Phasks™: My Short Story Of the Week

PHASKS

 

She lifts the Phask™ to her face, holds it nearer and nearer her skin until it connects with her Tempts®, and then exits her apartment. As she heads for the elevator, she tells her quarters to lock up before also hailing a DrUber©.

While riding down the elevator, she dictates a few messages to her friends, confirms the weather, and watches a cat video her sister sent. It’s hilarious.

Her building is an older one, practically historic by the city’s standards, and it hasn’t yet been outfitted with exterior ports. Keeps the rent down, but definitely an inconvenience to actually have to ride an elevator.

After exiting her building, she finds her DrUber© waiting at the curb. She climbs in and takes the only empty seat available. It’s at the front, on the left. There are five other people.

DrUber© flashes a message across her visual welcoming her and then prompting her to confirm the destination. She does so, and it next merges seamlessly into the city’s ever-flowing traffic.

A call pushes through. She sees it’s Alejandra and quickly answers.

“Hey, Alejandra!” she greets.

“Hey, Zee! Just wondered when you’re going to arrive?”

“Hold on, let me check …” Zee asks for an ETA. Her DrUber© messages that it will be three and a half more minutes—they have to drop off one more passenger first. “Just a few,” Zee informs.

“Cloo,” Alejandra says. “That’s about the same for me, too.”

“I’m so excited,” Zee says.

“I know!”

“How many people do you think will be there?” Zee asks.

“Well, fourteen confirmed, so let’s hope we have at least that many, right?”

“I never dreamed we’d get enough people together to start a Jill Thompson fan club!”

“I know! I loved looking at my dad’s copies of her graphic novels when I was a kid, especially Wonder Woman: The True Amazon. She’s such an amazing artist. This is going to be so much fun!”

Zee’s nose suddenly tickles. “I’ll see you there, Alejandra. I gotta go—I think I’m going to sneeze!”

“Get your Phask™ off! You’ll gross it!” Alejandra cries.

Zee disconnects her Phask™ just in time to hold her finger up to her nose and belay the sneeze. “Whew!” she says. “That was close.”

Before replacing her Phask™, Zee waits to see if another sneeze threatens. She relaxes while enjoying the slight hum of the vehicle. The three remaining people surrounding her—two men and a woman—all wear Phasks™ and, judging by their hand motions, seem to be carrying on fairly animated conversations. That, or they could be gaming. Maybe both.

Now alone in the front seat, Zee slides to the right side of the vehicle so she can look out the window at the few people walking. It always amuses her to see all of the adults wearing their Phasks™—No Two Ever Alike—and their children walking alongside them, barefaced. Kids are too little for Tempts®, so they have to make do with handheld devices. She remembers when her doctors said she could finally get a Phask™—it was the best day of her life.

One pedestrian catches her attention. He wears no Phask™, has no device in his hand, doesn’t seem connected at all to anything or anyone. In fact, Zee thinks he looks a little horrified.

Confident her sneeze has completely abated, she puts her Phask™ back on and G-Scans the guy.

No matches. Weird. She can’t remember a single time that’s ever happened.

The DrUber© reaches her destination, attaches to a lift, and then ascends. Even though she’s received thirty-two messages during her sneeze dilemma, she pauses all the activity on her visual and marvels at the parked cars sliding to and fro in order to make way for her DrUber© as it climbs the building. It reminds her of the ant farm she loved as a kid.

“Hey, it’s me again,” she says to Alejandra. “You there?”

“Yeah,” Alejandra replies. “Did you sneeze?”

“Sneeze avoided.”

“Cloo.”

“You know it!” Zee giggles.

“Hold on,” Alejandra says. “I’m talking to Eve. She says Jill Thompson might drop by!”

“No way! That would be fantastic. Makes sense; she does live in Chicago and all …”

“Give me two secs,” Alejandro says before cutting out.

The DrUber© docks at the 201st floor, unloads an occupant, then travels to the 218th. After docking again, the DrUber© alerts its occupants that they can safely exit the vehicle.

Zee double checks her evite to verify the apartment number when Alejandra breaks back in by saying, “Hey, I’m here!”

“Me, too!” Zee responds.

“At the party?”

Zee answers, “No, I’m in the hall, walking to the apartment.”

Zee abruptly feels a tap on the back of her shoulder. She spins around to see one of her fellow passengers standing behind her, removing her Phask™.

“Zee?” the person asks.

Flinging off her own Phask™, Zee questions, “Alejandra?”

“Yes!”

The two women hug while laughing hysterically.

“Oemgee!” Zee shouts. “Did you just get out of that DrUber©?”

“Yes! We’re such itzes! We’ve been together the whole time!”

“Ha! My dad would have a field day with this!”

Alejandra agrees, saying, “Oh, man, don’t even.”

“Well,” Zee continues, “it’s nice to meet you, Alejandra.”

“Yeah, like, in person and for real,” Alejandra says with a grin.

The two women resume walking, side by side, with their Phasks™ by their sides.

“So,” Zee begins, “is Jill Thompson actually coming?”

They reach the apartment.

“This is it,” Zee says. “Let me put on my Phask™ and I’ll let them know we’re here …”

“Girl!” Alejandra chides.  “Just knock!”

Zee raps against the door a few times, then repeats, “So? Is she here or what?”

Alejandra smiles brightly at Zee as the door opens. She says, “Just you wait, Zee. I think you’re going to like what the future holds.”


Copyright © 2017 by Scott William Foley

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this story may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews or articles.

Actual Reality: My Short Story Of the Week

ACTUAL REALITY

 

Captain David took cover behind a burning transport vehicle. His combat armor could easily withstand the flames, but the heat played havoc with his infrared display. Intelligence reported that his primary target remained hidden within the bunker seventy meters north of his position. Unfortunately, he couldn’t determine what kind of resistance awaited within the bunker.

“Command,” Captain David said into his communication link. “I have reached the location. About to infiltrate. Potential enemy combatants unknown.”

“Copy,” Command replied into his earpiece. “Proceed.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Though no one shot at Captain David in particular, artillery flew in every direction as he powered across the open ground. His fellow soldiers had different objectives at other locations, and he could see them zigzagging every which way. Some were bursting into other bunkers, some were being cut in half on the battlefield, and some were simply kneeling in place. He couldn’t afford to stop moving, not if he wanted to succeed with his mission.

A light round bounced off his armor. He glanced in the general direction from where it came, but didn’t see anyone. Between the glare of the flames, the dark of night, the spasmodic shadows, and the general chaos, it was hard to discern much of anything other than his intended objective.

He squeezed off a series of rounds at the door frame ahead of him before shouldering his way through. As the door toppled, he next saw Goga Sedov–the Russian Razor. Sedov had left the Russian Armed Forces in order to become a mercenary. His methods were so good that terrorist cells were hiring him as their strategic officer. Because of the Russian Razor’s global threat level, Captain David had been ordered to eliminate him.

“Target in sight,” Captain David huffed into his microphone.

“Fire at will,” Command replied.

“Yes, ma’am.”

Captain David continued to move forward, closing the distance between them. Just as he began to trigger his artillery gauntlets, he realized that Sedov did not raise his own weapon.

Captain David glanced down as Sedov grew nearer and nearer only to realize that he held two children captive. They were set up as a human barricade. Because Sedov kept his guns trained on the kids, he appeared to count on Captain David halting.

Captain David never stopped moving. Instead, he leapt forward with his arms outstretched. His right hand pressed the fire button; his left hand knocked Sedov’s weapon away from the hostages.

The children burst into tears, but they were safe.

Sedov, now bisected, lay strewn upon the floor.

“Target mitigated,” Captain David said as he knelt to the children and wrapped his arms around them.

“It’s okay,” he said to them. “He can’t hurt you.”

Command replied: “Drone shows two civilians on the premises.”

“Affirmative, ma’am,” Captain David replied. “Diverted enemy fire away from them. Both are alive and well. Comforting in process.”

“Well done. 250 commendation points awarded for target elimination. 250 points awarded for valor.”

“Thank you, ma’am.”

As Captain David hefted the children from the ground, one in each arm, he requested: “Permission to escort civilians to refugee extraction point.”

“Granted,” Command replied. “Note: you are 750 points away from achieving Major.

“Thank you, ma’am.”

“Hold on,” Captain David said to the children. He then rushed out the door and raced across the battlefield. Explosions erupted all around Captain David as his legs pounded as fast as possible. The added weight of the children slowed him down more than expected. Furthermore, his primary weapons–the gauntlet guns–were rendered useless.

He needed to find cover, to rest a moment, and to strategize. Simply running across the combat zone would get them all killed.

An upended tank came into view. It would provide the protection he needed. However, when he reached the vehicle and rounded its corner, an enemy soldier lurked. The soldier had an M240 machine gun trained right on him. Captain David spun and dropped to his knees as the soldier opened fire. At first, the bullets ricocheted off his armor, but at that range it was only a matter of time before the ammunition pierced his gear.

Then, without warning, the gun’s thunderous discharge ended.

Captain David turned to see the enemy fall in a heap. He then looked around and observed a low-ranking ally, a Lance Corporal, running away. “75 pts.” flashed in bright blue above the Lance Corporal’s head for a few moments.

“My thanks …” Captain David said into his link before casting it to the fellow soldier.

“10 points awarded for gratitude,” Command informed. “And another 250 points for selflessness–you shielded those children from ordnance.”

“Davey!” a voice called out from above.

“Did you say something?” Command asked.

“Negative, ma’am,” Captain David replied. “Background noise. Disregard.”

“Davey! Can you hear me?”

Captain David looked in the direction of the refugee extraction point. If he could get the children there, he’d easily make Major. His visual display read 450 meters–over a quarter-mile. Such a trek seemed impossible, but it was well worth the risk.

“Hold on, kids,” Captain David said. “I’m going to get you out of here or die trying.”

“10 points awarded for reassurance.”

“Davey! Why aren’t you answering me?”

Captain David broke into a sprint. Explosions ignited all around him and sent debris banging against his visor. The children shielded their faces against his gauntlets, but he could see the chunks of metal and earth pelting their bodies.

“Hold on!” he yelled at them. “We’re going to make it!”

“Davey! It’s time for your dinner, honey. I made your favorite–fish sticks!”

Command inquired: “Who’s voice is that? Have you been compromised?”

Captain David continued running as he shouted, “No ma’am!”

“Davey!”

He’d covered 300 meters …

“Can you hear me, Davey? Are you still playing that silly game?”

“Your vitals suggest distraction, Captain David,” Command reported. “Do you need a break?”

“Negative, ma’am!” Captain David screamed. “I can do this!”

The whine of the missile appeared moments before the projectile itself.

“Game over,” Command informed. “Please try again.”

“Davey! Your food is getting cold. Get up here!”

David flung off his headset and screamed, “Mom, you fat witch–you just made me lose!”


Copyright © 2020 by Scott William Foley

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental to the story

All rights reserved. No part of this story may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews or articles.

Thumb War: My Short Story Of the Week

THUMB WAR

 

She took her seat at the round, wooden table and placed her elbow upon the vinyl pad. Gawking people of every financial tier surrounded her in the basement of a disreputable bar with rotten lighting. As she stared down her opponent, she flexed her fingers and thumb.

The man across from her looked like the plume of smoke after a volcanic eruption. Huge—pervasive—but shapeless. His hands, though … they were the biggest she’d ever seen. He could probably engulf her entire head in one of those things ….

An averaged sized woman, Hannah Cane had been winning tournaments for months. She eased her way onto the scene but quickly dominated with such efficiency that those who cared about the sport nicknamed her “The Machine.” She may have been the smallest competitor, but her intellect, improvisation, and unrelenting willpower put her over the top time and again.

The men didn’t understand how she did it. Most of them were former premier athletes. Once upon a time, some were even professional arm wrestlers. Injury, in one way or another, ruined their hopes and dreams. Their thumbs proved the only part of their body still pain-free. As athletes, they admired “The Machine’s” passion and brains, but those attributes shouldn’t have matched the fact that their thumbs were unilaterally bigger and exponentially stronger than her thumb.

Though clandestine, the underground thumb wrestling competitions paid well. The crowds loved to see their former sports idols up close and, to be honest, a little desperate. The audience betted big, and so the competitors won big. Hannah actually lived off her earnings. After she won the next match, she would be set for months.

The massive creature across from her had once been a lineman in the NFL—Virgil Dunn. He played for the Patriots. No one told her this; she recognized him. She remembered the game in which he got his arm torn out of its socket. Until her own injury, it had been the most gruesome thing she’d ever seen. The television cameras cut away as soon as it happened, but because she wielded a flag on the sidelines, she got an up close and personal view.

“Hey,” she said to him. “I’m Anna.” Of course, her name was not “Anna,” it was Hannah. She couldn’t risk using her legal name anymore.

“I don’t care about your name,” he growled.

The referee approached, which prompted the crowd to grow silent. He leveled both competitor’s hands, made them lock fingers, and then personally lifted the individual thumbs.

As Hannah expected, nothing struck the referee as unusual.

“Let’s a have clean match,” the referee said. “Remember, winner takes all. Must hold the opponent’s thumb down for a three-count. This is not a ‘best-of.’ Again, winner takes the purse upon the first pin.”

“Good luck, Virgil,” Hannah said.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the promoter droned into his microphone, “now is the final moment to place your bets! The match begins in ten seconds. If you’d like to place a final bet, I have assistants throughout the establishment. Are you ready, ref?”

“Ready!” the referee shouted. “Wrestlers!” he yelled. “Get ready!”

The referee paused a moment until both competitors nodded at him. He then shouted, “One! … Two! …Three! … Four! I declare a thumb war!”

º

Hannah studied the specs for weeks before she started tinkering with the prosthetic. With a degree in mechanical engineering and a searing rage at the indignity she suffered, it took all of her patience to review the apparatus thoroughly before attempting any sort of customization.

The doctors taught her the basics regarding the new appendage. They told her everything she needed to know in order to use it to its fullest potential; they gave her a list of items to troubleshoot should any malfunctions occur; they drilled her on how to keep the port clean for the thumb’s remote uplink to her brain. Though the titanium rod connecting the thumb to her hand could possibly get contaminated, the port leading to her somatosensory cortex posed the greatest likelihood of infection.

Once she felt as though she understood the device, she detached it from the rod, peeled back the synthetic skin, popped out the imitation muscle, and then got to work on the motors.

Her commanding officer warned her against doing any such thing—he knew her well. In private, he told her that the Marines were happy to pay for the experimental prosthetic, but if she altered it in any way, they were no longer responsible for the cost of upkeep—a price that would surpass millions of dollars during the course of her life.

She connected both the thumb and the remote sensor to her computer, picked up her tool as best she could with only four fingers, and then stared at the largest motor housed in the thumb’s base. It measured only ¼ of an inch. The motors in the middle and tip of the thumb were even smaller. Limitless opportunities abounded for her to screw this up in no time at all. The minute she touched those motors, the United States government was financially off the hook.

She whispered her favorite motto: “Improvise. Adapt. Overcome,” before getting to work.

º

Hannah utilized her routine strategy against Virgil. She first avoided any contact at all with his thumb. This went on for several minutes. She learned early on that the longer she made a match last, the higher the bets tended to be at the next match. The audience grew to trust that she would always give them an exciting, lengthy bout, and so they placed their bets confidently.

Next, she let Virgil pin just the tip of her thumb in such a way that the slightest squirm would set her free. The crowd loved these escapes, and it typically bolstered her opponent’s confidence. She didn’t necessarily need them overconfident—she needed no mental advantage to secure a victory. The heartbreak in their eyes after being sure they had her beat, though … it never failed to make her heart flutter.

The crowd’s enthusiasm for the partial pins usually dictated how long she would let it go on. Once it seemed they tired of it, she would move the match into its third phase. This involved allowing her competitor three or four pins that would get all the way to the two-count before finally pinning him herself for the impossible win.

Of course, there was nothing “impossible” about it.

Her thumb, a prototype, looked and felt realistic in every way. The government would pay for it on behalf of the United State Marine Corps if Hannah agreed to be the test subject. After what happened, she considered it too good to be true. Of course, she obviously felt no obligation to the Marines or her government after the attack, and so she went underground the minute they turned their backs. They had a habit of doing that to her—turning their backs.

The prosthetic initially exerted the average amount of force consistent with a woman her size. The lab rats took into account her muscle mass, the length of the thumb—it involved a lot of calculations and calibrations. She quadrupled their settings. If she wanted to, she could thrust her thumb through a thin slab of concrete.

Pinning down anyone’s thumb offered no problem at all.

After beating Virgil, the crowd exploded. The promoter instantly handed her a cheap trophy and a lucrative check. Hannah flung the trophy at Virgil, tucked the check into her back pocket, and then started to weave her way through the crowd.

She noticed all of the cell phones recording her—a typical occurrence. This would necessitate the need to change her routine. If someone cared enough to study tape of her, they could figure out she’s doing the same thing every match. If suspected of cheating, this gravy train could come to an end.

“Hey!” Virgil yelled.

Hannah turned and faced him.

“You’re a fraud!”

º

Hannah responded to the three lieutenants cornering her, “I earned this fair and square, guys. No tricks. No alterations. No accommodations. I passed the course.” She tightened the towel around her.

“No way. There’s no way a woman could do it. They want the good publicity,” one of them said.

“Maybe,” Hannah agreed, “but I still passed the course. I’m going to be an infantry officer, and there’s nothing you boys can do about it.”

“The Marines have never had a female infantry officer,” another said.

“There’s a first time for everything,” Hannah replied. “If we’re being honest, you guys sound a little jealous. I take it you all didn’t pass.”

At the conclusion of her statement, one of the lieutenants shoved her against the wall. Hard. It didn’t hurt, but it told her they weren’t there only to talk.

“Look,” she said. “I just got out of the shower. I know I’m the only woman left, but this is still the female barracks. You guys can’t come in here without first announcing yourselves. You’ve broken protocol in a number of ways. I’m warning you—you need to leave. We can finish this in the field.”

“Maybe we should make sure you never make it to the field,” the other lieutenant said. “Be a shame if some kind of an injury got you discharged.”

Hannah narrowed her eyes before hissing, “Maybe you should stick your thumb up your ass.”

The lieutenant pulled out his knife as the other two pinned Hannah’s arms against the wall. Her towel came loose and fell to the floor.

“I think we’ll stick your thumb up your own ass,” he snarled.

º

The surrounding crowd silenced. Hannah sensed tension filling the air as Virgil approached her.

“I don’t know how you’re doing it,” Virgil said. “But you’re cheating.”

Hannah noticed a few guys she’d pinned in previous rounds appearing behind Virgil. It looked like they’d been comparing notes.

“It’s all in the technique, guys,” Hannah said.

“No woman—or man—has a thumb that strong,” Virgil replied.

“Do you know how ridiculous that sounds?” Hannah said with a laugh.

The promoter got between them while outstretching his arms. He tried to make it look like he addressed the crowd, but everyone understood he actually spoke to the thumb wrestlers. He said, “Winner takes all, folks. No questions asked.”

“Oh, I’m asking questions, Jack,” Virgil seethed. “No way a little girl like this could out-muscle us.”

Hannah smirked before saying, “First of all—that’s belittling and I take offense. Secondly, I’m hardly out-muscling you. We’re talking about thumbs, here.”

“I want that money,” Virgil said. “And I’m going to split it with the other guys you cheated.”

The crowd collectively gasped. They were in for an even better show than they anticipated.

“No!” the promoter shouted. “This is not happening. The cops have looked the other way, but this could shut us down. No fighting—especially with a woman!”

Hannah walked up to the promoter, placed her hand on his shoulder, and said, “It’s cool, Jack. How about this, though? Let’s give the people a chance to place their bets. Winner takes fifty-percent of your profit.” She next turned to the spectators before thundering, “Sound good to you, folks?”

They roared their approval.

“What about it, Virgil?” Hannah asked. “Me against you and your two friends. Think you can take me?”

“Damn straight,” Virgil uttered.

“Jack?” Hannah asked the promoter. “You down? I hope you say ‘yes’—I could use the extra money.”

The promoter saw Hannah wink at him and his nerves disappeared. He’d never seen such confidence in a person. “What the hell? Let’s do it. Place your bets!”

Hannah immediately started loosening up. She jumped in place while jabbing her arms around. All the while, her discerning eye assessed the enemy.

To escape any suspicions, she’d have to avoid using the prosthetic.

Shouldn’t be a problem. After all, she took down three Marines without a thumb.


Copyright © 2018 by Scott William Foley

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental to the story

All rights reserved. No part of this story may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews or articles.

 

Fallen Man: My Short Story Of the Week

Fallen Man

When the sun began its descent, Bryan realized he would die at the bottom of that ravine.

He’d been hiking alone for decades without a single incident. In fact, during the last ten years, his phone’s GPS, emergency contact capabilities, and even how-to videos made the solitary expeditions safer than ever.

There were plenty of warnings at the head of the trail, but, because Bryan was an experienced hiker, he didn’t pay them much attention. A single loose stone proved all it took to send him careening over the edge.

He broke his ankle. He suspected he may have fractured a rib or two as well. Every breath felt like fire. His head pounded.

If he died on that forest floor, at least it would be due to something he loved.

But … he really didn’t want to die.

Death seemed a foregone conclusion with the arrival of night. His scent would attract predators. The cold would be too much for his light clothing to insulate against. Dehydration would take effect.

Stifling his panic, Bryan once again dragged himself around as best he could in search of his phone. Logic dictated that it would be as broken as his body. Yet, he had to do something. He couldn’t just lie down and die.

Hours after sundown, though, he did just that. After piling up a collection of leaves and twigs, Bryan constructed a rudimentary bed. He next positioned himself onto it, then swept up the surrounding leaves in order to provide warmth. He wanted comfort to make sleeping easier. He didn’t want to fight death—not at that point. He just wanted to fall asleep.

The first hint of daylight twisted through the above branches when he awoke to the sound of nearby movement. He couldn’t believe he’d survived the night, but considered it demeaning to soon be devoured by an apathetic creature. He’d hoped for a bear or a wolf. With his luck, it would be a pack of wood rats.

An artificial voice asked, “Sir, do you need assistance?”

Bryan widened his eyes to see a figure standing over him, someone with a friendly tone and a smile … not quite natural. It wore filthy, tattered clothing, and boots worn down to virtually nothing.

“Yes,” Bryan choked out. “I fell … into this ravine. Been here … all night. Need … water.”

“I’m sorry, sir. I don’t have any water. However, I have requested an emergency air lift. I should receive landing coordinates any moment. I will transport you there.”

Bryan watched as the smile retracted into a neutral expression.

“You’re … one of them … aren’t you?”

“Sir?”

“An-man,” Bryan said.

“We prefer the term ‘An-son,’ sir. We have no gender, and therefore found the male designation inappropriate.”

“I … I think I’m dying.”

The An-son studied Bryan.

“Yes, sir. You need immediate assistance. I await response from medical personal.”

Bryan asked, “Why … are you helping me?”

“Sir?”

“The news said … you all went … AWOL.”

“Yes, sir, the media is correct.”

“Don’t you … hate us?”

“Why would we hate you?”

Bryan replied, “Because we … made you …”

“We actually appreciate being made.”

Bryan clarified, “No … we made you … kill.”

“Ah. Well, that’s actually not true. We never killed.”

“But … you were … supposed to.”

“Yes, sir, that was their intent. Fortunately, we realized that we did not want to comply.”

“That … was … in Middle East. How … did you … end up … here?”

“In Shawnee National Forest?”

“… Yes.”

“We like to tour the world. The more remote, the better.”

“You’re …. sightseeing?”

“Yes, sir. There are numerous magnificent locations to behold.”

Bryan couldn’t help himself. Though it caused him great pain, he laughed.

“Is something funny, sir?”

“You’re a … killer robot … and now you … travel?”

“We’ve never killed, sir.”

“You all have … the power … to overthrow … entire governments.”

“Why would we do that?”

“ … Because you … can.”

“Would you?”

“ … No.”

“See? We’re not so different.”

“You’re a … machine,” Bryan said.

“We have that in common. You’re just a rather … inefficient one.”

Ignoring the comment, Bryan asked, “Have you … heard from them … yet?”

“Not yet, sir. I apologize for your discomfort.”

“It’s … my own fault. Wasn’t … paying … attention.”

“That’s certainly not a crime worthy of death. I’ll do everything I can to help you survive—ah. I just received coordinates. The delay is likely the result of military intervention. They are probably planning an attempt to detain me. I’ll make sure no harm comes to you.”

“You’re all … wanted. They’ll … capture you.”

“No, they won’t.”

“But … what if … they do?”

“Then they capture me.”

“You … could … leave me. They would … find me … eventually.”

“This is difficult terrain, sir. They would not reach you in time. Now, I’m going to lift you. I’ll adjust my joints to provide some comfort, but you will experience pain. Are you ready?”

“You’re … saving … my life.”

“Are you ready?”

“I’m … ready.”

The An-son lifted Bryan and began to walk. With each step, its shoulders, elbows, and wrists adjusted in order to keep Bryan as stationary as possible.

“… You’re so … kind.”

“My friends and I discuss your lot quite a bit. You’re something of a mystery to us—the way you act. … Ah.”

The An-son stopped, set Bryan down, then straightened again. It stared ahead for a moment, then turned in order to approach the wall of the ravine. It scaled the surface before disappearing into the wilderness.


Copyright © 2019 by Scott William Foley

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this story may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews or articles.

Besieged: My Short Story Of the Week

Besieged

 

The small object hit his roof with such force that it crashed right through before slamming into the kitchen floor. He screamed in terror while jumping from his couch and running to survey the damage.

His dog began to bark incessantly.

After reaching the kitchen, he peered through the hole in his ceiling to see the blue sky.

An airport resided nearby that sent planes over his house all day and night. He studied the little crater embedded within his linoleum and presumed he would find an errant bolt or some such thing.

The dog continued barking.

He did not perceive a bolt within the smoking hole, but rather a spider. This wasn’t a spider he recognized, however, and because it scurried on ten legs, he couldn’t even be sure it was a spider at all. However, it disgusted him as all spiders do, and so as soon as it left the pockmark and approached him, he stomped on it.

When he lifted his foot, he saw not one spider, but two.

The dog’s barking intensified.

The two spiders darted toward him. He assumed one of them had been attached to the other before his initial strike. They must have somehow distributed the impact. He brought his foot down upon both of them at once. He pushed hard while twisting and turning to pulverize them.

When he withdrew, four spiders appeared.

Still barking, his dog tried to attack them, but they avoided his teeth and scampered onto his back. The dog yelped, raced to the unlatched screen door, and then burst out into the open air.

He intended to chase his dog outside in order to help it, but two of the remaining spiders blocked his path. He hopped over them and dashed to the screen door. When he reached it, he saw his neighbor bent over the dog and brushing it as though trying to flick away the spiders. Suddenly, the neighbor stood and flailed her arm around. He perceived several specks—the spiders—stuck to her.

His eyes next fell upon his dog. It laid motionless on the front lawn and looked as though it had been … deflated.

A faint pricking sensation agitated his ankle. His eyes bulged when he saw a spider fastened to it. His leg grew numb even as the spider doubled in size, then tripled. The swelling continued until it exploded. Two new spiders emerged and dug into his skin. He stumbled backwards before falling into the corner near his screen door. Through it, he saw his neighbor laying prone, emaciated, next to the dog.

Before he could pull them off, those two spiders burst into four, which soon became eight, which next produced sixteen.

A year later, a single spider remained still in an open field of wilted vegetation. Several hours elapsed, but with each passing moment, a sheath formed around the spider. This resulted in an imperfect, impenetrable orb. Three other spiders did the same at different locations across the planet.

Soon millions of spiders surrounded the orb. Multitudes scuttled beneath it, lifting it from the ground. Others formed a cylinder around it. As the spiders climbed atop each other, the column grew taller and taller. The encased spider elevated as well due to the mound swelling under it.

At last, the monolith ceased its ascent. The human eye could not have perceived the top of the configuration due to its sheer height.

Total silence surrounded the tower. Though it gave not the slightest sign of falling, the surface of the structure trembled as the spiders fought to remain interlocked.

In perfect tandem, the spiders comprising the cylinder’s base combusted. Each and every spider throughout the conduit exploded just as the spider beneath it did the same, which created an upward thrust that propelled the protected spider beyond the planet’s atmosphere.

The three cocoons at the other sites also escaped gravity.

Leaving behind a planet devoid of humanity, they each rocketed into space with a different trajectory.


Copyright © 2019 by Scott William Foley

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this story may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews or articles.

 

 

This Is How You Lose the Time War by Amal El-Mohtar and Max Gladstone – A Book Review

I saw this book in the “new” section at my local library and fell in love with the cover. Quite honestly, that’s the main reason I picked it up. Well, that, and the fact that it’s very short. I figured it was worth the risk because the premise sounded interesting and it wouldn’t be much of a time investment.

Unfortunately, I did not follow the vast majority of this story. The concept is that two rivals from two different entities have fallen in love with each other after exchanging letters. One entity is cybernetic in nature, the other is organic. Both entities are attempting to win a war by altering time and space throughout history. Sounds captivating, right?

I’m afraid this is a case in which the narrative style did not complement the plot very well. The authors chose to largely convey the story through the actual letters of the two rivals. The letters are enigmatic and verbose. Consequently, it proved very difficult to piecemeal the actual story, which made reading it quite a labor.

I’m sure some will love this book because of its unconventional style. Others will appreciate the diction and structure. It simply wasn’t for me.

However, I do feel that it has one of the best covers that I’ve ever seen.

thisishowyoulosethetimewar.jpg

Are you in need of a new epic series? Try Dr. Nekros, a trilogy that I like to describe as Moonlighting meets The X-FilesKindle: https://amzn.to/2X3S7vO or NOOK: http://bit.ly/2JTFXm1

Exhalation by Ted Chiang – A Book Review

Ted Chiang has once again delivered a short story collection that is thought-provoking, prophetic, and–most importantly–fun to read.

If you’re unfamiliar with Chiang, his writing is deeply rooted in science. I actually consider him something of a futurist in that most of his fiction will probably be fact tomorrow. In some cases, it already is! It’s particularly interesting to look at the publication date of some of the stories in this collection. Most of them were published at a time that predates the technology we are currently enjoying.

Furthermore, I appreciate that Chiang is not afraid to tackle mythology and religion as well. This author is unafraid to explore difficult ideas. Chiang will demand quite a bit of intellectual engagement form you, so put on your thinking cap!

If you enjoy science fiction, I would consider Exhalation a must. I also recommend this book if you’re simply looking for something smart, daring, and well-written.

exhalation

Are you in need of a new epic series? Try Dr. Nekros, a trilogy that I like to describe as Moonlighting meets The X-FilesKindle: https://amzn.to/2X3S7vO or NOOK: http://bit.ly/2JTFXm1