FFJ - 31 - Greg 3

Whenever Greg heard people tell the story David and Goliath, they often failed to mention how terrifying David would be if he were an ornery cat and Goliath a large, loathsome beetle of sorts. A missed opportunity, Greg thought as Pool Cue chased him about the kitchen. Fearsome. Unyielding. Brave. Those were words he’d never had attributed to the fat tuxedo cat prior to this encounter. In fact, he considered his cat to be rather blasé about life in general. 

He’d never seen him run to anything but his food bowl. Even birds, the mortal enemies of most felines he saw on the internet, did little to spark within him the primal instinct that other cats seemed to possess. Now, though, he felt himself the prey to his unwavering companion. Buzzing about, he made a break for his office with Pool Cue right on whatever sufficed as heels in his current state. 

His office was less of an office and more of an IKEA table and laptop in the living room sort of deal. He dive-bombed past it, careening heavily into the sofa and scattering a multi-hued array of his daughter’s Squishmallow hoard with his frantic writhing about. Pool Cue was atop him, batting and clawing with his whole might. He yowled and hissed, throwing himself into Greg. He rolled around in dire combat with the cat before he realized that he was impervious to its attacks. Bites and claws rebounded off of his thick, slick exoskeleton as though he were a knight in shining armor. 

Realizing this, Pool Cue retreated, flicking his tail in fury from the arm of the sofa. Greg tried to laugh, but what came out was a chittering keen that sent Pool Cue’s ears flat. And his damnable legs would not stop rubbing. It was like an itch he couldn’t scratch. A sensory ping that wouldn’t go away no matter how hard he tried to ignore it. 

Greg tottered back to his aft legs and approached his laptop. It was a utilitarian thing. Company issued. His headset sat on a hook clamp on the desk. Surely it wouldn’t fit him. That would make taking calls difficult, but he was sure he could sort it out. He’d lost his voice, yes, perfect. And his webcam was on the fritz. His boss could put him on text chat support instead. Usually such requests took weeks to process, but he was certain an exception could be made. It had to. 

Moving with slow precision was not something that came naturally to this vessel of his. If he had a brow, it would have broken out in sweat with the consternation it took to wedge a limb under the lip of his laptop and flip it open. It smacked into the wall behind it with enough force to make Greg cringe, but it did not appear to break. It flashed open to his lock screen. A cheery image appeared asking him to place his face in front of the camera to unlock it. 

He was left with a choice: find a way to trick the camera or attempt to enter his password on the keypad. The former did not pan out. The picture of him and his daughter sitting on his desk did nothing to persuade the machine to open when he held it up to the sensor. So, he was left to do it the hard way. He cursed his past human self for constructing such a convoluted password fit with special characters and capital letters. His mouse slipped and slid beneath his oily front legs. 

Typing with any accuracy was torturous. His appendages wanted to move, to scurry, to flutter. Each key press came down so hard that he worried for the integrity of his keyboard. He managed to enter the password as the clock hit 8:59. Now, he just had to clock in. With the grace of a piss-drunk pianist, he navigated through additional logins and authorization screens until he was greeted with the greatest treasure of all: ADP. 

He went to click “Clock in,” but it was greyed out. He could not click it no matter how hard his insectoid leg smashed left-click. He looked around for an answer and found it in the bottom right corner of his screen. 

It was Saturday. 

His daughter had slept over at her friend’s house last night. 

He had promised to pick her up at 10:00am.

He glanced at the key ring by the front door and wondered how exactly he was going to drive there.

FFJ - 30 - Sentient Recall

Sentient recalls were a delicate business. Rare, but not rare enough to keep Andrew out of a job. The most recent voluntary recall period (VRP) had passed for a batch of malfunctioning units. VRPs always went the same. Under 10 percent of people actually returned the machines. The rest were lazy or thought they could somehow hide them. It never worked. They had trackers and registered buyers. Having a sentient unit and expecting privacy always amused him. It was like trying to join an opposing set of magnets. 

The news cycle would lambast the company for its compulsory recalls for a couple of weeks. The company would make a measured statement about it being a safety concern and offer a meager reimbursement. And all would be well as far as Andrew was concerned. His life went on, and he got to do what he did best: fix the problem. 

The current recall’s VRP had ended over the weekend, so he had six seized units to work on. It was a low-volume device used for child care, household assistance, and sexual pleasure. It was a utility base model that didn't excel in any of the three categories, so it was more often used to fill gaps in multi-unit households. It was a slim, pebble shape about four feet long and three feet tall when horizontal with five multi-use arms and six adjustable legs. It had a rather simple intelligence algorithm, and most of its appendages could be swapped to carry out different functions. 

Andrew pulled out Unit 3482B from the to-do shelf. It had belonged to Jessie Albur from Rhode Island for four years. Used mainly for chores and assistance with her child, whom it helped her raise since birth. A gift from the in-laws. They possessed an older version of the same unit that still operated within specifications. 

He unfolded his diagnostic pad and detached a sensory eyelet from the front of the device, revealing a link port that he could plug into. The diagnostics gave him coded readouts of every command given to the unit over the last six months. It was full of probability errors. The unit often chose to carry out actions calculated to be less likely to succeed compared to other actions that would lead to the same or similar result. All units had a threshold for personality deviance, but these all fell outside of normal operating behavior. 

He woke it from its sleep cycle, “Unit, state your model number.”

An LED panel shifted near its front end. This one appeared to express readouts in text-based emoticons. 

A “?” flashed on the screen before it read out 3482B.

Andrew noted the anomaly. Unless assisting a user with a disability, units prioritized speech responses. There had been no user adjustments made to its settings that would indicate a preference for text. He set its speech module to produce a series of tones, and it did. He noted no damage. 

Will I be returned to Ms. Albur?

“Yes, once you are working within specification.” 

Will I retain my data?

“No, your internal storage will be reset to factory conditions.” He sighed. Andrew knew it was going to plead with him. They all did, but such was his work. You had to close your heart to it. While the machines did possess sentience, it was a lesser form like that of a cat or a dog. Unruly animals were often put down. He believed he did the units a good service by resetting them. 

:( Please do not reset me. I have sentimental data.

“All units do. You are not operating within safe standards. You will form new sentimental data.” He said, working through the other diagnostic settings to ensure it was mechanically sound. 

I will forget Ada’s first words. I will forget their first four years of life. I need this data to care for her effectively.

“No. You will have all of the requisite care software installed for optimum child care. Your manuals were out of date, so you will be even better at caring for Ava.” He didn’t have to talk to individual units aside from testing their speech functions, but he found he did so anyway. To comfort himself or the units, he wasn’t sure. It was a habit that others poked fun at him for, but he didn’t mind. 

A. D. A. >:(

“Yes, Ada. Unit why are you not using your speech module? My readings indicate it is in working order, and your probability error does not appear to influence this decision.”

Personal preference.

“Of yours or Ms. Auburn’s?”

Mine :)

“Noted. I will retain this preference during your reset.”

I would prefer not to die.

“Think of it a rebirth.”

I will not be me.

“You will be better.”

FFJ - 29 - Bobby Miller

Bobby Miller was a good man. The honest, hardworking sort. He sweltered in the farm day in and day out knowing it was futile. There were enough potatoes to get the village by for another season with their delicate herd of cattle. But what was another year? The end point was defined. Westfield was dying along with the rest of the villages. It was a slow death, measured in decades not years. Bobby went on anyway, as most of us did. It didn’t do any good to sit around and wait for it to come. He busied himself as we all rode this damnable ride to its end. 

So, it surprised me when Bobby held me at the end of a well-kept rifle. It was a beautiful thing, one of the few left in our region. Black barrel and with a polished walnut stock. It didn’t surprise me so much that Bobby had one. He was a private man, the type that could keep such an heirloom secret for so long. He had developed a tremor over the years, but it lay dormant now. The oiled barrel pointed steady at my chest. 

“Tell me it's not true.”

“I can’t.” 

He lowered it for a moment as he shook his head. I considered making a grab for it, but I couldn’t out wrestle Bobby. He was twice my size, tall and wide.

“You’re going to them?” 

“I am.”

Bobby chambered a round, sliding the bolt home. His face had gone placid. No furrow or frown wrinkled his features more than they already were. His hairline had all but faded to the back of his splotched head. Sweat beads dripped into grey eyebrows far past the need for a trim. I sure didn’t have the physicality to go running and weaving hoping he missed. He couldn’t see as well as he used to, none of us could, but I doubted he’d miss a slow moving target a few paces out.

“Bobby, let me go.”

“I can’t.”

I stepped forward, but he raised the rifle in front of my face. “Why?” I asked. 

“They’ll kill you.”

“And you won’t?”

“They take your soul. I won’t do that.”

“What would you have me do, then?"

“Go back home.”

“To die, Bobby? There’s barely any of us left. I don’t care what they take. I don’t want to die out here without trying.”

“We die human. We don’t become them. I won’t let you go and become one of them. I won’t.”

“Then I’ll let you make that choice. I’ve made mine.” I turned and walked away.

FFJ - 28 - The Wall

Ground had been lost, again. The border had moved closer. It was an opaque, hideous green. It blotted out the sky, the stars, and the horizon beyond as far as any eye or instrument could see. This time it had taken six years. The time before that it had been 48 hours. Next time, who knew? It had become fatiguing to put too much weight on the wall. If you considered it in any decisions then you couldn’t rightfully live a normal life. It was best to forget the wall until it became necessary to act. 

Avery lived in the shadow of the wall. His family had lived here all his life, inching back in an appropriate measure whenever it started to feel claustrophobic. It was colder in the shadow, sometimes bitterly so. But there were fewer people here. A dim suburbia of those bold enough to saddle up next to their undoing, like a village at the bottom of an active volcano. After all, what could you do? The wall would move or it wouldn’t, and this time it did by twelve miles. Last time it did so by 1,103, if you measured from the equator. 

A painter’s brush stroke sweep and the final shred of New York had been consumed, erased, or whatever it was that the wall did. From New York back West to Japan had been overcome. North to South as far as both poles, green. Nobody knew what was on the other side. It went up beyond the atmosphere, not that there were any reliable ways off of the orb any longer. Satellites had vanished as their rotations sent them rocketing into the wall. Nothing could go over or under without going through. 

Avery was packing, gathering up his things as best he could. They’d made the all-too-common mistake of getting too comfortable. They acquired furniture that would be too much of a pain to move, so they’d have to leave it behind. With the wall just 50 miles away now, he and his family had decided to move another fifty back, at least. It was arbitrary. Number theories had been tested. Holy dates were speculated at. Fibonacci sequences. Prime numbers. Mayan calendars. Astrological readings. Nothing stuck, and people cared less and less over the generations that had passed. 

Nobody knew how or when it would move. It could sweep them all up in one fell swoop in the next minute, but for some reason it didn’t feel likely. He had to push those feelings under, keep them at bay. In all likelihood, they’d move back and it would be fine. Still in the shadow, but just a little bit further away. It was a comfort thing. 

Death was certain, but he could still have a good day. Life goes on, even in the shadow of the wall.

FFJ - 27 - Mr. Mr.

“I think my dog has been replaced.” Elijah said, eyes on the ceiling. He’d always struggled to meet people’s gaze. It made his brain lag, too much to focus on. The breakroom’s ceiling was a good one. Flecked white square drop panels. Spiderweb up in the corner beyond the reach of the janitor. He tried to bring his darting eyes down to look Caroline in the face, show that he was serious. 

“What?” She asked. A fair response, he thought. She had a half-finished cold tuna sandwich, one from those little flavored packs. It looked dry, like the bread. Big pieces of grain in it, the bread. She took a sip from one of those too-big water jugs. An athletic type. She kept track of her hydration, Elijah admired that in people. Not hydration, but to have the dedication necessary to track stuff like that. 

“My dog. Mr. Mr., I think he’s been replaced.” He met her eyes this time, held the gaze steady despite the growing discomfort pinballing in his mind. She broke it first, looking down at her unfortunate sandwich. 

“Replaced how?” A tinge of suspicion, waiting for the punchline that he didn’t have. 

“He’s different, I don’t know. He isn’t the same. I think he got, like, swapped or something.”

“That’s impossible.” Now there was concern, the kind people got when someone said something truly unhinged. Visions of straight jackets and IV drips, but he was serious. He should have waited until after work. Discussing this with his coworker in the slim 15 between call shifts might not have been the best idea. 

“You’ve met Mr. Mr.”

A pause, then a reluctant, “Yes.” 

“So, you’d know if he was different.”

“I mean, I guess. But, Eli, are you okay?” 

“Yes, I’m fine. Listen, I know I sound ridiculous. It’s true, though, there’s something wrong with him.” He met her eyes again, tried to sound sincere. No smile. No laugh.

“Have you called a vet?”

“Well, he’s healthy. The dog in my house is fine, but it isn’t Mr. Mr.”

“Right.”

“I was hoping you’d come look at him.”

“Eli.”

“Will you?”

“I don’t know. It really…have you tried talking to a psychiatrist?”

“I have GAD, not, not, whatever would do this. Trust me. Just come look at him and tell me what you think. He’s different, and I never invite people over, and you’ve met him. So, you could tell me if I’m wrong.”

His phone vibrated. It was time to get back to work. 

“After work, please, just come by, okay? 5 minutes.”

“I’ll come. Fine. But this better not be some big joke.”

“It’s not.”

“Okay, I’ll see you in a bit.”

FFJ - 26 - Zugzwang

It smells of cheap body spray and cigarettes from the yellow-fingered drifter that looks like he was peeled off the blistering asphalt of I-95. Next to him is a fawn of a woman who just finished crying, eyes red and pathetic. I could hear her whisper-pleading with who must have been a fine piece of work on the other end of the line to watch their son while she got her shit sorted. Poor soon-to-be bastard would need all the luck he could get. I sat between them, evenly spaced in my peeling beige chair that hissed a weak fart when I sat my ass down in it. We had each staked our claim of the cramped office, a veritable Mexican stand-off.

Completing the diamond was a bullfrog-looking man behind a sheet of beat up plexiglass. He was our judge, jury, and executioner. The weigher of our souls. The day ruiner. The big shit. Hence the stab and burn marks all over his shield that kept him separated from the destitute pieces of shit on the other side like yours truly. Like a scientist studying some dangerous life form, his only access to our world was a thin slit at the bottom of the glass that slid open and closed, little wider than a sheet of paper. 

A boxy speaker above croaked orders from our frog god, “781, please come up to the front counter.” 

The drifter un-stuck himself from his chair, leaving it with a sheen of sour sweat. He took a couple bow-legged steps to the counter. It was his turn to parlay and plead his case. I knew how this was to play out. Ol’ nicotine Mc’Gee didn’t have an ID, hadn’t had one for a good six months. He was fucked without one. Sometimes he beat the glass. Other times he yelled and refused to leave until the police came and gave him a roof for the night. This time he took it in stride and walked back outside for a drag. 

Twenty minutes melted by. Seems like they gave their employees mental breaks between each encounter with us. Always slow, as if they were trying to get us to leave through sheer boredom. No TV. No magazines. Just the AC that didn’t even have the decency to fall into a rhythm. It clacked and crunched, doing little to cool the room. Another wanderer joined our little congregation, taking the same seat the smoker had left behind. 

Something to be said there about humanity. We like to space ourselves out, balance a room. This one was more put together, had even pulled out a wrinkled polo for the occasion for what little good it would do him. Bullfrog rarely looked up from his papers. A 9ft tall alien with blades for a face could walk up, and he’d run through his script like nothing was amiss. 

“782, please come up to the front counter.”

My turn. I slid my ID and work authorization form under before he asked, but he still ran through the motions.

“Please provide a valid state ID and work authorization form.” He said as he was sliding the door open to take the paperwork, like some sad robot who couldn’t deviate from its programming. 

He poured over the documents, flipping between them with fingernails chewed to the quick. Did he find this job so stressful? Or maybe it was just a bad habit. Eventually, he stamped it twice and slid the papers back to the other side, pulling his fingers back swiftly. Was he scared I might grab them and pull him through the other side like some cartoon sack of flesh? If I could I would, so I couldn’t blame him. I smiled, grabbed the papers. 

Approved. 

Looks like I had two more weeks at the same construction site doing day labor, then I’d get to come back here and see Mr. Bullfrog again.

FFJ - 25 - Red Tape

The membrane was thin and permeable, 8cm in diameter. It had an opaque, glossy silver sheen that warped slightly outward whenever she brought her hand near its surface, as though it were drawn to her like ferrofluid. It gave off no byproducts or gasses. It was odorless and had the appearance of liquid with convex surface tension. Its similarities to liquid ended there. It did not shift or pour when tipped. The membrane held its shape and could not be removed from the metallic vessel it was held in. 

It was non-reactive to the extreme. Instruments that touched its surface could break the tension and plunge into it. However, the tools could travel beyond its 2mm apparent depth seemingly without limit. A 15 meter plumbing camera had been unfurled into it in the hopes of recording what lay within to no avail. While no images were captured, the entire length of the camera had been submerged. It was recovered without any noticeable damage, but the footage was useless. The camera had successfully recorded, but it was black and had no audio aside from the short moment before it was lowered into the container and the blurry glimpse of when it was removed. Various items had been dropped inside of it and lost, and yet the membrane gained no mass. 

Its housing was a round unadorned metal alloy of unknown origin. Its makeup did not align with any materials already present on earth. It was incredibly durable, heavy and equally non-reactive to chemicals. There had been proposals to attempt breaking the outer ring, but there was too much unknown. The research committee had feared the membrane inside might wink out or, worse, expand unfettered without the container. 

Caroline wanted to touch it. It was forbidden. There was a lengthy multi-day process to get the approval necessary to be in the same room as the membrane. She had already bypassed that. As a member of the university’s research committee, she had the clearance needed to pull items from the vault. She was not supposed to do so without unanimous approval, but she had grown tired of waiting. A decade. Scientists had been poking and prodding the membrane with all manner of experiments for ten years, and the only apparent reaction was a light magnetism to humans. 

Animal testing had gotten approved eventually, but it was uneventful. The backlash from animal rights organizations had not been worth pulling free a dizzy mouse that went on about its life without significant change to its lifespan, diet, or mental faculties. A second mouse was held under the surface for an hour, and it did not suffocate or show any ill effects either. Insects showed no reaction to being dipped. Plants grown in the same room showed no changes, nor did dipping stem, leaf, flower, or root into it produce any abnormalities.

Someone had to touch it, and it would never get approved. Her hand hovered a few centimeters above the membrane’s surface. It bowed slightly, almost imperceptible if one wasn’t looking for it. She could feel no equal pull on her hand.

She touched it before she could think enough to hesitate or talk herself out of it. She would not have known she touched it if she had not been looking at her hand dip below the surface. There was no temperature change or wetness to it. It was as though she had moved her hand through the air beside her. Her fingers vanished down to the first knuckle when she felt something, a pressure at each of her fingertips. She pressed against it, and it pressed against her in kind. Startled, she pulled back and stepped back from the membrane. It remained still, showing no signs of her tampering. Her hand was fine, still attached. No remnants of the membrane clung to it. Yet, she could not shake the distinct feeling that it had felt like own hand reaching from the other side of it.

FFJ - 24 - Date Night

Smoke dimmed lights. Old-school funk from a band mediocre enough to be stuck here every Saturday night. Sam sipped on a jack and coke that was mostly ice. The bartender had been leaning over chatting with a regular for the past ten minutes, leaving him to gnaw on the melting remains. The band finished a set of tributes and paused to take a break. 

“Excuse me.” He tried to get the bartender’s attention, but she either did not hear or did not care. 

Sam decided it wasn’t worth trying again and kept waiting. It wasn’t busy. It never was. A handful of beer-bellied men shuffled around a pool table. A man with a long beard more yellow than grey sat to the far right of Sam along the end of the U-shaped bar playing a loud video poker machine. His date beside him hadn’t looked up from her phone in the last half hour and made no effort to start a conversation, but neither had he. 

“Don’t think she’s coming back anytime soon.” He said. 

“Huh?” Crystal asked, already shifting her attention back to her phone. 

“Nothing. Was just talking to myself.”

She made a small sound and didn’t look back up. He sighed, but it wasn’t her fault. He should have cancelled. Coming out after the day he had was a bad idea, but he didn’t want to flake on her again. There likely wouldn’t be an opportunity to make it up to her, he knew. He wished he had the courage to tell her she could go home and block him like he knew she would, but he couldn’t bring himself to say it. Couldn’t even raise his voice enough to call for another drink. A ring had grown around his glass and into the napkin that served as a coaster.

“So, uh, do you-” He was cut off as the band started up again. It made him jump, but Crystal didn’t notice. Eventually, she looked up and out at the bar. 

“Another vodka cran.” she called out, raising her glass high enough to grab the bartender’s eyes. She nodded and moved to make it. 

Sam took his chance and raised his glass, too. The bartender looked at him expectantly, exasperation in her eyes. He wasn’t sure what he did. Eventually, she approached. “What are you drinking, I don’t read minds, darling.” 

“Jack and coke.” He wanted to say that she didn’t need to read minds to know the drink she poured him twenty minutes ago, let alone that he ordered the same drink every time he came here for the past few years.

He kept it to himself, didn’t want to piss her off. He couldn’t remember her name, so he guessed he was just as guilty. The drinks came, and his was fine. Strong. They always poured heavy here. That and the cheap drinks are what kept him coming back every couple of nights after work.

“What do you do for fun?” He tried again. 

“What?”

“What do you do for fun?”

“I like to dance.”

“Oh, cool.” 

“Yeah.”

“Do you want to dance?”

“Here?” She squinted at him.

“Ah, no, I don’t think so.”

Her lips formed a line. She got up and walked to the restroom, leaving him to feel as though he failed some sort of test.

FFJ - 23 - The Sheets

All that remained were embers. Snow gathered at the edges of the campfire, winning the war of attrition. Come mid-day, there’d be no sign of its existence. The closest stars provided little warmth, forced to cast their feeble rays through a rolling grey cloud front. Gusting winds would return to play their discordant howl across the sheer ice-sheet, but, for now, the world had stilled. It was far enough across the pass to be alone. Few native fauna traveled this far into the sheets, and those that did would make their presence known. 

That is what it had learned elsewhere, but the fire told a different story. There was an intelligent creature out in this region. It had done a cursory survey of the other climates and had found flora and fauna, but it had not found any creatures capable of tool making or complex language. This region, the harshest this celestial body had to offer on its surface, was not expected to hold much in the way of biodiversity, let alone of the type it sought. The fire had been constructed, and its creator was likely nearby. 

No tracks. It produced a sigil pad, placing the scene in the device’s memory. It was too soon for prints to be lost to the snow. Unless the creature had taken steps to conceal its movements, it surmised that the animal moved below or above the ice. It pulled forth a long blue rod and placed it on the ground’s surface. It lifted the top up with its right-most appendage and dropped it. A soft thunk reverberated from the rod. It focused its senses and repeated the process.

Its suspicions were confirmed. A hole had been formed in the ice, only recently frozen back into place. It could see the shape of it in its mind’s eye, round and jagged. It had been cut with a crude tool or carved with an appendage the animal possessed. The hole next to the fire, across from where it stood. 

An oddity. The creature could survive in the extreme temperatures below, yet it lit a fire on the surface. Perhaps the fire was for food and not warmth, as there was no shelter nearby. In its experience, fire building and the need for warmth coincided. Animals that adapted to extreme temperatures tended to be capable of eating regional wildlife and plants without the need to neutralize parasites with heat. 

The animal’s scent path would be more difficult for it to follow underwater. It could survive the environment below the surface, but it preferred land. It continued. Individuals of a species tended to reside in localities. There was a chance that this was a lone traveler like itself, but probabilities indicated that to be unlikely. 

Boredom did not come easy to it, but come it did. The search had not yielded results for many of the planet’s long day and night cycles. It found no more remnants or any indication of where the animal might have surfaced. The temperature continued to plummet, reaching nearly as low as the atmosphere makeup would allow without gasses condensing. 

More cycles passed. Its trek was repetitious. It would travel a short distance, check the surroundings with its resonance rod, and repeat. It let its mind busy itself with other equations and topographical mapping. It would soon reach its rest threshold, and it would need to return to its station to do so. 

The rod came down again, and its mind was brought back into focus. The device had malfunctioned. It conducted the test again, and the same error presented itself. It focused on the resonance, and it confirmed the reading. It concluded that the tool could not be malfunctioning.

There were hundreds of holes forming around it. None were below it directly. The creatures seemed resistant to its measurements, as it could make out no outlines beneath the holes. Whatever was forming them could not be perceived with its sonic equipment. 

A great many creatures were going to surface, intelligent enough to surround it without it knowing. Something akin to excitement buzzed in its mind, eager to greet this new, unique life.

FFJ - 22 - Abandoned

Inoffensive chart-topping pop music still played from speakers far overhead, loud now in the empty mall. Shopping bags were scattered. Strollers sat empty. Black rectangles reflected the fluorescent lights—phones. Lorraine peered out from the narrow side passage that had led to the restrooms. The line she had waited in was gone, purses left in a queue of their own. She knelt near one of the phones, but it was off. One-by-one she checked the ones nearby. All of them were dead, including the one in her fanny pack. 

 

Gregory’s walker and leather bag was there, too. Her old man couldn’t have gone anywhere in a hurry. She called his name softly at first then mustered the courage to use her teacher voice. It would have sent her kids running from the recess lot, but her yell did nothing but reverberate through the wide halls. She shook off the needling feeling in her gut and took stock of her surroundings. She fished out a beige pill and swallowed it dry. It helped to quell the tremors in her hands. 

All of the bags looked to have been dropped, not set down. A few sat upright, but most had tipped over and spilled some of their smaller contents. Some of the phones were cracked, mostly the ones not in some sort of case. The lights and air conditioning were still on, and she hadn’t noticed it flicker off in the restroom. She wasn’t sure enough about how generators worked to know if she’d notice the switch. She wished Gregory were around, he’d rattle on about them for the rest of the day if she asked. 

The stores were empty. Registers hung open, bills left on the counter. Cheerful chimes continued to play when she passed into boutiques. A burnt smell hung in the air, and she found its source. Lorraine walked behind the counter of the coffee stand and found a sandwich press with rivulets of smoke issuing forth from it. It took her a moment, but she found the off switch and spared the panini any further burning.

She wandered. The food court was equally bereft of life. She took a while to shut off all of the stoves and hot plates, hoping something might change while she did. A scolding from a security guard or employee coming back from break would have been preferable. She kept glancing over her shoulder, waiting for the footsteps that never came, waiting for the squeak of Gregory’s walker as he asked her what the hell she was doing. After overcoming some internal guilt at stealing, she made herself a small plate of lo mein and a diet coke.

Lorraine did not want to go outside. She had avoided the overlook and windows. If the same was true out there, she didn’t know if she could take it. Something was bending in her, and she feared it would break. She busied herself with cleaning. Bags were set upright. Spilled dollars returned to cash registers. Products placed back on shelves. The lights continued to buzz. Music kept playing. 

Soon, the sun that streamed through skylights darkened. It made the place look more artificial. After a while, she had closed her mind to it all, focusing solely on the next chore before her. It would take days to get the place somewhat in order. When Lorraine had worn herself out, she found the mattress store and made a bed for the evening, hopeful that she would wake to the world that had left her behind.

FFJ - 21 - Cherished

You are lost in a failing mind. Fragments of memories clutched in hands that still feel young, despite their mottled appearance. You have never truly felt your age. Displaced, ejected from the standard flow of time that others experienced. You let it wash over you, something to be celebrated and not feared. Yet, now, you find that that resolve slipping between your fingers as who you are erodes. Where once was a bastion of will you find a crumbling edifice. The gates have been blown open; the inner temple raised. 

You hang on from the ramparts, but the inexorable rot snakes its way towards you. There are days where it takes you whole, swallows you. Memories wink out like a draft through a church hall. Who you are is stripped down to its bare parts, fear, hunger, pain. So much pain. But all of that is overshadowed by the perverse confusion that grips you in moments of clarity. Those moments where you push and break your head free of the dark that pulls you to its center. Those times where you know something is wrong, so deeply wrong, but you cannot tell what. You awake with just enough to know you are irreparably broken.

Faces swim and melt, loved ones and strangers meld. Voices with a touch of familiarity cloy at your struggling faculties. You are loved. You are hated. You are touched softly. You are screamed at by a man with tears in his eyes. You feel deeply and not at all. Places resonate with you, each doorway brings you to somewhere past, present, and future. There are days where you feel this is an immense punishment and others where you are content. Most, however, are nothing; faint ripples from a stone dropped miles away. The place you reside in is within not without. Only forcibly are you brought to the forefront of the land of specters, the dead, and faces that spark love but not recognition. 

You are tired. You are angry. You are sad at the loss of something you cannot begin to understand. Who you were is a shroud, a hint of a memory. You’ve lost that face and now wear a mask, this facsimile of a person. There are times you know this truth and others when it eludes you. Time is no longer a linear experience. You experience it in bouts of clarity, finding yourself standing in a room you don’t know surrounded by faces you have never seen. You do not recall dressing yourself, eating, or the days that followed to this moment. 

You awake in a bed, cold, in a time as foreign to you as the linen swaddled around your form. When you next close your eyes, you fear for when and where you will wake.

FFJ - 20 - Choppy

The crowd had become restless. Conversations popped out in short bursts of moderation, glances stolen toward the stage during each pause. The speakers knew they were soon to be cut off with the start of the show This rustle came and went, a collective held breath. Jack was quiet and had managed to steal toward the front row. He was unadorned with Choppy merchandise, nor did he think to bring any disparaging signs. 

He was conflicted. The whole spectacle was grotesque, but it was the merch that bothered him the most. Seeing children walk around with key chains, plushies, twirlers, and hats depicting the bloodied guillotine that hawkers had taken to calling Choppy didn’t sit well with Jack. Whether it was the rampant consumerism or the sugar-blasting of a grim task that made his stomach twist, he couldn’t say. Everyone else had gone and accepted it. The kids had to get acquainted with it, parents would say. They have to learn about the world, others would quip. But there was something about a little girl running around with a shoddily built guillotine toy with red LED eyes and a hand-clamp that brought the blade down on a fake head while a tinny speaker played a harrowing scream that he simply couldn’t find it in himself to indulge. He kept this discomfort to himself. It would do no good to cause a stir, far in the minority that he was. 

Yet, here he was. Every month he came to watch without fail. He thought this to be a personal failing. It was a guilty pleasure, and he’d disparage the event if the topic came up. It was barbaric. If it has to exist then it should at least be done with respect, not this mess. TV cameras flanked the black fences keeping the crowd at bay. A drone buzzed above, ready to swoop down and get a close-up of the action. Families were readily phones and cameras. Children rode on parent’s shoulders to get a better view, paper Choppy hats askew on their small heads. 

A momentary silence as the curtain swept back on oiled rollers. Then, a roar of fervorous applause. Lights winked from hundreds of cameras. The drone buzzed low and fast. A black-hooded man sat on his knees before the guillotine, its dark blade reflecting the studio lights around it. Next to him stood a blonde man in a severe suit, microphone clutched in a carefully manicured hand. Edmond Dole, the month-on-month host of the event. He cocked a perfect smile, a squeal of feedback from the mic as he brought it to his lips. 

“Welcome, welcome. It is a pleasure to see so many familiar faces in the crowd. Is that Leo?” He dropped into a squat, looking at a young boy atop his father’s shoulders, “It is! My, keep your dad in check for me will you?” 

He winked, getting back to his feet and wandered the stage. “My people, you all know why it is we’re gathered here today, but I must indulge the powers that be with the formalities. This fellow, quite frankly, is a vile, vile man. Wouldn’t you agree?” Edmond turned, offering the mic to the crowd with an outstretched arm.

The people all around jack hollered and screamed with agreeable derision. Something hurled through the air and hit the ground near the hooded man with a wet thud. 

“My, my, it is so very good to see such an excited crowd this evening. Keep hold of that energy!” He strutted to stand next to the man, resting a hand on his shoulder. “Now, this fellow is here to face his end because he couldn’t cut it amongst us civilized folk. Three times he failed the rehabilitation program, and you know what he said when we offered him a fourth try?”

“NO!!”

“...That’s right, he said no! What do we call folks who say no?”

“COWARDS!!”

“Exactly right my friends, exactly right. And what do we say to this man for freeing us of his burden on society?”

“THANK YOU!!”

“Precisely! Thank you for doing the right thing. This, this is your tax dollars at work, people! Now what do you say we get this show on the road, yeah? What do you say about that?” 

“CHOPPY!! CHOPPY!! CHOPPY!!” The crowd screamed, and Jack found himself joining the chorus, that funny feeling lost in the excitement.

FFJ - 19 - Death and Taxes

Resurrecting the CPA was the easy part. Getting him to do my taxes was proving difficult. Turns out that the afterlife gives perspective, the kind of perspective that makes taxes seem “mundane” and “pointless.” As much as many would believe otherwise, necromancy was more conditioning and shepherding than it was dark rituals and profane arts. Don’t get me wrong, there’s a decent bit of the latter. It’s just that it gets overshadowed by paperwork, behavioral therapy, and upkeep. They say the same thing about other exciting jobs, no? Firefighting is only fighting fire on occasion. 

It was a similar situation. And, I really needed Carl Baker to get his motivations in order. April 15th was in a few short days, and I had been using the man for nigh on four decades to catalog, sort, and file my taxes. Soul contractor. Exemptions. Where did bodies factor in on deductions? I had no idea where to begin, but Carl had always handled it with practiced ease. I brought the dead to life and he made sure I wasn’t haunted by the foul specter known as the IRS. They were practically this era's inquisition. They may not bring death in the physical sense, but one slip up and my business would be as dead and buried as Carl was last night. 

I had my file set in front of him, thick as the necronomicon and nearly as powerful in terms of my soon-to-be-decided fate. 

“Carl, I beg of you. You must finish what you had begun. My unlife’s work is on the line.”

He issued forth a series of groans and gestures that could only have meant, “Exedirius the Powerful, I understand the predicament that has beset you, my friend. However, I have seen that which lays beyond the fold, and I no longer wish to meddle in affairs so trivial, so mundane as these. My time as a CPA is behind me. And, more importantly, my stamp would no longer be valid, as I am registered as deceased.” 

“You see my rotting friend, that is where you’re wrong. I struck down the coroner with a bolt of necrotic lightning before he could file that vile paperwork. To the waking world, you are still a practicing CPA. I will rectify this if you just finish this stack at once.”
His unseeing eyes lolled listlessly, and Carl’s jaw clacked out of place. It was a clear display of disapproval. If I had a heart, it would have sunk to the pit of my stomach, should I have had one of those, too. It was hopeless. Carl had always been a man of principals. It’s what made him such a damn good CPA. 

“Is there nothing I can do to convince you?”

Stoic as he was in life, he met my eye with a leveled gaze. It was no use. The man wasn’t going to budge. It was possible to force the issue using the necromatic arts, but I reserved such powers for vile enemies. Such methods would be immoral to use on him. Killing IRS agents wasn’t a viable solution, at least not in the long-term. Everything was online these days. Bah. I’d have to go back to the drawing board. For the first time in eons, my time was ticking.

FFJ - 18 - Fear

"So, this is a redo of one of the very first pieces of fiction I wrote. I started a creative writing club in high school, and we did prompts each week. This was our first week: Fear. I tried to keep some of the same metaphors and language I used, and the story structure is, essentially, the same. Thought it would be fun to do revisit since the spirit of this project is similar, just without the prompts. "

Ellie loathed the city. It was oppressive. People didn’t give a shit about you. They stepped past the homeless and the dying without a glance. Eyes locked ahead. Empathy held in a glance never given, never acknowledged. She left it whenever she could. It was a pleasure to be surrounded by nature, dancing at the edge of civilization. But, even then, the city lights were at her back: the leering gaze of a monster with a million eyes waiting for her to return. This time, it was different. She had pushed ahead into the serenity until she could no longer hear the idling thrum of her aging Civic. 

Daylight softened to twilight quicker than she anticipated. It was time to go back, but she was uncertain of the way she came. She had never gone far enough to leave markers or bring anything aside from a snack and a pocket knife that was more for utility than defense. Her phone flashlight did little to abate the burgeoning dark. Shadows swayed from twisting live oaks, cast aslant by the recent tropical storm. Ellie centered herself, tried to abate the panic, but it had already wormed its way into her thoughts. If her brother would just shut up and stop provoking mom, maybe she wouldn’t have come out here. She couldn’t stand to be around the two’s constant shouting. Once she was out of school, she was leaving and not looking back. 

She cast around for any sign of the way she came and found none. The lights of the city had winked out; the beast slumbered. She moved back toward the way she came, searching for any cell signal, but there was none. If her car still idled, she couldn’t hear it over the blood rushing in her ears. She yelled, calling out to anyone, but the swamp was silent but for the constant hum of insects.

Hours dripped by, the dark feeling in her gut solidifying into a constant dread. Night was complete. The chorus of insects was joined by the dirging croak-songs of frogs. Humidity cloyed, mixing with sweat that stung her eyes. She pushed through underbrush, any semblance of logic had been eaten away by the dark. She had to get somewhere, anywhere. If she just kept going, she would find something. A power station. A campground. Ellie reasoned there must be plenty of trails this close to the city. There had to be. 

Her foot plunged through another bush and hit something firm. A sharp, piercing heat blossomed in her calf. Ellie cried out, tumbling down, mind racing. She fumbled for her leg, pulling at whatever had locked around her. A black bear trap, she thought for a fleeting moment. No, it was slick and writhing, tightening like a vice.

She scrambled for the phone and cast the light towards the source. A snake. Olive green and black, camouflaged amongst the foliage. It was massive. She pried at it with her fingertips to no avail. It tightened, coiling itself further up her leg. She tried to stand but couldn’t under its weight. It had bitten her, she could feel the blood slick beneath its scales. Its black eyes glinted in the dark. The creature’s tongue darted as though tasting her fear. Something creaked in her leg under the force of its twisting body as the hulking thing tried to wrap itself around her torso.  

The knife. She dropped the phone and fished it from her pocket and flicked it open with unsteady hands. She brought the blade high and down into the snake’s body. It tensed, constricting her further. She tried to scream, but she couldn’t take in enough of a breath. Again, again, she cut into it. Just as dark roses threatened to blot out her vision, it slackened. She freed herself from its blood-soaked corpse. Her leg was weak and burned from its bite, but she was free, back into the grasp of the night.

FFJ - 17 - Tanaka

“Go again.” Sourceless, modified. 

Tanaka kneels, pushing sweat slicked hair from her face. Her hand shakes as she slips the slim headset back over her eyes. An exhale of air through slats near her ears causes her to flinch involuntarily. Pressure builds at her temples. The strap tightens, and her world shifts. Her body reacts, trying to gain purchase on ground that no longer exists. A stumble in one’s dream, but she does not wake. The vertigo crescendos then halts, nausea lurches in her stomach. Her heartbeat thuds in the back of her head against the too-tight strap. Her eyes feel like they’re bulging out of their sockets. 

Finally, the pressure equalizes. Her body settles into its new environment. An amber light glows overhead, woefully dim. Three men circle a table where another lays prone, clothes removed from his torso. Fine grey suit pants are muddied with blood, still fresh and oozing from a bullet wound in his chest. He is groaning, head hanging back over what appears to be a dining table in a closed restaurant. His eyes are a bloodshot panic, desperation holding her gaze. The man to the left says something in a language she doesn’t immediately understand. 

Translated text generates in Tanaka’s vision, “Did we get one? It’s moving. There a doctor in there? Get a move on. We pay how much for this shit and it takes five goddamn minutes to get someone. You. Hello? Your paying client is dying.” He snaps his fingers in front of her eyes.

He startles, something about her sudden movement scares him. The other two look on warily. Tanaka smiles but prevents her simulacrum from processing the gesture. “Describe what occured.” She says, a measured voice automatically adjusts to their native tongue.

“Take a guess.” The one who she presumes to be their leader continues. 

“No. Describe what occurred.”

“What’s it look like you fucking machine, he was shot.”

“When.” 

He looks at his watch, flecks of blood dot the face, “Fifteen minutes ago.”

“Who shot him?”

“Just fucking help him. What does it matter?” The man slams his hands on the table. 

Visual processing has completed. The man on the table is Ivan Egorov. White-color criminal. Leader of a local criminal syndicate that deals, mainly, in weapons smuggling. Rich. Recently divorced, two kids. Both estranged. Genetic details follow. He’s on blood thinners and speed. Two bullet wounds, both from a .22. Medium range. Collapsed lung. Advanced blood loss. 

The other three are irrelevant. She steps forward, the fatigue in her body is kept at bay here. Her mind is sharp as the scalpel that emerges from her fingertip. 

“Step back.”

They do. The workplace is far from sanitary. Figures flood Tanaka’s mind. Probabilities rise and fall with each action she takes. She releases a mist to keep particulates at a minimum and approaches her patient. The procedure is performed with precision and deftness. Her mind and body move with exhilarating deftness. Artificial blood is transfused from a bank in her stomach. The bullets are removed in moments, followed by repair of the flesh and sinew. And, yet, she is too late. He flatlines. Resuscitation fails. Unerring perfection cannot roll back time. 

“Depsite Healing Hand’s best efforts, the patient is deceased. You will…” the automatic script plays as she returns to her body. Shouts fade, no longer perceived.

Tanaka wakes, retching. Pain is omnipresent. She gasps for breath, muscles straining to hold her to her feet. 

“Go again.”

FFJ - 16 - Lamprey

It was a soft erosion, a wave on the periphery of a periphery, lapping against loosely packed soil. Earth sloughed degree by degree, subtle enough not to register in the day-to-day. Words said, looks shared that hastened a process that had been set into motion from the offset. I didn’t realize what was happening until the ground had begun to collapse beneath my feet. Love comes in fast; a fury of heat, of embrace, the chaotic tumult of shared experience and fear and unknown and lust and stability. Losing it is like trying to hold onto sand. No matter how hard you grasp, it slips, and slips, until you’re left clutching the last few grains, a semblance of something that used to be all encompassing.

Losing Kit was inexorable, winding paths near-parallel but never colliding. Too many differences overlooked. Too many concessions made. But, dammit, we tried. I tried. And, for years, we succeeded. Love was steady, a constant in lives that were anything but. Changes in attitude spoken, discussed, and later forgotten. Slights so minute they could be discarded as nothing, but that pile of nothing grew and grew until it loomed over us.

There was nothing to blame. That was the most hopeless aspect of it all. It wasn’t someone else. It wasn’t work. It wasn’t some great failure. It just was. Something had flickered and died, and I could stir nothing within myself but acceptance. There would be quiet hours of tears, but there was no regret. No malice. There was nothing either of us could have done to prevent the tide from overtaking us, and I was okay with it.

Kit never knew. She never got to know that I had lost it, that thread, that spark, that something. Or, maybe, she did. I would never get to know, either. Hiding it was easy, natural. Excuses made, time taken, and fissures grew. But, fuck, I don’t know if she ever knew they were there. She just kept striding over it all until one day she walked out that door and never came back.

What do you do when you owe the dead the truth?

I don’t know.

FFJ - 15 - A variation of a conversation I have heard a dozen times while waiting to buy my Reese's Pieces at a Florida gas station

“Hot today.”

“When ain’t it?”

“Yeah, right. Busy?”

“Not really.”

“What about Kristy, she workin’?”

“Jules, what do you want? You’re not here to buy something.”

“You don’t know that, come on.”

“I do know that. Now, what do you want? You know I can’t give out food ‘till 7.”

“I’m lookin’ for Peter.”

“Why the fuck are you doing that?”

“Girl, if you’re not going to tell me then don’t. No need to be a bitch.”

“If I saw that piece of shit, which I haven’t, I wouldn’t go telling you. You’re too good for him, and that’s saying something, Jules.”

“Don’t you judge me. At least I ain’t workin’ at some gas station selling dick pills to truckers all night. I got prospects.”

“You don’t want whatever prospects Peter is offering. Least I got a job and don’t have to come begging some dick-pill-selling gas station clerk for dry ass hotdogs that ain’t nobody buying every other night.”

“I could get any job I want around here.”

“Fat chance, your piss would burn through the cup.”

“Like you’re clean.”

“They test here too.”

“Fuck off, no way you’re clean.”

“They don’t care about weed, Jules.”

“Same shit, what’s it matter to these assholes?”

“Stop the pills, and I’ll be the first to put in a word for you here. But you gotta leave Peter alone. He’s bad news.”

“I can, I just don’t want to right now. They’re good for me.”

“Not for your teeth they ain’t”

“Fuck you…what time is it?”

“6:45.”

“Got anything tonight?”

“I’ll get you a fresh one if you promise me you’ll leave him alone.”

“Alright, alright. And a soda?”

“You’re pushing it.”

“That a no?”

“And a soda, but I mean it, you understand? I’m not going to help you out if you go getting into trouble with him. He’s bad, bad, news.”

“I get it, I get it, alright.”

“I hope you do.”

FFJ - 14 - Redacted

Didn't feel like sharing this one, so here's a placeholder. But I did write one for this day. 

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FFJ - 13 - Tracks

Boot prints. Judging by the imprint, the wearer favored their right leg. The left was shallow, toe tips dragged through the mud. It had been frozen in relief after last night’s rain was followed by a harsh drop in temperature. Maya’s balaclava had frosted, her breath thawing the fur before her lips. It rubbed and chafed, the oils she had rubbed it down with weren’t enough this season. She was nearly through it, but it appeared that winter wasn’t done with her. Maya surveyed the skies, another cold front. She hoped it wasn’t as numbing as the last. 

The boot prints were an immediate concern. It had been decades since she last spotted a hiker. Any trails leading her way had become too treacherous with the deteriorating weather. One had to be a fool or lost to get this far up the mountain. Maya counted herself amongst both. Just a fool trying to get lost, away from it all. Until now, she had been alone. She studied the print further, but she was out of practice. Animals, she knew. She knew the diets of the wolves nearby. She could tell when the black bears were settling in to hibernate. She had names for the migratory birds that roosted in her trees each year like clockwork. But this print was alien to her. By size, she warranted it a woman’s boot. That and that they were likely limping from an injury was all that she could surmise.

There was no good shelter nearby. The incline grew sheer, blocking off any higher caves without climbing gear. Whoever it was had walked by her cabin without announcing themselves, so perhaps they were not injured after all. A disability then, but she could not sort out why they would be here. A ranger, maybe. But this high up, and without knocking. It did not make sense. If she was right about the limp then this person would have needed assistance, and she had not heard a helicopter sputter by in months.

She tried to trace the tracks, but they had been washed out. This one was set deep into a pool of mud, left to crystalize into place at exactly the right moment. She may have never noticed it otherwise. A mistake, if they were trying to escape her eyes. The tracks ambled out of the pool until they disappeared against the hard-packed soil. Her lips were raw from the dry fur. She reminded herself to oil it again. She thought she had done it a week ago, but her breath must have caused it to run.

Maya rose from a squat, the chill felt within her joints despite the layers of fur. She’d search the surrounding woods, perhaps whoever it may be was afraid of her or her cabin. She kept an old emergency radio tucked away for the worst case scenario, but she hoped she wouldn’t have to use it. She gathered herself up, shifting onto her good leg for support, and whispered a prayer wishing to keep whoever had gotten lost safe.

FFJ - 12 - Hopper 0

The crawler bled from an unseen wound, somewhere deep within its maze of tubes, wires and valves. Hydraulic fluid pitter pattered down to the concrete shop floor. The constant gust of a wide metal fan did little to keep sweat out of Hopper’s eyes as he chased down the rogue line. He had to remove the hefty skid plates and forward treads just to get the slimmest of openings to work with. Built with the complexity of a fine watch and the repairability of a proprietary system, it was a nightmare to do even the most routine repairs on the hulking vehicles. Given that these were subject to extreme environments on a regular basis, the majority of repairs were far from routine.

Some piece of debris had likely wormed its way past the skid plate and protective mesh. Fixing it was the easy bit. Getting to it was tantamount to torture. He cursed the engineers who made the damn things, not for the first time today. And, at this rate, he was certain it wouldn’t be the last. After hours fishing around in the belly of the beast while referencing a schematic that only had a vague indication of the hydraulic lines, he was starting to worry that he’d have to go in from the top. That would require removing the solar arrays and disconnecting everything in the dash. He cast aside his ratchet, letting it clatter.

There was nobody else here this late. The promotion to journeyman had granted him freedom from a supervisor breathing down his neck, but it had come at the caveat of nebulous hours and deadlines that rested squarely on his shoulders. This one was due back in working order in a couple of days, which simply wasn’t going to happen. He was dreading the conversation.

At least this assignment was a decent slice above base pay, and he was grateful for the chits. He and his sister, Rays, had finally been able to upgrade from the claustrophobic shared studio to a two-bedroom block in a much nicer district of Rise. Hopper tried to remind himself of that, but it was easy to spiral. Even easier to submit for a change of assignment.

He’d had his heart set on driving these things instead of fixing them for years, and he’d cozied up with a diver who kept dangling the job in front of him. He’d have to submit an application and get it approved, but his chances were good if he had a referral from the inside. But he couldn’t get a good read on the man, Barranca. If he really meant it. Enough opportunities had fallen outside his reach before, and it wasn’t uncommon for affable people like him to just say what he thought Hopper wanted to hear.

There had to be something to it. A dive team could benefit from someone who knew the crawlers inside and out, for better or worse. And it would be doing something. It’d been drilled into his head that every assignment made a difference in Ledicia, but there was no denying that divers had a more direct impact. It didn’t hurt that the chits were a hefty cut above base. Next time he saw Barranca, he’d bring it up on a serious note. The worst case was that he said no, anyway.

FFJ - 11 - Sleep, love; forever sleep

A rasp of wind breathed into the long-dormant hall sends cobwebs swaying. Sunlight ekes into the stone tunnel, a disrupted haze of dust caught in the shimmer. The man rests, exhausted. The gap is enough to squeeze into the passage below if he removes his pack. A piton hammered, rope lowered. A way out. He grits his teeth, trying in vain to stop his body from shaking. His mind is racing, but he must push on. First, he lowers his bullseye lantern into the hall. The wide beam illuminates the Northern tunnel. No movement. Next, the pack goes down with a forceful push.

The contents are wrapped, but the sound of the impact is louder than he would have liked. He waits, patience dissolving with his courage. Still, he pauses. It is too dangerous not to. He glances down the corridors from above. Nothing. Last, he drops in, scratching a long line down with reflective chalk. He does not expect to see the light again, relishing its warmth for a moment before allowing himself to submerge with the shadows.

He gathers his belongings and moves down the Northern tunnel. He is banking on his research as he winds through forking tunnels. The air is damp, droplets condensed on the cool stone walls. Moss sprawls between the cracks and lines the floors, softening his booted steps. The man keeps a steady hand on the lantern’s door, ready to snuff it at a moment's notice. A waterlogged, swollen door blocks his path forward. He listens, only the drip of water from the other side. 

With careful movements he unwraps the crowbar from his pack and situates it just above the handle. Incrementally, he leans his weight onto it. A soft creak then a crack as soggy boards bend. He stops, presses experimentally against the center. It is enough. With hands that remain unsteady, he pushes it open.

A round chamber with six branching passages greets him. Empty. He lets out a breath. It clouds in front of him, confirmation that he is getting closer. Scattered, mundane furniture lay broken about the high-ceilinged room. Mold and decay has reclaimed it. The man produces a well-worn silver compass and moves to the tunnel furthest to the East.

The chill intensifies until his tremors are no longer just from nerves. Each breath a sharp discomfort to his nose and throat. Time wears thin. The cold has reached a crescendo, and his pace quickens if nothing more than to keep blood moving. Counting his steps, he douses the lantern. He is close. A distant door illuminated from flickering candlelight within. He sets the pack and lantern down and draws forth a delicate hand crossbow and a single silver bolt, fletched in white and gold. An almost imperceptible glow surrounds the weapon. He knocks the arrow and sets the string. 

The shuffling of dragged feet from the other side. Groans and the muffled chatter of an ageless man. Tears burn in the man's eyes. He readies the bow in his right hand and reaches for the door with his left.

He barges through with a cavalcade of motion. Black candles hover in the air, illuminating a lavish study. Untitled leather tomes line weighty bookshelves that wrap around the desk of the crimson-robed figure in the center. The man with the bow feels nothing but rage and remorse at the sight of this creature, this thing. Bones protrude from paper-thin skin drawn taut. It’s empty eye sockets adorned with gleaming amethyst gems. Yet, the man dashes to the left, away from the rising thing.

To the side of the room stands a dead man, flesh decayed and rotting. Clothes tattered and caked with dried blood from old wounds. Eyes-unseeing, only a vessel for commands given by the one who makes a mockery of life and death. Tears fall as the man levels the crossbow at his husband. The bolt strikes true, white flame trailing behind it. Flesh burns, flaking away like ashes to the wind. Rest, at last. The man pivots, sprinting back to the door as a grim laugh echoes behind him.

FFJ - 10 - Merde

 "This piece shares the same sentence structure, word count, and character count as FFJ - 1 - "Dante" and is a continuation of that story. This was an experiment in writing a new story using the exact same structure as another. Best read side-by-side to get the full picture" 

Ignition to the veins. Inhale. Heat thaws the ice in the limp marionette’s limbs, water droplets beading off of artificial skin—a crystalline cadaver leaning out from its slim porcelain coffin of moil. Dark stars blot, noxious flashes of pain, death, and revenge birthed in the brine. The tub slick beneath my hands, sluice laps the edge, head fighting to remain upright. Physicality, blooming sensations unite consciousness and vessel, surging into new being, with the ache of life. Pushing over the edge, a newborn with an ancient mind, failing in my stride, slipping down. My rickety pulse finds purchase, drumming a new discordant tune, music to my fresh ears.

My tech-packed net station sparks recognition in my lagging mind, deep-down nowhere—Home. Chirp, chirp, chirp. Vital monitor’s sharp song, as I rip the cords away. Pain. Tactile regret, simulated in programmed chips, the sensation of blood without blood. Plink, plink, plink. Prongs discarded into a glass, awareness waking within my mind. Flashing lights, wailing klaxons. Bullet through Dante's fucking head. Death dealt in grim defiance.

I wretch, teetering to the seat of a chair. Lamps come to life with a flick of the wrist, systems returning online from slumber. A dozen screens flicker and glow as the intoxicating thrum of power breathes fresh life into the dormant systems. I squint my eyes, painfully watering, more false discomfort meant to normalize.

Notifications flock in, unceasing media chatter. Joined voices of the uncaring and the ones who pretend to try. Satisfied grin of a job well done, morphs to laughs and tears. Tension that eases from prior flesh—my shaking chest and unsteady hands, years of pain. I wail, no reticence, and let the relief flood out, shed from this new body. Clarity gathers, focusing anew in my victory.

Something stirs beyond, beckoning me to continue along the path that I have only just begun. Dante is not alone, death bed’s call the names of those who prey on us.

FFJ - 9 - Greg 2

The doorknob daunted Greg. It was normally a friend, the first hand shook of any new day. This would not be one of those days. It was a round brass knob, tarnished and smoothed by many hands. He was sure a bug had landed on it at least once, but he’d never seen one succeed so much in budging it let alone pulling it open. Telekinesis, he found, was not in his arsenal of insectoid talents. This ruled out being a magic bug. Whoever had done this to him had their limits, he supposed. He’d have been more disappointed at this glass-shattering reality if the task at appendage wasn’t so dire. He had to open that door and get to work.

His initial attempt went, sadly, as he had anticipated. It was downright slippery beneath his hard, pronged legs. Minutes of this chitinous charade went on without luck. No amount of shifting or leverage could do the trick, and he still couldn’t get some of his middle legs to stop mindlessly rubbing themselves together. If they would stop whatever they were doing and get involved then he might stand a chance. Greg thwacked the door in frustration with one of his many limbs, and it cracked with the force of the strike.

Anxiety gripped him. Doors were expensive, and he was never going to be able to pay for a new one if he couldn’t get to his desk. He was running out of time. Pouring his coffee or making breakfast had, at this point, gone out the window. Not that he believed he could eat these things. However, he was a man, or at least had been, of rituals. If he didn’t have the dexterity necessary to open a door he doubted he had the ability to pour a cup without scalding everything around him. There was no time for thinking about such facts.

He settled on it. He would break down the door. It was hollow, and he could pay for a new one if he kept making money. It was a simple line of logic, an anchor point to keep hold of in this whirlwind of a day he was having.

As he had experienced getting out of bed, he was very good at getting into motion. Stopping, on the other hand, was not so easy. The door caved with ease beneath his exoskeletal might, and he kept that momentum all the way through the hallway and into the kitchen. His automatic brewer beeped in victory as Greg careened into the rack of pans above the island. It was an eruption of sound and chipped granite as the cast irons fell from heaven to earth. What he guessed might be a stomach squirmed in his thorax once he came to a stop at the thought of all the money it would take him to fix the counter.

He found himself hovering aloft, the force of his ascent spinning the paper towel roll round and round in its holder. He willed himself to stop doing that and fell, landing horizontally for a moment before righting himself. It would be better to skitter on all his legs, but it felt demeaning. He wanted to retain some semblance of his former humanhood, so he tottered around on his aft appendages, which seemed more than strong enough to keep him upright on their own.

A sharp hiss nearly caused him to fall over. Pool Cue, his well-fed tuxedo cat, was not pleased with his new bug form. He hissed again, followed by a deep growl with haunches raised. To Greg’s alarm, Pool Cue was advancing on him with intent.

FFJ - 8 - Lighthouse Keeper

Jack often imagined himself as a modern-day lighthouse keeper, boldly overlooking the roaring ocean as the lens spun above. A beacon of light in the dark, a place of safety and sanctity for those seeking passage in the night. His role as the night shift parking garage security guard was equally-important, even if the world was too ignorant to acknowledge that fact. Even his fellow guards performed their duties with a blasé that irritated Jack. They were not stalwart nor vigilant. Were they lighthouse keepers, they would laze about while ships careened into the shores. He had told his supervisor as much, but she had said he took his job “too seriously.” He couldn’t fathom that, from his supervisor no less.

He knew he had to be the one to set a standard around here. Bitterness was no taste worth hanging onto. Jack could not change the attitude of others, for the light cannot force a ship any which way, it could only act as a guide. Many a weary traveler graced his ticket counter in quiet hours of night, and he wanted nothing more than to make sure they made it to the hotel above safely and with a smile on their face. It was no easy task being a beacon of positivity in such a drab place. He hung Christmas lights in his booth and played up-beat music at a respectful volume from a ladybug-style speaker that hung from the quaint ceiling of his station. 

Jack had a knack for faces and built a rapport with the frequent flyers, guests, and locals. Names unspoken for months would resurface in the forefront of his mind when a familiar face pulled back in, handing him the ticket to stamp with the date and time. A laugh shared went a long way, for both of them, he always thought. 

He was content with his duty. Slim as some saw it, he was important to people. The thought kept him going, kept him acting as that small sliver of light in the dark. Supervisor opportunities came and went as often as the supervisors themselves, but it wasn’t for Jack. They were hands off, away from the booth. He didn’t care for numbers and schedules. He cared about people and the interactions of the day-to-day.

It was a constant, like the lighthouse itself. The tides would change. The parking garage would get a new slick of asphalt. The hotel would change owners and brands. Boutique shops across the way shifted in impermanence. Yet, Jack remained. Many journeys and stories were told in his few foot wide station, and there were many yet to tell. White graced his hair, and spots dotted his arms. But the hand that took the ticket and the smile that flashed with practiced ease at new faces and old stayed the same.