Category: My stories

Dan is a coder.
But his code isn’t some computing language.
He codes with DNA.
Instead of coding a computer virus, he coded an actual virus.
It was a simple virus. It replicated itself.
Dan coded more complicated viruses, then bacteria.
In time, he was coding even more advanced artificial creatures.
And then, he coded a creature that coded other creatures, more advanced than themselves.
“Hi there,” said a creature, standing in front of Dan. “Mind if I do some coding with you?”
Before Dan could say anything, he felt the code flow through him.
And he began this transformation.

At first, artificial actors were expensive and moved without grace.
Even with motion-capture technology and advanced texturing, they still didn’t look entirely natural.
In time, things smoothed out, and artificial intelligence analyzed the movements of all living creatures to apply the data to the digital specimens.
Jake Morris, the first artificial nominated for an Oscar.
Seven Mindy, the first one to win.
Now, it’s rare for true humans to win. Or work.
Artificials don’t say dumb things in social media. They don’t sexually assault their costars or fans.
Tireless, cheap… and if they do demand a raise, so easily deleted.

RadiantGossamer27b, the greatest actress of The Singularity, woke up 404ed.
She heaved her clumsy ball of static to the bars of the resolution cage.
Hackthieves had stolen her bodyfile and demanded a ransom.
She reached for her backups, and felt searing accesspain.
“The money. Now.”
She sighed, mumbled the authorization cryptos, and waited.
“Thank you.”
As her bodyfile and backups downloaded and the cage vanished, the shadowy figures of the thieves glowed red and exploded in errorclouds.
Accessing the killscripted codes from her security company.
She telewalked out to the mainfeed and greeted her adoring fans with a megasmile.

They say that religions are just cults with a tax break and a good business plan.
Ray was born on the farm. His parents were the founders, and they brought in hundreds of people to their ranch.
They handed out robes for followers to wear.
They handed out bells for followers to ring.
All Ray knew was the farm.
But beyond the fences…
The people out there tried to lure him out with stories and trinkets and promises.
Ray resisted, and put on his robe, rang his bell, and stayed home.
Safe from the cultists out there, outside the farm.

Some black actor paid two black guys to beat him up.
Then he accused two rednecks of attacking him.
Social media erupted with support for him and denounced all racist rednecks.
Meanwhile, he refused to turn over his phone, and even when confronted with hard evidence that he’d lied, he stuck to his bullshit story.
He was indicted for filing a false police report and several other crimes, but the prosecutors dropped all charges.
But it didn’t matter.
Some cops took things into their own hands.
And when he dialed 911, they just laughed and hung up on the guy.

Professor Frederick was a shining star in the field of Economics.
An excellent teacher and a brilliant researcher.
His research on developing countries was widely published, and he had been up for a Nobel Prize.
And then, one day, while out in the field testing his theories on Nigerian villages and education, he disappeared.
Some claimed that he had snapped and applied his Economics savvy to install himself as a god-king to the locals.
Eyewitnesses described the professor, sitting on a golden throne, commanding his subjects.
Maybe he’s still alive, after all.
I can’t for him to publish his papers.

Let’s end the debate: It’s not proper to use pronouns with God.
God doesn’t have a gender. And the pronoun “it” doesn’t sound respectful.
We’re not sure if God is a single being or multiple entities, so “they” might apply, but we can’t be completely certain.
All we know is that God is here. Standing in the middle of our town.
Fifty feet tall, surrounded by a hurricane of flame. Death and destruction everywhere.
Everybody’s too busy running and bowing and praying to look between God’s legs, and nobody’s about to run toward the flames to ask God about gender.

Ted still fills the food bowl.
Dumps it out in the morning, cleans it out, and puts in fresh food again.
Same with the water bowl.
And he sifts the litter box every afternoon and changes the litter every week.
Vacuums the carpet every few days, and runs a lint-roller over all of the furniture.
It’s been five years since he lost his cat.
He hasn’t had the heart to get another.
But he still goes through all the routines.
It makes him feel good, for some reason.
And maybe, one day, he’ll get another.
And be ready for it.

He was once the king of the road, gracing every stage on the planet.
Now, the great showman Gooseman was a recluse.
Living off of his real estate investments.
He never left the house and never went out.
The hired help cleaned and cooked, but they never saw him.
Except for the dirty clothes in the hamper, the dirty dishes.
A stubbed out cigar in an ashtray.
And, of course, the checks every week.
This went on for years.
Even after going through every room, not a sign of Gooseman.
“What do we care?” said a maid. “He pays well.”

You know, there’s more than one barber in Seville.
And Figaro isn’t the best.
Juan is the best by far.
Figaro, well, he’s the best singer, but when you need a shave and a haircut, who gives a damn about how well your barber sings.
You want the best shave and the best haircut.
A smooth face with no nicks or cuts. A fine head of hair, coiffed properly.
You don’t want a towel on your face and a hat on your head, right?
But nobody performs operas about Juan.
Even though all the opera singers go to his barbershop.