Knowing Versus Believing

Calista was a bright young girl and knew a great many things. She knew no matter how many times Mama promised it wouldn’t happen again, it would. She knew Mama loved her and she knew it was only the alcohol that made her so angry and so hurtful.

The brightly-painted chalk balloons beckoned, promising to take her far away from here, if only she would believe. Calista pressed herself hard against the hot blackness of the wall, hands straining upwards to the chalk strings. She prayed, for once, that what she believed might be more powerful than what she knew. 

Survival's Price

It’s too late to apologize. I feel no remorse for what I have done, though, so the sentiment would be specious. I am a man of vision, of science, of discovery and application. I have never allowed the social and ethical implications of my work to constrain me. I am not a philosopher or a sophist and so these concerns are of little import to me.


Were there unfortunate and unforeseen consequences to our research? The consensus of opinion would seem to indicate so. As blasé as my demeanor may seem, I will concede that I do understand how others might reach that conclusion. It does not matter, at this juncture, whether or not I agree with their views. The past remains immutable, inviolate and permanent. The future remains pristine, unpredictable and inexcusably perfidious. Such has always been the way of things and, likely, thus shall it always be.


When the politicos, at length, saw fit to seek of science and technology the means to avert mankind’s impending doom, we answered their call. The finest minds of our age all drew together and applied our considerable intellect to the problems at hand. We did not assign blame. Scientific endeavors are intended to be conducted in a cold, analytical and antiseptic manner.


It became immediately understood that our home world, as it existed, was no longer viable. Industrialization, mass production and unrestrained greed had ensured that the environment could not and would not any longer sustain life in its current form. The planet could no longer be bent to our will but would, instead, call the tune to which we must dance.


Even now there are those ignorant and intransigent fools who feel we should have pursued other options. They talk of mass evacuations to the emptiness of space, colonization of far-flung and unreachable stars. To those hapless souls I say such was never considered. Our accomplishments, while not inconsiderable in every field of scientific endeavor, were not sufficient to the day. In simplest terms, it could not have been done.


Genetic manipulation, controlled mutation and significant bioengineering were the only reasonable choices. If we could not leave our world, then we must needs change ourselves to its demands.


In colloquial parlance, an omelet can’t be made without breaking eggs. Such was the case with our efforts as well. Could we have achieved the stable form we now enjoy had not nearly a billion souls perished in the name of development and testing? No, we could not. Could we have maintained a predictable population without foregoing our ability to procreate? We could not. To all of the hypothetical queries posed by an ungrateful world to its saviors, the answers remain the same. Could we, should we have done differently? I believe my conclusions regarding these matters are abundantly clear.

I will not EVER apologize for the measures necessary to save our world from otherwise certain oblivion. That is all I have or ever will have to say on this matter.

Philosophy And Wild Fruit

In the twilight of my days, my mind wanders a bit. It has led me back to this place of my youth…an old berry patch.

The tangled prickly vines are a fitting metaphor for the path a life must take. Broad, heavy leaves sprout from those creepers like the choices and memories made along that way. The berries, not fully ripe, taste bittersweet on my tongue. 

It is a stark reminder to me there can be no light without dark, no joy without sadness, no beginning without an end in life. Such exquisite truisms found in a simple berry patch!

A Time To Reap

Cade was just buttoning the hatch down on a finicky robotic cultivator when his eyes and ears drew his attention northward. You didn’t need to be a twenty year veteran of the Republic Marines, as he was, to recognize the blinding light and the thundering roar of a Skladaaran landing craft coming to rest.

He spat out his chaw of syntho-bacco unsure if the sour taste in his mouth was a result of that or symptomatic of the aliens’ arrival. He could have gone to town, as many did, to watch the massive insectoids claim their tribute of slaves, but such held no attraction for him. 


Out here in the fields, he would attend to his business and to his harvest and they were welcome to stay in town and tend to theirs. 

Majestic Distress

Her Imperial Majesty, Queen Isabella Margarita Feliniella Espinoza di Calico y Tabby sat her throne uncomfortably. Her sleep had been fitful, interrupted by an embarrassingly-frequent need to seek out the royal privy. To her distaste, she’d scooped the regal litter box herself, lest it become the stuff of palace gossip.

The wriggling of the rodent she held gingerly in one paw roused her. She’d awoken ravenous and ordered up an entire tureen of field mice. Her desire for them, however, waned before she’d finished even the first one. What was wrong with her?

“Taught you better did I then to play with your food, Your Queenliness. Eats it or lets it go, says I.”

The queen yowled in surprise. Madame Sealpoint, again, demonstrated her uncanny ability to seemingly appear from nowhere. Isabella loved the grizzled wretch but was loathe to admit it. Still, the old fossil possessed great knowledge and could be trusted to be discreet.

“Damn you, Sealpoint! Sneak up on me like that again and you shall be a head shorter by nightfall, I swear. I’ve summoned you because – “

“My queen she feels odd, I know. Little is unknown to this humble one. I knowed of an instant my beloved Izzy, she was pregnant. Kittens she will have very soon. A princess would be welcome to this ancient one. What you are thinking of Antonia for name?”

Her query went unanswered as the startled queen chose that moment to vomit spectacularly into the tureen next to her. 

The Heart Of A Champion

Emerging into the alleyway, Bruno kicked in a last burst of speed to finish strong. His long sleek legs pumping, his deep chest swelling with air, his whipcord muscles straining, he practically flew across the finish line. Sadly, none of Bruno’s friends had the heart to tell him he was not, in fact, a greyhound. 

Never Again

They dragged the young family from his cellar and shot them, saving him for last. There would be no bullet for him. As they tightened the rope about his neck, he felt no fear, only sadness and confusion.

Could they truly intend to destroy entire races, religions, ethnicities for no crime greater than that of being who they had been born?

He stood as straight and dignified as his years allowed. Removing his glasses, he saw the world around him grow blurry and lose all focus. It seemed a fitting metaphor for the reality of what his homeland was becoming.

Faery Memories, Faery Hope

Sheliandra was, most certainly, neither the youngest or the oldest of her kind; but she was, without doubt, the very last of her people who remained within the woods. She did not fault those who had taken The Hidden Ways to refuge elsewhere. She had remained behind because she could not bear the thought of living in a world without the Younger Races.

She recalled a time when they had lived in harmony with those impossibly large creatures; a simpler time when what were now legends had been real. Though the humans no longer honored her kind, though they were poisoning her home beyond belief, still she stayed, hoping they would remember those simpler times and return to them before it was too late for them all. 

Observing The Proprieties

Cordelia Mae Junebug and her sister, Ophelia Jane, had only just been discussing the sorry state of the resort when SHE flew in.

“Her name is Dahlia, I’m told…Dahlia Damselfly. Damsel indeed! I must say she looks a bit of a tart in that garish blue get-up.”

“Oh I quite agree, sister…and those wings? Who would go out wearing something like those?”

“Well, I doubt she can help that, dear. They appear to be permanently attached. Still and all, an unpleasant ensemble.”

“Shh! She’s coming over this way.”

“Dahlia, my dear! How are you darling? Have you lost weight?”

An Equitable Arrangement

Not glancing away from the dusty warehouse window, Ambrose whispered to his young accomplice, “Okay kid, place looks quiet. Now, remember our arrangement. I’ll be your lookout while you grab all the candy you can carry. In exchange, you open me up an extra can of food every day next week. Ready? Let’s do this!”

Fairytaleland P.D.

Arriving on scene, the Chief Constable recognized the girl from around town, Jill Something-or-Other. She was a mess of bruises and cuts. All in all, she’d fared better than her companion.  The entire top of the lad’s head was a bloody ruin.

Frowning, his deputy came over, “Says she and her friend Jack headed up the pathway to that old well. She claims he lost his footing on the way down and she injured herself trying to save him.”

The Constable shrugged, “Okay. Finish things up here then get back to looking for Tom Piperson and that damned stolen pig.”

For What Ails You

Her voice a raspy croak, the woman called out, “Joshie, bring Mama her medicine? Please hurry Joshie, Mama’s hurtin’ real bad tonight.”

Without hesitation, the 8-year old sat aside his unfinished homework and took her the tall glass of bourbon and water.

Josh completed his homework, made himself a baloney sandwich for supper and then watched cartoons until bedtime.

Late in the night, he awoke to the familiar sound of Mama vomiting and he sobbed; wishing the medicine would just make her all better instead of making her sicker than she was the night before.  

Glittering Princess Dreams

As a young girl, Bridget dreamed she was a princess. Evil forces sought to kill all the royalty, so she’d been hidden away amongst the peasants.

By age 23, she was a sad, dissolute woman of no consequence. Days were spent serving greasy diner fare. Nights were characterized by cheap drinks and frenzied dancing at a disco that refused to die.

The night the glittering ball broke free and hammered her to the dance floor provided Bridget her long-awaited rescue. Freed from her peasant existence by the resulting coma, she’d never need to leave her wondrous magical kingdom ever again. 

The Light Of Truth

The trouble started when they threw the book in the fire.  It was on the day when over 200 refugees had streamed into the Pleasanton Community Library seeking shelter from the climactic changes that had plunged the world into its second Great Ice Age.

No one knew who’d kindled a small fire beneath the skylight in the ceiling but soon others scurried about, ferrying cartloads of books towards it. A small, bespectacled man in a tweed suit pushed his way through the mass of bodies, seeking, with minimal success, to be heard over them.

“Stop! Please, stop. You can’t do this. What you are doing is wrong, terribly wrong. Please, listen to me! You have to stop.”

One man detached himself from the crowd, a de facto leader perhaps, and strode purposefully over. It was plain, by his demeanor, he was accustomed to getting his way by dint of sheer size and intimidation.

“Now, you listen here. We got us a whole lot of real cold folks here. What we don’t have is no time to waste listenin’ to yer pansy-assed, philosophical arguments. If we gotta burn these books to stay warm than burn ‘em we will, ya hear me?”

The man looked confused. “Hello, I am Orville Quint, Chief Librarian of this facility, and I suspect you misunderstand me good sir. I don’t object to your actions on a philosophical but rather upon a practical basis. To whit, books will simply not burn in the manner you imagine.”

“The hell you say! I may not be no ivory-tower egghead like you but I ain’t no complete dumbass neither. We read us a book way back in 10th grade by some fella was all about burnin’ books! Said they burned at a good 450 degrees or so and that oughta go a powerful way towards warmin’ up these womenfolk and little ones.”

Orville sighed with the infinite patience of an educated man confronted by misassumption. “A fine book of Mr. Bradbury’s, indeed, albeit one based on a flawed premise. You see, the 451 degrees the book spoke of did not, as you’ve surmised, refer to the heat a burning book might well generate. That number is the flash point at which paper would spontaneously combust without the application of flame to it. In practice, due to their condensed nature and the lack of air flow between the pages, a book is quite unlikely to burn without some accelerant added. Smolder yes, burn no.”

The leader, as well as many others, did not want to hear any such thing and Orville found himself pushed aside as they continued in their ultimately hopeless endeavor. He huddled in an alcove, secure in the knowledge the coming night temperatures would see most of them dead of hypothermia long before any sunlight might, otherwise, succor them.

He spent his final hours reflecting that while the light of Truth could not be forever extinguished, neither, it seemed, could the angry heat of ignorance be banished easily.

Victorious Sisterhood

Veering onto Bloody Basin Road, Trina grinned at the delicious irony. Blood would be spilt today and the abandoned quarry would make a fitting basin.

Beside her, Kat fidgeted. “You don’t HAVE to go through with this. We can get Thai food and watch re-runs of Grayson’s Pond, maybe?”

“I didn’t spend half the night pounding nails into a baseball bat to back out now. This ends just one way.”

“But…she’s your own sister! Can’t you work things out?”

“No, we can’t. Look, she IS my sister which makes this a family matter. As my second, all you gotta do is make sure this stays a fair fight.”

Pulling up, she caught sight of Tori stetching out. She wasn’t surprised she’d chosen that bitch, Jade, to back her up. Despite appearances otherwise, she’d always suspected the two had some sick lesbo thing going on.

Hefting her bat, Trina got out. Kat grabbed her, sobbing, “This is ridiculous! You can’t fight a death match over some stupid dress!”

“This was NOT ‘some stupid dress’, dammit. Nobody wears the exact same gown as me to prom and gets away with it, NOBODY! Well? Let’s go. You got me hungry for Thai now.”

Counting The Ways

General Thorik “The Hammer” Olaffson’s fist struck the table. “Dammit, Professor! When will your android be finished?”

“Uhh…gynoid, General, ANGIE is a gynoid.”

Olaffson’s rage gave way to confusion, “What’s a gynoid and who the Hades is Angie?!?”

Professor Emil Strock sighed, “A synthetic humanoid possessing female characteristics is a gynoid, sir. ANGIE is an acronym for Autonomous Neuro-Guided Infiltration Element.”

Olaffson chuckled, “Oh yes. I did read your reports. What possessed you to make us a female robot on the end of an extension cord?”

“ANGIE is NOT a robot,” he snapped, “As my paper explained, I believe a gynoid’s best suited to our goals. In addition, once the unit’s fully imprinted, the neural interface cable isn’t required.”

Olaffson frowned. “Our ‘goal’ is to kill the Confederation’s enemies. You feel a female is best suited to that?”

Strock despised inaccurate conclusions. “The agreement calls for an artificial life form to neutralize the enemy. I maintain a female is more likely to find a non-lethal yet effective solution.”

“A lot of time and money has been invested here, Strock. The Confederation expects solutions…soon.” He left with that  pronouncement.

Strock shrugged as he brought the systems online.

“Hello ANGIE. Shall we continue where we left off?”

The gynoid body on the table remained inert, but a contralto voice responded. “Yes, Emil. That would please me. Will you be reading me Byron again?”

 “No, ANGIE. Today we begin Shakespeare. Please access and integrate. Let’s begin with, “Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?...”

A technician in the Office of Special Projects removed his headphones, auto-dialing an extension. “The subject has deviated from established protocols and is continuing with conduct as previously noted.”

Strock had just concluded reading Othello when Confederation Marines kicked in the lab door.

“Enough, Professor. Your ass is headed to an internment camp for hindering the war effort and your clockwork girlfriend is off to the scrap yards. I hope you enjoy the way they’ll treat you there.”

Before Strock could respond, something miraculous and quite impossible occurred.

ANGIE slid off the workbench with fluid agility. She extended her arms and a flurry of flechettes dropped three marines.

Her ocular implants glowed green as she spoke, “You will NOT harm Emil or this unit. Desist. No one else need be injured.”

Olaffson was livid. “Lieutenant, shoot that damned thing and take her peckerwood boyfriend into custody!”

The marines unleashed a murderous volley of fire. ANGIE was struck repeatedly, sparks flying from her unarmored body. Rising to her aid, Strock was slammed to the floor as multiple slugs stitched his chest.

When the fusillade ended, Strock and his creation lay dying on the floor. ANGIE dug furrows in the concrete, dragging herself to her love. Draping an artificial arm across his chest, she whispered into his ear. “…and, if God choose, I shall but love thee better after death.”

Emil reached for her as he drew his last breath and the light of her eyes forever faded into darkness.

Princess And The Pack

As a purebred princess of her kind, Anastasja was not bound to moon cycles like the pitiful werewolf peasantry. She was accustomed to hunting and feeding as she wished, not reposing to wait for others.

But it was a duty of her lineage to form and lead her own pack and so she had. She wondered, idly, which of her newly-made wildlings had begun to embrace the sensual pleasures of their lupine state and which still bemoaned their situation. In truth, it mattered little, since either would provide her some semblance of excitement.

If the weak ones turned tonight into another angst-ridden repast, weeping at their bloodied hands and faces, she was not above culling the pack as necessary. To be a wolf was to be strong, to revel in the raw primal power that was the pack. There was no place for tears. Tonight they would howl like wolves or die screaming like prey.

Critical Thinking Exercise

“Well dang it all, Dave. We can’t just keep floatin’ around in this contraption forever, can we?”

“No, I reckon we can’t Jeb. But you just take them binoculars and take a real good look see down below. Now, do it look like all them folks down there has decided to stop tryin’ to eat each other yet?”

“Naw, Dave. Don’t look like nothin’ of the sort. Hell, they look a mite more riled up than yesterday.”

“Yep. So, while we may not be able to stay up here forever I do reckon a little while longer do seem prudent.”

Coming Home

He held his trembling hand out as he had so very many times in the past, but no one was there. He’d been on the streets for more than long enough to know the dangers of lying down in the cold for too long at a stretch. He knew it all boiled down to too much wine, too little food, too many missed opportunities and too much water under the bridge for him to ever be found again. First he’d lost his job, then his family, then his home and finally his hope. As his tired eyes drooped closed for the very last time, he entered a place of warmth and light, of laughter and plenty and knew that he had, at last, been found again.

Star Double-Cross'd

In the millennia-long history of their species, they had always been conquerors. Not mere planets but entire star systems were absorbed under their might. Whether these beings were accepted as the conquered or the subjugated was a decision made by The Arbiters.

To each Arbiter was given the opportunity to select an indeterminate number of Supplicants. These would be the voices that pled Humanity’s case and in whom the fate of all would rest. They were selected by no process discernible to anyone.

Rosamilla had been one such Supplicant. That she had grown to be so much more had been both unplanned and inconvenient to Shal’Na’Thra’Kamura. She had chosen the unlikely path of appealing to his peoples’ near-forgotten love of the arts and literature.

For every day of the Arbitration Time, she’d inundated him with the words of Browning, Keats, Shelley, Byron and the redoubtable Shakespeare. Though he was neither the youngest nor most impressionable of the Arbiters, he was nonetheless unexpectedly moved by her offerings.

Neither could recall who had made the first overtures, but though alien they might be to each other; their anatomies were, still and all, compatible. It was forbidden and would, most surely, have warranted his deserved destruction, but Shal’Na’Thra’Kamura would not deny her. He felt the inescapable lure of…Love.

On a night much like many before, as she drifted into slumber, she murmured the now-familiar words. "From forth the fatal loins of these two foes, a pair of star-cross'd lovers take their life". He smiled, secure in the knowledge he’d achieved his true purpose.

 “The Arbitration” was naught but a high-flung phrase for shore leave for his people. As with all conquered species, the males would labor and die at their behest while the females served to ensure his peoples’ continuation. Star-cross’d lovers indeed!

Surprise!

“Well, now, if that wasn’t the most awkward birthday moment ever then it has to be right up there.”

“Just shut up and keep walking. I can’t believe my parents gave me a unicorn!”

“Hey, everything was fine until you decided to ride me around. That’s not my fault.”

“Will you please just stop talking?!”

The Quest For Honor

Ichiro, 14^th Daimyo of the Lesser Purple Empire, allowed his antennae to twitch in a rare demonstration of emotion. He understood the necessity for security checks, but understanding made him no less impatient. He must get to his quarters and prepare for the upcoming ceremonies.

He could not believe he was to witness the Diamond Jubilee of the Grand Monarch herself. She’d reigned now for an unheard of sixty months and her House enjoyed nearly unlimited power. Sixty months seemed an impossibly long life for the young Daimyo, who was barely three weeks old himself.

His family had long since been doomed to the archive of degraded monarchy for their role in a failed coup against the ruling family. Now, after twenty generations, Ichiro dared hope his family might regain their honor. She was empowered to forgive her subjects their past indiscretions on this most wondrous of occasions. Did he dare hope she finally would?