It was clear that he wanted her to talk first: she did.

"Never turn me off again."

"I understand that you might--"

"No, shut up. I'm talking. Never turn me off again. Not for any reason. Ever."

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