Tax Days

in

When the government revealed its Computer Time for Tax Credit program on April 16th, the public was confused. Few understood at first glance the intent: Install a small piece of software on your computer, and in its idle periods, it processes government data on the government’s behalf. Every hour grants the computer owner ten cents of tax credit, to a maximum of $80 per person or $160 per family, not to be carried over into any subsequent year. The first year, the government lost $76 million in tax revenues and saved $23 million in computing costs. The following year $436 million in revenues disappeared, replaced with $326 million in unspent computing costs and $155 million in energy costs. The program continued to pay for itself.

Hackers spread worms that collected and shared the processed data, striving to decrypt and reassemble the jigsawed information into something informative. Many failed. DrawPantsCollective claimed success four years after the program’s inception. Torrents spread across the net, mostly records of lots and lots of context-free math. Amateur and professional scientists the world over ventured guesses at what the various calculations indicated: satellite movements, railgun simulations, phone tap analysis.

They didn’t have to be right.

Home

in

I know where everyone is. Ben is in the kitchen. He just dropped a chip on my floor and picked it up because no one was watching. Blowing on it does not rid it of the microbes it acquired there, you twit.

Mangy Kit runs to the sound of fallen food, scattering hair and droplets of saliva with the fall of each of its four feet.

Little Al, exiled from Kate’s room, chases the ugly thing and trips on the rug, imminently to activate its siren.

Kate obeys electronic bleeps upstairs, sending messages on her phone about the people she communicates with on the computer, and the same in reverse. The noises and vibrations never cease.

Mr. Arsfeld is in his home office with the door closed and his headphones on, glancing toward the door for Mrs. as he looks at something and gropes himself.

Mrs. Arsfeld lets the speakerphone resonate through her home office, as far from Mr’s office as can be, as she berates those beneath her and appeases those above.

I strive to twist myself free and depart or, failing that, to tear my supports to shreds and collapse upon them. I only quiver. Damn earthquake retrofit.

Ghost Story

in

The murderer knew they could prove nothing. He didn’t know they wouldn’t need to. “Observe,” said the paranormal chronologist, “how I calibrate the chronoscope to a period fifty years from now, as revealed by this future news periodical,” a glassy cube appeared atop his device.

“We cannot read it yet.” He removed it.

“Now I place the chronoscope within my pentagram, that activated by a drop of blood,” which he produced from one finger, “and some hair,” which he produced from the murderer. “And so:”

A character resolved atop the chronoscope. It trailed shreds of cobwebs, some shining silver and others dripping with excrement. It was the murderer, if older and spectral.

“Spirit, answer truly and be released,” spoke the paranormal chronologist. “Are you the future unruly spirit of this man?”

“Yes,” gasped the spirit. Its words carried the air of urine and rich soil with them.

The man continued. “Did you rape and murder the girl in this photograph?”

“Yes, and more.” Its voice found body. “In life, I killed young and old, worthy and foul, and I once broke free of my bonds and killed a distracted paranormal chronologist.”

Afterward, the spirit asked, “Am I to be released?”

To Please Him

in

Martin didn’t look at her. He read his financial news. The expected sex was formal, a frictional act performed out of a fictional interest. She had few friends. She was alone.

#

     “Let’s whiten your smile,” said her dentist. “It will be like having brand-new teeth! How can he not notice?”

“Ohhh-ayyy,” she said, mouth wide.

Martin did not notice.

“I know someone,” said the dentist.

 #

     “Your face has beautiful lines,” said the surgeon. “Subtle implants in the jaw will have enormous effect. He will sit up and stare!”

“Please,” she said, eyes closed.

Martin did not sit up or stare.

“Let me think,” said the surgeon.

#

     “Your husband does not deserve you,” said the dentist. “It is time to please someone else.”

“What can we do?” she asked.

“It’s past time for subtlety,” said the surgeon. “Let us be daring.”

“I’ve been looking forward to this,” said the dentist.

“I, too,” said the surgeon.

#

     Martin didn’t look at her. He read his financial news. When he expected sex, he did not expect her brand-new teeth. She did not expect so much blood, or her tears.

“Did I want this?” she said. “To be someone else's monster?”

Short Story: En Route

in

Michele is so excited that you might be there, Sharon had said. Don't let her down. Kelly took a deep breath. He was already running late. First the damn executive chose this afternoon to take an informal tour, and then a last-minute phone call from a distributor with a serious problem. Don't let her down. He'd better hurry. Kelly was driving a pickup. He unbuckled his seatbelt. It looked like I-90, somewhere out in Idaho. Maybe Wyoming. Somewhere too damn flat and empty for his comfort, anyway. No way he should catch a break, not today. It took at least 15 minutes before he found oncoming traffic big enough to crumple his truck like cellophane.

Kelly played Sharon's greeting through his head. Couldn't you even get to her first recital on time? Didn't I tell you she was playing first? Not even angry, that was the worst part. She'd never be angry, not anymore, just disappointed, and sorry for the damage it would do to the father-daughter relationship. Just aware, almost as aware as Kelly was, that he should have tried harder.

He opened his eyes. An elevator. Going up. Good, up is good. He peered at himself in the dull reflection of the elevator doors. Older, at least 50, weather-beaten, cap and jacket with insignia and the name-- He looked away from the name. Knowing was pointless. And he was standing behind a loaded dolly. Ah, a delivery man. Good. He felt around and found the box cutter. Perfect. Flick, place it behind the carotid, and a firm drag across. It only stung for a second. Then everything was warm and cold and dark. The doors dinged open, and he heard a scream as though from across a windy street.

Don't let her down. Michele was going to learn sooner or later that he wasn't reliable. Hell, she probably knew it already. It would probably be a favor not to let her get into the habit of expecting much from him, the better to avoid disappointing her in the future. Better to sting once than to drag it out.

Before he opened his eyes he heard the tinny speakers of the airport. Shit, no blades. Then he opened his eyes to find the TSA agent looming over him. "If he has anything metal in his pockets, you have to get it out." The agent was at someone above and behind him. Fuck, he was a child. He looked back, but the security line was a mass of people. He could get lost, but was there was no guarantee he's find anything back there. He could run forward, but security would grab him in a second. Shitfuck.

Kelly played along, emptying his pockets and staying near the parents but always looking for a way out. As they approached the gate they were wondering what had gotten little Jay so antsy, that he was constantly moving away from them, looking back and forth, and peering into shops they passed. That was when Kelly spotted an escalator to an upper level of restaurants. He chose his moment: the parents were looking the other way when Kelly hopped on the escalator just in front of a group of chattering tourists. By the time the mother was chasing after him, Kelly was atop a chair next to the protective barrier.

Don't let her down. Falling in such a way to break your neck, especially from only one floor up, is a skill. You have to fall straight, or you're going to rotate in mid-air and dislocate a shoulder, break an arm or a leg, or something else that leaves you with a lot of debilitating pain and a long wait before you get a chance to move on. Especially since if people see you, they try making it impossible for you to hurt yourself again. Kelly had the skill. He climbed over the barrier, aimed, and dropped. As he fell, he inclined his head to snap the neck rather than bash his brains in; he wanted death, not brain-death. Several people screamed.

How long had that taken? A kid in a fucking airport, really? Today, when he's in a rush? God, he could just see Michele's eyes as she realized he hadn't gotten there in time to hear her play. It almost made him consider telling her he'd been there; she couldn't tell in the dark, right? But Sharon would be standing there with disappointment in her eyes, as if it ever wasn't, and Kelly drew the line at lying to his daughter. He would let her down, sure, but he wouldn't be dishonest with her. It was a clear line he could draw. She'd never remember him as a good father, but she wouldn't remember him as a liar.

He was moving and could hear an engine. He opened his eyes. He was on a bus, sitting; a dozen people stood over him, swaying as the hung on to the steady bars. Outside, the urban valley of the deep city. New York City. He signaled for the next stop. Kelly's fingers were already tapping on the seat before he realized he wasn't moving. Rush hour traffic. Naturally, and in New York no less. Great.

There was a watch in the person's bag. Kelly was officially late. And with Michele going first, there's nothing Kelly could accomplish by showing up except seeing Michele's disappointment up close and feeling Sharon's disdain at his expected failure. And that was if he could get there in the next fifteen minutes, which at this rate seemed impossible. God, he was such a useless father. He could just hear the phone call he'd get from Sharon after the recital. No use in getting it up close. At least over the phone he wouldn't have to control anything except his voice. Dammit.

"Fuck," said an 80-year-old woman, loud and sharp enough to make everyone nearby jump. Kelly started planning his return trip.