Short Stories

So every year I go up to my uncles house in north bay ontario and there is a little hill called laurentain ski hill and they have a terrain park with a little J bar lift

(I actually life J bay lifts in the taerrian park because u can get on and off whenever u want to to hit the feature u wanna hit over and over again) and every day at 1:00 o"clocke the lift gets derailed and it can't be fixed fer like an hour so I was there on march break with my friend and we where there every day during march break and everyday at 1:00 o"clock we would look at the lift and it would stop

(so never ride the lift at 1:00 o'clock)

by artist Shawn Snow

www.shawnsnow.com

Doomed.

Doomed, Albert thought to himself, eyeing the morning e_rags, pouring himself a cup of coffee. Sipping it too quickly burning his mouth, hissing his breath back in, trying to cool the burn.

'Banks Collapse' said the headlines on nearly all of the reputable e's. The mutable history of the paperless society, Albert thought. Paper was extremely expensive now, and much coveted by the Class 1's. I might not be a Class 1, Albert thought to himself as he got up and shuffled over to the metal cabinet, catching a blurry glimpse of himself in its brushed metal surface. Atleast a 3-Class though, he thought. His parents had been 3's, 4', and 5's, all decent working nondisruptives who had been data miners, colonizers, and, trashmen. If only my fathers had been mechanics or shield techs. Or even a meteorologist. Think of how wealthy I would be. Donors almost always created care funds for the futures of their donations. And better yet, he would have the genes, he thought to himself.

Yet, for all of his solid 3-Class upbringing Albert was prone to daydreaming. He had traced this gene back through the bank records to atleast half of his parental donors. During his search, Albert had also come across atleast 13 parentals who had a substance problem. Well, Albert thought , that is a relatively low number and shouldn't affect my class ranking. Solid, 3-Class, dependable, a patriot.

Then why, a small grating voice emanated from the deepest part of his mind, have you been selected for Reassignment? When did you get that notice? Friday it must have been. They always Reassign on Fridays so there will be no negative after effects. It was common to read about mishandled firings, ones that happened on Thursdays, or the worst, on Mondays, that resulted in...Albert shuddered. People get Reassigned all the time, Albert thought, sometimes for the better. Some times. Albert's stomach began to hurt from the coffee or maybe from his growing feeling of anxiety.

I guess I just wait for my new assignment. The Placement Office would most likely vid-contact him for retina scan, drug test, real age exam, etc. And then, a new assignment. No problem. Albert was in perfect health no need to worry. Except if I missed something in my search...Albert shut off that line of thought. Still, a bad time to be fired given all this economic instability.

Albert drew back the shade just enough to look out over the gigantic housing towers. The sun already seared them in a bright orange glow. This is my favorite time Albert thought. Early in the morning and late at night. The times when the world slept or dreamt. Times before other people clog up the world with all their noise and needs.

Getting a headache, Albert thought to himself. Better take something. He got up and went into the lavatory, sliding the clunky metal door open. Albert stood at the sink and peered into the mirror.

"I've got a headache," Albert said matter of factly to the mirror, "And I'm a bit anxious about my Reassignment." Suddenly the mirror blinked to life and displayed a a field of flowers in a high mountain meadow. Albert had chosen this as one of his favorite images for mood control. A calm voice modeled from a dozen of the finest movie stars answered.

"I'm sorry to hear that Al." Muzak began to play over the field. "Let's see, as a 3-Class you are approved for most mood stabilizers and some light synth-narcs." Albert already was feeling more relaxed. "As your doctor I prescribe you a custom blend, called e23." A receipt printed from a small slit under the mirror console.

"Never heard of it."

"It'll help during this time of transition. As they say, one must do what one must do. Have a great day Al." The monitor image of the field slowly faded.

Albert looked down at the receipt with it's barcoded prescription and walked over to the dressing area and put on his same uniform from Friday. "Clothes make the man." Albert said absently to no one and began to walk out the hatch to head to the Pharma unit in Plaza 1.

Orgasatron – a tale of life and lust in the digital wild west
By: Fred Cipriano    

“Were in deep shi*t dude” said the clown as the universe contracted into a single point, “deepest shi*t I’ve seen since the shi*t mines of alpha continuo”. It was the day of reckoning, the world was there to see it and observe its wonderful shine. The clown picked up the universal ululation array (or UUA for short) and placed it in a worn brown plastic briefcase. “I’m sort of glad you’re around and not glad at the same time for what it cost me.” exclaimed the clown as he turned to his unimaginable friend. “INDEED” replied the computer voice of the clown’s only friend in the universe, “FYI I have aids”.

                Jeb Turncoatmcbaggins woke up this morning like every morning, soaked in the dampness of his wife’s pleasure slime. “Christ Maggie! Stop MASTERBATEING” he shorted, even though he would be able to steal all her money cards if she ever stopped that constant sacrament. He drove to work in the usual manner of the future, in the sky on autopilot for free. There he transforms from Jeb local man on the street to Doc Turncoatmcbaggins private eye and robot finding expert. Jeb’s job is to find missing robots whose programming goes haywire. It’s an easy enough job and the pay is shi*te. Suddenly a call shot warmly out of the telephone machine “HELP—STOLENROBOT: NAME:  Orgasatron BRAND:N/A SEX: always”. “OMFG” shouted the doctor though the shoutish future machine, “sex bots like Orgasatron are hard to come by if you know what I mean, I can program it to bite off dudes cocks and bring them to me to complete my master plan to be the cockmaster of this fair city!”.

                Suddenly a naked old lady appeared on the tv, “Hi im president Lohan and I just stuck a banna up my a**hole, you can do it to and post it on youtube if not for yourself for America” she said. Jeb masturbated furiously and was unable to bring himself to climax.

                Then there was a knock at the door! Jeb zipped up his space pants and nearly slipped on his seed to reach the door open button in time. “Hello jeb, I am Bounty Huntatron and I’m here to suck on your space popsicles” beeped-out Bounty Huntatron as he walked to the tiny door in the wall. Bounty opened the door and saw an even larger door on the inside of the tiny door and opened that and was in a magical realm of popsicles. Large green popsicles inhabited most of this carnival of frozen delight, and young German men and women come here annually to have sex and have space orgies. The robot was wide eyed as he approached the tower of ice angels. “thus I have been sent to the heavens!” gaily said Bounty. Instant robot death lasers were the ice angels only reply.

                Jeb called an ancient googlemaster he knew to look up the robots location. “234 parkway east, about a block from that shop that has the 10 dollar ‘dildoe till you drop’ bag sale.” Moaned out the chinaman.  Jeb was on his way before the phone hit the ground, he knew what this was… war.

                Jeb easily found and deactivated the robot and brought him to his secret robot lab. Programming him to eat cocks the robot did so for many years till it contracted aids and was put in the hospital, I mean space robot hospital.

                “yes you have aids” said the space robot robot doctor. “dam” said Orgasatron. “yup, not hiv, full blown aids” repeated the doctor “just to be clear”. “well how could this happen?” whined the robotic patient. “hmm… I don’t know perhaps all the biting off of everyone’s cocks?” chuckled the doctor. “oh yeah, the cock biting” said the distraught robotic pork sword remover.

                Kinda bummed about the whole aid’s thing, the robot cockbiteing man walked to the circus in an attempt to cheer himself up.  In the circus he meets an amazing clown called beebo and together they masturbate furiously till they both reach climax! Then suddenly the cockbiteing robot man bites his cock off and stored it in a special cock sack inside the robots titanium hull. “this cock is special and will be inside me forever” beeped the robot.

                “noooooo, I enjoyed putting that in my daughters cereal every morning without her knowing and laughing as she ate it!” said the clown. The clown now neutered and unable to produce cock soup for his little angel decides to go back to his old job in the physics of destroying the universe lab at Harvard 2.0 and does not change his makeup or attire to suit his new workplace environment.

                “ahh haha! I have built the UUA device!” shouted the cock-less wonder on his second day.  Then due to a slip and fall problem, the machine gets turned on and everyone gets 10 minutes to live except for people with clowns DNA somewhere in there body. As the universe slowly fades away the clown can see none other than the cock eating robot walking over the hill. Then slowly the doctor begins to kiss the robot. “Were in deep shi*t dude” he said.