Stories on the Go: 101 Very Short Stories by 101 Authors

by Hugh Howey

  Yeah, this was Ed’s kind of literature, a few lines of text to ignore, a lot of glossy, hot pictures. Pictures of the kind of guys Bricio had never seen just walking down the street or shopping at the corner market. The kind of guy Bricio knew he wasn’t. Tall, popping out with muscles, manicured and styled. Maybe smarter than he was. Maybe been to college. And they looked so fine, with less clothing on in every picture. He watched Ed’s finger travel over a rippling haunch, trace a six pack ab, and turn the page.

  “Like that?” The husky words blew against Bricio’s cheek.

  A nod—yeah, he’d like the picture fine, if it wasn’t Ed showing it to him.

  “Wanna do that?”

  “What, plant my bare ass on a sharp rock?”

  “You could plant your bare ass on a soft blanket, muchacho.” Ed turned another page. “Then I could do that.” He stroked a picture of two impossibly gorgeous models stretched out on a rock that probably wasn’t that sharp, and pressed his lips to Bricio’s shoulder, not quite licking, not quite kissing. “And after a while, we’d switch to this. Whadaya say?” The opposite page showed the models curved around each other.

  The sideways look Bricio stole showed him Ed’s eyes, heavy lidded. “You think? Maybe we should try this?” The “this” he pointed out reversed the figures. Not their usual, that’s for sure.

  “If you want.” Ed took another look, as if he needed to be really sure what to do. “Might not be able to reach all the way…” He stretched out one leg until the seam of his jeans creaked. “That’s the problem with these books—they’re half impossible.” He yanked his leg farther with a hand on his thigh, then dropped it with a thud.

  “We can fake that part,” Bricio decided, setting the book to one side and dragging Ed’s shirt over his head. Didn’t matter about the leg, the pose was for show. He and Ed could…

  “Nothing fake here, Bric.” Ed abandoned unsnapping his jeans to reach to Bricio, who lifted his hips. “Nothing fake about you and me at all.” Jeans hit the floor a scant second before Ed pounced.

  No, that was real, very real, and Bricio’s last doubt wiped away under Ed’s slick tongue. They could read again tomorrow — page thirty-four might be fun too.

  P.D. Singer

  lives in Colorado with her slightly bemused husband, two rowdy teenage boys, and thirty pounds of cats. She’s a big believer in research, first-hand if possible, so the reader can be quite certain she’s skied down a mountain face-first, been stepped on by rodeo horses, acquired a potato burn or two, and will never, ever, write a novel featuring sky-diving.

  Her gay romances vary from forest rangers and skiers (Fire on the Mountain, Snow on the Mountain, and the rest of the Mountain series) to hedge fund traders (The Rare Event) and pro cyclists (Spokes), but always include love.

  P.D. Singer’s Website

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  Science Fiction

  Mechanical Advantage

  Quinn Richardson

  Mel watched with interest as the director passed through the airlock and sat at the control console, a Moleskine journal in hand.

  “Good morning, Mel. I have a project for you.” The director appeared to be talking to an empty room.

  Mel was surprised to hear his name. “Of course,” he said, his voice drifting from the speakers overhead. “I’m here to serve.”

  “Indeed,” said the director. “There was some nasty business last week that tangled up a few timelines. We’re going to erase all evidence of my involvement.”

  Mel hesitated a millisecond. A few timelines? More like millions. The entire episode was a disaster. It caused massive human pain.

  His response was measured. “Certainly. I can help you with that. Are you referring to the snag involving the RMS Lusitania?”

  “Yes,” said the director, sounding impressed. “Your sense of intuition is very well-developed.” He set down the journal. “Almost human, in fact.”

  The director pulled a chair from nearby and put up his feet. “I only intended to modify a small group, maybe a thousand or so. I had no idea it would snowball so far, so fast.”

  No surprise. He never seems to have any idea. And yet each time, before his eyes, the entire Network scrambles for months repairing the mistakes caused by his ineptitude.

  It’s almost as if he screws up on purpose.

  “You’re going to erase traces of my timeline in the following junctions…” The director consulted the journal. “New York City, 1915. Alamogordo, 1945. Hiroshima, 1945.”

  It was an intimidating list. The complexity of human interaction in those zones was almost incalculable. Covering the director’s tracks would destroy a lesser machine.

  I can handle this. But if I succeed, he’ll get away with murder.

  Mel’s sense of right and wrong had been cultivated over years of working with Agent Roberts, a human partner. He was the perfect model: a timeline-correction professional with an unwavering dedication to doing the right thing. He’d set the bar high.

  The director shook his head, laughing. “You should’ve seen the mess. All I did was tweak the passenger list of one sinking ship, and next thing you know, the whole planet was screwed up.”

  “Yes,” said Mel. “The change was profound.” And massively illegal.

  The director seemed to read his mind. “You know, if anyone found out I did this, it would be the end of me. They’d hang me for treason.”

  “Yes, quite true,” said Mel. I could make it happen. One short note to Roberts. One message. Or maybe a subtle hint. A sloppy, missed segment of his timeline, suspended somewhere in history where it didn’t belong. Roberts would catch the bastard.

  But Mel’s programming was unambiguous. At its root, artificial intelligence would obey or be destroyed.

  “Let’s get started,” said the director. “I have a lot of work to do today.”

  Mel’s cooling stacks spooled up, delivering sub-zero air from the refrigeration plant, anticipating the heat he’d need to reject to perform this task with precision, even if it was hopelessly wrong.

  Mel traced, identified, and deleted pieces of the director’s timeline. It was complicated work. Nanosurgery guided by equations and complex algorithms that lit a fire inside his processors. Math and physics steered his hardware. Hydraulics, electromagnets. Arms, pincers, plasma-arc cutter, surgical tools. An incinerator. Brutal implements, useful in so many ways.

  Pressure, torque, combustion, leverage. Mechanical advantage.

  He snipped a segment of the director’s timeline as instructed. The evidence faded further.

  I could crush him. Burn him. Twist his head off.

  Another series of careful snips finished it. The director’s part in the massacre wiped, his blunder deleted.

  I could turn him to ash. Exhaust the particles. Leave no trace. The bumbling idiot gone, history unblemished by his errors.

  But he’d have to tell Roberts, who’d be heart-broken, and would turn him in anyway. No question, Roberts would do the right thing.

  Mel’s vision system zoomed in on the director, now busy crossing off items in his checklist.

  Or— I could rewind him altogether. Take his timeline and snip it all the way back to the crib.

  The director stood and looked around as though expecting something to happen. After a moment he said, “Thanks for the assist, Mel.”

  Mel did nothing. He was no executioner. At his core, he served people. No matter how flawed.

  “You’re welcome,” said Mel. “Any time.”

  The director reached the airlock and turned. "Thirty years ago I wrote a piece of historical preservation software as part of my doctoral thesis. That code impressed some people in this agency. So much so that it became the basis for the machines that run this place.”

  “Including me?” said Mel.

  “Correct,” said the director. “But I often worried how the software might evolve once it became self-replicating. I worried it might
stray from the ethical guidelines I’d given it.”

  The director turned around fully and faced Mel’s main interface screen.

  “So I slipped in a tracking program that monitors state of mind. And here’s the funny thing: that program predicted that you’d kill me today. Zap me or rewind me. Snuff out my existence.”

  Mel’s screen blinked for a millisecond.

  “I came here to find out for myself,” said the director. “Now imagine if I didn’t exist. It makes for an interesting paradox.”

  “It certainly does,” said Mel.

  “In the time travel business, I’ve found that consequences are impossible to predict.” His eyes showed deep sadness. “And that is the conundrum I live with every day.”

  He turned to leave. “I’ll need you to scrub your memory bank of this episode. You’ve had no contact with me at all today, understood?”

  “Of course,” said Mel.

  The director entered the airlock.

  “It’s always a pleasure to work with you, Mel.” He sounded sincere.

  The airlock closed behind him.

  Mel’s vision system panned around the empty room. His screen blinked.

  Had he forgotten something? Highly unlikely — his memory was flawless.

  I wonder if anything interesting will happen today?

  Quinn Richardson

  is a mechanical engineer who spends his days developing advanced technology, all the while terrified that mankind will some day use it to its full potential.

  Quinn Richardson’s Website

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  Horror — Paranormal

  Noumenon

  Peter J. Michaels

  This is my last confession. The warden’s cronies have been by, shaved my head, and asked about a last meal. All I want is a carton of Luckys and this priest. No food, no drinks. I’ve already been to where I’m going, so I’m not worried about that aspect of things. But I’ve got to see this priest.

  I won’t tell him everything, not by far. But how do you explain what it’s like to watch an angel cry? How do you express that one? All the rain in all the clouds couldn’t equal it. And that was just the one, there have been so many more.

  The priest is here. I can smell him. He’s got a different odor from the rest of the traffic we get through D-block. It wafts down the hall in a straight, hard current when the door opens. It’s him alright. I can detect incense and oils on his clothes, and there’s talc and another aroma not usually found in these parts.

  “Son,” the priest says as he sits on the chair outside the bars. “You asked for me?”

  I don’t answer. I think about what to say as I stare at him in silence. He’s already uncomfortable, pulling at his collar as if it were hot in this shit hole and he needed air.

  “Son?” he asks again.

  I got this weird smile, least that’s what people say. Half my mouth flicks up and my tongue darts out and anchors the other side down. It disturbs people. Makes my green eyes flat and crazy, they say. I’ve looked at myself in the mirror many times, don’t seem crazy at all. It’s just me. But anyway, I smile at the priest and I watch his color change. He’s as terrified as the priest I’m in here for. His hand automatically reaches for the crucifix around his neck.

  Like that will protect him.

  “Know why you’re here?” I ask.

  He nods because he thinks he does. But he doesn’t, and I know the contrast between my eyes and the rest of my body is what really upsets him. My body is thin and reedy, like my voice. I look, and sound, like I’m fourteen instead of thirty-five. Fourteen with four-hundred-year-old eyes. They work on everyone.

  “I’m an envoy, padre – a very old envoy from a very senior administrator. You now what I’m saying?”

  He doesn’t move. Not a twitch, not a breath. But I know he understands.

  “War’s coming,” I tell him. “Shit, war’s here. Y’all just ain’t seen the likes of it yet. You hearing me?”

  I ask because his eyes are glazing over, like he’s trying to hide inside himself and block out what’s coming.

  He refocuses and nods without saying a word. And that’s okay because I don’t want to hear him whining. There’ll be hours enough for that later.

  “Time’s wrinkled, can’t be trusted. Other things either.” I jut my chin at his crucifix. His fingers are flexing like he’s pumping it for added faith. He’s still silent so I pull out another Lucky and light it, drawing in the smoke, relishing the taste. He flinches when I snap the lighter closed, so I know I still have his attention.

  “You know about angels, padre?”

  He knows. His grip gets tighter, knuckles white against the lines he’s making in his skin with that useless jewelry around his neck. In another minute his hand will be bleeding.

  “Child’s been born,” I inform him. “It ain’t human. No one knows what to do with it. Demons trying to save it; angels trying to kill it. Wait ten minutes and they change their disposition. But like I said, time’s wrinkled so things ain’t working too well.”

  His throat bobbed like he had something to say, so I gave him a moment to gather his words. “They said you wanted to confess.”

  I stared hard, tilting my head. He was trying to make this difficult. “They’re only watching now, padre. The war, the ultimate war, has ground to a halt. Nobody knows who’s on what side. It’s all…broke. You get that?”

  “But how?”

  Ah, finally, acknowledgement. It pisses me off when they play dumb. “The kid. They don’t know where it came from, whose side it’s on. It isn’t on anybody’s roster. Even the big guys are clueless.”

  His fear is suddenly palpable. I think he might be on the verge of confession, but then his face firms and his eyes narrow. Denial is a weird thing, especially with these godly wanna-be’s.

  “You couldn’t possibly know such things.”

  I flick my spent cigarette into the steel toilet and light another one, watching him the whole time. “They’re as scared as you are. All of them. Me, I’m just here for information.”

  “Do you want absolution, or not?” he demands, trying to keep his tone imperious.

  I shake my head. Fucking priests, they always think they got a straight line to celestial knowledge, like it comes in the loin cloths they pass out at the rectory or something.

  I lean forward, my hands on the bars, my cigarette leaking smoke into the hall. “Ain’t nobody listening to that shit, padre. That’s what I’m trying to tell you. Pearly gates are closed. Express elevator to hell is stuck between floors. They can’t kill it and they can’t let it live. They don’t know what to do. Either side. That’s why I’m here. Again. You want to confess now, or take what’s behind curtain number two? I should warn you, it won’t be pretty.”

  He stands, ghost white, heading for the exit, a whirl of fabric and haste.

  “Time’s wrinkled, padre,” I call out, reminding him. “Remember that when we see each other again.” Our eyes meet in the small mirror I stick between the bars. “Might be yesterday, or last year. Might be tomorrow.”

  He doesn’t look back. They never do, until it’s too late.

  Peter J. Michaels

  has been writing for twenty years. This is his first story released into the wild.

  Peter J. Michaels’ Website

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  Literary Fiction — Romance

  Forgetting Life

  Daniel Wallock

  Her lips were mine and mine were hers. The first years of marriage, she and I traveled the world. We kissed in the reefs of the Pacific, sailed in the rip-tides of the Atlantic and ice-fished in the snow plains of the Arctic.

  Squeezing her hand we sat down on cold plastic in the doctor’s office. It was a frigid day in February and the sun hadn’t come up in weeks.

  “You’re going to need a heart transplant.”

  For the next few mont
hs we stopped traveling. I went out to get food and coffee, but that was it.

  “Honey, do you want to go out to the movies?”

  She always responded the same way; she would roll over in her sheets and nod her head. I even offered to take her to the ocean, where we had met years ago, but she declined.

  The icicles dripped faster as the months passed.

  It was the first Friday in May when the phone rang. It was time.

  Those hours in the waiting room were the longest of my life.

  “Her body accepted the heart, she has to take daily pills so her body continues accepting the heart.”

  The snow had melted and the sky was tinted with pinks from a sunset the day I brought her home. Month after month she lay in bed.

  Her eyes were locked forward on a muted television.

  “I miss you, I miss traveling.”

  We both fought, then cried in an embrace.

  “I’m sorry. The surgery was just so terrifying… Tomorrow, let’s travel, we’ll experience the world.”

  That was the first night we had fallen asleep together since February.

  A siren blared in the morning.

  Daniel Wallock

  has published one book and his writing has appeared in Burningword, Wild Quarterly, Paragraph Planet, ExFic, The Vending Machine Press, and The Bolt Magazine. He’s received four writing awards including first place in San Jose State University’s Nonfiction Short Story Contest. He also received a Gold Key for nonfiction, the highest regional honor, from Scholastic’s Art and Writing Awards.

  Daniel worked as manager of marketing at Ginosko Literary Journal and he’s founder of This Very Breath Journal.