Category Archives: Story a Day

Story a Day

Cry for Help: The Dying TV

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I was walking down the alley between Locust and Walnut, coming back from my workout around the park, when I spied another one of those ubiquitous things you seem to see around all the time these days. It was, like, half a television, half an analog television, picture tube and a few strands of colored wire protruding from a plastic frame. Lying beside it, crushed into a couple dozen pieces, was the plastic from the rear of the device. Most of the circuitry was missing.

I wouldn’t have to walk too far down the alleys before finding a similar scene of grisly electronic carnage. Such tableau, multiple carcasses even, seem to be quite commonplace, at least for the time being.

I’m thinking, since all analog TVs are headed for the recycle bin in the next couple years, many folks have the problem of just what to do with that $800, 200 lb., doorstop that they just replaced with a $150 High Definition TV from South Korea. A replacement that, incidentally, produces three times the picture size, incredible image quality, and better sound and only weighs about 10 lbs.

It seems some folks have figured out that television circuitry is made using precious metals, gold, silver, platinum, and such like. The TV carcass tableau are what’s left after the integrated circuit boards are removed. The TVs may have been left out on the street, picked up by an ‘entrepreneur’ and transported to some location nowhere near his or her own residence, eviscerated and abandoned.

So, actually, I’m kind of blind to that sort of thing when I’m out on my walks. However, as I was passing this particular shatter I saw, out of the corner of my eye, a bright flashy movement. The sun glinting off some shiny surface, I mentally shrugged and was about to dismiss it when I heard a small, tiny voice saying, “Help me!”

I froze in my tracks. Yes, I thought, now it’s finally happened. I’ve finally gone over the edge of the map to that part that says “Here there be dragons.”

And then I heard it again–there was no mistaking it. “Help me!” it implored. It was a tiny, scratchy little voice. Just like the trapped fly at the end of “The Fly.” Not the one with Jeff Goldblum, the old 1950’s one with David Hedison. I stared at the wretched TV. There! I saw the flash again and saw that it came from a piece of windblown foil. But that little voice . . . “Help me!”

Okay, so I’m crazy! I can afford to be gullible. “Help you? How can I help you?” I said in the direction of the wreck.

“Take me. Put me back together. I still have life! I can still be your everything!” it squeaked.

I said, “You’re a broken, smashed up, beaten down, destroyed television. How could I possibly put you back together? You don’t have any circuitry left at all, not even a power switch.”

“You’re making a big mistake,” the voice said. “I can give you anything you want.”

“Like you’re some kind of genie, eh?” I queried, “three wishes and all that, right?”

“Oh no, much more than a genie,” it said, “much more than three wishes. Everything and anything you want can be yours and so much more. Just fix me up and you’ll see. Don’t think about it; just do it!”

Having endless wishes come true sounded pretty good. Since I’d finally lost it I thought I might as well play along. What can it hurt? And then it hit me.

“You been promising me that all my life, bitch,” I said as I turned and continued on down the alley.

Story a Day

So Alone

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She awoke upside down. It was dark . . . everything was upside down. Her father and mother, in the pilot’s seat and the passenger’s, respectively, hung from their seats, their arms scattered below in disarray with the exception of her father’s left hand that was still clutching the butterfly shaped rudder control.

“Daddy?” she said softly. There was no answer so she repeated herself, louder, “Daddy!” Still no answer, she reached out and nudged his head. Her father’s head swung loosely and he made no sound. Her mother appeared just as unresponsive, her head was turned slightly toward her and she could see her mother’s eyes, the lids open and the pupils slightly rolled up (down); it was very strange.

Her sister and her cousin were in the passenger cabin with her, seat-belted as she was, they hung from their seats and when she prodded turned out to be as limp as her father. Blood was dripping from her cousin’s fingers to splatter into a small pool that had formed on the ceiling, now the floor, of the airplane.

“Wake up! Somebody wake up!” she screamed several times. She was beginning to get a little angry. Why won’t they wake up?

Then she thought of something her mother told her not so long ago. They were in the kitchen baking cherry pies. The flour sifter was jammed and wouldn’t work. “Problems don’t solve themselves,” she’d said, “you must approach them with a clear mind. You must think about them.” The sifter was fixed when she found a misaligned part in the mechanism and put it right.

So she was going to have to think. The first thing she thought was to get out of the plane, it smelled like blood and gasoline. Because the belt was under the pressure of her weight unlocking it took some effort. She fell to the floor (ceiling) by pulling on the belt as hard as she could, lifting herself a little, and pushing the release when the belt slackened.

She crawled out through a broken window trying not to cut herself on the jagged edges. She was only partially successful as she got a cut on her shoulder and one on her knee. She also had a scratch on her forehead that wasn’t bleeding any more. A coagulated blood track from it ran up into her hairline, which she tried to wipe away with only limited success. She looked at the blood on her hand, almost black in the star lit darkness.

It was cold out, really cold, not just goose bump cold, not chilly, but that deep down cold that goes right through you. She thought maybe short sleeves and shorts weren’t very good choices for this kind of weather but they had dressed in tropical Florida. She looked around for her shoes, kneeling to look into the plane. They had kicked them off at the beginning of the trip and now were nowhere to be found.

I wonder if they’re ‘dead?’ she thought. She’d heard about ‘dead’ but had never seen any dead thing except for butchered meat (she just now realized the truth of that) but that didn’t really seem the same thing as this. Perhaps her mother and father were ‘dead.’ The thought horrified her as she came to the woeful conclusion that they were, indeed, ‘dead.’ The epiphanies kept coming, she was learning in quantum leaps!

“You must think about them,” her mother had said. Why am I not ‘dead?’ she wondered. Then she answered herself with, I could be, but I’m not. And it’s not over. I must find someone to help or I might be ‘dead’ too. She didn’t want to be ‘dead.’ She would cry about her family later.

So she turned to the dark woods that surrounded her, picked a direction and started walking.

Story a Day

Stairway to Heaven

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This stair just keeps going. I take another step . . . and another . . . and so on . . .

Funny how your mind wanders when you’re locked into a mindless task. My task, at the moment, is to put one foot in front of the other and climb this endless stair. That’s all there is. Just this stair, ascending to the vanishing point in front of me and, if I look back, descending to the vanishing point in that direction as well.

It’s lit well enough. I can see it’s plain, unmarked brick-red surface clearly. The unknown, invisible, source of light is omnipresent as there are no shadows. All else is darkness . . . another step . . .

So back to vacuous thoughts during drudgery. One thing I thought of was my mother wiping my face with a damp cloth. I remember I was hot, sweating quite a bit, and I didn’t feel very well. She wiped across my brow and even though the cloth was damp it left my brow drier, and cooler, than it had been before. That moment, how I felt, how it’s meaning changed and grew in importance as I matured, seems to be part of my definition. . . . and another step . . .

The thought fades as I trudge on. Curiously, the stair begins to widen. Maybe it was wide already, I just couldn’t see it? Don’t know. Next thing I do know is that there are other people on the stair. As my perception of the breadth of the stair increases I can see the forms and shapes of others walking the same stair. They trudge on like me.

Soon the stair is so wide I can’t see anything else. People on the stair extend in both directions left and right as well as to the compass points behind me. Some people, stepping faster than myself, are up ahead of me, but not by so much. In the farther distance out front I can see some figures, probably running, I’d guess. I don’t think I need to run . . . step . . .

I see a woman to my left stop climbing and just stand there. She looks around while others pass by her, some having to step around. I catch a glimpse of her eyes. She looks tired. I keep climbing, though, and she quickly passes beyond my peripheral vision.

Is there any end to this? I might be a little tired, but I keep on.

Then, funny, a memory slips in. It was the summer after third grade and I was playing in the Little League. I was big for my age and was lucky enough to get picked for the team that would become the area champions that summer. Of course, we didn’t know that at the time. What a summer!

I’d get a quarter or two to take to the game for refreshments. The favorite drink of the team was called a “suicide” that was a mixture of all the flavors they had, grape, cherry, lime, lemon, orange! For a third grader it was the ultimate euphoria! . . . and another step . . .

Another thought intrudes. I was sitting in front of my desktop computer, the mouse hovering over the “Apply” button, my finger on the trigger. I remember hesitating. Should I really sign up for Social Security now or should I wait? One of the big questions I had in my mind was whether there’d be anything left in the fund if I waited too long. I did apply, of course.

And then there’s bagels! MMMmmmm! I love them! Gimme some cream cheese!

Yeah, I’ve been on this stair it seems like my whole life. I wonder, if I’d known what I know now, if I would have kept walking the way I did. Ha! Probably . . . and yet another step!

Story a Day

The Other Side

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“Time to go,” he said as he finished his coffee and rose from the breakfast table. His uniform was fresh and clean, the badge of his office was gleaming, his sidearm securely strapped in its holster. “I’ll be coming straight home after work, unless you want me to pick something up,” he said to his wife as she handed him his lunch box.

“If you come home,” she said. She wore a blue checked maternity shirt that shrouded her near term pregnancy. An infant boy was in a high chair, finger painting the tray with his oatmeal.

“Not to worry, love,” the young police officer said, “I’ve got the west side today, the business sector, and that’s fairly calm most of the time.”

She looked at him, straightened his tie a little, and gave him a perfunctory kiss. “Sure, sure,” she said,
“but sooner or later you’ll get the south side and it’s open season on cops there.”

“You know we take every precaution. We all have cameras and wear body armor in the danger zones and no one travels alone,” the officer said as he returned his wife’s kiss. “I trust my partner to cover my back,” he said, “and he hasn’t let me down yet.” In truth, dangerous as the job was, he’d been lucky. He hadn’t drawn his weapon in the line of duty in the three years he’d been patrolling the streets of the city.

She took the tray from the seat belted infant and rinsed it off in the sink. “How about if I don’t trust him at all?” she asked.

He kissed her again and gave her a sheepish smile. “Someone has to stand between the ‘powah of the dark side’ and the innocent folks just trying to get by,” he said. “I got plenty of experience handling knuckleheads in the military police, I can take care of myself. Someone has to do it; I’m qualified and capable, hon. And I keep my eyes open, I won’t put myself in unnecessary danger.”

“Yeah, when you see it coming,” she said. “But they’re shooting cops with high powered rifles from blocks away. You ‘d never know what hit you.”

“There hasn’t been anything like that in our city, so far,” he said.

“So far . . .” she reiterated with a great sigh. She looked him in the eyes and he could see the wheels turning behind those big blues. “Why does it have to be you?” she asked, “You have a family, we need you.”

“I know that,” he said, “but don’t you see that by making the world a little safer for John Q. Citizen I’m making it safer for you and the kids?” He turned and walked to the backdoor and turned the knob. “Nothing’s going to happen. I’ll be here for you—promise,” he said and gave her his most winning smile.

She knew he kept his promises but she also knew this one was beyond his power to guarantee. He’s a moral guy and he’s doing what he thinks is right and she loved him for it. She pushed her fear aside and smiled at him as she replaced the tray on the boy’s chair. “That’s one I will hold you to, officer.”

He pulled the door shut behind him, walked down the five wooden steps to the drive where his car was parked. He knew she was right, every cop, good or bad, has a target painted on his forehead these days. So why am I doing this? he asked himself. Living in fear is stressful and takes its toll on a man—and his family. Plenty of fear to go around these days. There are other ways to serve the community. Maybe become a fireman? But they’re getting shot these days too.

So why am I doing this? he thought as he pulled the door to his car open and got inside. The only thing he could think of as he pulled out onto the street and headed toward the station was: “It’s the right thing to do.”

Story a Day

Pay or Die

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I hadn’t been so concerned about our future since the Breakdown twenty years ago. Back then terrorists hacked the international infrastructure and shut it down in a way that couldn’t be readily repaired, communication, transportation, power, and utilities—all down. The ensuing panic and violence left most of the major cities and manufacturing centers on the planet in smoking ruin. Some government or another, maybe ours, rather late in the game, decided the Arabian Peninsula, the Mideast, was the source of the current woe and launched a full scale nuclear attack. The Mideast is now a radioactive glass desert and much of what’s left of the world has lapsed into rural, agricultural living.

Melissa and I sat down to wait our turn. I was a nervous wreck because I thought Melissa had a broken leg. I saw her go down in the field hockey match at her school and another player landed her full weight on Missy’s lower right leg. I saw it happen; there was nothing deliberate or malicious. It was just one of those things they’re talking about when they say “stuff happens.” (Stuff isn’t the real word in the quote, but you know that.) She was limping badly and they put her in a wheelchair.

It was the epitome of waiting rooms. There were recessed fluorescent troffers in the ceiling, the room was occupied mostly by modern, squarish wooden chairs with maroon upholstered padded seats and backs. The chairs lined the four walls and, placed back to back, made a small island in the center. End tables, laden with dog-eared magazines and artificial plants, separated the chairs into small groups of four or five. Some kids’ toys were scattered in the corner. Bland instrumental music was playing softly through several hidden speakers and the air smelled of babies and antiseptic.

After some time a nurse called out Missy’s name. We went into the examination room and the nurse helped Melissa, who grimaced with a sharp inhalation, up on the examination table. Dr. Burgowitz came in, exchanged greetings and took a look at Missy’s leg. He touched it lightly with a rubber-gloved finger. She caught her breath again.

“Hmm,” said the doctor, “she might have a fracture in her fibula. That’s the thinner bone of the two in the lower leg.” He turned to the nurse, “Let’s get an X-ray.” The nurse nodded, helped Missy back into her chair and wheeled her out the door.

“Doctor, how much is this likely to cost?” I had to ask.

Dr. Burgowitz stopped writing on his tablet, thought a moment, then said, “If she doesn’t have a fracture, the office visit, the X-ray, and whatever meds I might prescribe should run about 350 New Credits.”

Now it was my turn to catch my breath. “Oh, geez, that’s a lot,” I said, “and if she has a fracture?”

“We’ll have to make sure the bone is set properly with a cast, anesthesia, pain meds, crutches—about 1200 New Credits,” Dr. Burgowitz said. He looked back at his tablet, nodded after a bit and said, “Yes, that’s about right, 1200NC.”

“I don’t have that much, doctor,” I said.

“That’s too bad,” the doctor said, “I guess I could wrap a bandage around her leg and you could let it heal naturally. She’ll probably limp for the rest of her life, though.”

“How much for that?” I asked.

“Add an extra 50 credits to what you already owe me,” Dr. Burgowitz said, looking at me over his glasses.

“50 credits for wrapping a bandage?” I was beginning to get a little angry.

“Indeed,” the doctor responded. “Let me tell you a little story. A man pulled into a service station with a loud knocking sound coming from under the car’s hood. He asked the mechanic if he could fix it. He said he could and after looking under the hood reached in and turned an adjustment screw one quarter turn. The knocking stopped and the car purred like a kitten.

“’How much do I owe you?’ the man asked. ’50 credits,’ was the reply. ’50 credits for turning a screw a quarter turn?’ the man groused. ‘Yep’ the attendant said, ’50 cents for turning the screw and 49.50 credits for knowing which screw to turn.’

“I will bandage your daughter’s leg properly,” the doctor finished.

“Couldn’t we work something out if she needs a cast, doc?”

“I’m terribly sorry, my good man, but in this day and age it’s cash only.”

It turned out Missy did have a fractured fibula and the doctor bandaged her as well as my finances would allow. I paid the 400 credits, which pretty much wiped me out and then some. That’s all I could afford. I still get angry now, years later, when I see Melissa limping.

Story a Day

Kaleidoscope

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Promontories of fire extrude and coalesce, violets, greens, blues, taint the orange, yellow, and brilliant white dominance. Gravitic forces pull the immense streamers back into the maelstrom that is the star Procyon, one and a half times larger than our own star. Energy of unimaginable magnitude swirls and eddies, some escaping the powerful pull of the star and bursting into the infinite depths of space.

One such energy packet crashed directly on the fourth planet in the Procyon system. The dominant species on that planet had great plans to conquer their closest neighbors on nearby Alpha Centauri and then on to the other stars in the neighborhood, one of which is good old Sol.

When the energy burst hit Procyon 4 with a super electromagnetic pulse it knocked out every electromagnetic device on the planet. Communications, data shipping and receiving, manufacturing, and transportation services, all dependent on electricity, immediately ground to a standstill.

In only three planetary revolutions the would be conquerors’ civilization began to break down. Without heat many froze to death in the winter climes. In the cities, storehouses, without replenishment, became empty caverns, littered with detritus from hysterical rioters, rioters who could not be stopped by the disorganized, read non-existent, forces of law and order.

Workers on the verge of restoring some power at the power generators were killed by mobs that appeared at the generating stations, irrationally angry that the power was off and wasn’t being restored quickly enough.

Seven days later they began to starve and that’s when the breakdown accelerated, sending the arrogant species back to the stone age, warlords and all. It would be interesting to see how they enjoy conquering themselves all over again.

Maybe we’ll pay them a call sometime, once we get off the planet we were born on. Let’s say . . . if . . . ?

Story a Day

The Escape

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“All right, let’s get everyone into the boats, we’re going to Haven,” Checkmate said, “we should hurry, there isn’t much time before the Cricks get here.”

The school teacher didn’t have to be told twice. Like a mother hen she cluck-clucked her charges to their feet and they began to file out the door, tight lipped, grim and silent, down to the docks and the boats. Two Trees, who had been looking across the river to the burning village, suddenly said, “Less time than we think. Look!” Swimming in the river, only a few yards upstream, about 10 Cricks bristling with weapons were almost upon them.

“Get going as soon as you get into the boats,” Checkmate said to Mrs. Posey. He went over to a window and issued a piercing whistle. The remainder of the Haven war party hustled up the steps past the children headed to the boats and into the strong house.

The Cricks were up and out of the water, in spite of the almost vertical rock where they landed, and began to surround the house. They were all intricately tattooed and naked except for loincloths. Claw, Checkmate, and Iron Hand defended the stair to the boats from two of the quicker Cricks. Claw slashed a completely tattooed Crick’s shoulder and kicked him into the river, he bobbed once or twice, the current carrying him, then sank.

Checkmate parried a spear-thrust from the other and, while wrestling over the lance, Iron Hand crushed the man’s skull with his hammer. The boats with the Riverside survivors were shoving off so the three men dashed quickly into the strong house slamming the heavy door in the faces of three more Cricks.

“It’s going to take them about three seconds to go after the boats,” Claw said. And surely, after they had determined they couldn’t get at the men inside the house, the Cricks, seven in all, started down the steps toward the canoes. Another group of Cricks could be seen swimming 50 yards or so upstream and would be there in minutes.

Checkmate laughed. Everyone in the house turned to look at their leader. “We can swim if we have to,” he said, looking over his little band, “but I think we’ll enjoy the trip much better if we ride!

“Those dumb asses have made a strategic mistake,” the leader said  grinning, “we have the high ground and there’s only one way back up. Git ’em boys!”

The men streamed out of the house and took positions at the top of the stairway. One Crick had jumped into a canoe and was about to cut the mooring line. Jimmy shot an arrow right through his neck and he fell into the river. The other savages saw the Havenites and, like a flock of wheeling birds, charged up the stairway. Most of them were cut down by the archers and the two that made it to the top were perfunctorily dispatched by Claw and Two Trees.

The next group of Cricks would soon be up on the rock; another group behind them could be seen approaching. “Time to go,” Checkmate said and the war party got into the remaining canoes and shoved off.

Story a Day

The Rose Fiasco

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Everybody hates that old witch; he had always wondered if anyone had ever tried to be nice to her. Redmon was a positive and optimistic young fellow and was sure that Rubonello, the witch-mage of the north eastern tract of Dayron, had a heart somewhere deep under the layers of dark mystery that shrouded her legend.

For instance, tales are told of how she destroyed the little village of Sunny Glen with fire and ice. Sunny Glen was located on the border of the northern tract and her territory. The small settlement on Bunyip River, the natural border of the two tracts, started as a way station for river travelers and had been steadily growing.

Some inhabitants began building houses on Rubonllo’s side of the river. The witch turned a blind eye to it for a while as it was only a minor irritation to her and she didn’t feel it necessary to waste the time stamping out some ants. She could put up with a little infringement, there were only a dozen or so structures, if it didn’t get out of hand. Only it did get out of hand, at least to her, when they began to build a bridge across the Bunyip. Encroachment is one thing, invasion is another.

She sent her familiar, Exeter, a large (45 pounds, 20 inches tall at the shoulders!) black cat to deliver the eviction notice to the trespassers. He could make satisfactory dinner out of humans but had a taste for elf. The cat, an eloquent creature, asked the squatters quite politely to go back across the river where they came from. They replied with sticks and stones, driving the sleek animal into the bush and away.

Rubonello was furious over this insult to her autonomy in her own lands and responded by raining fire and brimstone down upon not only the transgressors on her side of the river but the town of Sunny Glen itself. After she saw that every blazing structure had crumbled to ash she bombarded the smoking ruin with baseball sized hail, freezing rain, and snow, freezing anything left alive in what was once the thriving little village of Sunny Glen. “The only way to be sure,” she is reported to have said to Exeter as he purred and rubbed up against her leg.

Many similar stories abound in Dayron regarding the vindictive cruelty of Rubonllo and it was widely accepted that she was . . . not to put too fine an edge on it . . . evil.

Now Redmon was a fine young elven-human halfling. He had optimism oozing out of every pore of his body. Dayron was growing and the north eastern tract was good land, timber and long, wide valleys just right for farming. Until now Rubonllo had “convinced” people to stay out of her lands but Redmon was determined to change her attitude. No one can be that evil!

He carried a red, blood red rose that he meant to give to Rubonllo as a peace offering. The flower was beautiful, fresh, flush, and bursting with springtime vigor. He knew that the flower’s beauty would melt the wicked heart of the old witch and was determined to prove it.

In her vision crystal Rubonllo saw Redmon carefully picking his way through the ruin of Sunny Glen, she saw him cross the river in a canoe and continue into her lands, coming in her direction. A bold one, she thought. She sent Exeter to investigate. Closer, through her familiar’s eyes, she spied the rose Redmon was carrying, holding it before him like a candle in the dark. It was truly the most beautiful flower she had ever seen. She decided to let him approach.

Redmon entered the witch’s castle, stone and iron, grey and moody. “Rubonello,” he called out. “I have brought you a gift.”

Rubonllo appeared before the halfling with a soft pop and a cloud of smoke. “I see,” she said, “is that rose your gift to me?”

“Indeed, it is,” Redmon said as he offered her the bloom.

Rubonello took the blossom and brought it to her nose. The fragrance, tantalizing, sweet, and delicious, stirred emotions in the old witch that had been still for a long time. She sniffed the redolence once again and thought of days of happiness and light, summer afternoons and lovers, long forgotten pleasures.

Then she pricked her finger on a thorn. “Oh!” she exclaimed. She looked at her fingertip and a tiny crimson dot began to grow on it. It was the first time she had seen her own blood in ages. She stood there a long time contemplating the drop of blood as it slowly began to track down her finger. Redmon stood there with his mouth open, aghast.

Rubonllo finally turned to Exeter and said, “Dinnertime!”

Story a Day

Looking for the Lost

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Today is Star Wars Day! May the Fourth be with you!   cc

“You know,” the nurse said, “ you’re pretty lucky. High speed crashes on the bus don’t very often leave any pieces at all.”

“Not many people have the Bodyguard AR I have either,” Random said from the recuperation bed.

Not many people need that kind of protection. Of course, this wasn’t the first time his packet had been blasted to bits. Someone in his line of work would be foolish to operate without some kind of fool proof backup. His bodyguard algorithm kept his personal configuration in a hard-wired kernel at Citi Bank. When physics conflicts crashed the local grid on the Common Bus its contents were lost. The crash had destroyed his user’s config packet, lost forever without backup.

The backup system is complicated, as there are many levels of protection. The essence, however, is that everyone has their config backed up. In the normal course of events a local backup in one’s personal domain is sufficient to cover the majority of “accidents” we humans tend to have. If an accident should occur and no other backup is available the default is loaded.

Backups are quite expensive so most people don’t do it more than once a quarter. Loading the personal backup causes events occurring subsequent to the backup to be lost to personal memory—not a good thing when you’re a private investigator.

Traumatic event crashes that cause a reset on the local grid, like the crash Random just endured, leave no traces of anything not native to the grid. However, Random’s ID marker was rebuilt from a cyclic redundancy check combined with the kernel at Citi. His bodyguard AR rewrote and inserted his ID code at the same time the local grid rebooted the destroyed section’s default. It was then found in a dormant state after the reboot. In this case Random was not so much lucky as smart. “traumatic event crashes” seemed to follow him around.

The nurse cluck-clucked, “Well, you’re still pretty lucky.” She helped him sit up. “Now git,” she said.

Random stood and said, “Personal.” The hospital room flickered once or twice and then resolved into his foyer. He went to his living room and collapsed on the sofa there. Stretching his arms up to the back of the sofa he sat there like an eagle gliding on a thermal, thinking about things. “Footstool,” he said and the glass coffee table changed into a leather upholstered footstool. He absently put his feet up, lost in thought.

The Free Radicals were political terrorists bent on destroying the status quo. They had tried to kill him several times but their attempts were amateurish at best. They really didn’t have the resources, or ability for that matter, to crash the Common High Speed Bus. And who in the hell is Abraxos? Random couldn’t be sure but he had a sneaking suspicion he/she/it wasn’t human. An artificial intelligence doesn’t create itself.

There’s another player, he thought. But who? And what was their motive? And that was as far as Random could get with it—unanswered questions. After he sat there in silence for a long time he finally looked up and said to himself, “Wong. I’ve got to see Wong again.”

“Office,” he said and his office appeared around him. “Blink.”

“Yes?” His office AI replied.

“See if I can get in to see Wong again.”

“Checking,” Blink said, “. . . yes . . .” and, “He can see you anytime this afternoon.”

Random entered Wong’s private domain and the Asian was sitting on a pillow on the floor dressed like a Shaolin monk, shaved head, orange robe, black belt and all. An elegant porcelain tea service was set on a golden filigreed tray in front of him.

“Just one thing,” Random said, not wasting any time on preliminaries. “Do you know who’s trying to kill me?”

“Indeed,” the monk said.

“So tell me.”

Wong shook his head ruefully. “I can’t.” The monk met Random’s quizzical look with an inscrutable gaze, the vague hint of a smile barely perturbing his stoic face. He continued, “I can’t because it’s not something you could possibly understand.”

“I’m not so bad at understanding,” Random replied, “try me.”

“You can’t understand because it’s beyond the realm you know and live in.”

Random narrowed his eyes. “What realm?”

“See? You can’t even comprehend the right question,” Wong said then added ominously, “The answer to your question can and will totally change your way of life if you pursue it.” Wong reached down and picked up a cup of tea from the tray before him. He took a sip, then another. “In fact,” he said, “it can potentially destroy your way of life completely.”

“I’d like to be the judge of that,” Random said.

Wong took another sip of tea then placed it back on the tray, his face pensive. After a pause he said, “Okay, it seems to be time. I’m unable to tell you directly but I can tell you that the answer you seek can be found in Maintenance.”

“Maintenance?” Random reiterated nonplussed. “What the hell does Maintenance have to do with anything?”

“You will be more than surprised, youngster,” the smiling monk said. “Make sure you check out the “Technical” section way down deep in the Level 25 miscellaneous storage stack.”

Level 25? There are only 20 levels for anything, unless they raised the cap and didn’t tell me. A lead at last, Random thought. “So how do I get to level 25?” he asked.

Wong chuckled. “Not my job, man.”

Random shot him a caustic glance but might as well have been glaring at a snowman for all the effect it had. “Thanks, old man,” he said.

“That remains to be seen,” Wong said, bowing inscrutably before returning to his tea sipping.

Story a Day

Just a Little Respect

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He gave the clerk, a dour, balding, middle-aged man with a considerable paunch filling out his once white apron, the money for the eCigs. The man gave him his change along with a bored look, “Anything else?”

Wilson David said, “No,” and left the little corner market. Man, that guy was real excited about doing business with me. Get the same reaction from most people I run into. Don’t I deserve just a little respect? I am a human being.

He made his way down the street, passersby on their lunch breaks moving to and fro. This section of town sure has changed, he thought. Fresh, colorful awnings shade freshly painted storefronts of quaint shops, all color coordinated to blend well with the neighborhood. Small restaurants and walk in pizza and sub shops with tables and chairs out front offer a wide variety of culinary delights for the lunch-breaking business folks.

In addition to the food venues the upscale commercial district also sported a number of esoteric craft and specialty stores. There was a luthier with 3 beautiful handmade guitars displayed in the showcase window. A potter worked at his wheel where anyone on the sidewalk could easily see. There was a curio shop with a large collection of items in the window, each guaranteed to start a conversation.

Well, that’s interesting, he thought when he saw the flash drive nestled among the jade combs, cute paraffin lamps, cascading beads, elegantly framed daguerreotypes, and other sundries that you certainly don’t need in any way but must have regardless. The flash drive had a single word imprinted upon it in caps: RESPECT.

The shopkeeper in “Just Imagine—Unique Curios” was an old woman, frail and bent with age. In spite of her unsteady appearance she had quick, bright and perceptive eyes, which met his as he entered the small shop. “Yes?” she queried.

“I’m looking for a little respect,” he said, chuckling at his clever private joke.

“Aren’t we all?” she replied. “I presume you’re interested in the RESPECT app in the window.”

“An app for what?”

“Any version of smart phone you care to consider,” she said, “any model, any OS, it’s universal.”

That’s pretty interesting in itself, Wilson thought. He said, “So what does it do?”

“Install that app on your phone and, as long as it’s on your person and powered up, you will get great respect from everyone you meet.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Wilson said, “Smart phone apps are wonderful, helpful little programs; they do everything but brush your teeth, and they’re working on that. But tell me how can something like that make others respect you? It’s not possible.”

The woman grinned, revealing a gold-capped eyetooth. “A lot of things are ‘not possible’ but work anyway,” she said. “Bees fly despite it being aerodynamically ‘impossible’ for them, for instance. Try it and see for yourself.” She reached into the showcase, picked up the drive and handed it over to him. “Just plug it in and follow the prompts.”

He did and was presented with a dialog that asked: “Purchase” or “Trial.” “Choose ‘Trial,’” she said.

Wilson tapped the Trial choice and the install screen disappeared. In the lower right hand corner two little progress bars came up, one, colored in, had a legend that said “10 minutes, the other was empty and had “Lifetime” above it. Other than that, nothing happened. “So,” he said, looking closely at the device. “Is it working?”

“It certainly is. Take it for a stroll,” she said with a surprisingly graceful wave toward the door.

He gave a little shrug, “Okay,” he said and went out onto the street.

It was great! Everyone he passed on the street looked at him with a smile, moved aside so he could pass undisturbed, and, in general, treated him with great consideration. His lips tightened, the corners pulling down, as he evaluated the experience. I can get used to this, he thought.

He checked the phone. The time bar was diminishing and a little color appeared in the empty Lifetime bar. I’ll have to ask her what that means.

Let’s see something, he thought. He went back to the convenience store. The clerk got up from his seat behind the counter immediately. “How can I help you, sir?” he asked with deferential concern.

“Give me a cherry slushy,” Wilson said.

The clerk arched an eyebrow, “Slushies are at the self serve bar over there, people help themselves.” The man straightened his apron. “But for you, sir, I’d be honored if you’d let me get it for you.” He emerged from behind his counter, got the slushy, returned, and passed Wilson his beverage. “On the house,” the clerk said.

“On the house?” Wilson couldn’t believe it.

“Why, of course,” the clerk said, “for you—on the house!”

Wilson left the store sucking on his free cherry slushy. He got the phone out and saw his trial period was just about up so he headed back to the curio shop. The old woman was fanning herself with one of those Asian folding paper fans.

“Hey, I really like this,” he said.

With an impish smile the old woman nodded.

“One thing, though,” he said as he placed his phone on the counter before the woman. “The time bar I understand but what’s this “Lifetime” bar mean?”

“Oh, that,” she said, “that’s how much of your lifetime you lose if you get respect you don’t deserve.” She looked at the phone. “Hmm, looks like you lost a couple of days.”

Horrified, he said, “you mean I’ve lost days of my life for that ten minute trial?”

She fixed him with her sharp eyes. “You know, of course, that the only real way to get respect is to earn it, right?” she asked him pointedly. “If you don’t earn it you must pay for it somehow, don’t you think?”

Guess she’s right, he thought. And, now that he was thinking about it, he couldn’t think of too much he’d done in life that deserved respect. High school dropout, father to two children who knows where, no military or community service of any kind . . . a lackluster life to say the least. He wasn’t pleased with his evaluation. I am better than that.

Still, those people pretty well fell over themselves trying to kiss his ass. A long life earning respect or a shorter one getting it undeserved? Getting it undeserved . . . He cocked his head and stood there thinking for a long moment. The old woman waved her fan.

“You know,” he finally said, “I think I feel better about getting respect I deserve. You can keep the app.”

The old woman nodded with a knowing smile and said, “I’m not surprised. Many people have tried it, just like you. Not one person bought it.”

Wilson looked at his phone again, the app was gone. “I think I’ll go find something respectable to do,” he said as he left the shop.

The old woman waved her fan, “thought so,” she said.