The Unnamable's Stories

Experimental Ficlet Number 31

2008-07-08T15:12:05Z

But as I pulled a rotten peach from the gnarled tree in the west orchard, I knew that they had already gotten to her.

Morning's Ambivalence

2008-07-02T16:33:25Z

Sun slowly snaked into the room, struggling up to the disarrayed bed. Quiet flesh spread across silver sheets. Newly awake in the rising glow, Sherry delicately took Pete’s flaccid penis in her fingers, exploring it as if meticulously diffusing an explosive.

What strange animal! In this morning state it was such a silly thing, like a mushroom, or a worm. Her amused conclusions were punctuated with Pete’s happy snores. “What now?” she wondered. Despite the events of the last twelve hours, it was now that Sherry wished she could stretch time. But she couldn’t; that was clear. She released the gentle, radiating heat and rolled out of bed to look for her clothes.

She had to be at the airport in two hours. Should she leave a note? Quickly composing five separate sentiments in her head, Sherry ultimately decided against it. She would miss his laugh, his eternal five o’clock shadow.

In the bright rows of the venetian blinds it all began to seem like another life. Over and done. On to business.

Too Many Spare Parts

2008-06-19T20:46:31Z

Shrouded in a cloud of swirling grey-blue dust, I leaned against the shop window and took another drag on the glowing filtration stick. Been trying to give ‘em up for years and upgrade to an internal model, but I like to have something to do with my hands.

I blew a dust ring and pierced it with an arrow as I glanced up and down the street. Finny’s part of the Hub wasn’t the best, but what was these days? Four-credit pleasure droids hummed under the corner streetlight. Shrill binary voices shot into the street from some apartment. Probably arguing about exorbitant electric bills.

I checked the sign over my head again. Flashing red: “Finny’s Spare Parts.” I shook my head and wondered if anybot could logically prove that for nanosecond.

What was taking Finn so long? I re-ran the audio recording. “Meet me outside at 11:45.22, ya lousy bastid. I gotta check on inventory.”

11.47.29. I jimmied open the back door. The rusty runt was on the floor—nothing but a pool of wires and cooling fluid.

Slug of Oil & a Shiny Dame

2008-06-18T14:23:26Z

Her legs were practically up to her neck, and such shiny chrome I almost had to darken the filters on my optical receptors.

She whirred, “You MAC09 ?”
I took a slug of oil from the can on my desk before answering, “Better than MAC08 . Who wants to know?”
“CERA812.”
I’d never seen one of the CERAs and ran my facial recognition software just for kicks. Anything to get off of those legs—I certainly didn’t want to keep running fantasy loops of interfacing with her. I bet she screamed impossible equations during the better parts.

The scan came up with nothing interesting. 105 years old, she worked at the Hub, in the Museum of Robotic History. Still plugged into my desk, I switched to scanning pertinent newsfeeds. There it was: two days ago the museum’s masterpiece, the leftovers of an ancient, twentieth century Asimo, had been stolen. The area’s vidbots had gone offline for 2.7 minutes. All the thief needed.

“Can you find it?” She buzzed.
I beeped.

Prodigal

2008-06-17T16:54:19Z

Sweat poured down, rivulets dividing the crags of his face. Sweat or tears, Frank couldn’t even remember anymore. He reached down and grabbed the dented pewter mug, lifting it up to his cracked lips. Swill. He couldn’t tell if it was warm beer or cold coffee.

The bartender was nervously glancing at him from time to time from the other end of the bar, whispering to a couple of citizens. Frank peered over his shoulder through the filthy front window. Horse was still tied across the street. Not that anyone would take him, the poor son of a bitch. He looked like he was on his last leg, but he’d certainly gotten the pair of ‘em out of the last scrap.

He spat.
“Barkeep!”
“Yes?” The man twirled a handlebar, trying to hide his annoyance.
“Where’s the best place one can get a shave ‘round here?”
The keep nervously replied, “Well, there’s Ol’ Jim’s. Block West, but…”
“But?”
“Well, we don’t take kindly to strangers here in Restitution.”
Frank just stared at him, “Maybe my pa’ll think different.”

Looking for Lucky

2008-06-12T14:03:40Z

He’d gone missing approximately 4.7 days ago. On that first sunset, I had stood on my back porch, framed by the doorway, calling his name until I thought I’d lose my voice. “Lucky! C’mon, boy!” No answer.

My coworkers tried to console me, saying that he’d find his way back home. But I had to sit at my cubicle for my eight-hour allotment and stare at the sixteen pictures of Lucky on my desk. In the one I’m most partial to, he’s wearing the Christmas sweater I knitted for him, his tongue is wagging, and he just has this look…

I went down to the shelter 2.1 days ago. No luck. Just rows and rows of expectant little faces. I came close to taking home a cute, brown female. But she just couldn’t replace Lucky.

Yesterday, after polishing my outer layer and making sure my circuits were in working order, I went around the chronopolis, posting pictures:

Lost!
Answers to the name of Lucky
White American, blond hair, 30 years old
1400 crystal reward
Any info, Mental Mail me, X44 -JM2

I hope he comes home.

Hell of an Idea

2008-06-10T17:31:29Z

Tapping a curled talon on his middle horn, the demon stared down at the ball of stress that was Eva Freeman. This just wouldn’t do. She was in no position to communicate.

“And I promised the High Master that I wouldn’t use any magic to do this… oh, well.” The hulking purple creature, using his index nail like a machete, carved a symbol onto his left arm. Black smoke cracked from his pores and snaked upwards to the ceiling.

“Calmness!” he bellowed. The woman was already looking better, climbing to her feet and moaning with her hand across her brow. “See? Easy as—” BEEPBEEPBEEP !

Claws reached up to snatch the smoke alarm (with a good portion of plaster) off the wall. After a short, awkward silence, the demon offered “Don’t worry about that. We’ll fix it.”

“Proof,” Eva finally uttered, coughing up brimstone.
“Hmm?”
“Where’s your proof that I have to give up my apartment?”
“Oh, you don’t have to give it up, just let us… use it. You can stay here if you like, though there will be… changes made.”

Hell of an Apartment

2008-06-09T17:28:00Z

Laboriously climbing the wooden staircase, Eva gritted her teeth and vexed the landlord. He’d promised the old Otis elevator would be fixed within the week. It was Friday, and Eva had had enough of constantly climbing to the tenth floor.

Finally facing her door, 10A, Eva rifled through her hobo bag, swearing under her breath that this just wasn’t her day. A jingle of keys got her into her apartment, and in exasperation she slammed the door closed and leaned back against it. When she finally noticed the figure in front of her, Eva’s face contorted with silent horror.

Not four meters away, a large figure menaced her fishtank. Three horns jutted above deep black eyepits. Purple flesh encompassed bone and muscle, goatish legs and talons.

“Fishy. Fishy… Oh! Ahem. Welcome home, Ms. Freeman.” Amid Eva’s fearful mutterings, the purple figure continued. “Sorry if I scared you. Scratch the ‘if.’ I’m afraid your domicile has been requisitioned as a new base of operations. For Hell.”

Awake

2008-06-05T16:21:33Z

Drool spattered down the intersecting blues and greens of Michael’s flannel shirt. He raised his arm, awkwardly wiping his mouth. The clock on the wall looked like it was underwater. Shaking so bad Michael couldn’t even read it.

It had to be around noon. He rolled his chair over to the venetian blinds and jabbed a fat finger into the slats. The sun was a white-hot terror. The street was so empty and bright. Charming.

160 hours, approximately? His eyes wandered over to Sarah’s body. So relaxed. She had made it…. five days? She could sleep now. What was left?

He stared at the mug of lukewarm coffee in his left hand. World’s Greatest Dad. With a jerk of the arm, he threw the liquid into his face. Better. Caffeine dripping from his eyebrows, Michael ratcheted himself onto his legs and crossed the room to the clock. That stupid clock with its insipid ticking. Jittering with desperate rage, Michael tore it off the wall and held it. Face to face.

B & Y

2008-05-15T14:29:39Z

B sauntered down the sidewalk, skipping occasionally. Mumbling half the lyrics to George Harrison’s “Got My Mind Set On You” and humming the melody, he passed sushi restaurants and high-priced clothing stores. Cell phone in hand, he read the text again:

B, enjoyed it.
Call me tonight?

His performance stopped as he let out a mirthful laugh. She loves me! And it has been so long, since… After examining his cherubic, bearded face in a shop window, B launched into a spin, arms widespread. Joy!

Adjusting his “B” lapel pin, he noticed a prim lady walking her equally prim afghan hound, staring right at him. B resisted the urge to ask her the current century. That always threw them off. But as the brunette woman came closer, he caught a glimpse of a large “Y” embroidered in silver on her jacket.

“Y?” He choked out, dropping his cell phone in a panic and bending down to pick it up. “How long has it been?” He gulped. The sleek hound barked once, sharply.
“The court of the Sun King comes to mind.”

Handing Down An Assignment

2008-05-12T16:47:06Z

Thingoff tapped his ring finger in a tattoo on the counter below him. Yesterday’s assessment had worn him out. Finger calisthenics could be hard on a young hand, and Thingoff had been thankful his dextro had helped him practice coin tricks.

He had noticed a new wrinkle next to his love line in the hand-mirror that morning. But he didn’t want to wake sweet Indexica with his neuroses. He left without signing goodbye.

A panel of decorated dextros and sinistros, rings glinting in the fluorescent light, waved for silence. Thingoff shook nervously. This was it. His handlers were about to announce his first assignment. Elder Palmer’s knuckle hair quivered as he began to sign: “E…A…”

“Oh, no. I’ll never come home again,” thought Thingoff. He turned to feel the air for Indexica. There she was, thirty hand-spans off, in the stands, bunched into a fist. Suddenly Thingoff longed to clasp her and shake her. But the gloved ones were already leading him away from the counter. “My love,” he signed…

How Do You Think He Does It?

2008-05-12T15:23:41Z

He used his middle fingers. The very tips of those unmanicured digits caressing the parallel buttons almost sweetly. That dumb look on his face, I’ll never forget it. I’d stand there for hours, marveling as the points wracked up. A million was practically nothing—he’d accomplish it with only one, perfect metallic sphere.

With every tilt, with every buzz, his frame would jerk and sway. An interpretive dance. In these ways he was a musician, sending his machine into all manner of bleeps and taps while controlling the crescendo of crowd excitement. The gathered audience of around forty or fifty would actually applaud at times. I remember distinctly a girl, all of fifteen years, staring at him as a lone tear ran down her face.

Curiosity got the best of me once, and I asked him what he did when he wasn’t playing. He even answered, though I couldn’t hear him over the noise of the place. I’ll never know, I guess. But sometimes I imagine him as a dancer, or an actor. Someone of professional beauty.

He Only Appears In The Moonlight

2008-05-09T19:20:25Z

Red splattered across the graph-like neck of Mooney’s acoustic guitar. What calluses his fingers had been armored with had long ago fallen off. His bony, dark fingers tripped from C back to G. Sweat sheeted off of his forehead. He desperately wanted to run his handkerchief across his brow, but didn’t dare.

Oh, you’ll meet him there. Sure as the sun hangs in the sky. But you gotta play every single song you know before he shows.

Throat feeling like a gravel pit, Mooney Brown began his last song, “Oh Death.” Peering up from the lonely crossroads toward the field of stars in the sky, Mooney heard a shuffle.

Now you can’t look at him. If you do, you’ll jes’ be sucked down to the dyin’ reaches. Jes’ play along.

A big man. Strangely lit, as if he was sucking up the stars behind him. Sat down on the log next to Mooney. Sweet, sweet music from two guitars now.

You shore you wan’ do this, boy? Ain’t no turnin’ back. He drives one hard bargain.

No longer tired, Mooney’s fingers slid nimbly across the frets.

Fetch

2008-05-09T16:07:24Z

Her eyes closed, she basked in the band of sunlight like a mask across her face. She could tell he was about to say something, but she wanted this morning moment, so still, for herself.

“What is it?”
“I’ve checked all the taps, Jill. Nothing.”
“Yes?”
“But from the window in the attic I can just make out a well. It’s on an incline due southeast.”

Jill opened her eyes and stared at his profile. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, absently scratching his nose. By luck, they had found this cottage in the moonless night and already he was getting antsy. While she relished being indoors, he was constantly looking over his shoulder. Constantly on edge. Yet the reasons he was worried were abundantly clear.

She thought about calling him a fool, but he was right. Even if they were going to stay the day, the pair of them needed refreshment—not to mention cleaning. She lifted up off the plaid sheets and caught him in a hug.

“Alright, Jack. Let’s go.”