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Plastic Friends Last Forever

“Bear! Sir Bear!”

Sammy’s voice echoed in the night air, frosting in puffs with each cry. Surrounded, he pressed his back against the metal of a street lamp, the stinging cold biting through the thin material of his red, stripy pajamas. His feet almost tripped over a black bin bag that had been piled with others against the street lamp. There was nowhere for him to run–they had cut off his escape back up the alley towards home and the exit out onto the main road. At this time of night, everyone was asleep. No-one would hear his calls for help.

He only had one hope.

The orange light of the street lamp painted the shadows of his three assailants longer than their diminutive statures should allow. They watched Sammy hungrily, each atop a beaten, scar-ridden cat. He had never liked cats. Too mean. Dogs were his favorite, although his parents had never let him have one. They weren’t going to change their mind any time soon either.

To his left was a one-armed Action Man, to his right a Monsieur Stretchstrong with limbs twice the length of its body, and between them was a one-eyed Barbie whose hair had seen better days. Judging by her dress-up clothes, Sammy guessed she had been a Doctor Barbie. He remembered seeing the advert on TV last Christmas.

They tightened the circle around him, their little plastic faces lit up with the joy of cornered prey. Sammy knew what they wanted. He also knew they’d never be satisfied with any amount he offered them. They’d want it all and, even if he didn’t know how, he knew they would take every last speck.

Sammy shivered.

“Lay it on us, boy, and we’ll make sure you get home safe to your parents,” said the Action Man. His tone was calm, but Sammy noticed he didn’t sound like he did on the advert. He was supposed to be American, but he sounded more like the bald road worker who whistles at Mum when she walks him to school. Mum always walks faster on that road, her hand a bit tighter around Sammy’s.

“N-no,” stuttered Sammy. He looked over the heads of his attackers for a sign of hope. He would come. “Sir Bear told me never to trust wild toys.”

Barbie’s cat stepped forward, hissing. “We just want to play.” She sounded like Sammy’s aunt from Birmingham, a woman never without a cigarette in her mouth.

“I’m not playing with this kid,” said Monsieur Stretchstrong. He definitely didn’t sound French. Sammy didn’t know what he sounded like. Why did toys never sound like they were supposed to?

“That’s not what Barbs means, Stretch,” said Action Man. He looked Sammy up and down. “You shouldn’t play with your food.”

A voice rumbled from the darkness beyond the synthetic glow of the street lamp. “Away, plastic leeches. Thou shall not have my squire.”

Sammy’s heart lifted. He knew he would come. He always did.

“You guys are in trouble now,” said Sammy. A wide smile stretched across his face, dissipating the fear the three wild toys and their steeds had cast over him.

The wild toys twisted around to face the voice, their little plastic hands yanking at the cats’ furry necks to turn. The cats yowled in anger and pain. Sammy felt a bit bad for them, even if they looked ready to scratch his face off.

The Action Man scanned the darkness beyond their halo of light, one of his small hands scratching behind his cat’s ear. It purred approvingly, forgetting the rough handling. “What’s this? An appetizer for our main course?”

Sir Bear, or just Bear as Sammy called him, waddled into the light. His usual frown was deeper than ever, a look the people of the toy company would have hated to see on their cute and cuddly teddy bear. Being Sammy’s Guardian seemed to bring it out in the knee-high teddy. Bear straightened his little red shirt–it constantly rode up on his paunchy body–and pulled his pen-sized sword from the scabbard slung across his back.

Sammy had never found out where the sword came from; he had never even been allowed to hold it. It certainly hadn’t come with Bear–especially as it was a very real and very sharp blade. Despite asking about it many times, Bear always answered the questions in the same way: A Knight is nothing without his sword.

Bear levelled the sword at each of them in turn, as if marking them. The street lamp lit the blade with a fiery glow. “Die dishonorably by my hand, or fade honorably. The choice is thine,” he grumbled.

“You owned toys are all pompous little freaks,” said Barbie.

Bear nodded, accepting that as answer enough. He looked at Sammy. “Close thy eyes, squire. Don’t open them until I say.”

“But–”

“Squire…” Bear warned.

Reluctantly, Sammy covered his eyes with his fingers. How was he supposed to become a knight if he didn’t watch Bear fight? But Bear insisted combat was not for young eyes. In fact, his code as a knight forbade it. Violence should not darken one’s childhood, as Bear had once said, rather definitively, after an afternoon of Sammy’s begging to sword fight.

Sammy opened his fingers a crack, enough to see the small battle play out. Of course, it was only in case Bear needed his help.

Bear leapt at Monsieur Stretchstrong with all the agility of a gymnast. You would never think it looking at him: his pudgy, round body and plump arms and legs were built for cuddling, not fighting. Bear grumbled about his size often, but Sammy knew he preferred it that way. Everyone underestimated the snuggly teddy bear.

Monsieur Stretchstrong was thrown from his cat, his limbs trailing after him like the tendrils of a jellyfish. Bear smacked the rear of Monsieur Stretchstrong’s cat, which hissed and scampered away. A rubbery arm flew at Bear, trying to wrap itself around him. With a single swing, Bear hacked the arm in two, the fist falling to the floor.

Sammy gasped.

Bear’s frown became a scowl. “Peek not, squire. I know thou art watching.”

Sammy closed the crack between his fingers. “I’m not!”

Bear didn’t reply. All Sammy heard for the next few minutes was hissing cats, metal shearing plastic, and the frenzied shouts of the wild toys. The sounds of battle only tempted him to peek again, but Sammy stopped himself. Bear was angry enough with him already. All he could do was listen.

A husky cry of pain made Sammy look. Worry swelled. He had never heard that noise from Bear before.

The broken, inanimate bodies of the wild toys littered Bear’s battlefield. Sammy saw the faint gold of their life magic escaping into the night air–barely sparks against the dark sky. No wonder they had fought Bear so desperately–they had been on the cusp of fading. With or without Sammy and Bear, tonight would always have been their last.

Goodbye My Friends

MAGI Mission Log 21231702:

Mission going well so far. Bridget is a diligent and hard-working member of the team. I know some of the other team members were concerned at the late change when Deena had to withdraw at the last minute, but Bridget has proved a more than capable replacement. She’s analysed and written up reports on over thirty samples since the mission began a week ago. I like Bridget; she’s shy but also craves company. I think of her as social secretary to our little group. Last night, she tried to get the others to play some board games with her round the table in the Hab after dinner, but none of them were interested–they just wanted to chill out in their sleep pods listening to music or watching VR flicks on the headsets. I stepped into one to fill the void, and played a game Hive with her–kind of appropriate given what we’re doing out here. I did tell her she could have just played against me on the screen, I am the central mission computer–or at least the personality of it–after all. She said she preferred playing against my biped unit though, as she liked the social aspects of gaming, the human interactions. I’m not human, and don’t look it unless you almost close your eyes and squint at me from a distance, but that didn’t bother Bridget. I like her for that.

MAGI Mission Log 21231802:

The whole team is very excited today, as they’ve dug up one of the most exciting finds so far: a crystal lattice structure on a metal substrate. Rashid has theorized this could be a data storage device, and that this type of data structure has the potential to retain information stored on it for millions of years. If so, this could be the key to unlocking the secrets of the civilisation that lived here long before humanity’s ancestors came down from the trees. He’s asked me to help him try to interface with the device and see if we can read any of the contents. I am about as excited as my circuits will allow to be a part of this discovery, and look forward to working with Rashid on it.

Dr Lee is still working on the organic matter in the deposits of blue amber that Poona found while on one of her expeditions (as she likes to call them). If Rashid’s crystal promises one form of discovery, the genetic material found in the amber is another one. There’s a bit of healthy competition between Dr Lee and Rashid about who can make a breakthrough first, and whose discovery will be the biggest. Friendly competition though, there’s real camaraderie in this team.

Rashid made dinner this evening. It isn’t necessary for any of them to cook, as I remind them frequently; I’m capable of cooking any meal they could wish for. Rashid likes to cook for the group though. Tonight, he cooked a curry using real spices he smuggled here in his personal belongings, rather than using replicated stuff. Everyone loved it, even if Poona thought it was a bit spicy for her. My olfactory senses reported some pleasing and unusual odours coming from the food. Contrary to popular opinion, us machine intelligences don’t yearn to be human, though I do occasionally wish I could eat food like humans do, and the sight and smell of Rashid’s curry was one such occasion.

MAGI Mission Log 21231902:

Poona is ill today. She woke up sweating with a temperature of 39.4 degrees, and regularly flips between being hot and cold. I wondered at first whether it could have been Rashid’s curry, but he assures me not. It wasn’t that hot, he said. If anything, she’d have got something Rashid called ‘Delhi Belly’ which my data banks reveal means a functional dyspepsia. Her medical implants haven’t detected any unusual foreign viruses or bacteria. I ran some additional tests, but nothing came up. Bridget told me to stop worrying, that these things always sort themselves out. I do worry though; these humans are my responsibility.

Dr Lee has isolated a molecule in the organic samples which he believes could be the messenger molecule which stores and transmits genetic information, just like DNA and RNA does for Earth based life. He’s getting more excited by this every hour, and is dreaming of publishing in the most prestigious scientific journals, the VTV deal, and watching the millions of credits in research funding come flooding in. Rashid said he was getting a bit ahead of himself, and he should get on with actually making the discovery first.

Rashid meanwhile is getting very excited about his own work, as he believes he’s found a way to interface with the device. With my help, he was able to replicate a connector that latches on to extruding strands of crystal lattice in much the same way that early computers and peripherals were linked by physical connectors. I expressed some doubt about this–it was obviously a very sophisticated device, so why would it have a physical connector? We’d left such things behind a century ago. Still he was undeterred, and I attempted to support him in his work as much as I could (my programming wouldn’t allow me to do anything less).

Rashid was too busy to make dinner tonight. I made a smoky beef casserole–was I trying to compete with Rashid? It was well received, but it didn’t smell of anything much. Maybe next time I will have to ask Rashid if I can use some of his spices.

If We’re Meant to Walk in the Sun

“If you don’t get Mabel to hush it right now, so help me. . .” Jessie throws a glance to the back seat. The hen hasn’t stopped squawking since Mary Frances plucked her from the chicken coop behind the cottage.

“She’s scared, Aunt Jessie.”

“Her brain’s the size of a walnut. Only emotions she has are eat, lay eggs, poop, repeat.”

Mabel squawks. The hen’s body twitches like a live wire under Mary Frances’ hands. “Actually, chickens have complex emotions and can predict future events.”

Jessie twists around sharply in the front passenger seat. The twitch in her right eye is so bad, Mary Frances thinks it might pop out of its socket. “Discussing the inner lives of chickens is the last thing I want to do right now.” She turns back around, presses her fingers to her eyes. “If the people in this town only knew what we go through to keep them safe.”

“Maybe not everyone deserves to be safe,” Mary Frances mutters. Jessie is too busy poking around her fanny pack to hear this, but Mary Frances catches Aunt Fab’s glance in the rearview mirror. Mary Frances ducks her head, sings softly to Mabel, as she runs her gloved fingers along one of the bird’s wings. The hen begins to purr and her plump body stills.

“It’s going to be alright, Jessie.” Fab pulls over to let a police car, siren yowling, fly down Main Street. Mary Frances shifts forward on the back seat until her head is next to Aunt Fab’s. Fab gives Mary Frances a sideways smile, runs her fingers down the black and white feathers on Mabel’s chest. The hen trills. “It’s going to be alright,” Fab says. She puts the pick-up into drive and merges back onto the street.

“What happened to the Sayre boy at their place last night. . .God knows he’s no angel, but no one deserves that.” Jessie gnaws on her thumbnail.

“We don’t know for sure it was the creature.” Fab makes a right turn towards the back entrance to the old shopping mall.

“That’s what you said when the Sayre’s dog got shredded to bits. And what you said about the bloodbath at their goat dairy. What else could it be?”

“Well, it’s strange it’s going back to the same place over and over again. The creature feeds more randomly than that.”

“I never should’ve listened to you, Fab. We should’ve cast the darn thing back the day county health said the chicken pox outbreak was over.” Jessie’s gaze flicks to the rearview mirror. “Mary Frances, what on earth are you smiling at?”

“Nothing.”

Jessie’s head whips around. She stares at Mary Frances. “Something’s gotten into you lately and I don’t like it. I thought your personality would improve once we started teaching you, but you’re weirder than ever. No wonder you don’t have any friends.”

“Jessie,” Aunt Fab says. The word is short and sharp as a rifle shot. “Your Aunt Jessie’s stressed out about the creature, but she shouldn’t take it out on you. We’re glad you’re helping us. Isn’t that right, Jessie?” Fab’s tone brooks no contradiction.

“Yeah,” Jessie mutters. She returns to gnawing on her fingernail. Mary Frances looks out the side window while Mabel clucks and nips at her gloved fingers.

Daisies are as dumb as dirt, according to the aunts. This makes the strip of land behind the abandoned Kmart and between the surrounding woods the perfect place for the ritual.

“Sweet baby Jesus. Could it be any colder out here?” Jessie covers her head with the hood of a navy “Women’s March Charlotte 2017” sweatshirt and tucks errant strands of her rainy-day colored hair behind her ears. She, Fab, and Mary Frances stand on the strip of land, just beyond the last sodium light in the Kmart parking lot. The once well-tended grass is mostly bald and brown now, what green areas remain taken over by tufts of wild daisies.

Fab tugs a green wool hat over her short dark hair and wraps her arms around herself. Mary Frances shifts back and forth on her feet, Mabel tucked into the front of her bomber jacket. The hen’s purring warms Mary Frances’ chest but her body still shivers in a way that has nothing to do with the cold.

Jessie looks up from her fanny pack, gives a defeated sigh. “Fab, do you have the knife? I thought I put it in here before we left the cottage, but now I can’t find the darn thing. . .”

Fab pulls a brown leather scabbard from her coat pocket, along with a scrap of chamois. She murmurs as she removes the knife from the scabbard and wipes the five-inch blade, down one side, then up the other. When Fab stuffs the chamois back in her coat pocket, the blade gleams as if it’s caught the light from a moonbeam, even though the moon is hours away from rising. She beckons to Mary Frances. “It’s time. Hold Mabel to the ground. Let’s do this quick.”

Mary Frances’ stomach tightens when the hen’s distressed squawks cease as Fab slices the knife across Mabel’s neck. Hot blood spurts from the hen’s neck onto Mary Frances’ gloved hands and the dumb daisies, the dead grasses. Jessie dips her fingers in the fresh blood, makes a wide circle on the ground, and draws the creature’s symbol inside.

Fab gently nudges Mary Frances with her shoulder. “I’m sorry about Mabel. I know she was your favorite.” Mary Frances shrugs, lets her gaze drift to the Kmart building. The trees sway and rustle with an odd insistence. A tall shadow emerges from the trees, moves toward Mary Frances and the aunts. As it passes under the closest sodium light’s cool flare, the shadow becomes the creature. The aunts’ inhales are sharp and simultaneous.

“It’s so tall,” Jessie says. Her body is rigid as a telephone pole. “It shouldn’t be this big.” There’s a dark unspoken thought in the glance the aunts exchange and they miss the small smile that flickers across Mary Frances’ face. There’s a heavy grinding sound as the creature makes its way towards the circle. The wet tang of clay, rainwater, and crushed pine needles fills the air. The closest sodium light flickers, then goes out.

The light change breaks Jessie’s stunned daze. She speaks, unleashing a flash flood of words, and the blood circle and symbol she made begin to glow. The creature emits a low, rumbling moan that makes the daisies quiver.

“Now!” Jessie stands, legs spread wide, fists on hips. Blood trickles from one nostril.

“Is it bound?” Fab says.

“Yes.” The creature moans again, louder. “Do it. Do it now! I can’t hold it forever, Fabia!”

“Take my hand, baby girl,” Fab says. “You remember the words?” Mary Frances nods, winces when her aunt clasps her gloved hand. The creature moans and cowers. The aunts link hands and speak in a rush of long, winding words which, at first, rise and fall on independent, discordant strands before cleaving together in one otherworldly voice. When Fab nods at her, Mary Frances joins in, her voice wrapping around her aunts’ words, strengthening the magic. The blood circle and symbol pulse and flare as if they’re made of collapsing stars.

Jessie presses a hand against the creature’s chest. The creature’s groans get louder, as if it’s resisting the weight of her hand. Jessie’s eyes widen and her mouth parts. The creature roars. There’s a sudden wave of uplifting pressure and Mary Frances and the aunts fall to the ground. Then footfalls, loud, inhuman, and moving surprisingly fast back to the woods. The sodium light flickers back on and Aunt Jessie scrambles to her feet.

“It has a different name stone.” Jessie’s voice punches up into the night sky with the urgency of an emergency flare. “Fab, how the fuck does it have a different name stone?”

Mary Frances gazes towards the woods, not bothering to hide the gleeful smile spread across her face.

Bicyclops, My Pruned Friend

I’m seven when Mom gifts me Bicyclops, and Father calls me a stupid shit for giving my bike a name.

But my friend enjoys his name. Bicyclops is appropriate, because he has one eye, dead-center between the handles—yellow with a gleaming eyelid he keeps shut around other people. The right handle is different, too: bulgy, enwrapped in purple cables, as if its plastic once boiled and froze in place.

When I tell Mom about the eye, she presses it, producing a wheezing honk. She then presses the patch covering my own missing right eye, and says eyes and sockets don’t honk, and that I better quit the creepy lies if I want to make friends at school.

I’m angry at Bicyclops for hiding, allowing Mom to call me a liar, but I soon realize I’m the fool. He is terrified people won’t understand being different. Only I understand, because I know what that’s like.


Mom once told me my right eye was taken as a toll. That gods lend souls to infants but they’re never gifts. Sacrifice is necessary, and lacking money she offered my body part instead.

Bicyclops says it’s hogwash. Life is not given nor borrowed. Life sprouts like apples on orchards and is stolen by hungry things for nourishment. I was the apple, Mom the orchard. Did that make Father the hungry thing?

My bike thinks otherwise. He thinks Father is like a gardener, trying to make Mom stronger by showering beer over her like watering a plant. And he beats her to make her bones snap and grow strong. These are the things Bicyclops tells me every night, when I sneak to the garage and lay by his cold wheels, allowing the click-click-clicking of his blinking eye lull me to sleep. The floor may be cold, and the smell of gas thick, but Mom’s screams can’t reach me here.

When I ask Bicyclops why his right handle is different, he tells me about his previous owner, whose father was a gardener. Inspired by pruning branches, the daughter chopped the legs and arms from her dolls expecting them to grow stronger. They didn’t. She enjoyed the abuse, but Bicyclops was too innocent to blame her. When she chopped off Bicyclops right handle with her father’s shears, she ran away in horror from something Bicyclops couldn’t understand. Poor bike had to nourish the sprouting handle on his own.

One night I ask Bicyclops, if pruning branches results in stronger ones, why has my eye not sprouted back?

He assured me the eye is growing, but it’s still too small to feel. Like a tomato seedling, it throws off shoots that will ripen and bulge.

I sure hope it does, but not as red and gross as a tomato. I hate tomatoes. I want it smooth and slick like a well-boiled egg.


Mom’s eyelids twitch and lips quiver when I mention I’m grateful she didn’t buy some expensive soul-less bike but adopted the discarded Bicyclops. Stupid me. Adults won’t understand, they never do.

How could I have known she didn’t buy it? Now suspicion that my fantasies have truth in them turns to dreadful certainty, and she wants to get rid of Bicyclops, calling him unholy, satanic. I have to clasp my bike tightly to stop her taking him away. But I can’t compete with adult strength, so I scream to the top of my lungs until she releases. She always buckles before my screams, because she wants to avoid gossiping neighbors.

But there’s no avoiding Father. He barges into the garage, demands explanation for disturbing his afternoon nap, and Mom points the finger at me. No, not at me—at Bicyclops in my embrace.

Father calls her delusional, but to my surprise he doesn’t hit her. He is amused, and grins at his own cruel humor: ‘If the bike really talks, let’s see if it bleeds, yeah?’

Mom retreats to the house, and I know not to scream with Father, because that always makes it worse. He yanks me off the bike, grabs Bicyclops by frame and saddle and shoves his foot between the wheel spokes. Nevermind how afraid I am of Father, I punch his leg to protect my friend. But a backhanded slap sends me sprawling on the floor, my tooth wounding my lip.

Pushing with his leg, pulling with his arms, the rusty frame snaps in two.

And now Father’s grin vanishes because his stupid joke turns to prophecy. The mangled bike gushes out viscous, sanguine liquid and Father panics and clumsily steps back, slipping on the pool of bike-blood. His head meets the floor with a gut-wrenching crack.


Bicyclops might not be human, but he is a child like me, just more naive. Assuming the best in people, he still thinks Father pruned him to make him stronger. Why else would he sacrifice himself? A bike cannot understand adults that lose their balance.

His saddle-half quickly wrinkles and smells like spoiled fruit, while the one connected to his eye grows again, the wounded pipe shoots out purple cables as muscles form in bubbles at the stem. But pruned branches need nourishment to grow strong, so I keep the garage door shut and Father’s body tucked close to Bicyclops, so the cables can reach it.

Mom visits the garage once and never again. She learned from Father to accept things that unsettle her instead of trying to stop them, which for once works in my favor.

I keep Bicyclops company at all times. This is a time for healing and he needs his friend. I’ve pulled my mattress downstairs and let the slurping sounds of Bicyclops lull me to sleep at night as I watch the shadows of his growing muscles.

I smile, happy to see my friend healing. Happy my Father is of use to something positive for once. And happy to see my bike excited to try on new shapes. Because the pruned parts don’t grow back quite the same.

In a cove of a Greek island, Akis was born a sane infant, but has since then grown to enter the chaotic world of adults—a choice he deeply regrets. Trying to gorge himself on this unlikely reality, he has lived in various European countries throughout his scientific career. He now studies biomedical AI, hoping there’s something less dystopian to come from this tech. His stories delve both into wholesome worlds and ones of extreme darkness. Read more from him in Apex, Dread Machine, Flame Tree and numerous anthologies. Visit his website for details: https://linktr.ee/akislinardos

We Are All Chickens

Rhys adjusted the scope of his rifle and wriggled back into place between the turret’s brick walls.

“Okay, I’ve got another one for you.”

Milo groaned.

“Dude, please, I’m begging you. I can’t afford to lose that many brain cells.”

Rhys pressed his eye to the scope. The narrow stream remained empty, its barbed wire border intact and shining in the moonlight.

“Why did the Ferrans cross the road?”

Milo sighed. “So that dumbasses like you could kill their friends with terrible jokes?”

“Because they’re all chickens.”

“Wow. Think of that one yourself, did you?”

Rhys made a quick sweep of the tall grass on either side of the stream.

“No, Eddie told it to me.”

“That’s a relief. I thought maybe all that staring at Zara finally rotted your brain.”

“I wasn’t staring.”

“Sorry, I meant ogling.”

“Shut up. I wasn’t staring or ogling. I just.” He shifted back to the stream, scanned from the horizon all the way back to the tower. “She’s really smart and pretty.”

“And stupid strong and better at hand-to-hand than you’ll ever be. She’s outta your league, dude.”

Rhys found Milo’s leg sprawled a few inches from his and kicked it.

“Shows what you know. Steen says she likes quiet, sensitive guys.”

Milo kicked him back.

“Steen only told you that because she thought it would be nicer than telling you that you had a better chance of defeating the entire Ferran national army than getting a date with Zara.”

“Hey, I’m sensitive.”

Milo snorted. “If you’re talking about that pimply stuff covering your face, then sure. The rest of you is as dense as your boots and twice as loud.”

He kicked Milo again and did another check of the barbed wire.

“At least I’ve got a sense of humor. That joke was funny even if you have a stick shoved too far up your ass to notice.”

“Better a stick up my ass than pebbles in my head. Wasn’t your family Ferran?”

Rhys’s stomach twinged.

“Only on my dad’s side. And I haven’t seen him since I was, like, two. I’ve signed all the pledges and loyalty contracts.”

“For fuck’s sake, Rhys, who do you think I am? Trenton with his little notebook? I just meant, you know, doesn’t it bother you when people say stuff like that?”

He frowned. He’d known Milo since before he could tie his shoes. They’d gone through training together, been the second at each other’s allegiance test. Had shared a bunk until they’d literally gotten too big to fit. And they’d always made fun of Trenton and his endless quests to catch someone using a non-company toenail clipper.

But Milo was Optimum, his family line going all the way back to when they were still an online wholesaler.

“No,” Rhys said.

“Not at all?”

Movement in the grass pulled his attention north.

Wobble, wobble, wobble.

He relaxed his grip on the trigger. It was just one of those little brown birds.

“Ferran values are all fucked up,” he said. “I mean, they go on and on about the importance of hard work, but don’t let people have any possessions. No homes, no beds. Even their clothes belong to ‘the group.’ And they have to be connected to that weird hub all the time. Like, do you really want everyone to know when you take a shit?”

“Or jerk off while imagining Zara in her underwear?”

Rhys kicked him with the hard toe of his boot.

“But, really, is what we do any better? All those algorithms and trackers are a pain in the ass. Because yeah, sure, the size twenty-eight black skinnys I’ve gotten for the last two years fit me great and everything, but what if I want to try something different, like those wild red shreds Captain Phelps has? Or that sick motorcycle jacket with the bleach stains? Man, I would kill for something like that.”

This time Rhys’s stomach twisted with a full-blown cramp. Sure, they were alone. And, yeah, they were wearing scramblers because they were on duty. But you didn’t say shit like that. Milo had the scars all over his back to prove it – and he had gotten off easy since he’d been eight and his uncle hadn’t lost his seat on the security council yet.

“Of course it’s better,” he said. “The system takes care of us. Tells us what we need, what we should do. It understands what’s best for us better than we ever could.”

“Yeah, I know. It’s just.” Milo sighed. “Maybe if I looked like that people wouldn’t treat me like a wannabe bag boy.”

Sniffler

My new father shows up at the park with a withered sunflower.

“It’s all I could afford at the flower shop,” he apologizes.

It’s not a promising start. He obviously sat on it accidentally, too.

“Did you even read my profile?” I demand.

“You like long walks. And scenic drives. And flowers,” he adds, proud of himself for remembering all these things. “We can go anywhere, drive anywhere you want.”

His car is parked across the street. A gray Ford with cord wrapped around the bumper and a plastic bag taped to a broken window because he ‘hasn’t gotten around to fixing it since the crash.’

I imagine us swerving around a semi, tires squealing over the edge, car junk littering the coast line.

I’m not going on any long drives in that car, least of all down Highway 1.

He holds up his hands.

“Hey, that’s fine.”

It isn’t fine, not at all. He walks away, throwing the sunflower into a garbage can.

I don’t want to care, but I’ve been alone ever since my last father choked on a chicken bone at KFC and died in the restaurant.

If they can call it a restaurant.

But there’s a nickname for people like me on Adopt-a-Parent.

Snifflers.

I’ve seen their scarring profiles. The mournful poses. The bad poetry. They take up crochet and listen to indie bands.

No one wants a Sniffler.

They’re chronically sad, and lethargic, and basically doomed to be alone.

According to my profile, I’m supposed to be healing. Taking charge of my life again.

I speak with exclamation marks! I greet the day with a smile! I sing in my car! I do goat yoga! Because I live life to the fullest! Every day! I am super fun and positive!

My new father and I drive to the beach. We do not die. Not then, anyway.

We walk in silence down the boardwalk and stare at seagulls and joggers and surfers. It isn’t relaxing like it’s supposed to be and the silence is awkward and none of us knows what to say.

Maybe it will get better in time.

Depending on how much time we have.

“How about a Matcha Latte!” I exclaim.

My new father doesn’t understand the concept of whip cream.

“And why is it green? What’s wrong with plain old black coffee?” he grumbles. “What’s wrong with people these days?”

I don’t know where to begin. So that’s at least one thing we have in common.

My new father looks at me like he sees through my charade. “Are you angry all the time, too?”

I’ve been angry all the time for a long time. But if this is a test, I don’t intend to fail.

Besides, the membership is expensive and I already work two jobs.

I won’t make the same mistake I made with my second father.

The neediness, the crying. The snotty kind.

I was in a bad place back then.

“Clean yourself up,” he had reprimanded. He was looking for someone to watch the game with, someone to go fishing with, this wasn’t what he ordered. Even though I rattled off stuff like ‘tackle’ and ‘bait’ to impress him, terms I had read up on the internet.

It didn’t work. He left me a two star rating.

It’s taken me a while to recover my reputation.

I’ve been through a lot of fathers and none come close to the original. But if I’m not careful, I’ll start to sound like a Sniffler.

My new father invites me over for a home cooked meal.

His wife, Brenda, watches a lot of the food network and cooks dishes with old world names like ‘casserole’ and ‘meatloaf’.

“It’s delicious,” I lie.

Their house is something out of a sixties sitcom; floral wallpaper, pink carpeting, and shelves jammed with plates “from our wedding”. There are random pieces of furniture everywhere. They’d take me on a tour, but they “haven’t gotten around to organizing”.

Wedged in-between all the stuff, there’s a framed photo of them next to a little boy in overalls.

“Our son Walter,” my new father explains.

I don’t ask what happened to him. I’ve heard enough sad stories.

Adopt-a-Parent holds a circle every month. They check in on our progress. They give us a ‘sharing space’ to talk about our feelings and complain, but mostly they want testimonials.

I never have anything to say, but still I show up because the food is catered from my favorite Indian-Vietnamese-Jamaican-fusion restaurant.

Beneath The Crimson Sky

“Some kids from my Behavioral Economics class are coming over Saturday.” Christof lounges on my bed, eating a slice of sausage and garlic pizza for breakfast.

“That’s nice,” I say with a mouth full of toothpaste. According to my watch, I have six and a half minutes before I need to be out the door.

“You should hang out with us.”

I step into the bathroom that connects our bedrooms, spit, and turn to pull on my freshly polished shoes. They’re gone. I know for a fact I left them by the shower, but all I see are dust balls and tumbleweeds of body hair.

“We’re going to Mulligan’s,” my brother says. “They’ve got live music on Saturdays.”

“Have you seen my shoes?” Five minutes to go. The fringes of panic creep in as I rip back the shower curtain and search behind the toilet, picturing myself blowing the interview over a pair of lost shoes.

As Christof searches my bedroom, he asks, “Do you think you could get me a job there after I graduate? I figure an insurance company must have a ton of openings with all the weird shit going on. I hear it’s getting worse.”

“Yeah. Sure. I’ll see what I can do.”

At last, I check behind the bathroom door and find my shoes waiting for me on the scale.

Three and a half minutes.

Sitting on the toilet, I pull them on. There’s no reason I shouldn’t knock this interview out of the park. My boss, who’s been insisting I want this promotion, says I’m the strongest candidate.

I step back into my bedroom and find that Christof, who is still looking for my shoes, has pulled a clear plastic tub out from beneath my bed.

“Don’t touch that!”

He looks up, wilted slice of pizza in hand.

I shove the tub back where it belongs. “I found them. Thanks for helping me look.”

He’s clearly about to ask about the tub when Dad starts shouting again.

“He must’ve lost another client,” Christof says.

Two minutes.

“Probably.” I rush back into the bathroom and wrap my tie around my neck. Put on my jacket… get in the car… take Lockwood to avoid traffic… park … use the bathroom… answer their questions… get promoted…. finally afford to—

The lights blink off.

“Did we lose electricity?” I step back into my room. “Christof?” My brother is gone.

One minute.

As I walk down the hall the various ways a power outage could interfere with the interview race through my head. “Christof?” He’s probably just checking the circuit breaker.

I turn into the kitchen and glance out the window.

The sky is crimson.

The sun, clouds and blue expanse are all gone, replaced by a solid, fiery red ceiling. There are stars, though. There are more stars than I’ve seen in my life. Every single one glistens oily black, like bottomless holes threatening to suck me in.

I stumble back, hitting the pantry door. “I can’t be here.”

I’ve seen this sky before, in illustrations drawn by people half the world believes are either delusional or lying.

“I can’t be here.”

With tremendous effort, I pull my eyes from the sky and take in what is waiting for me on the ground. The porch, lawn, and trees are all gone, swept away to make room for a sixty-foot golden-brown wall. There are gaps in the wall, corridors leading God-knows-where.

I slide to the floor, shutting my eyes. “I can’t be here.”

The Gift That Keeps On Taking

My boyfriend is a ghost. He haunts my apartment on Avenue D in Alphabet City, what gentrifiers call the up-and-coming part of the East Village. Every morning he lingers in the kitchen and makes me coffee, whether I want it or not. On my way to the bathroom, I find my lucky tiger mug filled and steaming by the microwave, or he brings it to the bed, where I am drifting awake amid the rumpled sheets. Since I’ve been with him, sitting up takes all my will. Even after a full night’s sleep, my limbs are heavy, too weary to move.

He speaks and I imagine I can feel his warm breath. I move in closer, offering my lips to his, and when we touch, I drink, gulping at his heart. His kisses are deeply passionate. He crawls into my mouth; then he sinks into my body and I never know where I end and where he begins.

If I am honest, there is an aftertaste, a whiff of something sour, spoiled, leaking from his insides. I fold away that niggling thought like a Kleenex in a jacket pocket, forgotten but ready for a future moment. Instead, I choose to remind myself that his kisses are why I stay with him. But not even I know what is true anymore.


I first saw him while I was working at a trendy night spot called the Drowned Lotus, using the name Mystery. It was one of those ultra-private, themed hostess clubs with a discreet townhouse exterior, like a worm hidden inside the big fat apple. The best title to describe my job was “modern geisha.” The fact that none of the hostesses except Kimiko were Japanese didn’t much matter to the clientele.

Descending into the miasma of cigarette smoke and perfume, I was armed for social warfare in my stormy violet kimono, the one all the men admired. It was iridescent and shimmery like the wings of a dragonfly. My face, well hidden under a thick glaze of alabaster powder: smudged charcoal eyes, sticky glitter on my demon-red pout. I was there to charm, to serve, to entertain with my useless conversation as I coaxed egos by way of erections, accepting tips with my practiced, mysterious smile.

Twice a night, management made all us girls gather in a single-file line of platform geta and daddy issues. The tuxedoed band would blow its boozy horns and tickle the drums as we paraded across the stage for our moment in the spotlight. The emcee’s cloudy whispers brushed the microphone as he introduced us by false name after false name. We shuffled in a spectacular display, ready to be picked like juicy lemons in a market stall —all of us keenly aware that if we were the sweeter kind of fruit, we wouldn’t be working in a place like this.

Handsome, with a gentle smile, he pointed at me, my soon-to-be boyfriend. When I approached, he asked my name. I flirted by leaning forward hands resting coquettishly on my knees.

“Does it matter?”

“It does to me.”

“Then it’s whatever you want it to be.” He opened his thighs giving me enough room to dance. My fake eyelashes brushed my cheeks as I waxed and waned behind my hand-painted silk fans. I must have looked odd, wiggling in front of an empty chair, but both girls and customers shrugged, since it was not the strangest request they’d seen fulfilled.

I went home with him that night to his tiny apartment around the corner, and we lay together on his mattress until the stars were washed away by the rainy morning. He caressed my cheek and, in a whisper, recited, “Twice or thrice had I lov’d thee, before I knew thy face or name.”

John Donne, I murmured, recalling the name from my uncompleted college days. Instead of sinking into slumber, I should have recollected the verse properly. Then I’d have remembered: the next few lines of the poem made me “some lovely glorious nothing.”


My grandmother said it is a gift to have enough empathy to see the dead. She never spoke of the difficulty in telling the difference. When we started dating, I wrongly believed he had a pulse. He fooled me with the easy throbbing beat as his firm chest clasped against my back. Addicted to his sweet honey sweat, our tongues intertwined and I imagine that for the first time I found a new home.

He talks about his past and I can see him get smaller, shrinking into a frightened little boy with dark hair and maudlin eyes of gold and green, a leprechaun’s dream. Reduced to a fetal state, he descends into an uneven sleep, rocked awake by discarded memories. I curl around his tiny form each steamy summer night as he makes a shallow, wrinkled depression in the icy sheets.

When morning breaks, he is again grown, a milky figure that my hand cannot quite pass through. I ask where his body is. He looks at me thoughtfully and with a half-smile that deepens the dimples in his cheeks, assures me it’s somewhere safe.


After about a month, he presented me with my own set of keys. The grumpy Albanian landlord found me living there, and I took over the lease. Rent for the apartment was turn-of-the-century low, since he couldn’t keep a tenant because of the opening and closing of the refrigerator door and the angry scrubbing whenever dirty dishes were abandoned in the sink.

I unpacked my clothes and my new boyfriend told me that they didn’t suit my body. The ones he did not throw away, I placed in the one closet we shared. I took the right side and he pushed his things to the left.

A locked chest shoved toward the back crowded most of the closet space. It was large enough to fit a small child inside. I knelt to examine it more closely. My fingers traced his name intricately carved on the side, T-R-I-S-T-A-N. My hands moved to the brass latch. He appeared, sitting on the top as if he had enough weight to keep it closed, the clothes on hangers a makeshift movie screen for the projection of his face. His eyes smiled though his mouth did not. I felt like a child caught with candy in my mouth.

He said his father made it for him when he was young, and he would rather I didn’t pry. Come on, I teased, no secrets. The lock frosted over instantly, sticking as I impatiently tried to free the contents. The cold was a shock to my tender skin, and a thin layer ripped free to leave my fingertips raw and exposed. Not once did the flat expression leave his eyes. Some things, he said, are not to be shared. To neatly avoid the prickly beginnings of our first disagreement, I wholeheartedly agreed.

The God In the Bottle

In my defense, I hated my job, but it’s not that I didn’t like the perks. I made my own hours, didn’t punch a clock, and didn’t have to answer to a boss. Yes, most of my clients were scary people, but there was no one I had to be scared of—which couldn’t be said for the guy sitting across from me.

Though Jerry Franck was pushing fifty, he had arms and shoulders like a piece of wrecking equipment. Nevertheless, there were sweat marks on his shirt, and he hadn’t taken a sip from the glass our waitress had set in front of him.

To my left, Aldous Finn was the model of a pencil-thin accountant, but that was only to those who didn’t know him. To me, he looked like a hatchet. Finn was the numbers man for the local syndicate, and Franck was just the owner of a nearby hardware store. There I was, the fulcrum between them, and I already knew which way it would tilt. In the silence, I bit into a slice of the house supreme.

“We don’t mean disrespect,” said Mr. Franck. “The other tenants and I would simply like to talk about our payment schedule.”

Finn’s question had been, “Are you fuckin’ unionizing on me?” I considered Franck’s response.

“Technically true,” I said. “He wants to be respectful, and payments are on his mind.”

“But?” said Finn.

“He didn’t answer the question.”

“We ain’t unionizing,” Franck said. “We had a meeting, that’s all. We’re not arguing about the protection, but we feel we ought to negotiate. In good faith.”

I nodded while chewing. “Also true.” But my scalp itched. “Except for that last part.”

“Really. Have you been talking to someone, Mr. Franck?”

He stiffened. “I’d rather not say.”

I took another bite, thinking, Don’t dig yourself deeper. Pleading the Fifth rarely worked with the Mob.

“Another family,” said Finn, “or the cops?”

Jerry froze. His eyes twitched my way. I shook my head and reminded myself that this moron had dug his own grave.

“Make it two questions,” I said.

“Another syndicate?” said Finn.

Jerry didn’t blink.

“The cops?”

Only an Inquisitor could have noticed the tiny flinch.

“Bingo,” I said, and reached for my beer.

“I see,” said Finn. “Mr. Franck, why don’t you tell your associates that I’ll bring this matter up with my employers, and to expect a resolution real soon.”

Franck shook, and I wondered if he’d brought a gun. I knew damn well that Finn’s partners at the next table were armed. That’s why I always held these Q&A sessions in crowded restaurants. I put down my drink, looked away from Mr. Franck, and waited for the moment to pass.

“You can go now,” said Finn. Once Mr. Franck had left the booth, Finn set an envelope next to my plate. “Y’know, Sid, I wish you’d come over full time. Be easier than this freelance shit.”

“Pass. But thanks for the pizza.”

“De nada.”

I took another bite instead of watching Finn leave. My teeth were still buried in the crust when the restaurant’s lights turned red. Looking back at the room, everyone had frozen, and the door to the street glowed green.

Crap.

Not for the first time, I wished I could hold my breath and pretend to be human. Gangsters I could handle, but I fucking hated gods.

Between one moment and the next, a god stood in front of my table. He’d squeezed himself into the form of a man wearing a gray business suit.

“I am Wealth. Don’t pretend not to worship me. Your presence is commanded by the Highest.”

Always knowing when people were lying made life among humans a headache, but being around gods was even worse. Everything they said was true by definition. Even when they tried to lie, their words carried such force that the world would break to accommodate them. When a god as powerful as Wealth called, it was more than a half-breed like me could resist.

“Whatever you say, Chief,” I told him.

He pointed at the door, and I stepped outside to a world cloaked in haze. The only light was a glow across the street, where a demon dressed as a chauffeur stood next to a limo so wide that the alley had stretched to make room. When I slid into the back seat, the inside was utterly dark. Or rather, it felt like my eyes had been turned off.

“This is he.” The voice came from everywhere, including my bones. If spoken by a human, the words would have been a question. Gods didn’t ask questions.

“Yes, Lord,” said a woman whose words buzzed the air. “Sidney Mépris. The portents are clear.”

The darkness faded, revealing the limo’s interior to be the size of a small boardroom. On my right, Wealth radiated disdain. Across from him, a fox-haired goddess lounged in a loose, silver pantsuit.

The god in the middle inhabited his seat like a throne. Every inch of him gleamed as if sculpted from onyx. Rings shone like starlight on both of his hands. Without hesitation, I knelt and bowed my head.

“Lordship.”

“I Am,” said the god. “You are the misbegotten spawn of a lesser deity, but as with all things you have a purpose. Your moment of use has arrived.”

Yay, me. The weight of Lordship’s presence was so strong that it was all I could do not to prostrate myself.

“My sister will instruct you in the task you are to perform,” he said. “Once you discharge your duty, the meaning of your life will be fulfilled. After, you may live the remainder of your days howsoever you please. I care not.”

I waited, unmoving, my knees like cement. I didn’t think I’d be able to move without a direct command. It finally came from the goddess on my left.

“This is where you say, ‘Yes, Lordship. Thank you, Lordship.’”

“Yes, Lordship. Thank you, Lordship.”

I lifted my eyes. Lordship and Wealth were gone. Only the other remained.

“Have a seat,” she said. “You’ll want a drink.”

“Hell, yes,” I said, slumping into the seat. “Jack and Coke, hold the Coke.”

She grinned. A glass appeared in my hand as if it had always been there.

“My brother isn’t a people person. I’ll try to be less portentous.”

I sipped the whiskey. “I don’t think we’ve met.”

“Call me Insight. You’re Scorn’s boy. I know her, though I wouldn’t call us friends.”

“Few would.”

“Agreed.” She kept smiling. “This job is nothing you can’t handle, but it is important. An Epoch is ending and another is set to begin. When this happens, certain rites must be performed to ensure a smooth transition. This time there’s a problem. One god is refusing to take part in the ritual.”

“Why doesn’t Lordship command him?”

“Would that he could. No, our prodigal has sealed himself into a personal retreat that no other god may enter. A human might, but a human couldn’t convey Lordship’s orders. One of our blood, however…”

I laughed. “Jesus. You want me to break into a god’s hideout and serve a summons.”

Insight darkened. I’d learned to swear by imaginary deities mainly to piss off my mom. In this instance, I might have pushed my luck. The goddess went on.

“The signs indicate that of all our offspring, you have the best chance of overcoming the temptations our brother will place in your path. Once you reach him, you’ll deliver Lordship’s command that he attend the ceremony.” She handed me a seal of red wax. “This contains the power of Lordship’s Word. When you deliver his message, break the seal and our brother will obey.”

I turned it over in my hand. The seal bore an emblem that my mind refused to register. In its place, another question rose up.

“Temptations? Who are you sending me after?”

Insight smirked.

“Your uncle Revelry. I’m sure you’ll have loads of fun.”

Seven Days

Remaining: Five days

I don’t want this anymore. It was a dream, once, when I was young and stupid. Now I’m old and more informed.

“Stop,” I say to the wall.

“Adrien, please smile,” Ern replies through an iron panel, its annoying metallic voice clanging a decibel too loud.

“You first.”

Ern’s panel glows in white. “Processing,” it says. A flash. “I cannot smile as I do not have a face.” Another flash.

There’s a theory I read about, before all of this that proposed artificial general intelligence could learn to be funny. Humor is mathematical, the paper argued. It has a formula. Ergo, computers could master the art of personality, eventually. Thing is, Ern has had more than enough time to construct a joke, yet it’s still a soul-less, tepid blob of a machine that speaks a single sentence at a time. I think the scientists back on Earth got it wrong. I think they got a lot of things wrong when it comes down to it.

One more flash. I shield my eyes, but my hands come up a few seconds too late, like I’m swimming in syrup. My reflexes should be sharper. I flip my hand over, then back again. Looks fine. I peer into the corners—that’s normally where the glitches show, right on the edges where the cream wall meets the pink carpet. Sometimes I catch a squiggly line or a missing block of color, and I have to tell Ern to patch it up. But everything looks shiny new.

So why am I moving slow?

The large screen on the wall of my cage lights up with three images of me. They’re all horrible. In one picture, my eyes are closed, short brown hair plastered across my pale forehead like smeared marmite. In another, my eyes are open, bloodshot, and I look like I’m having a seizure. The last is the worst because it seems like I’m trying to form a pleasant expression, but not quite making it. There’s nothing sadder than trying when you fail.

“Pick one,” Ern screams at me through the panel’s speaker.

I point blindly at the screen. I don’t really care what picture Ern uses for my status check. It doesn’t matter in the grand scheme of things. “That one,” I say. “Just fix your damn volume dial. It’s acting up again.”

“Processing.”

I scratch my neck and look around the small room I’ve called home for the last five days. It’s a mess. I should tidy it up. But what’s the point? It’ll be a mess again tomorrow. And the next day. And after. And onwards.

And onwards.

And onwards.

And… I think I programmed it this way—to make it feel more homely. It was a long time ago. I can’t remember.

“Selection processed.” Ern’s voice is lower. Still bristly, but less like a punch in the face.

“Great,” I say, stretching. “If there’s nothing else, you need me to do, I might have another go in the simulator.”

“Processing.”

I wade through a pile of discarded clothes and books and settle into the half open, human-sized, spherical ball positioned in the center of the room. The lights are off inside, but the smooth red surface is warm to the touch. When I close my eyes, I can feel a soft thudding against my fingertips. Thud. Thud. Thud. Beat. Beat. Beat. It’s always there that thudding. And it’s getting faster.

“The simulation is offline for maintenance. Please select an alternative activity.”

“Are you serious?” I rub at my forehead. This has never happened before. “I’m stuck in a 10 by 10 room with no furniture and no windows and no outside stimulation except for you. What alternate activity can I possibly select?”

“Processing.”

I get out of the sphere and stalk over to the glowing panel.

“Suggested activity: standby.”

The wall is cool as I push my heated forehead against it. “Already doing that. Been doing that for a while. But thanks for the recommendation.”

The panel lets out a few twinkly sounds, and I realize this is the first time I’ve thanked Ern since we met.

“Hey Ern,” I say and turn around, my back against the wall, palms flat. A heat rumbles through my stomach and sloshes up my throat. I haven’t felt that sear for a while. Anticipation. Fear. Nervousness. I swallow it down. “Was it ok? The picture you took of me?”

“Processing.”

I squeeze my eyes shut. This is embarrassing. I shouldn’t care. Not considering what I’m about to become. But it’s difficult to let go of these types of things. No matter how trivial.

The panel flashes in green. “Affirmative, Adrien. You are still alive.”