Simulation 14, Part 1

“I miss him.”

* * *

The bowl shatters across the wall and sends porcelain shards and noodles in a cascade against the tile. Each piece, as it flies away and begins falling to the floor disintegrates into nothingness as it gets further from Jeanette, as if it is falling away into pixels. She doesn’t see that though, or notice it. It’s not a part of the memory; it’s part of what’s left of it.

“How could you fuck her? How could you do that to me?”

He’s looking at her from across the counter, his eyes full of a rage as vivid as the one she feels. She knows there will be hell to pay for the broken bowl but the time for that is later. She also knows that if she doesn’t express her anger somehow now there will be much more than broken bowls tomorrow.

“It just happened. You were gone and–”

Her hands fly from the counter where she’d rested them and she pulls her eyes away from him to look out the window behind her. There is no landscape outside but her eyes don’t tell her that, only that this is what she sees. A featureless landscape of a color that is less than white and more than nothing.

“I was gone for a week! While I was telling my mother how much I cared about you, you were fucking her! You were inside her and I was gushing over how in love we are. How is that okay?”

“Look, I know. It’s not okay but you have to understand.”

She looks at him then and she sees that he’s crying. She sees that his knuckles are white against the pale brown counter as he clutches the edge and she’s no longer sure who carries more rage or desperation.

She reaches across the counter to touch his fingers.

* * *

His hand is like a white hot iron across her face and as her head cocks sideways she can feel the imprint of each fingertip across her cheek and know that there will be an outline there tomorrow. The skin stings and burns where his hand has left her face but the pain of the second slap is far worse.

“Baby!”

The words are more squeak than a voice as they come out but they’re drowned out by the smack of his palm on her cheek again. She can feel him pulsing inside her with each contact and each searing spasm means she can feel herself contract around him.

“That’s too hard. Please. . .”

She presses her knees to his sides as hard as she can as she rides him and starts to squirm from the pain. The tear of her bottom lip leaves a streak of red across his palm and she sees the blood as his hands reach to her hips and pull her down harder on him, lifting her and bouncing her body off of him.

“No.”

And then she’s on her back and he’s holding her down. His giant hand is wrapped around her wrists above her head and his body is on top of her, pushing against her. His other hand wraps around her neck and starts to squeeze as he pounds into her, pushing her head against the wall as she chokes under his fingers.

* * *

Each drop of blood that falls from his fingers seems to be accompanied by a tear falling from his eyes but not a single drop of fluid touches the ground, instead seeming to disappear. Each splotch, red or clear, never forms on her dress or on the floor but Jeanette neither notices it or sees it. That’s not part of the memory. It’s part of what is left of it.

“Baby, I’m so sorry. I’m sorry I made you so angry.”

“My hand. . .”

His hand is a mangled mess and around them on the floor she can see the shards of the mirror. Small slivers are stuck in his knuckles and she turns his hand over in her own, examining it. The wounds are shallow and it doesn’t seem broken.

“I’m so sorry baby, I didn’t mean to hurt you. I didn’t mean to do it. . .”

She wraps her arms around him and gently pulls his injured hand behind her as she does. His body is wider than her own but she manages to surround him and his head falls against her shoulder and begins to weep.

Each of his tears soak into the sleeve of her top accompanied by her voice.

“It’s okay. It’s all going to be okay.

* * *

“How can you say that? After he hurt you so much.”

“But that’s is. When he hurt me was the only time I felt real.”

. . . Terminate Simulation 14 . . .

Must Be This Tall to Ride, Part 3

Artino looked up at the Altairian with the gun and realized that he was tall for one of his kind. Maybe even three and a half feet even without the head scarf. He’d noticed so little about him before but now he, like everyone on the bus, was very interested in what might be going on inside the shooter’s mind.

Even the man who he’d shot was looking up at him, his eyes glazed over with the pain of his wound but with his brow furrowed in confusion. The idea that a Stump might have shot him, might have hurt him, seemed to confuse him as much as anything.

For a moment Artino wondered if the tears running down the human’s face were as much to do with that quandary as with the spreading pool of blood. He pushed that thought away though. The only thing to worry about now was trying to salvage the situation and possibly save his own life, as well as those of his family back home.

“My name is Artino.”

The words felt flat and stilted, even in the deep baritone of his kind, but he armed them with every bit of friendliness he could. The other Altairian looked at him again then and said, “I cannot tell you my name but you may call me Fighter.”

“Fighter.” Artino let the word roll off of his tongue and hoped that his nervousness was well hidden. He had never seen the blood of a human in person and the stench was overwhelming to his sensitive nostrils. “Why is today going to be a glorious day?”

He immediately regretted the words as he saw the face of the Fighter light up in enthusiasm.

“Today will be a glorious day for many reasons.” He paused and Artino could see his eyes narrowing in a fit of rage as his four shoulders arched backward. “Today will be the day that the Freedom Fighters of Altair show how strong we are and how strong we will be.”

And suddenly every person on the bus, human and alien, locked eyes on the one calling himself Fighter, searching in his eyes for a vague hope that the day might not end with all of their deaths.

“Listen well, Whistles.” The derogatory word for humans came out with such violence from the Fighter’s face that Artino started. He’d never heard anyone use the word in the presence of one from Earth, though he imagined they all knew what the word meant. “You have taken everything we have and given nothing back. Our technology, which we offered in peace, and our culture. You mix our homeland’s music with the horrible noises you call entertainment and you have fattened yourselves off the plant altering techniques we brought, but what have we gotten in return?”

He paused for effect and waved the gun in air above him before noticing that the bus was slowing down and that the driver was looking back at him as well. The barrel of the pistol came across the side of her head then and the pierce of her scream followed the small spray of blood to the back of her seat. The Fighter though, seemed to have calculated the pressure of his strike and she continued to drive, though whimpering all the while.

“We scrub your toilets and we build your terrible junk products which are too dangerous for your own weak bodies. We work for you for nothing and always under the fear that we might offend. You have turned us into slaves, but no more.”

Artino noticed the blue and red lights then, circling the bus. It seemed the driver had pushed the emergency alarm after all, though the Fighter seemed to ignore it.

“But now, now we shall–”

The man on the floor interrupted him then, his words falling from his lips as gasps of breath but loud enough to stop the Altairian.

“You won’t do shit. You’re just a bunch of weak willed little piss ants.” The man took a deep breath and tried to lift himself against one of the seats, only to fall back into the puddle of blood beneath him with a grunt.

“You dumb little fucks couldn’t do anything with that tech anyway, dying fast as you do. We’ve done you a favor and if any of these assholes in the back of the bus had any balls they’d take you down now. What’s the world coming to that we’re letting goddamn Stumps talk to us like this. . .”

The Fighter lifted the pistol then and pointed it toward the forehead of the man, barely three feet away. The man’s eyes were not on it though; he examined his knee, seemingly for the first time as he trailed off and the tall Antairian tensed.

Between his gun and the body of the human suddenly stood the body of Artino, as surprising to himself as to any other on the bus.

“No. This is not the way to do it.”

The Hill, Part 2

5:36pm

The woman just stared back at Jasmine, not as if her gaze were looking through her but as if her eyes were looking around her. As if whatever Jasmine meant to the woman was something not even worthy of her sight or her notice, though notice she did. Her lips didn’t move though and for a moment Jasmine began to think maybe she hadn’t heard. She did look to be older; perhaps she was deaf or suffering dementia.

“I said, hey there, friend.”

The woman blinked then, and that was all. Staring back at her the younger woman kept expecting to see some sort of acknowledgment or response but instead there was only the soft dull gaze of the woman’s eyes. Watching her face she saw that the woman was indeed old, grotesquely so, and that her eyes, while numb, were of a milky soft blue color. Her eyes, sunken down in her gaunt cheeks, were hard to look away from but when Jasmine managed to she saw that the woman was gaunt in other ways as well. Her old clothes hung off of her in awkward places and she wondered that woman might be dying. She seemed to stand on her own though.

“Excuse me, my name is Jasmine and this is Mausmi. We’re visiting from the city.”

Jasmine nervously spoke again to the woman, trying to find in her eyes some sort of connection. She could feel Mausmi stir next to her and could somehow sense the fear in her and the goose bumps rising underneath the hand her arm. Mausmi stayed silent though and looking toward her Jasmine saw that her eyes were not on the woman but behind her. In the distance was another woman, also with a hound at her side. A gray, old hound, panting and watching with the same numb eyes as the woman nearer to them.

But no, the dog’s eyes were not numb, and on looking at the nearer hound it’s eyes were neither clouded nor dull. The were wide and full of intelligence, scanning over both their bodies, the hound’s eyebrows jumping at each sniff and pant. It was almost as if the dog were leading the woman and not the other way round.

“I’m sorry, I hope this isn’t your property. We just saw the hill and. . .

Jasmine looked away from those black dog eyes and trailed off though as she felt Mausmi tugging at her arm and heard the soft whimper that escaped her lover’s lips. Looking down at her she saw wide eyes and quivering lips and following Mausmi’s gaze over her shoulder she saw that behind them was another woman, old and gaunt, and leading a big gray hound like the ones before them.

As Mausmi’s finger raised to point in a new direction she saw too that there were more. Many more.

7:08pm

The rough texture of the pine straw beneath her came as a shock when Jasmine woke up and sitting upright quickly she clutched her forehead at the pain which suddenly came. Pulling her hand away she could see that there were dried flakes of blood and a long streak of wet on her fingers. She could feel the matted curly hair on her right temple and started to remember things about the past few hours. Little things at first as she clutched both hands to her face and covered her eyes, keeping them closed as tightly as she could manage.

“Mausmi!”

Pulling her hands away and looking around quickly it occurred to her how little light there was in this small space. Wondering how long she might’ve been out she grasped around through the straw and found little slivers of strange hard things before finally letting her eyes adjust to the dim light and seeing the small, huddled shape of Mausmi in the corner.

Rushing there, she pulled her onto her back and looked at her face to see no visible wounds or markings and began to shake her gently, whispering her name as feverishly as she could.

“Mausmi baby, please wake up. Please.”

After a few moments Jasmine put her head down on her lover’s chest and felt the gentle rise and fall of her lungs. Soon tears left streaks down the grime on her face as well as blood.

Finally though, looking up from the girl in desperation though, she noticed the room they were in, if one could call it a room. Possibly eight feet on a side, she couldn’t see any discernible doors but there was the dry straw beneath them and the strange little hard chunks she finding throughout it. A persistent thought in the back of her mind kept her from examining any too closely though, and so she looked again to Mausmi’s gently rising chest and her softly quivering lips.

In the distance the rain began to fall and the walls of their box shook with the roar of thunder.

Must Be This Tall to Ride, Part 1

The Number 14A was late. The Number 14A was always late.

Artino had taken to calling it the “Number Late-Teen A” in his thoughts but the extra twenty minute wait at the stop honestly wasn’t the worst thing in the world. He always left an hour early, just in case, and the extra time to himself was always a nice reprieve from the twelve hour shifts and the monotony of home. Still, it would be nice if the bus could come on time, at least once this millennium.

But today it wasn’t and after an hour and ten minutes Artino was starting to get a little antsy. If he showed up more than fifteen minutes late at the office they would dock his day’s pay and still expect him to finish the shift. Not only that, he’d have to speed through cleaning the first two floor’s bathrooms and bins. Not something he ever looked forward to, though doing it faster wasn’t that much harder than doing it slow.

If only there were jobs closer to home; the only work for Altairians was in the city as cleaners, janitors, dishwashers, and bellboys and that meant taking the bus. No one would hire one for anything else, especially out in the suburbs and honestly, the work was pretty well suited to his kind, if degrading. Standing about three feet tall on average, their race had fallen right into the roles of servants since they’d landed on Earth thirty years ago. Not that any of those from that first wave were left alive, what with their lifespans lasting only fifteen to twenty of the local’s years.

Scratching his left hind ear Artino thought of his grandfather Marcina, one of the original scouts for the first landing ships. He remembered how the old one would complain endlessly of the life they’d found here. He’d talk all day about how desperate the command crew of the massive generation ship had been and how they’d picked this planet as the only inhabitable one in range as the stocks ran low. Of course even that had been many generations before grandpa; at least 100 of the Earth years.

Second Grandmother Icknaria, though, would always stop him and say how grateful they should be that the humans had taken them in at all, what with their desperation, but then First Grandmother Asnap would scream and yell and flap her four arms about how this was no heaven, how they were all slaves, etc. etc.

Sometimes Artino was glad the old cunt was dead.

“Number 14A Bus is canceled for the next two cycles due to mechanical difficulties.”

The words started to scroll across the top of the stop as Artino was lost in sight and on the second pass he noticed them, only to stand with attention. If the bus was canceled he would not only loose his pay for the shift but he would end up being docked for the week. An entire week without pay would mean he, his three parents, two di-wives, and six children would go without food for the meantime.

Two other Arturians stood up at the same time and began to fidget nervously, edging closer to the electric rails which the buses rode on, eyeing each other and looking up at the sky as if the weather might somehow affect the bus schedules. The weather on their home world, though no Arturian had seen it in millions of their own years, had harsh enough weather to imprint on their instincts even now.

Looking to his right he noticed that one of the others on the platform was dressed a little shabbier than those who were obviously here on their way to work. That one was dressed in the same humanistic clothes as the rest of them but his were festooned with little splashes of color and a head scarf of brilliant red geometric patterns. The styles of their home world were catching on with a part of the youth, Artino had heard, especially those in the new movement for Arturian rights.

What ones weren’t imprisoned or “disappeared” by the humans.

The Number 14 bus though, rolled right in on time as they fidgeted and when it did the couple of humans waiting patiently on their own bench stood up and started to walk toward it, making a point to not look down at the aliens or notice their presence at all, much less their anxiety.

Artino looked at the screen on the side of the bus emblazoned with number 14 and the time, doing the math in his head as he figured that if he could somehow take this bus he would make it on time to work, but barely. Of course he wouldn’t be allowed on the 14 bus proper, that was only for humans, but maybe they would listen to his plight. Maybe this once, he’d even pay double the Arturian fair. Surely they’d take that since the human buses were free.

Rushing toward the door as it whooshed open he stood behind the two humans and after each walked aboard he lifted his small left feet to put them upon the bottom step. Mid way through though, the bus driver, an older human woman with dark skin, stood up and shouted down at him.

“Hey, don’t y’all see the goddamn sign?”

Of course Artino saw it though, that sign that he’d seen so many times in so many variations. Must be this tall to ride, the words emblazoned in red against a marker at roughly three and a half feet.

“But I really have to get to work and I–” His voice the deep monotone of his race, was cut off by the woman before he could finish.

“Yeah yeah, and don’t be tellin’ me that shit. Sign say’s y’all can’t get on so back off before I call the cops.”

“But I–”

“Hey, stumps, let me tell you–”

And quicker than either one could register there was the one in the shabby clothes and the Arturian scarft between the two of them staring up at the woman on the steps with her angry eyes and shouting in the same deeply baritone voice as Artino, “Who you callin’ stumps, huh sec-mo fucker?”

“Y’all better back off ‘fore the cops get here. I just pushed the panic button and you. . .”

But she went silent when the other one’s second left arm came out holding the gun and reaching out toward her head with the barrel pressed nearly against her cheek.

“What now, whistle?”

 

July, 28 (Pt. 3)

TL;DR

Germany needs to stop using EMP weapons or face repercussions from the world community on charges of warcrime.

–P.M. Richard McGuinness

Sam blinked away the twitter feed and closed his eyes. Leaning against the back of the old trench wall he took a deep breath and reached down to scratch at his right thigh. Something about the prosthetic there just hadn’t stopping itching, even after nine months with the implants and cybernetics. The skin around was supposed to heal nearly instantly and every doctor through the rehab said they couldn’t imagine why it would itch but itch it did.

Giving himself a moment to just revel in the satisfaction that came with scratching it, he felt the cool dew falling on him with the coming of the night. Perhaps this unused line might be the best place to bed down for the evening, though he’d been hoping all day to make it a little farther. It seemed a miracle that the Germans didn’t have this stretch of trench better monitored and he knew it would be best to take advantage of their failures. Too rarely did they make mistakes so when they did it was best to take advantage.

Leaning further into the soft dirt of the trench, at least three months old and probably unoccupied for most of that time—the lines had moved quickly in the first few weeks of the war—he let his pupils stray to the icon lurking in the corner of his vision. He’d only been allowing himself one quick glance at the picture of Richard each day and he’d waited so long to see it but he knew that when he did pull of a picture of them together, smiling and happy, Sam’s legs still intact and Richard without the faraway look to his eyes he’d gained after the past year, he would have to begin the nightly fight to stop himself from pulling them up again and again, looking at photo after photo and video after video.

No, it was better to hold off for a little while, or at least until he was bedded down and safe. Lately he’d been managing to fight the urge at least three nights out of four and tonight he suspected he’d be tired enough to sleep quickly and soundly.

The feeds were a distraction at least, but one he felt best left alone as much as possible. Here he couldn’t upload any data and couldn’t view anything personal but he could see public feeds and sights as long as he didn’t go over the limits on the bandwidth. Anything too much would alert the German monitoring system of an implant in the area.

Of course the Germans had neutered all their own citizens in the same way and now, with the knowledge that they’d resorted to EMP weapons once again, ignoring the Geneva convention of 2072 which banned the weapons as a war crime, Sam knew that they must be desperate. He also knew that if the Germans were that desperate, it was likely the Brits were too. The Americans, the Chinese, even the Russians had stayed out of the battle so far but everyone suspected the Russian Federation had been shipping supplies across their lines through the Ukraine.

Allegations that India is sending supplies to the rebel fighters in Saxony are resolutely false. Bitches be trippin’.

• Fasil Kanchana, Indian MP

“And what about Paul? Any word yet?”

Richard’s voice echoed in his mind as he closed the feeds again, looking off into the distance at the orange of the setting sun on the western horizon. The sunsets had been beautiful this year all across Europe with all of the debris in the atmosphere. Unfortunate that it took so much death to create such beauty.

“No. I’ve hope though, and in–”

But then he’d lost the connection, as brief as it had been in Paris where he’d hoped he could get away with the encrypted line. The last time he’d talked to Richard. Possibly the last time he ever would.

No, stop it. You’re going to see him again and you’re going to save Paul too. He stood up and shook the thoughts out of his head, pulling his pack open and laying his thermals across the soil of the trench as his ears pricked up at the sound of engines in the distance. Peaking over the edge he could see a jet, coming in low over the horizon and towards the sunset. It sounded like one of the new fifth gen Harriers but quickly all sound of it was pushed aside by the screech of the Eurofighter on its tail. Both jets screamed over the ground above him and he could see the RAF roundels on the underside of the Harrier along with the Iron Cross on the forward wings of the German plane as they flew over.

The RAF had been on instructions to stay low, he’d read the other day, in the hope to neutralize the Toureg’s speed and maneuverability. Jumping down and running to the far edge to peek over again, Sam could see that the method was having about as much success as he’d thought it might. The Harrier quickly sprouted a plume of smoke as it moved quickly into the distance, shrinking into a small blot which burst upon the ground in a splash of bright orange ink, the triumphant plane shooting upward as a screeching mark in the sky.

First, Do No Harm (Part 2)

“A mercy? You leave people as emotionless automatons! And that’s only if I believe your propaganda. God knows what you actually do to people.”

“Please, Mr. Jones. I’m going to have to ask you to lower your voice.”

And as he mentions it I realize that I am yelling and that Brittany is still behind me, ready and willing to end our little argument with the help of the security which they no doubt keep on ready call. It’s still hard to calm myself knowing what they might be doing to Emily even now but I know that I’ll had have to shift tactics if I hope to win this game. As easy as it was to sway his adjundant I know that the good doctor will not be coerced so easily. I take a deep breath and settle back into the leather chair, hoping that he can see I am calm once more.

“Very well. As I was saying, we do not leave anyone as an emotionless automaton, as you put it, but as beings which are much more capable of coping with the daily stress of–”

“And you’ve undergone the procedure yourself, of course.”

I hoped the question would give him pause but of course he plowed on with barely a blink. “Would you walk into a cancer ward and ask the doctor in charge if he had undergone chemotherapy? Our procedure is an extreme one, I admit, but one which is only suitable or applicable for those who truly need it. Fortunately I am not one though I regret to say you fiance was a classic case.”

Of course it hurts to hear him describe her as a “classic case” as if anything about Emily MacIntyre could have been ordinary or classic. She was—she is one of the most unique people I have ever met and that’s part of why I love her.

“You have documents proving she was assigned the. . . procedure of her own free will?”

“Of course.” Now he’s on comfortable footing. Hopefully he will remain so as I gather my next argument. Anything to let me see her before they’ve destroyed what I love about her. “I might add too that Ms. MacIntyre was desperate for the procedure and was prescribed it by our highly qualified psychiatric–”

“Spare me.” I don’t mind interrupting him and almost gather that he expected it.

“Consultants. Emily was, you’ll notice I use the past tense, troubled by many feelings of insecurity and fear. She was consistently afraid of certain aspects of herself and others which would drive her to daily panic attacks which verged on seizures. She–”

“She’s a goddamn artist.”

“Mr. Jones, are you here to disparage our profession and the very well being of one you swear to hold so dear, or are you hear to discuss her future and that of her current surgeries?”

I swallow my pride then, remembering that I am the intruder and regardless of my threats of lawsuit the doctor and his charlatans would be all too likely to win. They know that even if I were to pursue the case it would be far too late to save Emily and I know it as well.

“Go on.”

“As I was saying, her mental distress was to a point which was far beyond the help of normal psychiatric drugs or therapy,” He pauses and and raises an eyebrow as if he is waiting for me to interrupt once more but I hold my tongue. “And she came to us desperate, alone, and seeing no other options. Many of our patients do.”

Dr. Lowe gestures behind me then and for a moment I fear that the secretary will be flanked by armed guards but she merely hands forward a fat dossier with the neatly printed title “Emily MacIntyre.”

The good charlatan doctor begins to flip through it and again I wonder if he is waiting for me to lash out again. I sense that he sees the interview as coming to an end and feels himself as the winner. Little does he know that I will tackle and push my way through every person in this building to see Emily before they’ve destroyed her. To see her once more as she was. As she is.

“Mr. Jones, was it?”

“Yes. Marquis Jones. Engaged to the woman you people are set to dismantle.”

“Interesting.” Both his eyebrows are raised now and suddenly I feel that I am the only person in the room not privy to a complex inside joke. “I will have to ask you to leave then.”

“What? Do you know what I can do to you–”

He interrupts me though, and the seriousness in his voice, so different from the affected airs which he’s held to this point, stops me.

“Mr. Jones. I am under no obligation to tell you this; however, I feel it would do you some good to hear it.” He takes a deep breath. “In our folder here we have a copy of a restraining order which Ms. MacIntyre took against you the day before we accepted her to our facility.”

July 28, Part 1

London

28 July 2114

The Government of the Federal Republic of Germany (Bundesrepublik Deutschland), not having answered in a satisfactory manner the note of July 23, 2114, presented via electronic message by the British consulate in Berlin, the Royal Government of the United Kingdoms are themselves compelled to see to the safeguarding of their rights and interests and, with this object, to have recourse to force of arms.

The United Kingdom consequently considers herself henceforward in state of war with Germany.

Herbert Abu Lughod

Secretary of State for Foreign and Commonwealth Affairs

“What the hell?”

Sam blinked the image away from his eye and looked at Sgt. March. The Sergeant blinked his own left eye too and looked back at Sam and the other privates, knowing that each of them would have had the same message showing on their own implants, sent by the command.

“They can’t mean that? War with the Germans? What about the rest of the damn EU?”

March cleared his throat and stood up from the mess hall table, his chair screeching across the smooth cement floor as he did.

“It appears they have boys, and what the other Peons do is up to them. I suppose old France will step in beside us and the Italians as well. God knows what the rest will do.”

“But–”

And the rest of the mess hall, each private, NCO, and officer slowly coming to the realizations which the message brought, stood up and began to shout, began to talk all as one. Some yelled encouragement and cheered, others began shout disbelief while a few stared gently off into space, lost in thought.

“Goddamn Germans, you know this has got to do with Israel–”

“Yeah, we may be declaring war on them but god knows they started it stepping up to Israel’s plate after they nuked the goddamn Egyptians–”

“Fucking Sand Niggers had it coming, you ask me–”

“But what about the Ukraine? They have to come in–”

“Oh god, and the Russians. What the fuck will they–”

“Always the fucking Jews innit–”

“Hey, shut up you fucker. Jews ain’t got nothing to do with it. Those Israeli assholes can fuck off and I won’t be dumped with ’em–”

Sam looked down at his own hands and thought of his brother in Jerusalem, or somewhere outside of it, working on a kibbutz. Of course all the bother over Israel had been all over the news but who could have known that there could be a war? And between the civilized states. Over Arabs.

“See what the Chinese do, that’ll be the decidin’ factor, you ask me. Goddamn gooks’ll–”

“Oh, but you know the damn Yanks ‘ave a hand in it too.”

“Ten, hut!”

The Lt. Colonel walked smartly into the mess hall, his adjutant at his side. All in the mess hall stood at attention and as a unit became silent. Colonel Whittaker was not known for his forgiving tendencies.

“Gentlemen, as you all have been made aware by the high command, we are in a state of war. I am sure that many of you have been following the appropriate news channels and are aware that we may be at war with many states but at the moment it is sufficient to say that is of no matter. All feeds are being cut off as of now. Your services will go silent shortly, so I suggest you use them while you can.”

The room remained silent of words then but there were gasps and squeaks of surprise. Many in the room had never in their lives been completely cut off from the web. Many were terrified.

“Further, to those of you who may have kin in the German Republic, do not worry. This is not a shooting war and there is little to worry about at this juncture. That being said, we will start now on high alert. Let it be known that–”

Sam looked up then, along with every other face in the room including that of Colonel Whittaker. The distinctive sound of one of the new Eurofighter Toureg fighter-bombers shattered his thoughts as surely as it shattered the commanders words and it was only in the briefest of moments that he realized the sound he’d seen in so many videos, the sound of that plane with the strange new hydrogen turbine engine, was above and in multitude.

It was the sound of that engine that overwhelmed even the sound of the shrapnel and rubble of the far side of the mess hall exploding.

Pineapples, Am I Right? (Part 3)

“But it’s good just to see Rachel with someone who isn’t a disinterested prick. She’s always ended up with these passive aggressive men who made me nervous but this guy seems to treat her well, at least. And he’s very handsome.”

“You humans are silly.”

“And cat’s aren’t? What do you know anyway?”

Some where around this time Elizabeth began to remember that she was talking to her house cat and perhaps she’d lost her mind. Still, she marveled, it’s amazing how quickly a person can get used to the surreal.

“And speaking of that, how the hell do you know about Sailor Moon?”

“Don’t look at me, I’m just a cat. Probably just a figment of your quickly debilitating mind.”

“And what does that mean?”

She suddenly stood up in disgust and found her hands on her hips looking down at the tabby. Elizabeth was by nature a good-hearted and quiet person but to be insulted to so effectively was enough to give rise to even her pride.

“Again, I’m just a cat.” Piddles paused to lick his genitals again, his legs splayed in the air, “But come on. You’re what, twenty eight? That’s like eight million in cat years and you live alone, you work at a library, and you’re talking to your goddamn cat.”

The pot of water chose that moment to boil over and Elizabeth walked over to turn the burner down, her eyes narrowed and looking towards Piddles. “Well, I don’t normally do that, but you’re talking back today.”

Again, she thought, it’s amazing how quickly you get used to these things.

“Uh huh. Remember, I’ve been here the whole time. As I was saying,” Again the cat paused to lick a particularly pungent part of his bum, “You live alone, talk to your cat all damn day and, pardon my forwardness, but when’s the last time you had a guy over?”

“Well, there was Brad. . .”

Brad, tall and balding and never quite sure what to do with his tongue, whether it be in his mouth or other places. Brad who came over twice and then stopped returning her calls.

“Yeah, Brad. I may be a cat but that guy was a goddamn stray. And really? How many years was that in human terms? I was still a spring chicken, is all I know.”

“It wasn’t that long ago!”

“Yeah, and what about Anthony?”

Anthony, his broad shoulders and his hairy forearms which flexed in that special little way when he slipped her the paper with his number on it. The number she’d thrown away wondering how any man could ever be so forward as to slip his number to the librarian.

“How do you know about Anthony?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe I heard about him from you for like two weeks and that one night when you kept moaning his name while played with that blue vibratey thing–”

“Hey!” Elizabeth stomped her foot on the ground and yelled at the cat, her anger finally up and the sound of the knife on the cutting board a resounding whack as she slammed it down. “That’s none of your business! And you chewed the damn thing up anyway!”

“Eh, I was never that interested in your damn sex life anyway and I didn’t chew it up for the taste. It just kept jumping around under your pillow.”

“You little ungrateful. . . Turd!” She waved the knife at him then, slinging it around like a pointer as she yelled. “I feed you and I scoop your. . . your shit,” Elizabeth puffed her chest a little then, proud to have gotten her anger across, “and you talk to me like this.”

“Hey, I’m just a cat remember? Just a figment of your imagination, but I’m just saying maybe you should get out more. Maybe call your friends occasionally when you’re not just desperate for help.”

*** All around me are familiar faces; Worn out places, worn out faces ***

“And stop listening to such depressing music!”

Hearing the ring-tone Elizabeth picked up her phone and saw Rachel’s face on the screen again but this time it was her and Ian looking longfully at one another, Rachel’s lips a bright red and his cheek wearing a crimson imprint. Of course she changed her Facebook picture to some sappy crap like that, she couldn’t help but think as she picked up the phone and looked at the little icon, wondering if she should answer.

Looking at Piddles again, licking his privates once more, she idly picked a piece of the pineapple from its can and started to munch on it before she finally swiped the “answer” icon to the right.

“Meeoorrww?”

 

Please Don’t Go, Part 2

“My name is Isaac.”

The stag looked to her with its gentle, concerned eyes and waited patiently for her to respond.

“I’m Gwen Roberts.”

Her hand shaking on its spindly wrist, Gwen looked down at it as she pulled away from the stag’s nose and only slowly began to take in the new surroundings. The house was gone along with the porch and all of New Jersey. The night was gone as well.

Looking over the head of Isaac the sun could barely be seen in slivers through the branches of the forest canopy far above their heads though the light down here seemed gentle, green, and strange.

“Where are we?” Only as she spoke did she realize she was crying. “This is all a bit much.”

“I know, and I’m sorry. There was no other way. You have to come with me.”

Isaac moved closer to her again and looked into her eyes. There was something so strange about his eyes in that they were not strange at all. The just looked like a handsome pair of human blue eyes but the soft brown fur around them changed the scene and made it surreal. Their color matched the moss of his antlers perfectly, though they were matte to the eye’s shimmer, and the brown of his pelt seemed a richer, earthier brown than any Gwen had ever seen.

“Can I ride you?”

“Of course, Gwen Roberts.”

Unsure exactly how to mount a deer or honestly any type of animal, Gwen stood patiently and waited for direction until finally the Stag bent down and gestured with its snout. Reaching out to grab his antlers to steady herself she felt the tingle of electricity in them but somehow found it comforting. Quickly she was on his back and the warmth of his large body felt nice for the few moments before he took a deep breath and let out a cloud of warm steam from his nostrils, taking off at a gallop.

“Hold on.”

Desperately taking his advice, Gwen wrapped herself around him and allowed herself to smile and giggle, the haunches of his powerful legs flexing under her as she bounced up and down. For the briefest of moments the forgot all the stress of her day and its discoveries and felt again like a seventeen year old girl, not a care in the world and happy as a child.

But then she remembered what the test had said and she wondered if someone in that condition should be riding on the back of a wild animal.

“Fuck.”

Isaac politely ignored her though she could feel a twinge in his neck when she said the words. It’s too early to think about any of that! And who says I’m even going to keep it. . .

Gwen looked to the sides of the path they followed and the trees moving through the edges of her vision so quickly. They were wide, strong, and covered in a soft blue moss much like that of Isaac’s antlers. In the small spots and strips where the sunlight shone on the bark of the trees and on their small lower branches she could see that they sparkles with a soft luminescence. The leaves too, looked strange and of such a deep blue green that she thought of an old oil painting of magical forests.

But then, as she tried to make out one especially large tree in the distance, much wider than any of the others, Isaac came to an abrupt halt, his hooves sliding in the soft loam of the forest floor.

“Why did we. . .?”

But looking forward, Gwen knew and without thinking began to dismount Isaac as he knelt down for her to step off. Directly in front of them there was a clearing and for the first time since coming to this place Gwen could see the light of the sun and with that light she knew that it was not the sun she had seen in New Jersey. For one, the light came from all directions in the sky at once and seemed to shine directly in a perfect circle down to the base of the clearing of trees, itself a perfect circle as well.

And in that circle, the grass the same luminescent blue green of the tree’s leaves, each blade broad and long and waving in a soft breeze which seemed to touch nothing else in the still air and seemed to come from nowhere. All of this though, was lost to Gwen as she locked her eyes on what lay in the middle of the clearing.

Lying curled in the precise center of the space, in the middle of the broad circle, was a fawn, its legs gently curled under its body as if it lay sleeping. Unconsciously, Gwen moved toward it but stopped short by several feet. The baby deer lay there in the grass, its fur the darkest earthy brown of Isaac, its spotting and splotches on its back the same softly glowing blue of his mossy antlers. Somehow, beneath its covered eyes Gwen also knew its eyes would be blue but she could not move closer to it to see for sure. Surrounding the fawn she could sense a dim dome over it, a giant bubble of lightly shimmering yellowish air, illuminated by the sky’s light.

Looking beside her to Isaac, to question him, the words died on her lips as she saw that her deer companion was gone and in its place, standing a shoulder width apart from her was a young man looking to her with concerned eyes. The same concerned blue eyes of Isaac but now within the face of a beautiful man, his skin the darkest earthy brown of the deer’s coat and his short, neatly trimmed hair the same softly luminescent blue of the deer’s antlers. He stood beside her in precisely cut clothes that looked to be made of soft cotton and Gwen knew that it was Isaac.

“What’s going on? Are you—”

“Yes.”

Pausing, she looked again to the fawn in the soft grass, still moving to a gentle wind she could not feel. “And the fawn, is it alright? Is it . . .”

Trailing off, she looked to the strange young man and felt the tears rolling down her cheeks without knowing why they were there.

“It is what lies within you, Gwen.”

And then the clearing, the forest, the fawn, and Isaac were all gone and Gwen sat once more on the back porch of her grandfather’s house.

Pineapples, Am I Right? (Part 1)

“Hey, Mr. Piddles.”

Elizabeth closed the door behind her locking both deadbolts without thinking, the second and larger one closing with a solid “thunk” accompanied by the sound of Mr. Piddles yowling.

“I know you’re hungry little guy, it’ll just be a second, okay?”

“Meoooooooowrr.”

“Ah!”

Tangled between her feet for the briefest of moments the big tabby dodged down the hallway oblivious to its owners near demise. Stumbling, she grabbed the old railing along the hallway wall and steadied herself, grateful that the cat hadn’t caused her yet another bruise.

“I swear Mr. Piddles, if I fed you as much as you’d like I would just have to clean up more of your little vomits.”

Hanging her keys on the holder by the door though she could hear the cat’s scratching at the bin where she kept the food, his yowls echoing down the hallway from the kitchen. She put her big purse, the one that always felt self-concious about looking as much like it did like an old ladies, on the little table like she always did and walked there, her first stop the big plastic bin she kept the Friskies in. Mr. Piddles had a habit of chewing through nearly anything which lacked at least a quarter inch of plastic.

The tinkling of the food in the little porcelain dish sent him into a frenzy of course, his head bobbing around and trying its best to block the food from falling.

“Always hungry, huh Mr. Piddles. You silly little poody pood.”

“Crunch, crunch.”

The top priority taken care of and Mr. Piddles silent but for the sound of his chewing, Elizabeth Spiller slipped her shoes off beside the stove as she did every day and walked on to the bedroom right off the “kitchen.” Honestly, the kitchen, dining room, and living room were all just one room attached to the bedroom and a tiny bathroom but she liked to differenciate them in her head. It made it easier thinking each corner of the studio were separate. Like she had more of a real house and not such a tiny apartment.

It made it easier for her to accept the fact that she was living in such a place even at thirty two. Living in a tiny apartment and still working at the bookstore for so many years. She wouldn’t let herself count how many. Not today. The last time she’d counted the years she’d had one to many glasses of wine and she’d had to be escorted from the party by a nice young gentlemen without the best of intentions.

“It’s not such a bad life though; I like all this space to myself.” She paused, staring off at the window who’s curtains were always drawn. “Though I really should stop talking to myself so much.”

Her shoes there in the little place reserved for them by the stove, her purse by the door, her button down blouse pulled from her shoulders and laid gently in the dirty laundry basket, never more than half full. Her slacks next to them soon and her pajamas pulled from the top cubby of her dresser and soon pulled over her soft pale legs. These were all things as they should be and comforting. The plaid of her cotton sleeping clothes warm against her as she walked towards the stove again and saw the clock above it glowing its gentle green 07:16.

“Slurp. Meeeeooorrrw.”

“Oh Piddles, you’re so silly”

Opening the compartment at the bottom of the stove to pull out the little frying pan she petted the cat, scratching him behind the ears.

“Not that you would care, you silly pood, but tonight the menu calls for pineapple curry. Mindy at work said it was quite good mixed in with the sauce and so I thought I’d try it.” Scratching him again behind the ears as he tried his best to push the pan out of her hand with his head she went on, “I thought I’d take a walk on the wild side. Scandal, right?”

Chuckling, she put the pan to the eye as she turned it on and began to assemble the onions and tofu from the fridge before pulling the can of diced pineapple from the pantry. Of course the sound of the can opener would send Piddles into a frenzy but that couldn’t be helped. Fighting him away she opened the can, drained it and sat it down on the other side of the stove before turning to the vegetables on the cutting board.

“Silly cat. I promise it’s not tuna.”

Of course the onions make her cry though, so she went to grab a preemptive tissue before cutting them only to find the cat’s head buried in the big can of pineapple chunks, his whiskers sticking out around the edge.

“Piddles! What are you doing?”

Slapping him on the back of the head as she shouted at him, he pulled his head up and licked his little lips as if he’d just had the finest, freshest tuna.

“What? You weren’t eating it.”

“That doesn’t matter Mr. Piddles! You can’t even digest that stuff, you silly cat!”

“Who are you calling silly? I’m just hungry.”

“Wait. . .”

Freezing, Elizabeth looked at the cat and his lips moving as if in speech, the words traveling as surely through the air towards her as hers had traveled towards him. His tongue still flicking over his lips and licking his chops.

“Pineapples, am I right?”