The captain handed him a blanket. The survivor pulled it around his shivering shoulders.
"So you were stuck in the cargo hold?"
"Yeah.” The survivor nodded, rubbing the blanket on his hair to dry it. “I was looking for my luggage. My wife packed some really nice waterpoofed socks."
The survivor held up his feet. Only one foot had a sock on it. The other was bare and substantially wetter.
Both the survivor and the captain frowned at his feet.
"Only have time to put one of them on?"
"Oh crap! I..." The survivor smacked his face. "You wouldn't believe it."
"I saw you burst out of the cargo hold and float to the surface on a case of pink chew toys. I'll believe about you." The captain looked at the sinking ship. The case of pink chew toys still bobbed near the starboard, heavy box held aloft by bright plastic inflatables.
"Listen, I thought I was drowning," said the survivor.
"That's fine, son. Nothing to be embarrassed about."
"But I recorded a goodbye to my wife and tied it in the other sock!"
"That's a bit romantic."
"I sounded so dumb, though! I was babbling about plants and Old Yeller. Oh my God. If anybody ever finds that..."
The captain narrowed him with a hard gaze. "Son, I just lost my ship. A little perspective will keep you from getting kicked out of the lifeboat tonight."
The survivor sunk in his seat, resting a cheek in his palm.
"Man, what did I even say?"
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
Computer Education at Every Day Fiction
Today's Bathroom Monologue is over at Every Day Fiction.
The story is "Computer Education." It follows a class of newly-manufactured units through a museum of computer history. Something vital is missing from that history. Only one little unit has an inkling as to what.
Feel free to leave comments here or on the Every Day Fiction site. All thoughts and feedback are welcome.
You can read John Wiswell's Computer Education by clicking on any of the underlined text here.
The story is "Computer Education." It follows a class of newly-manufactured units through a museum of computer history. Something vital is missing from that history. Only one little unit has an inkling as to what.
Feel free to leave comments here or on the Every Day Fiction site. All thoughts and feedback are welcome.
You can read John Wiswell's Computer Education by clicking on any of the underlined text here.
Monday, April 5, 2010
Bathroom Monologue: From Below, with Love
Hey honey. If you get this, I drowned. Or, I guess I could make it out of here, and then somebody’ll find the wreckage and return the tape recorder to us. In which case, way to go, future me. I really thought I was going to die in here.
If there is no future me, then I drowned. I’m stuck in the cargo hold. Not sure why. The whole place lurched and the door wrenched shut. Can’t budge it, and now water is flooding in. I assume we’re going down. Because of that, I have some things I want to tell you.
Firstly, the waterproof socks you bought me are amazing. Like, they really work. I’m only in a couple inches of water right now, but I am bone dry. I’m going to tie the tape recorder in one so it will survive for you. That’s the only way you could listen to this, so why bother with hypotheticals other than these are really damned good waterproof socks?
Um. Other things. Let’s see.
Clearly you insisting I take this job was a bad idea. I told you I’d rather just collect unemployment for a while and watch basketball. I’m not blaming you, though. I’m just drowning.
Because I’ve drowned by when you listen to this, please remember to water plants every three days with the green dispenser. It gives the water essential nutrients and its filter is good for another six months. Ask Ted where to buy new filters.
Say hey to Ted for me, too.
God, what else?
Don’t let the kids watch the end of Old Yeller. They’ll cry.
Don’t tell them Santa is dead until they’re at least eight.
You have my full blessing to exploit any death benefits in the tax code. I have no idea about that stuff. Maybe a lawyer can help.
Do not sleep with any lawyers, at least until the kids are eight.
I… I don’t know. I’m really not ready for this, and now my ankles are wet. Dammit. I wish there was a do-over. Ah, Hell with it. Love you honey. Got to go.
If there is no future me, then I drowned. I’m stuck in the cargo hold. Not sure why. The whole place lurched and the door wrenched shut. Can’t budge it, and now water is flooding in. I assume we’re going down. Because of that, I have some things I want to tell you.
Firstly, the waterproof socks you bought me are amazing. Like, they really work. I’m only in a couple inches of water right now, but I am bone dry. I’m going to tie the tape recorder in one so it will survive for you. That’s the only way you could listen to this, so why bother with hypotheticals other than these are really damned good waterproof socks?
Um. Other things. Let’s see.
Clearly you insisting I take this job was a bad idea. I told you I’d rather just collect unemployment for a while and watch basketball. I’m not blaming you, though. I’m just drowning.
Because I’ve drowned by when you listen to this, please remember to water plants every three days with the green dispenser. It gives the water essential nutrients and its filter is good for another six months. Ask Ted where to buy new filters.
Say hey to Ted for me, too.
God, what else?
Don’t let the kids watch the end of Old Yeller. They’ll cry.
Don’t tell them Santa is dead until they’re at least eight.
You have my full blessing to exploit any death benefits in the tax code. I have no idea about that stuff. Maybe a lawyer can help.
Do not sleep with any lawyers, at least until the kids are eight.
I… I don’t know. I’m really not ready for this, and now my ankles are wet. Dammit. I wish there was a do-over. Ah, Hell with it. Love you honey. Got to go.
Sunday, April 4, 2010
Bathroom Monologue: Friend wants a haiku about the Warhammer orcs, which sprouted from mushrooms and exist in Medieval and Cosmic Fantasy
Emerged from fungi,
sprouted arms and legs. Forged swords.
Later? Built spaceships.
sprouted arms and legs. Forged swords.
Later? Built spaceships.
Saturday, April 3, 2010
Alligators by Twitter on Flash Fiction Online
"Alligators by Twitter" is over on Flash Fiction Online as part of their April issue.
Alligators by Twitter is the story of a man whose house is attacked by burrowing alligators, tweeted from his Blackberry during the siege.
Flash Fiction Online is an extremely popular venue for flash fiction. They've been at it so long that... well, they managed to get that name before anyone else. That's a while. This is my first pro-rate sale and I'm enormously grateful to them.
You can leave Comments here or at FFO. Thank you for reading.
You can read John Wiswell's "Alligators by Twitter" by clicking this link.
Alligators by Twitter is the story of a man whose house is attacked by burrowing alligators, tweeted from his Blackberry during the siege.
Flash Fiction Online is an extremely popular venue for flash fiction. They've been at it so long that... well, they managed to get that name before anyone else. That's a while. This is my first pro-rate sale and I'm enormously grateful to them.
You can leave Comments here or at FFO. Thank you for reading.
You can read John Wiswell's "Alligators by Twitter" by clicking this link.
Friday, April 2, 2010
Bathroom Monologue: Of Turnips, Giants and Men
The giant raised his tree, preparing to club the most recent knight-errant, when a voice caught his attention.
“Pick on someone your own size!”
The giant turned. The knight wasn’t going anywhere with his horse on top of him, and he was kind of curious to see someone his own size for once. He was so big that he couldn’t even wear tarps as loincloths anymore, leaving him eager for competition.
Unfortunately this challenger was human-sized. He was an old man in a cloak with more stains than clean spots, his body supported on a staff.
The giant grumbled, which shook the ground for a good quarter-mile. He liked doing that. It made him feel important.
"I'm bigger than a house. There isn't anyone my size."
The old man spat tobacco at the giant’s feet. "Well maybe that should teach you something.”
"It has." The giant rested on his tree, like a leaning post. "It's taught me I can pick fights with anyone and win. It’s great."
"That's not even a challenge! Of course you can kill some five-foot foot soldier."
"Damn straight I can. But that guy came with a horse."
The giant looked back. The knight-errant was still under his trusty stead, wiggling with admirable vigor.
"You shouldn't be proud of that. There's no effort. You want to be proud, hoe my field."
The giant turned back to him and scrutinized the old man.
"Hoe your field?"
"I've got twenty miles of turnips in frozen soil. You want to be impressive? Save my crops."
“I can kill anyone in the world. I also go around naked. No armor. You’re not impressed?”
The giant spread his legs a little further apart. The old man didn’t bother to look up.
“It’s enormous, but my wife says proportionately it’s unimpressive.”
“It’s cold outside,” said the giant, moving so that his gianthood was now hidden behind the tree. “It’s winter.”
“Then put some pants on and pick my crops!”
"I really like picking on people."
"And everyone thinks you're an ass for it."
The giant stiffened.
"They think I'm terrifying!"
"To your face. The second you leave it's, 'What an ass.'"
"Who calls me an ass?"
"Pick my crops and I’ll tell you!"
"You really think this is going to work on me? Just because I'm gigantic doesn't mean I'm pea-brained. You’re stereotyping."
"You can eat me if you want. Still going to be an ass who wasted his gifts essentially picking fights with the handicapped."
The giant scratched his chin. It was more scar tissue than beard these days. He kind of missed the beard.
"Pulling vegetables from frozen soil sounds hard."
"It is,” said the old man. “That's why it'll be satisfying. It's an actual challenge for your pantsless grandeur."
"But it also seems boring. Not like a battle to the death."
“You mean if you can’t do it you’ll say it’s boring as a ruse to quit?”
“Hey. I can do it.”
“I dare you to prove it.”
They stared each other down. By that I mean the giant actually got on all fours to stare into the old man’s face. The old man didn’t flinch. Three feet away, the giant realized his challenger was blind.
The giant snorted out a cloud of winter mist. It engulfed the old man, then drifted into the sky to join the normal clouds.
“Fine. But if it’s boring, I’ll eat you.”
The old man tapped his staff around on the hard ground, getting his bearings to head home.
“Just give me a moment to tell my daughter what your ‘boring’ really means, sissy.”
The giant grimaced, then gave up the grimace since his challenger couldn’t see it. A rejoinder didn’t come to mind, so he hustled to the field, the frozen soil breaking up even as he ran towards it.
“Pick on someone your own size!”
The giant turned. The knight wasn’t going anywhere with his horse on top of him, and he was kind of curious to see someone his own size for once. He was so big that he couldn’t even wear tarps as loincloths anymore, leaving him eager for competition.
Unfortunately this challenger was human-sized. He was an old man in a cloak with more stains than clean spots, his body supported on a staff.
The giant grumbled, which shook the ground for a good quarter-mile. He liked doing that. It made him feel important.
"I'm bigger than a house. There isn't anyone my size."
The old man spat tobacco at the giant’s feet. "Well maybe that should teach you something.”
"It has." The giant rested on his tree, like a leaning post. "It's taught me I can pick fights with anyone and win. It’s great."
"That's not even a challenge! Of course you can kill some five-foot foot soldier."
"Damn straight I can. But that guy came with a horse."
The giant looked back. The knight-errant was still under his trusty stead, wiggling with admirable vigor.
"You shouldn't be proud of that. There's no effort. You want to be proud, hoe my field."
The giant turned back to him and scrutinized the old man.
"Hoe your field?"
"I've got twenty miles of turnips in frozen soil. You want to be impressive? Save my crops."
“I can kill anyone in the world. I also go around naked. No armor. You’re not impressed?”
The giant spread his legs a little further apart. The old man didn’t bother to look up.
“It’s enormous, but my wife says proportionately it’s unimpressive.”
“It’s cold outside,” said the giant, moving so that his gianthood was now hidden behind the tree. “It’s winter.”
“Then put some pants on and pick my crops!”
"I really like picking on people."
"And everyone thinks you're an ass for it."
The giant stiffened.
"They think I'm terrifying!"
"To your face. The second you leave it's, 'What an ass.'"
"Who calls me an ass?"
"Pick my crops and I’ll tell you!"
"You really think this is going to work on me? Just because I'm gigantic doesn't mean I'm pea-brained. You’re stereotyping."
"You can eat me if you want. Still going to be an ass who wasted his gifts essentially picking fights with the handicapped."
The giant scratched his chin. It was more scar tissue than beard these days. He kind of missed the beard.
"Pulling vegetables from frozen soil sounds hard."
"It is,” said the old man. “That's why it'll be satisfying. It's an actual challenge for your pantsless grandeur."
"But it also seems boring. Not like a battle to the death."
“You mean if you can’t do it you’ll say it’s boring as a ruse to quit?”
“Hey. I can do it.”
“I dare you to prove it.”
They stared each other down. By that I mean the giant actually got on all fours to stare into the old man’s face. The old man didn’t flinch. Three feet away, the giant realized his challenger was blind.
The giant snorted out a cloud of winter mist. It engulfed the old man, then drifted into the sky to join the normal clouds.
“Fine. But if it’s boring, I’ll eat you.”
The old man tapped his staff around on the hard ground, getting his bearings to head home.
“Just give me a moment to tell my daughter what your ‘boring’ really means, sissy.”
The giant grimaced, then gave up the grimace since his challenger couldn’t see it. A rejoinder didn’t come to mind, so he hustled to the field, the frozen soil breaking up even as he ran towards it.
Thursday, April 1, 2010
Bathroom Monologue: Miracle of Bed
He goes to bed at 8:30 every evening. It’s early, but he tells himself he isn’t a spring chicken anymore and there’s a long commute waiting on the other side of dawn.
By 8:45 he’s curled up on his side, knees tucked into his gut. He’s got two quilts, which form a peculiar pocket of warmth at once familiar and desirably alien to anyone who’s ever enjoyed them. By 9:00, he’s pulled the covers over his head, regardless of whether he’s awake or asleep.
Sometimes it takes an hour. Sometimes it’s quick. There’s no manipulating its speed. But every night by 10:00, if he’s gotten to bed on time, the umbilical cord emerges. It’s hidden amongst the box spring. It worms up along his side and reattaches. The point isn’t to feed him, though his co-workers would gasp and nod if they saw it, finally understanding why he never eats lunch.
The purpose is to control his state. It makes him dream a certain thing and puts him in a certain state. These beds are rare and expensive, technically not out of alpha testing yet. He was lucky to know a guy on the inside.
By midnight the pocket of warmth under his covers reaches a certain humidity. No, his sheets don’t excrete amniotic fluid. That would be sick and the FDA would never allow it. They manufacturers set it to get as tropical under there as possible, though, and the brain’s smell sensors are temporarily reset with some suggestions in the dreams. The result? You smell the first things you ever smelled, those things you forgot after they spanked you and stuck you in the hospital nursery. It’s an inexact science, aided by the dreams the bed makes you have.
The dreams are the mostly wildly successful feature. They’re the reason for the bed, really. Everything else are luxury features. With the umbilical cord port and sealed environment that smells of womb, the bed gives you one very vivid dream every night. It’s the same premise each time, and your choice as to how you’ll live it out, at least insofar as anyone chooses their dreams.
The dream is that you have your whole life ahead of you.
By 8:45 he’s curled up on his side, knees tucked into his gut. He’s got two quilts, which form a peculiar pocket of warmth at once familiar and desirably alien to anyone who’s ever enjoyed them. By 9:00, he’s pulled the covers over his head, regardless of whether he’s awake or asleep.
Sometimes it takes an hour. Sometimes it’s quick. There’s no manipulating its speed. But every night by 10:00, if he’s gotten to bed on time, the umbilical cord emerges. It’s hidden amongst the box spring. It worms up along his side and reattaches. The point isn’t to feed him, though his co-workers would gasp and nod if they saw it, finally understanding why he never eats lunch.
The purpose is to control his state. It makes him dream a certain thing and puts him in a certain state. These beds are rare and expensive, technically not out of alpha testing yet. He was lucky to know a guy on the inside.
By midnight the pocket of warmth under his covers reaches a certain humidity. No, his sheets don’t excrete amniotic fluid. That would be sick and the FDA would never allow it. They manufacturers set it to get as tropical under there as possible, though, and the brain’s smell sensors are temporarily reset with some suggestions in the dreams. The result? You smell the first things you ever smelled, those things you forgot after they spanked you and stuck you in the hospital nursery. It’s an inexact science, aided by the dreams the bed makes you have.
The dreams are the mostly wildly successful feature. They’re the reason for the bed, really. Everything else are luxury features. With the umbilical cord port and sealed environment that smells of womb, the bed gives you one very vivid dream every night. It’s the same premise each time, and your choice as to how you’ll live it out, at least insofar as anyone chooses their dreams.
The dream is that you have your whole life ahead of you.
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