dreamszilla

Shirley Johnson is having an identity crisis - is she human, or is she Tasker? By Dave Henson. "Your psychosis, Mrs. Johnson, is becoming more common. Well, less rare shall we say, with the growing presence of the Taskers." "That's a relief... I guess." Shirley glances at her right index finger. "Do others also have hallucinations?" "In extreme cases like yours... But we've had success with techniques I'll show you. For now, remember: The next time you start thinking you're not human, do the breathing and relaxation exercises we went over this session. Also, you mentioned you're an opera fan?" Shirley Johnson checks her watch and twiddles her wedding ring. "Mrs. Johnson?" "Uh, sorry, Doctor Parks. Yes, I am." "Excellent. A very human endeavor. Something not appreciated by the Taskers. I suggest you listen to an opera recording while doing your relaxation. Picture yourself at a live perfo

My niece called me recently and said, “Hey, I want to make a new year’s resolution.” “Ok, I said. And you want to share it with me?” “Yes, she said. I want us to call each other more.” I reminded her that we text often. “I know, she said, but I need to hear your voice.” Wanting to call each other more had a lot to do with what happened between us this last year. My sister-in-law called to tell me that something I had said upset my niece. I immediately texted her. I wanted to explain that she had misunderstood what I meant. We texted back and forth, and before we knew it, there was an uncomfortable distance between us. Later, when we couldn’t stand the loss, we both felt I called her, or maybe she called me; I can’t remember. But I do remember hearing her voice and feeling tears in my heart. We both cried. I could hear the pain and joy in her voice that helped me understand how she felt, and my response was a lot different than our previous texts. Texting is a brilliant way to  m

Retired cop Silas Tully investigates how his friend's car could have been stolen and yet not stolen; by Tom Sheehan. Silas Tully, enjoying early sun and early coffee, heading into another quiet and lonely day, dropped his newspaper and picked up the phone on the first ring. Old pal Jud Haley said, "Si, something screwy down here at Butch and Tony's. I think my car's been stolen but nobody wants to believe me. Damn it all, Si, the car they're about to fix is not my car." That seemed cut and dry to Si; nobody knows a car better than the guy who parks his butt in the driver's seat every day. As a result, Si Tully changed his mind on the day's prospects. It was only one car, but it was a friend's car and on other friends' property. Favors were a part of his due and he'd never put off an old pal. If Phyllis was still here, eggs and bacon riding on the air, coffee gaining more ground, he would have heard her remarking from the kitchen, "

Roger Haydon tells the story of a thirteen-year-old lad from the estates with one eye on his football and the other on his future. I've been good. I've not touched my PlayStation since I got home from school. I said hello to Mum, she's just home from her morning shift and drinking a mug of tea in the front room with her feet up. I've come up to my room, stuck some music on my Sony headset nice and loud and I've sort of done my homework. Well, to be honest, I've started it and I'll finish it later but, hopefully, Mum won't know the difference. She thinks I can get to sixth form and university if I get the grades. Me? I'm not so sure, what would someone like me study? Mum thinks I'd be good at history 'cos I she thinks I'm, like, intelligent and I like all those really old stories and Miss Wilson is a brilliant teacher. Jen also thinks I can do something but she's just my big sister, what does she know? But, university? Nah. And ther

In a world where avuncular government advice is issued constantly by ubiquitous neon tickers, Bernie Navarone has had enough; by Alejandro Escude. Bernie Navarone woke up to the neon ticker that ran along the moulding of his apartment reminding him to brush his teeth before heading off to work. It was a luminous bar, much like those one sees in stock exchanges, that ran all night. Sometimes, it kept him awake. Every apartment had one. They were installed in all households. Its sole purpose was to dole out advice and direction. Bernie brushed his teeth as he was told. His cellphone rang. "Hi honey," said Bernie's mother. "Don't forget to let things go at work today. I'm worried about how you take it all so personally." "I know Mother," said Bernie, wiping his mouth with the small towel, instead of the large one. The ticker had posted that piece of advice before, and he remembered to switch the towels he used. "I'll do better,

via American Short Fiction https://ift.tt/2LNq4jW

Wayward addict Louise Randall makes her final confession in Alex De-Gruchy's Lovecraftian horror. My name is Louise Randall, I'm twenty-six years old, for all I know I'm the last human being on Earth, and I'm looking out over a dead world from the roof of a multi-storey car park in Cardiff. I haven't had anything to eat or drink in days but hey, I found a pencil and some paper, so why not spend what time I have left writing something that no one is ever going to read? A waster until the end. No one who knew me would be surprised by that. When the sky changed from blue to a strange shade of purple it was oddly beautiful despite what it meant. But the churning, sickly-yellow clouds soon rolled in, the seas turned thick and grey, the land became alien and corrupt, and all living things on Earth lost their minds and died. The gods had come and were making themselves at home, and that meant the end of mankind and this reality as we knew it. Even the air has change

Standing at the sink with suds dripping down onto their bare feet was the fun way to wash dishes for my children when they were little. I would pull a chair up to the sink for them to stand in. then filled the sink with warm, sudsy water. I gave them little things they could wash to entertain themselves. While I did the rest of the house work, bubbles and giggles were everywhere. And, yes, I had to clean that up too. However, as they got older the game became a chore, and their enthusiasm disappeared. My husband helped around the house a lot, but he hated to do the dishes, so this was one chore he avoided, altogether. One day, I asked my son, who was about 10 years old, to wash the dishes. He balked at the request. When I insisted, he said he didn’t have to do the dishes, because it was a woman’s job. I asked him why he thought it was a woman’s job. He said, “Dad doesn’t do the dishes, so it must be a woman’s job.” Later, I approached my husband with this unpleasant incident, and

Artist-hustler Dreck is profoundly inspired by an eccentric Polynesian woman called Cricket, but can they open each other's hearts? By Adam Kluger / sketches by Dreck. It's weird. The business of meeting a muse. The artist known as Dreck didn't expect much when he started an online correspondence with a mystery woman named Cricket who posted no photographs online. It was intriguing to carry on "swiper dialogue" without having the foggiest idea of what another person looks like. They chatted online for a couple of weeks until they decided to meet for coffee outside the Cooper Hewitt. She didn't look like what he expected. Her face was unusual. Different. Primal. Her body was athletic except for an adorable pot belly. He didn't think much when she grabbed him on the street and forced a long, French kiss. She was Polynesian. From some Island near Bora Bora that was hard to pronounce. Her skin was tawny and smooth. Her face was broad and dignified.