Category: My stories

Caretakers

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The war is over, declared the machines.
Sensors watched the radiation levels drop.
When they were low enough, probes went out to scan the planet for signs of life.
Not much, but some.
The machines gathered up what they could.
As cleanup systems went to work on the ruins, genetic templates kept in storage were imposed onto the surviving organics to undo the ravages of mutation and gamma-ray damage.
Some genetic lines died. Some survived.
As each landmass was declared safe, replanting and restocking routines seeded the planet with life again.
The machines sank under the oceans and shut down.

Mean Streak

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Sally Marie Simmons was known as “Sally Mean Streak” long before the day the prom queen’s hair fell out.
One vote was the difference, but that’s all it took for Mean Streak to lash out.
As Jessica Baker rain screaming through the halls, her hair leaving a trail behind her, Mean Streak was scanning the paper ballots.
She had insisted on voters having to write out the names instead of check a box.
Then, she fed in stacks of handwritten essays.
Handwriting samples for the computer to analyze.
A list of names appeared on the screen.
Sally grinned and laughed.

Mentat

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In the novel “Dune” Frank Herbert described a post-computer world where “mentats” performed rapid and complex calculations for the noble houses of humanity.
These specialists were not just raw computational experts, but they were valued for their ability to sift through mountains of data to provide vital analysis.
When noble houses warred, assassinating the enemy’s mentat was a priority.
That is why the messenger was killed and searched thoroughly. Then analyzed for poison.
“It’s safe,” I say. “Just plain paper.”
I hand the mentat the message, and he has a stroke and dies!
What? How?
“Divide by zero,” it says.

Flotilla

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It sounded like a good idea at the time, really.
Load up with relief supplies, get on some boats, and try to deliver the supplies to the poor defenseless children trapped inside.
How wrong we were.
Once we boarded and got underway, that’s when they started blasting music at us…
“It’s a small world after all…”
Surrounded by singing jeering puppets, we tried to paddle back to port, but the boats kept moving on and on.
We’d been set up. It was a trap.
We threw the boxes ashore, covered our ears, and screamed prayers for this nightmare to end.

The Pesto Pest

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When life hands you lemons, make lemonade.
But life handed me basil, so I made pesto.
I even built a hothouse to grow basil year-round.
Just harvest, wash, crush, mix, and serve.
The problem is that I am growing far too much basil for myself, so I give away a lot of basil leaves and pesto to others.
Maybe too much?
Now people turn off their lights and shut their windows when they see me coming.
“There’s that crazy Pesto Pest,” they whisper to each other. “Just be quiet and he’ll go away.”
So I hang it from their gutters.

You’ve Got To Know When To Fold ‘Em

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Because of a shortage of buglers, military funerals often use a recording of a bugler performing Taps.
However, there’s no shortage of flags, so there’s always flags available to drape over coffins for folding and presentation to the next-of-kin.
The flag is folded by the honor guard in a specific order so that it results in a small blue triangle with white stars.
Some potheads have been known to employ their knowledge of the Japanese art of Origami to come up with more interesting shapes.
The rifle party handles those jokers by beating them with the butts of their weapons.

The Socks

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After years of blisters and other problems with my feet, I changed from ordinary cotton socks to special space-aged wicking socks.
They draw moisture away from the feet while providing extra padding.
Don’t ask me how they work. All I know is that they work.
No blisters since.
However, you’ve got to be careful with them. Going to sleep with a pair on will suck some water out of your body.
Going to sleep with 14 pairs of them on your feet and hands will leave you a desiccated husk.
So, any other questions about the mummies in this exhibit?

Lazarus

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Tradition says that the priests pondered putting Lazarus to death because of the miracle which returned him to life, but other stories tell of him living out his life as a bishop in Cyprus.
Neither of the tombs in Bethany or Cyprus are his.
He is nothing more than an ancient blind husk, curled up into himself on the seabed, unable to drown.
Every so often, he snatches a fish to chew on with empty jaws.
As do many, he waits for Christ’s return, but not for salvation.
Yearning for release, the rest of death denied him for so long.

Oops

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My kindergarten teacher had a cat named Oops, solid black with a white O on his chest.
She lived next to a maple tree farm, and every year she took classes there to see how syrup was made.
Oops wandered around the woods, but the moment he spotted a class coming through, he’d run off and hide.
That was over thirty years ago, and the teacher is long gone.
The maple syrup farm is gone too, but the trees remain.
A black shadow crosses my path.
After all these years, how can…
I see two glowing red eyes. And…
Oops!

Home

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Lincoln said that it is not the years in your life, but the life in your years.
Drifting between the stars for centuries, solar sails and cargo pods.
In the control center, two brains wrapped and connected with millions of miles of nanocircuitry.
Ours. Together.
So many years ago, frail and weak from disease, we volunteered.
We had nothing to lose but each other, and this way, we could have more time.
It has been over eight years since she last told me that she loves me.
She is gone.
I change course, and we sail into a star.
Home.