Maya plays the cello beautifully.
She started off in the orchestra, and for a while she played in a quartet.
Alone, up on stage, the height of a career… a soloist?
Where do you go from there?
So, she recorded herself, and performed with those recordings.
Good, but could be better.
A group of researchers in a media lab sampled the recordings, and built a virtual Maya that could adjust to her performances.
The effect was amazing, but something still wasn’t quite right.
One day, Maya walked into the lab, and she heard herselves performing perfectly, beautifully together.
Without her.
Tag: science fiction
Candy Corn
Here at Boone Farms, we’ve been bit by this ass-nasty drought just like everybody else.
But instead of just watching our corn and soybeans and other of our traditional crops burn in the fields, we went all-in with a different crop:
Candy corn.
What? You think that stuff gets made in candy factories?
Boy, do you got your shit wrong there, son!
Candy corn grows on stalks just like the normal stuff, but it don’t need rain and sun.
Just corn syrup and coloring.
Plus, those Easter Peeps love this shit.
(But I must admit, I miss the chicken eggs.)
Christmas Wish
It takes a lot of energy to make a wish come true.
The amount of energy depends on the wish.
Little wishes, a little bit of energy.
Big wishes, lots of energy.
Where does the energy come from?
From the mass of the star, of course, based on Einstein’s formula.
You know our sun is a star, right?
Scientists thought we could slow Global Warming by wishing the sun slightly smaller.
But something went wrong. We wished too much of it away.
So, go ahead and sing “We Wish You A Merry Christmas.”
But not like you really mean it.
We are not alone
Fred hated everyone and lived alone.
He shopped online and had everything delivered.
He never answered his phone, doorbell, or email.
Every so often, he’d have to go out for something, like doctor or dental checkups. He’d get in the taxi, go his appointment, and come home as quickly as possible.
He wasn’t unhappy.
He just hated people. And liked being alone.
The SETI@Home program on his laptop flashed.
It analyzed signals for extraterrestrial life, and it appeared to find something.
Fred smiled.
Not because there was life out there, but because it meant more life for him to hate.
Her Mother’s Eyes
She has her mother’s eyes.
Samsung Spectrals. A few generations old, sure, but they’re reliable. A classic.
Plus, the Zeiss optics are far superior for standard spectrum vision than the digital ones these days.
Too many artifacts. Too much smearing. Too many crashes. Too many new features to make up for poor design.
What good are polychromatic irises when you get headaches from the synchronization frequency?
The latest models use cheap structural resins warp and melt from elevated body heat.
If only her mother could see her today, achieving so much.
(Her eyes are in the shop again. Damn digitals.)
Freedom Riders
They called themselves the Freedom Riders.
No, I’m not talking about the brave who rode interstate buses to break up segregationist policies.
I’m talking about the passengers on Kendargu freighters who, despite paying a fortune for passage, suffered cramped and horrible conditions in the ships.
So, they put together a plan to break out of their tiny cabin mid-voyage.
The cabin was cramped because temporal and inertial dampers take up a lot of room.
Those that didn’t get phase-shifted to jumpspace ended up as that messy paste spread out on the cargo bay walls.
Oh well. Go get some mops.
Hole in the ground
Bobby wanted to dig a hole to China.
His mother said it couldn’t be done.
So, instead of digging to China, he dug a hole to Hell.
That wasn’t so hard to do, really. Just took him a few minutes dripping some blood from his fingertip on to his trowel.
The trowel bit into the dirt, drew out a clump, and a large blast of fire and heat exploded from the back yard.
Bobby, his mother, and the house vanished instantly.
After a day of infernal madness, the government sealed off the block and said “It’s just a gas leak.”
Love Potion Number…
Love Potion Number One was too acidic. Burned through the flask, ruined the countertop.
Number Two tasted weird. Like bathwater. And grease. Ew.
Three and Four were highly volatile. Evaporated the moment you opened them. Inhalers? Nah. Asthmatics would get confused. And horny.
Five turned the subject violent.
Thankfully, Six acted as an antidote, but turned their skin green. Kinda kinky.
Number Seven was a deadly neurotoxin. We sold it to the CIA.
Eight makes a good stain remover. See my pants? Spotless!
Oh well.
Care for some tea?
Good. I’ll pour.
And be sure to drink it all, darling.
Pelicans
One day, all the pelicans vanished.
In their place, neatly-typed sheets of paper explained in perfect French how there was a serious design flaw with pelicans necessitating an immediate recall of all pelicans.
Those that could not be upgraded to meet basic safety standards would be replaced or compensated for at fair market value.
Unsigned. Undated.
The next day, pelicans reappeared.
Nobody could explain exactly what had happened.
Was it an elaborate prank by aliens?
Proof of the existence of God?
Why was the note in French?
But most importantly, why pelicans?
I still can’t tell what’s changed about them.
Punxsutawney
Let’s face it: nobody gives a shit what goes on here in Punxsutawney during the rest of the year. Nobody comes here when it’s not February second. It’s as if this place didn’t exist.
Isn’t that the truth?
Once the cameras are off and the reporters go home, we break down and fold up the houses, rolling them back into the abandoned coal mines.
The streets are disassembled, the signs and lampposts packed away, and the robot citizens marched into the storage facilities by the few actual humans.
Close the freeway off-ramp, and… done.
Race you to the cryogenic chambers!