Effie tells me she’s uploading herself to the cloud. “It’s for work.”
“That’s ridiculous. You’ll be like a bot.”
She tells me our minds are the future; our bodies are too slow.
I take her slow hand and say I love her.
She says she’ll send me a meme. :-\
Michael Mau wrote this story.
Who would win: a bear or a man with a baseball bat?
Ralph and I want to liberate the animals from pens and slaughterhouses. But after liberation, we think they should participate in humanity’s deranged games, like cage fighting. We think it will, oddly enough, promote understanding between the species.
Wim Hylen’s work has appeared in Four Chambers, Café Irreal and McSweeney’s Internet Tendencies, among other places. He lives in Phoenix, Arizona with his wife and daughter.
Eternity Press Announces Titles for 2018
A void sits in between his rib cages; he lacks the beating bit of flesh that makes humans human. So, she fills the emptiness with memories of overgrown moss and poisonous flowers, along with false promises of eternity.
It is the closest thing to her heart that she can give.
Engineers created robots that wrote music based on brainwaves.
We wanted to hear thoughts of wonder, imagining a new wave of ‘sub-conscious’ brain-raves.
Exhilaration turned to panic as a deeply buried sorrow filled our ears. A dying world screamed within our minds, and we had turned the volume up loud.
Beneath the majestic Tora Bora Mountains he pulled the trigger, then trailed his quarry into a nearby cave. He leaned over and peered into the man’s dying eyes, and was startled when the Arab’s bloody hand rose slowly and gently touched his cheek.
He decided this was his last kill.
“Hey! Stick your head out, Yank. Need some target practice.”
“How ’bout this, Reb?”
“What’s that?”
“Ham.”
“Dang! You got ham?”
“Reckon. Whatchew got?”
“Tobacco.”
“Meetcha middle the creek.”
“Hold your fire! Ham for tobacco!”
“‘Preciate it, Reb. Been dyin’ for a smoke.”
“Yup. How’s Mama?”
“Sends you her love.”
Henry F. Tonn is a semi-retired psychologist who has written a sterling novel entitled “Ascent to Madness, Zelda Fitzgerald’s Gilded Cage” which is is having a great deal of difficulty finding a home in the publishing world.
“We need to talk.”
“I’m sorry!” he shouted, thinking he knew what she wanted. “I’m sorry I hurt you. I’m sorry I can’t be the son you want. I’m sorry I can’t get my life together. You want perfection… I’m only human.”
“Ah,” she said, smiling sadly. “But you’re not.”
“Cappucino, love. Quick.”
He yanks the cup from my hand, throws change in my direction, and dives off, ticket in mouth. And the next suited man goes. And the next. I watch from under my cap.
The barriers slide open and each one glides off. The counter pens me in.
Matthew Keeley is a teacher and writer from Central Scotland. He is currently seeking representation for his first science fiction novel, ‘Turning the Hourglass’.
The baby dolls go with her everywhere. She cuddles the pale-faced one and croons, “Wittle sweet,” then kisses the dark-faced one and sings, “Wittle deaw.”
Everyone asks me why her babies have different skins.
I shrug. “She loves babies of all kinds.”
Why, they wonder.
I ask myself, Why not?