Author : J.R. Blackwell, Staff Writer
The royal family is property of The People, and it is The People who determine our fate. When I was eight The People voted to marry brother off to the King of an ore rich moon. He sits now, on a throne of onyx, beside his silent King. When I was ten, the people voted again and my sister was married to two Princes, who each rule half a planet. She lives on the equator, a buckle between the two halves of the world. All of my siblings were bound, earth royal blood, to alien worlds, to distant colonies. Royalty to Royalty. Crown to Crown. We marry so that we do not make war. Blood of violence or blood to bind, there is no peace without blood.
I, the youngest soul, the little Princess all grown, I was left on Earth, to read in the castle libraries, to cut ribbons in ceremonies, to attend dinners. I did nothing but wait, wait until, wait because, wait to be, just wait, biding time, treading time. Oh but then we discovered The World, a life form so large that it covers a planet, all but the poles, a King if there ever was one. The World is a plant, a person, a planet, it grows under two suns, links, stirs, blood as water, skin is green to receive the suns that rotate around their planet , whose million eyes are black like deep ocean water.
On my wedding day I wear a dress, newly made, woven of animal skins, soft against my own flesh. I step on the planet, the bride, a virgin to this space, this world, and the life there is rich – too much oxygen, and I am light headed. You will grow used to it, they say, before they leave me to be wedded to this world. You will grow used to it, they say, before they leave me to be wedded to this world.
I am lighter here. Lighter and light headed, I can step on my husband, my wife, this worlds rich gifts, it’s limbs. I sleep when I am tired, when I am hungry; there is ever fruit and nuts to satisfy me. I need only imagine my hunger, and there is food. My dress begins to shred. It is well made, but after a month, perhaps longer, the sleeves are gone, and the hem is shredded.
I am becoming wild, untamed. The suns never set, but take turns shining in the sky. I am unhinged, a wild thing, a tree animal. My shoes are long ago memories. I cannot remember when the ground was not soft leaves, when the weather was ever imperfect. It rains, and the leaves hurry to cover me, I walk under waterfalls and the water is sweet. The world is my lover, it hastens to care for me. I lay on the soft leaves of my lover, my own, limbs sinking into The World, covered, nearly consumed, and stare up at the two suns ready to receive their light.
The 365 Tomorrows Free Podcast: Voices of Tomorrow
This is your future: Submit your stories to 365 Tomorrows
Adiaŭu du mil naŭ kaj salutu du mil dek, novan jarcenton!
Author : Jason Frank
Satisfied that the “open” side of his small sign was indeed facing outward, Harrison parted the dusty blinds and nervously looked outside. The once crowded downtown sidewalks were empty, as they had been since the Tald-Mart had opened outside of town. The resulting drop off in browsing walk-ins to his small book shop was directly responsible for today’s scheduled visitor, whose eventual presence was directly responsible for Harrison’s current unease.
Harrison had not yet had the opportunity to meet a Taldunian in person. He was quite certain, however, that it was the magnitude of today’s sale that had him on edge and not the species of the buyer. Surely his lifelong immersion in the great works of literature had inculcated Harrison against any sentiments as base as xenophobia. Of course, one’s distaste for another’s actions could exist without an underlying, irrational fear. Harrison had always imagined that whatever alien civilization first contacted the Earth would bring either conquest or enlightenment. He never envisioned their intent of selling a variety of technologically advanced toiletries at ridiculously low rates. There was more than enough crass commercialism on the planet already.
Then again, if one of these interstellar merchants now was interested in purchasing a great work of literature in its first edition, perhaps Harrison had been wrong about them. Perhaps they were no different than any other immigrant group, seeing to their material needs before concerning themselves with matters of taste and refinement.
Harrison turned away from his front window and began walking back to his habitual perch behind the cash register. He had only taken a few steps before the dull chime of the old bell hung high on the poster plastered front door interrupted him.
“Hello,” Harrison said before he had completely turned around. Seeing the Taldunian at the door, he added, “Might you be the customer I had the pleasure of talking with yesterday?”
“Indeed,” the Taldunian answered, “I am here to purchase the edition we discussed.”
“Yes, I have it here. Would you like to browse a bit before_”
“That is not necessary.”
“Let me get that for you.” Harrison hurried over to the counter and picked up the book in question. He gently unwrapped the fragile copy of Wuthering Heights and offered it to his customer.
“Everything seems to be in order here. Your account has been credited the agreed upon amount.”
Harrison felt that a call to his bank would be perceived as rudeness in this circumstance. Besides, there had not been a single instance of a Taldunian failing to follow through on a financial transaction.
The six figure sum the two parties had discussed would ensure the survival of his small operation for a number of years. Still, Harrison couldn’t help feeling the loss of an heirloom that had been in his family for generations. He had chosen to be a bookseller and so sell books he must.
The Taldunian removed a small vial from his tunic and began to liberally sprinkle its contents on the book. Harrison’s assumption that this was some sort of preservative unknown to himself was quickly corrected as the Taldunian lifted the book to his tentacle encircled mouth and took a bite.
“Hmm, it’s not very good,” the Taldunian said, still chewing. “As you humans say, there is no accounting for taste. Perhaps it will be more to my wife’s liking.” With that, the Taldunian turned and walked out. Harrison’s remained standing for some time silently. His mouth, hung agape, was as dry as a pile of sawdust.
The 365 Tomorrows Free Podcast: Voices of Tomorrow
This is your future: Submit your stories to 365 Tomorrows
Author : L.Hall
Robert Lynch kicked the treads of the small field tractor, clots of dried mud falling off and busting on the ground. He took off his ball cap, looked up in the air and ignored the old man, Paul Gilbert, standing behind him quietly. Bobby, his five year old son, stood near his terrain utility vehicle trying to grab a marshopper. Robert watched him for a moment.. there was no awe on the boy’s face at the genetically engineered insect, designed to cross pollinate plants and burrow into the ground to loosen soil under the Mars biodomes. Just a boy trying to catch an insect. He turned slightly to look at the old man.
“Paul, I gotta tell ya.. Times been tough on everyone.” Robert scratched his chin.
The old man scuffed his boot against the red soil on the dirt road.
“I know, son. But I just can’t see how I can let’er go for less’n fourteen hundred.”
Robert nodded and walked around the tractor, green paint worn off in spots around the hitch. Bobby chased a marshopper closer to Paul while Robert deliberated on the cost.
“You know it ain’t worth eight.” He said, looking across the top of it at the old man. A low chuckle came out of Paul as he shook his head.
“Boy,” he said a bit louder, catching Bobby’s attention. “You hear that bird?”
Bobby started looking around him confused. He’d read about birds in books, but had never seen one, having never been off the Mars agriculture colony. Looking up at Paul, he shook his head. The old man bent down on one knee.
“You don’t hear that bird? Listen.”
Robert leaned against the tractor watching the act. Bobby was straining so hard to hear. Paul held up his hand to his own ear.
“Hear it? It’s going ‘Cheap! Cheap! Cheap!’”
Robert started laughing as Paul stood back up and grinned at him across the tractor. Bobby continued looking around curiously.
“Fine! Tell you what. I’ll give you nine for it, and eight bales of feed.” Robert said, laughingly. Paul grinned as he walked over to the tractor.
“Throw in one of Mary’s pies and maybe supper?” he asked, holding out his hand. Robert shook his hand and clapped Paul on the back.
“Now.. that’s between you and Mary.” he said.
As Robert and Bobby pulled off the Gilbert’s homestead, the young boy looked over at his Daddy curiously. “Daddy, I never did hear that bird.”
Robert laughed as the TUV bumped over the dirt road toward the lights of their own biodome.
The 365 Tomorrows Free Podcast: Voices of Tomorrow
This is your future: Submit your stories to 365 Tomorrows
Saluton, karaj!
It's been a very long time since I've posted and I do apologize for that. I now have very much to talk about and you'll be seeing at least three posts after this one. Just to get the updates out and clue you in on how I'm thinking, here are the main points.
Kiam mi estis komencanto, mi veturis tra Kalifornujo kaj ofte vizitis vendejojn de malnovaj libroj kaj esploris ĉu ili havas Esperantajn librojn. Foje mi trovis verajn trezorojn, ekz Wini-la-Pu kaj la Esperanto-gramatiko de Cox. Ofte ankaux estis ekzempleroj de la malnovaj lernolibroj de Connor kaj aliaj. Antaŭnelonge, mi konstatis ke tiuj libroj ankoraŭ sidis sur mia breto. Mi cerbumis iomete kaj elpensis utilan rolon por ili.
Ĉe nia biblioteko, estas bretaro kie la biblioteko fordonas librojn kaj revuojn kiujn ili ne plu deziras. La publiko ankaŭ rajtas lasi librojn tie. Mi decidis unuope lasi Esperantajn librojn tie ĝis ili foruziĝas. Mi metis unu libron tie antaŭ du semajnoj kaj, kiam mi eliris la bibliotekon, ĝi estis jam malaperinta. Mi forgesis intertempe, sed nun lasas alian libron sur la breto kaj ni vidu kiom longe ĝi restos antaŭ ol mi devos remeti alian.
En la libroj, mi metis kelkajn kartetojn kiuj reklamas nia lokan grupon. Eble iu venos al baldaŭa kunveno kiu volas uzi sian libron por lerni Esperanton. Mi rajtas almenaŭ revi, ĉu ne?
Author : Omkar Wagh
“How many days of funding do I have left?”, I asked.
“Well your thesis has been accepted and you have already been given a Ph.D. degree. So the college is willing to support you for about three more months at least.”
“Damn It! I would have never expected such a toxic species to last so long. Is there no way I could wrap up my work without landing in prison?”
“No I don’t think so. It’s a bit harsh but necessary. You’re going to have to fund the experiment with your own earnings now. I did advise you not to dabble in such experiments though.”
“Sir, but why is this law even in place?”
“Ever since a species in another simulation experiment conducted somewhere across the globe had developed enough to run their own simulation experiment, some blokes somewhere thought they actually had sentience, life even. They had as much a right to life as we did. Which meant a person could not stop such a simlation until all life had terminated.
Now depending on the laws of physics in that universe, this could take any time from months to years.”
There was nothing I could do. The job prospects for a universe simulation graduate were bleak especially with the negative publicity surrounding the research field because of the several casual genocides that were caused. Students would start simulations with random laws of physics, see which ones led to life, publish papers and then terminate them. I was one of the last students to take this line.
All that changed when some simulated species began their own simulations. What if we were a simulation ourselves? Would we want the same fate on us? Hence, we could not stop a simulation without all life terminating of it’s own accord.
I had to hire a talented hacker to bring down our systems from outside the university and delete all data. It was criminal. It was genocide. But at least he could claim he did not know of the simulation within the system. At least he wouldn’t get the death penalty. And I won’t be there to hear their last cries.
I’m not sure I want to play God anymore.
The 365 Tomorrows Free Podcast: Voices of Tomorrow
This is your future: Submit your stories to 365 Tomorrows
Author : Gavin Raine
It’s ironic, but I’d been having having such a good day. The children all had their heads down, working on their numbers, and I even had a little time to daydream for once.
Then, I had that strange feeling that my chair had just sunk six inches into the floor – you know the one – and I knew it was real because the children reacted too. I was just about to reassure them that everything was OK when the gravity went off and all the lights went out and everybody started screaming.
The darkness only lasted a few seconds, of course, but it was terrifying for them – and for me too. If I hadn’t been shouting at them to be quiet, I think I would have been screaming myself.
Anyway, the emergency lighting came on and I started grabbing children out of the air and pushing them towards their lockers. They were all very good really and they remembered their drill perfectly, but it’s not easy getting into a pressure suit in zero gee. Most of them were crying and one of the boys was sick and Molly Davis got it in her hair and… well it was just a god awful mess.
We were just about getting organized when that idiot Lieutenant Birch started talking on the PA. “Wow that was a big one!” he said. “The engines have cut out because we’ve got a bit of spin,” he said. “We’re going to have a nice new crater after that one,” he said. He talks to us like were a bunch of kids on a fucking fairground ride! I’m sorry, but it’s just really inappropriate.
Listen, I know we’re inside an asteroid with a shell ten meters thick, but this is happening far too often. Inter-stellar space isn’t as empty as they told us it would be and traveling at 80% of the speed of light is just plain suicidal. We’re still six months from the turn-around and we can’t slow down, or we miss our target, so you know it can only get worse.
I’m sorry Captain, but you’re going to have to find yourself a new schoolteacher. I’ve made my decision and I’m going into the freezers tomorrow. All things considered, I’m not prepared to sit around and wait for the big one. I think it would be better to die in my sleep.
The 365 Tomorrows Free Podcast: Voices of Tomorrow
This is your future: Submit your stories to 365 Tomorrows
Word squares, anyone?
Question: What is special about the following four four-letter words? CARD, AREA, REAR, DART
Answer: If you put them one on top of the other, in the order given, they spell out the same words vertically:
C A R D
A R E A
R E A R
D A R T
where I have put spaces between the letters in order to make the vertical arrangement easier to see.
Recently, I was moving through a dungeon in a certain roleplaying game, when I came across the quandry that my inventory became full halfway through an incredibly long dungeon which made me not want to drop anything OR trudge back to the nearest seller.
Now, this is a common problem in RPGs, FPSs, and many other games these days. The flat limit of "You have a ton of stuff and you can now have no more" alongside the "Our dungeons are epic and expansive".
There have been many possible remedies to this, including:
*Scroll of Town Portal, popping you back, temporarily, to a homestead
*Sending an NPC back to town to sell your items, losing their fighting ability while helping you keep going
*Light/Medium/Heavy Loads, giving increasing detriment as you continue up towards the heavy load, although this still pushes players to trudge back through the dungeon
So I ask you to brainstorm. If you were halfway through a "dungeon" (as in, any lengthy environment away from base camp/stores), what features can you come up with to help alleviate, temporarily or otherwise, the burden of trudging back to base AND dropping items mid-dungeon.
We would like to thank all of you for spending your valuable time with us throughout the year, and wish you all the very best of the holiday season and good health and prosperity in the New Year!
Best,
The Staff and Writers of 365tomorrows
Author : Jim Wisniewski
She smiles and tilts her head to push a lock of brown hair behind her ear. I run the image back a few seconds and watch it again, entranced as always by the fluidity of the motion. The machines can show me any moment of her life, but this is the one I keep coming back to. Such grace, such elegance encompassed in so simple a gesture. Even so there is no sense of artifice in it. The beauty is simply a part of her, in everything she does.
I play the scene back in slow motion, studying every changing nuance of her face. The detail of the image is excellent, now. Resolution was low in the early days of the project, but at this point there’s enough holoscopes to sift even the tiniest detail from the shell of thirty-year-old photons. Before long we’ll push the cloud out to a hundred light-years and begin again. That much distance will be hard on the algorithms, but with enough patience we’ll see everything. Dirichlet will not be denied.
A changing shadow on the wall alerts me to one of my colleagues passing by in the hall. As casually as I can, I flip over to a different display until the coast is clear again. Everyone knows some bandwidth goes towards personal uses, but we’re not supposed to flaunt it.
Not that they’d understand anyway. This way I can be with her at every point in time, sharing in each completed perfect moment. Here I wince at the pain when she was twelve and broke her wrist. There I feel the stress when she has to decide which school to pick and which friends to leave behind. Laughing along with her and her classmates at the commencement party, worrying about her new job, right up until the accident–
I don’t watch that far ahead, usually.
It’s better this way, it really is. Unrequited love is the purest kind. Watching from out here we will never fight, never grow distant and drift apart. She will never age. Photons don’t experience time flying along their lightlike paths. I suppose they carry my own image outwards as well, to anybody who knows how to look closely enough.
But no matter how long I watch, I can’t seem to find myself in the picture with her.
The 365 Tomorrows Free Podcast: Voices of Tomorrow
This is your future: Submit your stories to 365 Tomorrows
Feliĉan Kristnaskon al Esperantolando!
Author : Patricia Stewart, Staff Writer
Kathryn opened the door to let her fiancée in. He brushed passed her and parked in front of the hall mirror. Carefully, he fluffed the snow off of his hair. Satisfied, he turned to kiss her, but stopped short when he noticed that she was still wearing her work overalls. “Kathryn, you’re not dressed yet? My parents are meeting us at Ducasse’s at eight.”
“I’m sorry Quincy, I was so busy that I lost track of the time.” Bouncing on the balls of her feet, she added, “I have a surprise for you. I activated my android this afternoon. Kris,” she yelled, “come out and say hello to Quincy.”
A plump android with a long white beard wearing cotton long johns walked out of the den. His cheeks and nose were a rosy red.”
“What? You’ve spent the last six months building a drunken old man?” exclaimed her fiancée without humor.
“Ho, ho, ho,” bellowed the android. “Don’t be silly, young man. I’m Santa Claus.”
Kathryn smiled. He was soooo perfect. “Kris,” she said, “go put on your red suit.” After the android returned to the den, she turned toward Quincy and put her index finger to her lips. “Shhhh. He doesn’t know he’s an android. I programmed him to think that he really is Santa Claus. I’m taking him to Macy’s tomorrow. The children will love him. He’s so full of joy, it’s contagious.”
“Kathryn!” Quincy snapped. “Have you lost your mind? You’re wasting your degree in cybernetics. You couldn’t think of anything practical to construct? That thing is worthless.”
Belittling her dream angered her. “Would you be happier if I created another pompous ass?” she retorted.
“You could do a lot worse than me, Kathryn. There are millions of eligible women who would kill to be in your shoes. Now, turn that damn thing off and get dressed.”
Kathryn’s eyes began to tear, but she didn’t move.
“Look Kathryn, you either do as I order, or I’m going to the restaurant without you.”
“I have a better idea. Why don’t you just go, for good.” She pulled the engagement ring off her finger and slammed it into his hand.
“You can’t be serious. Okay, forget it. I’m better off without you.” And he stormed out the door.
Kathryn sat on the couch, weeping. Suddenly, she felt a strong, reassuring arm reach around and hug her shoulder, as the android sat next to her. “There, there, Kathy, please don’t cry. Everything will be all right. Look,” he added, “I want to show you something.” He took a magazine from the coffee table and tore out a sheet. He deftly folded the page a dozen ways and produced a beautiful origami swan.
Kathryn managed a smile, although she was still sniffling. She wiped the tears from her eyes and said, “It’s beautiful. But, I didn’t progra… How did you know how to do that?”
“I’m Santa Claus, my dear, I can do anything.” And then he produced a red rose, as if from thin air.
She took the flower and sniffed it. “It’s real. But how?”
“Consider it Christmas Magic. You know,” he added thoughtfully, “Quincy is the world’s greatest fool. And on Christmas Eve, I think I’ll put a big lump of coal in his stocking.”
Kathryn laughed, something only a few minutes earlier she thought she’d never do again. She hugged the cuddly android. “Thank you, Santa.”
“Come,” he said, “let’s go to the kitchen for some milk and cookies?”
“I’d like that,” she replied. “I love milk and cookies.”
“Me too,” he said as his eyes literally twinkled.
The 365 Tomorrows Free Podcast: Voices of Tomorrow
This is your future: Submit your stories to 365 Tomorrows
ere the worlds began to be,
he is Alpha and Omega,
he the source, the ending he,
of the things that are, that have been,
and that future years shall see,
evermore and evermore!
At his word the words were framèd;
he commanded; it was done:
heaven and earth and depths of ocean
in their threefold order one;
all that grows beneath the shining
of the moon and burning sun,
evermore and evermore!
O that birth for ever blessèd,
when the Virgin, full of grace,
by the Holy Ghost conceiving,
bare the Savior of our race;
and the Babe, the world's Redeemer,
first revealed his sacred face,
evermore and evermore!
This is he whom seers in old time
chanted of with one accord;
whom the voices of the prophets
promised in their faithful word;
now he shines, the long expected,
let creation praise its Lord,
evermore and evermore!
O ye heights of heaven, adore him;
angel-hosts, his praises sing;
powers, dominions, bow before him,
and extol our God and King;
let no tongue on earth be silent,
every voice in concert ring,
evermore and evermore!
Thee let old men, thee let young men,
thee let boys in chorus sing;
matrons, virgins, little maidens,
with glad voices answering:
let their guileless songs re-echo,
and the heart its music bring,
evermore and evermore!
Christ, to thee with God the Father,
and, O Holy Ghost, to thee,
hymn and chant and high thanksgiving,
and unwearied praises be;
honor, glory and dominion,
and eternal victory,
evermore and evermore!
Author : Duncan Shields, Staff Writer
The body was huge. Seven feet tall, at least, and heavy.
X-Rays had shown a delicate tracery of machinery throughout, strengthening the huge frame to allow it to move quickly.
Its bright, neon-blue hair glowed in the dark. It was the same colour as the lips, fingernails, and nipples.
It was the same colour as the glittering eyes.
It was dead now.
It stared out at the scientists, unblinking, and awkward.
It had been found, naked, stumbling through the snow up in Alaska close to a week ago. Its skin was as white as the snow.
We called it Codename Winter because of it.
In the week before its death, it had picked up a few words of our language and could respond to rudimentary questioning. It was a slow process as it seemed to be straining not only to find the words but also the concepts behind them. I hate to say it, but it seemed really stupid.
Its story, told through clumsy mime and pieced together as best we could, was that it had come here from space and had left its ship to explore the wilderness in Alaska. A passing human airplane had spooked Codename Winter’s ship. The ship bolted and the alien was left alone.
It insisted that it was the only one on the ship. It insisted that the ship was probably worried about it and was looking for it.
It had been dead for two hours and there had still been no contact with the ’ship’ of its story. Planes that had passed in the region she was describing witnessed nothing.
While it was alive, a tennis-ball sized lump of what we took to be biocircuitry in the center of it had given off a steady stream of data that seemed to be directly tied to its sensory organs but we couldn’t decipher the data we collected from it. We were still trying to figure out what the densely packed stream of trinary data meant.
However, it had not issued any transmission that we could detect after the alien’s death. No homing beacon, no SOS message, nothing.
Its death had been immediately preceded by a burst of a data washing through the biocircuitry that burned it out. Codename Winter had looked at us, puzzled, and died that way.
We’d come up with a saddening hypothesis:
Its warranty was up and it had been switched off like a light.
Its ship had scanned our planet, looked at the dominant life-form and made a copy out of the material it had on board. The ship drank in all the information that skin, eyes, ears and nose could provide. Maybe it didn’t waste time on colour or maybe it just had no idea what colour was.
Maybe the next step would have been to make a better copy that could fool us and let it wander around downtown Los Angles or something.
The ship wasn’t coming back for this creature any more than we would return to the site of a picnic for a lost fork.
The 365 Tomorrows Free Podcast: Voices of Tomorrow
This is your future: Submit your stories to 365 Tomorrows
Paul Di Filippo had this to say about Cory Doctorow in a December 22nd review of Makers
In science fiction, however, the pool of hip, youthful, happening, fresh-eyed, keen-witted, media-savvy, broad-shouldered, accomplished, extroverted and talented writers, blending both revolution and tradition in just the right proportions, is noticeably shallow at the moment. There’s Neal Stephenson, but he’s rather too distant and hermetic, with a low profile and unfathomable, mutating goals. So these days, when pundits and fans alarmed over the prospect of SF’s demise want to point to a knight in shining prose who can defeat all the dragons besetting the genre and guide it to the Shining City on the Hill, they invariably point to Cory Doctorow.
Cory’s our kind of people. Read the whole article here…
Cybrosis is a podcast novel written and narrated by P.C. Haring with the voice talents of some of the biggest names in the podcasting community including Philippa Ballantine, Christiana Ellis, Podcasting’s Rich Sigfrit, Mur Lafferty, Chris Lester, Chuck Tomasi, and Heather Welliver. This full length podcast novel hacks your RSS feeds on 01/01/10
The fantastic cover art for this podcast novel is the amazing work of J.R. Blackwell, and Jared Axelrod.
Check out Cybrosis
La vortaro aperos en la komenco de marto 2010.
Prezo: en Usono $36.95 (aŭ antaŭmende $22.95). Do antaŭmendu!
Vidu detalojn: http://www.librejo.com/j.c.wells-esperan
Author : Roi R. Czechvala, Staff Writer
Purple waves gently lap at an azure beach. Our footprints quickly wash away in the encroaching tide. The setting twin suns of Rijos, the red giant aptly named Rojo, and her blue companion Danube cast an eerily beautiful violet light on the endless expanse of beach.
We walk hand in hand, her flowing red hair reflecting a dazzling colour for which I have no name.
“It’s so beautiful,” she whispers, almost too low to hear, “I wish we could stay here forever.”
“We can,” I replied, stroking her cheek, casually pushing back a loose strand of hair, “we will.”
We sit down to watch Danube make his death plunge into the smooth waters of the sea. We lay down to sleep
In a shabby, cramped yet somehow immaculate room the bodies of two elderly people lay on a cold, brushed stainless steel table. A technician in a coffee stained lab coat watches as his colleague removes the electrodes from their shaven pates and wipes away the conductive saline gel.
The bodies are those of a man and woman well into their centenary years, ravaged by time, hands locked tightly to one another, inseparable even in death.
As the technician carefully cleans and replaces the electrodes in their foam lined drawer and prepares the bodies for further processing, his companion stares intently at the flickering glow of the readouts on his iPadd.
“Marbling good, protein quality high, lipids fine…,” he mumbles as he checks off a box on his list.
“Hey Arnie,” he calls to his friend wheeling the bodies through battered double doors, “I’ll bet Edward G. Robinson would get one hell of a laugh out of this.”
The 365 Tomorrows Free Podcast: Voices of Tomorrow
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365tomorrowsrss : The Little Queen [+0] - elna_blogoj : Feliĉan Novjaron! [+0]
- 365tomorrowsrss : There is No Accounting for Taste [+1]
- 365tomorrowsrss : Marshoppers and Birds [+0]
- elna_blogoj : Prelude to Forthcoming Posts [+0]
- elna_blogoj : Publika libro donado [+0]
- 365tomorrowsrss : Simulation [+1]
- 365tomorrowsrss : Impact [+1]
- elna_blogoj : Word squares, anyone? [+0]
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gamedevelopers :: rossmills : Game Design Brainstorm - Inventory Space [+24] - 365tomorrowsrss : Happy Holidays! [+1]
- 365tomorrowsrss : Null Geodesic [+0]
- elna_blogoj : Feliĉan Kristnaskonm [+0]
- 365tomorrowsrss : Artificial Claus [+0]
- kessepha : (no subject) [+0]
- 365tomorrowsrss : Codename Winter [+0]
- 365tomorrowsrss : Makers : Cory Doctorow [+0]
- 365tomorrowsrss : Cybrosis : the Debut podcast novel from P.C. Haring [+0]
- elna_blogoj : JC Wells' new Esperanto dictionary [+0]
- 365tomorrowsrss : Inside Joke [+0]