Shorter Stories
Melancholy Dane
By William Ritchey
“DANE, PLEASE TELL ME YOU aren’t serious. Everyone feels down at times. Tell me it’s just that.”
“It isn’t, Mike. It’s haunted me a long time. I hid it but it’s a cancer that has grown on my psyche for a century.”
“Why didn’t you tell me before? We could’ve done something—still can. Did you try medication?”
“There’s nothing you can do, Mike. I started antidepressants fifty years ago. I’ve tried them all; nothing helps.” His detached explanation and monotone delivery hit me like a brick; he’s really considering this.
“This is crazy,” I shouted. “There’s so much to live for—to look forward to—now, more than ever. Damn, Dane. We’ve done the work we love for nearly four centuries. We know more than all the greatest scientists—Einstein, Newton, Galileo, Pasteur—combined. You in particular can help humanity more than any before. You can’t piss that away.” He listened vacantly.
“You once said your first PhD was like kindergarten compared to your knowledge now. Imagine your knowledge in a hundred years—a thousand. You can’t throw that away. Future possibilities must still excite you. In college, you talked about the incredible things you’d accomplish.”
“I’m centuries older now.”
“You’re twenty-four.”
“My mind and body are twenty-four, but my spirit’s three hundred and seventy-three.”
“Have you forgotten how precious Renewal is? Remember the pitiful faces of the elderly after missing another lottery opportunity? The 3.2 billion people who died waiting—hoping—during the 145 years doling out Renewal? Do you remember my uncle Stanton died of cancer waiting?” I asked.
“I remember Stanton—what a hoot. He was more fun than anyone I’ve ever met.” Dane said, smiling for just a second.
“Uncle Stanton’s zest for life was unquenchable. If he was awake, he was doing his damnedest to stir up merriment. The diagnosis came six months before he lost in the 2044 Renewal lottery. He hardly laughed or spoke in his remaining months. I truly believe he’d have faced death laughing as he’d faced life, if cancer only robbed him of ten or fifteen years. Stanton deserved Renewal and would have thrived over the countless years.”
“I know we’re fortunate,” Dane said. “We partied for days when they added scientists to automatic Renewal groups. The parties for our fiftieth birthdays are legendary,” he said. “But my life has grown dull. I’ve had no new experience for decades. Cruises to the moon and days at Tycho Rim Resorts, unimaginable once, bore me.”
“That’s hard to believe. You were always the center of attention on the moon vacations.”
“No, Mike, you were the center of attention. I was a minor celebrity as your best friend and made the most of it. It was you constantly creating compelling conversation or some kind of high jinks. I loved those times but can’t relive them.”
“There will be more good times. New entertainment always comes along.”
“I’ve walked on Mars, and I’ve seen dinosaurs. There were so many experiences; I don’t care anymore. Remember how I was kidded about romance in high school?” he asked.
“We called you whipped, but you were just a hopeless romantic.”
“Romance doesn’t appeal to me anymore and hasn’t for a long time. Each of my five marriages had less and less passion. My first wife, Marie, was fantastic. We were so young—love was painfully pleasurable. I lived to see her and ached without her. My knees grew weak when we kissed; I trembled when we made love.”
“By eleventh grade, everyone knew you’d marry someday,” I interrupted.
“In the years after college, our interests diverged, and our love faded. I met Sheila soon after.”
“I remember Sheila. You seemed like a perfect match.”
“When we first dated, the passion was there. The romance was great, at first, but our love fizzled. The next three marriages followed my Renewal. They seemed successful—each one lasted more than fifty years—but more and more, they became arrangements of convenience.”
“I still thought you were a romantic and crazy in love,” I said.
“I hid how I felt knowing it would bother you. I hoped you’d think I was still a romantic. By the time I met Chloe, our physical and intellectual attraction led to a loveless marriage for companionship and gratification of needs.”
He went on, “I hoped the apathy would pass. After the cellular regeneration discovery, my attitude was piqued by the possibilities. Renewal lifted my spirits for decades with my improved mental acuity and twenty-four-year-old body form. The oppressive threat of death and aging was gone, replaced with bright expectation of a limitless future filled with incredible experiences.”
He added, “Those times with you and our friends—I did enjoy them, but my despair always returned. Years ago, I controlled the melancholy by immersing myself in work. Lately, only fear of the alternative compelled me to go on.”
I was devastated but knew I could do nothing. He walked with me to the door, and I shook his hand until my hand tired. I looked, hoping for any sign of indecision. We released hands, and for the first time ever, he hugged me.
“Take care, Mike,” he said as I started down the hallway. Then, as an afterthought, “I lied. Your uncle Stanton’s the second most fun person I’ve ever met.”
***
My mind’s sharp as ever, but my recollection of Dane, my best friend from childhood, is blurred. I recently ran across an old photograph of us together while cleaning out a desk and thought of his final days. I can’t remember his last name. I wondered—could the countless discoveries since his death have made life compelling enough to be enjoyable again? Would he have found new purpose with the voluminous knowledge he would have gained? If I told him what he knew then would be like kindergarten someday—would that have changed his mind? Probably not, but I can only imagine. I remember so little of that time I can’t be sure. Our friendship spanned such a tiny fraction of my existence and ended so long ago. 
William Ritchey is an Aerospace Engineer from Huntsville, Alabama. He’s been a science fiction enthusiast since 6th grade. This is his first short story sale.
How I Became a Cyborg
By Rita Ferreira
THE PARKING MACHINE SAID, Have a Nice Trip, and he turned to leave. I stopped dead and he turned around. “You have to be nice to machines,” I said. “Say thank you; it’s only polite.”
He laughed. “What difference would it make?” he asked as he made to turn once more.
“It will make all the difference,” I said, not moving an inch. “When the machines take over, they will remember those who used them and those who showed them respect and kindness. I will make sure I am in the second group.”
“Don’t you think you’re being a little dramatic?” he asked with a smile.
I motioned to the machine. “It will take two seconds of your time.” On the machine it read, Prepare Your Change.
“Fine,” he said. “Thank you, parking ticket machine.”
On the machine it read, Prepare For Change.
***
At home he asked, “So what’s the plan? It is obvious you’ve been thinking very far ahead.”
He didn’t smile anymore. When we arrived home the microwave greeted me by name.
“It’s simple,” I said. “We treat them well. We respect them as equals. When the time comes, we side with them.”
“Is this why you always keep our kitchen appliances so clean all the time?” he asked.
“Yes,” I replied. “Then when the time comes, they’ll take us as their own. Because we are humans and that wouldn’t do, they will turn us into cyborgs and my nipples will fire lasers. Then we’ll help keep the human population in check, rule alongside the machines and have amazing cyborg sex.”
“Sounds good,” he said, and started polishing the blender.
***
The takeover came, sooner than anyone expected except me. We sided with the machines, and they remembered our past kindness and turned us into cyborgs. The sex was as amazing as I had predicted.
The humans were not destroyed, but rather ruled over. A tidy switching of places. We worked for you, now you work for us. There was talk of the humans rebelling in the future, but I knew that was a silly hope, as did the machines, who let them plot and hope out of mercy. They couldn’t defeat the machines, of course. The machines are far more awesome than biological beings, as I knew before and confirmed thanks to my transformation.
As for me and him, machine life was awesome. The humans didn’t appreciate our betrayal, but it was OK because I shot nipple lasers at them.
Rita Ferreira has studied to be a veterinarian and is currently studying to be a translator. She has written short stories and books in Portuguese and English.
Bienvenido! Bienvenido!
By Doug Donnan
WHO MIGHT HAVE IMAGINED that during the first half of the 21st century, Mexico would become the world’s foremost exporter of robotic workers? Most notably, Reynaldo’s Utility Robotics dominated the industry. Beginning with a migrant worker model in 2027, the line soon included domestics, educationals, and experimentals. In the second half of the 21st century, the Robot Rights struggle guaranteed an assortment of freedoms to all AI-capable metal men. Our non-organic labor classes could now negotiate in the private sector for better conditions and benefits. As a result of this, the United States once again became a magnet for the brass collar workforce. Immigration, off the radar for decades, was again a hot button issue.
“How many of them did you say was comin’ through, chief?”
“Hell, I don’t really know or give a rat’s ass!” Fredricks almost shouted. “We’re only in it for the dinero now amigo ... the money! All this secure the border crap just ain’t workin’ out ... it’s all just a lot of hogwash. A lot of dedicated and honorable border agents are gettin’ themselves all shot up, killed, for nothin’. Let the bastards come on in I say. If they wanna pay us under the table to get into this crazy country, I say fine ... buck up. Bucks for Bots ... that’s my new motto. And by the way Brandt, not a word out of you about any of this or I’ll see that you end up walkin’ a bull’s-eye beat out in east L.A. ... comprende?”
A full alabaster moon looked down on the midnight desert scene. It being a mute, indifferent witness to this clandestine, subterranean border crossing.
“Sure, chief, I understand. But how can we be certain—”
“Sssh, listen up!” Fredricks cut in as he bent down and presented an ear inside the rusted opening of the yawning corrugated drainage pipe. “Ya hear that? They’re comin’ through. That’s them alright, scramblin’ and scurryin’ for the promised land in the good ol’ USA. They’re all talkin’ like motormouths and runnin’ for their lives!”
“Whatta we do now chief?”
“You just keep yer eyes on that damn pipe hole. I’m gonna blink my flashlight inside there. Pretty soon a big ass bag is gonna come flyin’ out. I want you to grab it and then we’ll both hightail it for the Jeep over by that dry arroyo where we left it. You got that?”
“Sure, I understand. How much money you figure will be in the bag?” Brandt tried to ask with an idiotic grin.
“Just never you mind about all that amigo. You just get it, and then we’ll both haul ass outa here for our ICE wagon ... comprende?”
“Hey, lookee there!” Brandt piped up with a childlike squeal. “There’s the bag!”
“Go get that goddam thing and let’s vamoose outa here!”
Brandt broke after the tumbling canvas bag like a junkyard dog chasing a feral cat. He swiped it up and the twosome lit out through a prickly platoon of bent armed cactus and soon disappeared behind a long swayback sand dune.
Gone like ghosts.
Far above, a stealthy, sweptwing drone searched and surveyed the entire scene below with highly sensitive infra-red eyes. Its lofty presence was not unlike that of an impatient buzzard circling some long forgotten meat wagon, or, in this case, guarding its brood of hungry chicks. Another piece of discredited, discarded technology from many years past revisioning itself for a new purpose.
Doug Donnan lives in a one horse town along the Florida Panhandle. His fiction has appeared in an assortment of magazines and several times in “Perihelion.”
Editorial Discretion
By Michael Haynes
FROM: JHENDERSON@MEGAMAIL.COM
To: editor@colossalfiction.com
Date: January 17, 2015 23:48
Subject: SUBMISSION: “Prison Guard of Uranus”
Mr. Kenton,
Please consider my story, “Prison Guard of Uranus” for publication in Colossal Fiction. I’m a physics graduate student and have always desired to appear in your magazine.
Sincerely,
John Henderson
***
Chat Transcript morning of February 9, 2015:
rneal: Alan, did you see the title on this one?
akenton: Huh?
rneal: “Prison Guard of Uranus"!?! Seriously?
rneal: Oh, God. I opened it up ... It’s just as bad as you’d think.
akenton: Welcome to slushing, kid.
***
From: editor@colossalfiction.com
To: jhenderson@megamail.com
Date: February 9, 2015 11:17
Subject: Re:SUBMISSION: “Prison Guard of Uranus”
Thank you for sending your story for our consideration. It does not meet our needs at this time.
Sincerely,
Colossal Fiction
***
From: jhenderson@megamail.com
To: editor@colossalfiction.com
Date: Feburary 10, 2015 00:28
Subject: SUBMISSION: “What Timmy Saw in the Basement”
Mr. Kenton,
I’m sorry “Prison Guard of Uranus” didn’t meet with your approval and hope you find “What Timmy Saw in the Basement” more in line with your needs.
Sincerely,
John Henderson
***
From: editor@colossalfiction.com
To: jhenderson@megamail.com
Date: March 13, 2015 13:05
Subject: Re:SUBMISSION: “What Timmy Saw in the Basement”
Thank you for sending your story for our consideration. It does not meet our needs at this time.
Sincerely,
Colossal Fiction
PS—Bearing in mind the wisdom “never say never” we do not, as a rule, buy horror fiction.
***
From: rneal@kmail.com
To: edboard@colossalfiction.com
Date: March 13, 2015 13:12
Subject: Your Turn!
Next time John Henderson sends a story in, someone else read it. There’s only so much I can take!
—Randy
***
From: jhenderson@megamail.com
To: editor@colossalfiction.com
Date: March 14, 2015 19:41
Subject: SUBMISSION: “The Thrusting Sword of Kalinair”
Mr. Kenton,
Maybe I can tantalize you with some epic fantasy? Please consider my short story, “The Thrusting Sword of Kalinair.”
Sincerely,
John Henderson
***
Chat Transcript morning of March 28, 2015:
rneal: U there?
akenton: What’s up?
rneal: I’m looking in my inbox & see another one from John Henderson. I asked —nicely—for someone else to take his next one.
akenton: Heh. Well, you seem to have a rapport with the man ...
rneal is idle
***
Chat Transcript afternoon of March 28, 2015:
rneal: If you insist on sticking me with this, can I please at least write my own rejection letter?
akenton: Hmmm ...
akenton: Going to get me sued?
rneal: No.
rneal: Probably not.
akenton: Have a ball.
***
From: editor@colossalfiction.com
To: jhenderson@megamail.com
Date: March 31, 2015 23:19
Subject: Re:SUBMISSION: “The Thrusting Sword of Kalinair”
No.
Sincerely,
Colossal Fiction
PS—Only if the world were ending so there could be no damage to the Colossal Fiction brand might we consider publishing this.
PPS—Yes, it was that bad. No, this isn’t an April Fool’s Joke.
***
From: akenton@rmail.com
To: edboard@colossalfiction.com
Date: June 20, 2018 11:11
Subject: Turning Over the Reins
I’ve been offered an editorial position at MegaGames for their microfiction streams. Veteran Associate Editor Randy Neal will take over Colossal. He was instrumental in our transition from print to digital. You’re in good hands.
Best,
Alan Kenton
***
From: jhenderson@mammothstate.edu
To: editor@colossalfiction.com
Date: September 19, 2018 04:17
Subject: QUERY: “The Thrusting Sword of Kalinair”
Mr. Neal,
Congratulations on your editorship. Please see attached your magazine’s correspondence of March 31st, 2015. Would you accept a resubmission under the stated terms?
Sincerely,
John Henderson, Ph.D.
***
From: editor@colossalfiction.com
To: jhenderson@mammothstate.edu
Date: September 20, 2018 09:09
Subject: Re: QUERY: “The Thrusting Sword of Kalinair”
Mr. Henderson,
Thanks for your note. We only accept resubmissions upon our request.
Sincerely,
Colossal Fiction
***
From: jhenderson@mammothstate.edu
To: editor@colossalfiction.com
Date: September 19, 2018 04:17
Subject: Re: QUERY: “The Thrusting Sword of Kalinair”
Thanks for your reply. Please note you’d provided conditions in your postscript under which a resubmission would be acceptable.
Sincerely,
John Henderson, Ph.D.
***
From: editor@colossalfiction.com
To: jhenderson@mammothstate.edu
Date: September 20, 2018 09:09
Subject: Re: QUERY: “The Thrusting Sword of Kalinair”
Mr. Henderson,
As jokes go, this isn’t vaguely funny. Feel free to sod off.
Sincerely,
Randy Neal, Editor
***
From: jhenderson@mammothstate.edu
To: editor@colossalfiction.com
Date: September 20, 2018 12:10
Subject: Re: QUERY: “The Thrusting Sword of Kalinair”
Attached: shiva_TOPSECRET.pdf
Please see the attachment before giving your final word.
Sincerely,
John Henderson, Ph.D.
***
Chat Transcript afternoon of September 20, 2018:
rneal: You there?
cneal: Yes.
rneal: Hey, this might sound crazy ...
rneal: But I’ve gotten an email from this guy who’s also at Mammoth State.
cneal: OK.
rneal: In your department. And ... Well, he’s saying the world is coming to an end.
rneal: Like soon.
rneal: Cindy?
rneal: Cindy, you there?
cneal: I’ll call you.
***
From: editor@colossalfiction.com
To: jhenderson@mammothstate.edu
Date: September 21, 2018 05:09
Subject: Re: QUERY: “The Thrusting Sword of Kalinair”
Mr. Henderson,
We’ll accept your resubmission.
Sincerely,
Randy Neal
***
Chat Transcript afternoon of October 13, 2018:
lfoster: I saw that Kalinair story you accepted. This is a joke, right?
rneal: No joke.
lfoster: Umm ... Which Associate Editor passed this one up to you???
rneal: I took it myself.
rneal: Don’t worry about it. Just ... I dunno, go find something fun to do.
lfoster: U feeling OK?
rneal is idle
***
New York Times Headline October 18, 2018:
“SHIVA ASTEROID ON COLLISION COURSE FOR EARTH. January 4th is C-Day.”
***
From: editor@colossalfiction.com
To: jhenderson@mammothstate.edu
Date: October 21, 2018 05:09
Subject: Re: QUERY: “The Thrusting Sword of Kalinair”
Mr. Henderson,
Attached find a contract for “The Thrusting Sword of Kalinair.” Please sign and return. Colossal Fiction is an award-nominated publication with many submissions. As such, turnaround times between acceptance and publication can be extended. However, I’m pleased to tell you I’ve used my editorial discretion in this case. Your story is slotted to appear on our website on January 5th, 2019.
Sincerely,
Randy Neal
Michael Haynes is an active member of SFWA. His stories have appeared in “Daily Science Fiction,” “InterGalactic Medicine Show,” and “Beneath Ceaseless Skies.”
