Tag: dystopia

The Candidate

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Crowds surrounded the candidate, or the spot they thought he was standing.
Throughout the campaign, everywhere they thought he was politically, he wasn’t.
So much so, with so many lies and double-deals, he’d ripped a hole in the fabric of space-time.
One step ahead, his campaign called it.
Displacement, the scientists called it.
The distance grew. Pretty soon, the candidate appeared miles from where they thought he was.
Despite this phenomenon, he was elected. When he took office, as he put his hand on the Bible, he vanished completely.
The hole closed over.
The judge said “Amen and good riddance.”

Shadows and Snacks

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Before I go out into the streets of Old Rustville, I fill the pocket of my robe with shadow, gathered from an alley.
Shadow is a most powerful reagent, useful for spells of concealment and death.
Another pocket, filled with pistachios. It is always good to have a snack handy.
Always the right hand with the pistachios and the left with the shadows.
One does not want to bite into raw shadow, nor does one want to cast the forbidden spells using nuts within the city limits.
Yes, this was once called Silver City. Before my careless, snack-powered Armageddon Spell.

Helper

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You can tell who has a Helper biochip and who doesn’t.
Every few minutes, their left eye goes hazy and blank.
That’s them talking to HelpNet. And the Helper talking back.
We use just 10 percent of our brains. Helper uses some of the rest to offer advice, keep schedules, remember things, too. Local storage. Reminders. Suggestions. Warnings.
Helpers connect to the global network to pull up scores, stock quotes, dinner reservations.
Sometimes, Helpers get too helpful. They take over, and when they link to HelpNet…
That’s when we stop being ourselves.
Take off those sunglasses and look at me.

Store

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In the middle of the afternoon storm, a man came into my store wanting cigarettes.
“This is a smoke-free town,” I said. “We don’t have cigarettes.”
So, he asked for some beef jerky.
“Meat-free town too. We’re all vegetarians.”
“Beer?”
“No alcohol at all,” I said. “We’re a dry county.”
Everything he asked for, we’d given up or made illegal.
“Is there anything for sale here?” he asked.
I was about to answer him, but by then the sheriff had arrived.
The silent alarm under the counter worked beautifully.
The man left, grumbling angrily.
The sheriff arrested him for swearing.

Demolition Derby

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Hey, man!
Bored with football?
Tired of all these baseball players juicin up?
Hockey not bloody enough for you?
Lemme tell you about a new sport: communication satellite demolition derby!
All it takes is override commands, some maneuvering propellant, and a decent grasp of orbital physics.
There’s nothing quite like watching two expensive chunks of metal surrounded by gigantic solar arrays smashing into each other, leaving tiny sparkling fragments to cloud the the skies for all eternity.
Call your friends. Point your telescopes to the sky. Place your bets.
Then put on your crash helmets and watch the aerial carnage!

Lousy Servant

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I expect my tea to be placed by my bedside at precisely 8 in the morning.
Any earlier, and it will be cold when I drink it.
Any later, and it will not be there when I reach for it.
Instead, I will reach for my sonic whip and you will suffer dearly.
It used to be that the Blahva made good servants, but we’ve bred them to be stupid while breeding out rebellion and independence.
“Shave your matted fur,” I growl to my houseboy. “And show some initiative.”
He licks an eye, shivers with fear, and gleeps assent.
Liar.

Was A Rabbit

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A cop fireman-carried the lifeless body into the morgue.
The cause of his death is listed as “Basketball.”
Every so often, the coroner gets bored with Heart Disease and Cancer, so she cuts loose a little with the weirder cases.
“Old man died while playing ball with some kids,” said the cop.
“We all gotta go sometime,” said the coroner.
“I guess so,” said the cop. “Do you have the money?”
“I need another week,” said the coroner.
The cop shot the coroner twice in the head, put the gun in the old man’s hand, and walked out the door.

Caricature

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The revolting, hook-nosed caricature loaded his grocery cart with every discount Kosher food he could.
When finished gathering food for tonight’s blood rituals, he haggled with the young lady at the checkout counter, protesting every penny.
She kept sweeping every item over the scanner. Beep. Beep.
“Want paper or plastic?” the bagboy asked.
“So hard a decision,” said the caricature. “Does the plastic come from petroleum stolen from Arab holy lands? Does the paper come recycled from shredded and defiled Korans?”
The girl stopped scanning the items and the bagboy stared into empty space.
There was nobody there.
Never was.

Fifteen Seconds

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Once you hear sirens, you have fifteen seconds to seek shelter.
Will the rocket land in the fields?
Will the rocket land in a school?
Will the rocket land in the streets?
Will the rocket land on you?
The shelter is across the street, you can get there quickly, but a child is standing there on the sidewalk, crying.
Run for the shelter now? Or cover the child with your body and close your eyes?
We watch the images on the television, and so many of us judge.
What would YOU do to protect that child from the deadly rain?

Poison Banquet

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The guards aren’t allowed to beat us anymore, but they still torture us.
They have a chef cook feasts for them. The air ducts are arranged to blanket the jail with the kitchen smells:
Fresh baked bread.
Deep, rich gumbo.
Buttery, roasted corn.
So good!
Then they slide trays with the usual, horrible slop under the bars.
The chef is one of us. Did twenty years for putting a knife in a man trying to rob his restaurant.
They beat him bad too many times, so he’s adding his extra special ingredient tonight.
“Poison never tasted so good,” he chuckles.