“Can a suicide be such a difficult thing to buy?” asked Nikolao Georgo.
“Hanging, drowning, immolation, a shot in the head, in the mouth or the temples is something which you don’t need help for, and if there was someone helping we would be stepping on the grounds of murder.”
“Sure... I understand” articulated with difficulty the gloomy Nikolao Georgo.
“Of course we can provide all the necessary material: rope, bullets, guns. I reiterate that all equipment is ISOVG certified; we proudly passed the ISO level, and are considered an ISOVG company - ISO Very Good.”
“I was all happy when I came, full of joy to kill myself.”
“But you can always do that yourself — I mean the suicide.”
“Yes, right... but what’s the fun of killing myself alone?”
“If the problem is loneliness we can provide a dozen spectators trained to applaud and say any onomatopoeia: from a simple Ha! Ha! Ha!, undergoing an Argh!, or even the complex Glu gluuu gluuu! I can already imagine in sync screaming of Claps! as you, Mr. Nikolao, start to pine away... what do you say?”
“It could be funny, but it's not the same thing. Just give me some pills to treat heartburn.”
“This is the information desk. Please go to the biological section on the ¾ floor, corridor x56, right after the frozen goods corridor. Don’t forget to fill in the F1.Model 12 form — ‘How do you rate the support you received?’ on your way out. Have a nice day.
“Next...”
Raju and Kishore
Gaurav Monga
1. There were never any deaths, casualties or diseases in the town they came from.
Life was carefree, strolling along the beaches at sunset.
Raju and Kishore loved their hometown whenever they were there.
There were also times when they were not there, and times when they were apart. Raju was in the mountains while Kishore was playing at the seaside.
When they finally reached home, they met at the railway station. They burst out of its wooden school doors. Then they went to their wooden house and fried some eggs. The small frying pan's handle was made just right for their hands.
Raju tried jumping out of the window for fun. Kishore told him that he had never heard of anyone doing it before.
Raju leaned out of the dining room window.
Kishore was sleepy. He rubbed his eyes with his wooden hands and began walking upstairs to their bedroom.
He was on the stairs when he heard wood shatter for the first time.
2. Raju and Kishore were toys churned out of an assembly line in a factory. Out came Kishore, then Raju, and then the machine stopped working.
They were palm-sized dolls which even a girl could hold in one hand, which is not saying much because a girl was only a little bigger than Raju and Kishore. Indeed, at that point of time, the world was still very small.
Farthest Thing from Mind
Tantra Bensko
The only woman in the room who matters to me is eating at the table next to mine has ferrety hair matching the mole on her cheek, and her irises, and her sweater covering two movable bulbs. She matters because she has the most estrogen in the restaurant, making her lips and hips more rounded. So I admire her lipstick's sophisticated color involving brown and shine and subtle salmon. She's saying with a liquid voice to her friend “Oh, Shawleen, THAT'S the farthest thing from my mind,” at the same time she is turning her head to face me, her eyes slanted with mystery, her mouth openly sensual, her eyes locked into mine far beyond the time it takes to be meaningful.
My spoon of clam chowder stops halfway to my mouth, which remains open, as I stare back, wanting more than anything else to live up to that look, which must somehow require being the farthest thing from her mind. Her teeth must have been cleaned at the dentist within the month. Her foundation lotion goes exactly with her lipstick and blends with the sharp edges.
She winks at me, the light from above her reflecting on her silver spoon and flashing into her nostrils, so I see every little hair inside them, as she leans her head back. What had they been discussing? I had no idea, had been doodling on my napkin little clams in the act of climbing out of my bowl and being retrieved by bounty hunters in exchange for payments of wigs made from DNA-spliced memories. I could only draw the effects of a wig on the clam by adding on flamingo necks to all the houseplants around him as he lounged in a chair, his legs up on a footstool plant. Come to think of it — are there any footstools anymore? I don't remember the last time I saw one. It's been maybe decades. It was at my folks' house.
Well, maybe that would qualify. A footstool is probably one of the furthest things from her mind, then. I could become one, perhaps that sensuous look will be fully mine, will wrap around me and slide on my skin, inside and out. I scoot my chair out and walk toward her, then bend over on my hands and knees.
I do what I did when I ate at home with my parents for years when I was young. I crawl under their table, which thankfully is roomy. It just seemed normal to me when I was a kid. I liked getting in forts, and hollow bushes and dumbwaiters, and under the bed. I used to stare at my mother's feet while I ate my beans and greens. Sometimes Mama took off her shoes and wiggled her feet. That was always fun. But she had big hairy legs, and flat arches and white flakey stuff. Not like this woman.
Her panty hose are taupe, and her shoes chocolate color. When I am in the proper position, lift up her feet and set them onto my back. Her skirt is brown suede, which lifts to show a good ways up her muscular thighs, and in a place her skirt was not meant to show. They shimmer. She leans farther back and crosses her ankles on my back. She doesn't seem to register what's happening, so I've succeeded but I can't see that smile if it's there. I can only imagine it, and how it relates to the farthest things from her mind.
Things like— galaxies newly discovered, they are so far way. Women who wear sweat shirts and leave the house without make-up. Sewers. Creatures at the bottom of the ocean, their lower jaws stuck out more than their upper ones, with no eyes at all.
Her friend Shawleen is going on about something in a voice too annoying to pay attention to. Something about a lawsuit, or a suit at the cleaners, or a bedroom suit, or something that doesn't suit her. Besides, she's lowered her voice and leaned in, for emphasis. “The suit wasn't what I expected it to be, but I've learned to just go along with things I don't like, as long as I can tolerate them, you know what I mean?” At least it's not a loud bar with TVs in every corner. She'd never go to one like that.
Maybe that's farther from her mind! I duck out from footstooldom, find a large square box in the recycling bin outside the restaurant, get inside it in the corner, comb my hair over, and start announcing. I gesture and inform, in a trustworthy fashion, a generic voice saying “The reports are in from the galaxy farthest away from your mind. The inhabitants of a planet there are arresting all women who don't wear make-up and are putting them in the sewers. They are concerned they have a kind of parasite in their brains making them go out like that, which come from having something like Buddha's Hand citrines for pets. People go in and out to see the women through lifting sewer lids.” She isn't paying any attention, which is good, but bad at the same time. I don't know how to reconcile that. I feel I'm not on top of my game. It's hard being earnestly irrelevant. Gets to ya.
But now, she's leaning down to pick up her briefcase, and flexing her chocolate-feet and sliding the hose against each other, with lights from the ceiling accentuating her long muscles. And she glances up at me, her long jaw extended with her mouth sideways in an exaggeratedly naughty way, lips still glossed, even after eating. She must have been extra careful putting each bite in her mouth to avoid touching her lips, to maintain that pristine shine.
She pretends to have a remote control device and holds it up toward me, winking and pretending to hit the button. She clicks it at me, smiling. I don't know if I'd be considered to be on or off at the moment, so I'm not sure how to play the game. If I chose t
he wrong one, I'll be the wrong side of farther from her mind.
I stand still, not blinking, onnnnnnnn, then blink off, and suddenly
Hunted
Bridget Neate
There was a minimal disturbance of clothing at first; hardly noticeable. But then it went out of control: buttons undone in inappropriate places, shirts torn to reveal what they shouldn’t, skirts pulled up. Meetings were held with the Team and there were accusations and denials. Was there a freak, a pervert in the Store? A window of male mannequins was discovered naked: jackets, trousers, underpants strewn around and no matter how hard the staff worked to put everything right, when they came to work the next morning stuff had happened in the night. The police were called. The Store’s windows were on the front pages of the Evening Standard. Crowds of curious shoppers gathered. Some of the Display Team left, sick of the accusations and ruined artistic endeavours, their careers compromised. A group of vigilantes volunteered to keep watch from the pavement overnight. Small tents were erected around the Store but the police weren’t happy and after a few days had them removed. Nothing had been seen, things changed in the windows so fast, missed by a moment’s distraction: pouring a coffee, mopping the spills, the blink of an eye.
A female mannequin wearing a bikini was found among a group of dinner jacketed males, one with arms raised as though in horror at the appearance of a woman in an all male club. The public assumed it was clever marketing and were highly entertained with the help of the Press. The Store decided that in the meantime it would be good policy to go along with the publics’ way of thinking, and the police were asked to keep a low profile. But no matter how often wandering mannequins were retrieved they found their way back into the wrong windows, destroying the theme of the displays. The police made little progress and could only advise extra cctv and more security staff. The Display Manager took time off with stress when a mannequin was found riding around on the Circle Line. It was a while before for the passengers noticed, they were so engrossed in their admiration of its suit and tie. A standing pregnant woman had glared at the dummy traveller for some time, infuriated by its blank expression. When the carriage eventually realised they thought it was probably part of the Olympics Cultural Olympiad 2012. They used their phones to record the episode which appeared on Twitter and Facebook. A large number of the suits were sold and the Display Manager was surprised to receive a salary increase in her absence but according to the Company’s policies and procedures, the responsibility for the dressing and placing of mannequins was within her remit.
The next happening in the Store’s windows was the appearance of a female mannequin among a group of male figures in sports gear. One of the males lay on the floor, broken: head off, arms and legs twisted and another stood over the crumpled figure with legs apart, an arm raised, giving the impression there had been a fight. Who had got into the window to create this tableau and why? Would the police have any ideas? But they could only suggest that the mannequins involved should be locked away in a store room.
Nothing happened for several days and it was almost as if the dolls had realised they had gone too far but one of the Display Team thought they saw smirks on the usually passive faces. Then it all started up again and a female was back with the sportsmen. She was returned to her own window but by evening late night shoppers reported seeing a female mannequin kneeling, arms outstretched; sad eyes imploring. The next morning they were found, the girl and the boy, with arms around one another. The public were fascinated by this romantic story but those in authority had had enough. They decided to take police advice and locked the pair up. All was quiet for a little while until a broken store room window was discovered and there was no sign of the mannequins. The police were given detailed descriptions but it was too late. That very day, a pair of mannequins was discovered sitting in a pavement cafe among Parisians enjoying the late summer sun, while sipping coffee, reading newspapers or gazing out over Place Sulpice. There was the usual surprise and delight and photographs before the waiters took the models inside, where they tried to fold them, bending arms and legs, so they wouldn’t cause any further disturbance. By the time the Gendarmerie arrived the runaways had disappeared. The busy waiters weren’t bothered; they shrugged their shoulders and carried on running to and fro, attending to their customers. One moment the models were there and the next they had gone. No-one had seen anything.
The Evening Standard broke the sad ending to this love story. The two mannequins were found floating in the Seine and when the police fished them out of the water their English counterparts were able to identify the merchandise and they were returned to the London Store. But nothing could be saved: the clothes were ruined and the models had to be scrapped. Human Resources couldn’t understand why staff and customers were so upset. There were tears in the toilets and a group of shoppers made a pilgrimage to Paris to lay flowers by the river where the tragic event had occurred.
Management had mixed feelings when the Display Manager made a full confession to the Paris Police for the orchestration of the mannequins’ antics. Her clandestine activities had gone global, resulting in an astronomical increase in the Store’s on-line sales figures. They regretted having to ask for her resignation but rewarded her with a generous severance package.
Someone started sticking posters in the Store’s windows: “Model Lovers Hounded to Their Deaths!”; “Mannequins deserve a life. Do we not have arms, legs, dimensions?!”; “Freedom for Mannequins!” Maybe the staff should have acted sooner but they thought it was Marketing trying to keep the story going for commercial reasons. Marketing knew nothing about it. Mannequins began disappearing from all the windows in Oxford Street. Staff would come in first thing and find them empty; everything gone. The recently fired Display Manager was put under house arrest. One Saturday morning two buses collided trying to avoid a group of mannequins standing in the middle of the street. When passengers got out they found themselves surrounded by dolls. The street was filling with them, some without faces, some without heads. The buses and the taxis couldn’t move, there were thousands of them. They were ripping off their outfits and throwing them into piles. There were small fires all along Oxford Street. The riot police appeared in their blue helmets but were outnumbered by dolls, dolls, dolls. Helicopters buzzed futiley overhead. The android revolutionaries rampaged through the shops and stores, trashing and smashing. They armed themselves with perfume sprays, broken china and glass, kitchen knives and pans, chair legs, striking anyone or anything in their way. They attacked with the fury of creatures who had spent too long trapped in passivity: posing motionless, isolated, without a life, without hope. Shoppers tried to flee but were stopped by gangs of models coming up the side streets, out of the tube exits, climbing out of drains.
By evening thick black smoke rose over the West End of London.
The Telescope
Jason E. Rolfe
Daniil Ivanovich Yuvachev began assembling his new telescope. He could not wait to view Infinity’s endless expanse. When he was done, Daniil brought the device to his tenement rooftop and positioned it so that he would have a clear view of the broad harvest moon.
Daniil Ivanovich Yuvachev looked through the telescope and saw nothing but bleak and foreboding darkness.
Daniil Ivanovich Yuvachev looked up at the moon with his naked eye and revelled in its warm radiance.
Daniil Ivanovich Yuvachev looked through the telescope and saw black emptiness.
Daniil Ivanovich Yuvachev looked up at the eternal brilliance with his unaided eyes and marvelled.
Daniil Ivanovich Yuvachev looked through the telescope and saw naught but an incessant abyss.
Daniil Ivanovich Yuvachev began disassembling his new telescope. He could not shake his awareness of infinity. When he was done, Daniil brought the device to the edge of the tenement rooftop and tossed it into the street below, so brightly lit by the harvest moon.
Eighteen Steps
Jason E. Rolfe
Dan
iil Ivanovich Yuvachev and Alexander Ivanovich went drinking in town. The late hour, when mixed with copious amounts of Vodka, took its toll on both men. Alexander Ivanovich fell down in the street and slept. At some point during the early morning hours the police picked him up and brought him to a small cell to sleep things off. Daniil Ivanovich Yuvachev somehow stumbled home. Although inebriated, he found his house key, and his house key found the lock. Once inside, he dropped his book bag by the door and struggled up the eighteen steps to his second floor bedroom. He went to the washroom. He washed his hands and splashed cold water on his face. He spilled water on the washroom floor, slipping when he stepped in it. He landed gracelessly, bruising his backside. Since he was already down, Daniil Ivanovich Yuvachev found no good reason to get back up, and crawled, on his hands and knees, to his bedroom. He crawled across the cluttered bedroom floor, pulling his weary body into the unkempt bed. He lay on his back and closed his eyes. He lay on his left side. Daniil Ivanovich Yuvachev lay on his right side. He lay on his stomach, his head turned toward the right. He lay on his stomach, his head turned toward the left. He lay on his stomach, his head buried deep within his soft pillow.
Daniil Ivanovich Yuvachev could not fall asleep.
“I should read,” he said. Daniil Ivanovich Yuvachev looked on his nightstand for the book he had only just started reading. He looked inside the nightstand. He looked both on and underneath the small bed. Daniil Ivanovich Yuvachev opened each one of his five dresser drawers and removed the unfolded clothes. He looked both on and underneath the dresser. He emptied his closet. He opened boxes he had not opened in years, spilling their contents across the already untidy floor. He went through his clothes, piece by piece, reaching into pockets far too small to contain the missing book. He tore the sheets from his bed, the feathers from his pillow, the hair from his head and found nothing. He could not find the book he had only just begun reading. He called Alexander Ivanovich thinking that, perhaps, he had lent his friend the book. The phone rang eighteen times before Daniil remembered that his friend had fallen asleep in the street. Daniil returned to the washroom. He checked both on and underneath the sink. He lifted the toilet lid and looked inside. He pushed the shower curtain aside. He tore the towels from their shelves and tossed them on the floor. He emptied the medicine cabinet, pushing its eclectic contents onto the now muddled floor. He broke the mirror with his fist, tore the shower curtain from its rod, and broke his small toe on the toilet bowl.
The Ironic Fantastic #2 Page 3
