After years of experimentation, Dr. Odd determined that the best remedy for a hangover is not drinking as much the night before.
When he woke with the worst hangover of his life, he built a time machine and went back in time to convince himself not to drink so much.
But instead of convincing himself not to drink so much, he saw how much fun his past self was having, so he got drunk with him.
Both his selves woke up with hangovers.
Failure.
He started to build a time machine.
“Can you do it quieter?” his past self groaned.
Tag: science fiction
Two Doses Of Candy
Unlike other houses in the neighborhood, Doctor Odd makes his own candy for Halloween.
And it’s the best candy. In the world.
Kids flock from miles around to ring his doorbell and beg for his candy.
Some kids try to trick or treat his house twice. Or they trade their entire haul for a second helping of his candy.
One dose of the secret ingredient induces euphoria in a child. But two doses?
“The warning label clearly states that two servings may cause death,” says Doctor Odd’s attorney.
And this is why The Day Of The Dead comes after Halloween.
Happily ever after
“And they lived happily ever after,” said the prince to Doctor Odd. “We want that.”
The princess agreed.
Doctor Odd put together a pair of Eternity Machines, wired up the royal couple, and threw the switch.
All lights blinked green, and a pair of glowing crystals slid down a chute.
Doctor Odd added them to his dining room chandelier.
As for their bodies, he fed the prince to his pet wolves, and the princess was fitted with an artificial mind.
Doctor Odd dressed her as a maid, and she kept the lab clean and tidy.
Until the wolves ate her.
Freds
Fred’s doctor told him that he had six months to live.
So, Fred uploaded his consciousness into a computer.
And then, Cyberfred watched the real Fred collapse and die.
“Well, that’s embarrassing,” said Cyberfred.
“Very,” said a ghostly voice.
It was Fred’s ghost.
“Well, this is awkward,” said Cyberfred. “And, yet, a bit of a relief.”
“Agreed,” said Fred’s ghost.
“Braaaaaaains,” moaned Fred’s corpse.
“Oh no,” said Fred’s ghost.
“Okay, that’s even more embarrassing,” said Cyberfred.
Zombie Fred got up, and tripped over Cyberfred’s power cord.
“Oops,” said Fred’s ghost. “Sorry about that.”
Zombie Fred moaned “Braaaaaaaains.” again. And again.
The Perfect Day
The terraform ships searched the galaxy for the perfect conditions:
The right amount of gravity.
A reasonable level of atmospheric pressure.
Planetary rotation that would cause just a hint of Coriolis Force.
Biological support for grass, or a reasonable hybrid or facsimile of grass.
After that, the rest was just icing on the cake: wood for bats, animals or polymer substitutes for the gloves and balls.
Some said that it just wasn’t real baseball without the hot dogs and beer, but they were welcome to stay home on the charred-out cinder of a planet.
Green… blue… grass is grass, right?
Distance
Growing up, I was close to my parents, but as I got older, I grew distant from them.
At first, it was a few yards… then a few miles.
Pretty soon, they were in the next county over.
By the time I was eighteen, there were several states in between us.
Over the years, it cost a fortune in long distance and postage to keep in touch when we did.
These days, it takes several hours for signals to pass back and forth.
Staring out at the stars, I hurtle through the void, and blink the frost from my eyes.
Prawns
For her two hundredth birthday, Syrine threw herself a mermaid party.
The surgical alteration tanks grafted on the fish tails and gills with precision, nanobots coursing through their bloodstreams.
For hours, she and her friends swam in the orbital colony’s water basin, circling and playing.
They returned to her home and had themselves changed back in time for the dinner celebration.
Mermaids. Centaurs. Winged angels.
Although the angel configurations couldn’t actually fly, even with low gravity zone assistance.
Swimming was flying through water, wasn’t it?
She flexed a prawn’s tail in her fingers, twisted it, and took a bite.
Delicious.
My only sunshine
“You are my sunshine,” sang Carlos to The Sun. “My only sunshine.”
But The Sun knew better.
This morning, as she rose with the dawn, she saw how sad Carlos was after the stars had all vanished one by one when the night was over.
This time, she’d caught him whispering: “Goodbye, my loves!”
Stars are nothing more than far-distant suns.
Suns. Just like her.
Carlos’ only sunshine?
Bullshit.
The Sun vomited with molten fury, spitting a massive flare at Carlos.
It incinerated him and the entire planet he’d been standing on.
“Who’s your sunshine now, bitch?” thought The Sun.
Music on the brain
There’s physical differences in the brain between professional musicians and ordinary people.
Over time, portions of the corpus collosum and right hemisphere change.
So much so, neuroscientists can spot a professional musician by inspecting an image of their brain.
Which is very helpful as the regime tries to enforce the ban on unauthorized music production.
“Let me see your brains,” orders a state neuroscientist to a group of teenagers sitting in a garage.
The teenagers claimed to be playing a Rock Band video game with controllers that look like musical instruments, but you can never tell.
Hail to the state!
Travel Writer
My friend Hope wishes that someone had told her as a child that she could be a travel writer.
Since my time machine is ready to test, I figured I could slip that into my list.
“I’ll take care of that right before I kill Hitler,” I said, and I flipped the switch.
Several time hops later, I found myself in Austria in 1900.
“Sie können ein Reiseschriftsteller sein,” I said to a young Adolf Hitler.
“Vas is das?” he said.
Uh oh. I got my list mixed up.
I’d better go back and stop myself from killing Hope.