Mortal Malware
MEGHAN MURPHY
The first sign there was something wrong was in the eyes. They were unblinking, vacant, hollow. Then came the violence.
Typically, when individuals are deep in the memospheres, they remain active and alert. Merely an augmented, augmented reality simulator existing entirely in the public domain.
No one had considered a virus embedded in the highest directory files of the Memory Library.
It began with historical data of popular files being ominously missing, seemingly deleted. But when they came back online, no one identified the corruption until it was too late.
We didn’t know it was possible to hack a human brain.
—Meghan Murphy
Looking Back
KENNETH M. KAPP
“Damm it, Kitty, stop sniffing.” Chuck pulled on the leash, turned to Hank who was patiently waiting two steps ahead, “Dumb dog wants to smell everything. No wonder we’re both getting fat. Can’t call our start/stop battle exercise.”
Hank came back and extended his arm. “Want me to take her? You can power walk ahead and back and meet us at the corner. It’ll give you and the dog a break.”
“Thanks, it’s not necessary. You’re the go-ahead-guy. You’ll end up choking the mutt. Me, I understand her. Guess I’m impatient with myself too, always looking back, thinking what if…
“Damm it, Kitty, you’ve already marked that tree; we’re not going back!”
He tugged on the leash, appealing to his friend, “What did I just say. Now she thinks she’s missed something and wants to go back!”
Hank smiled and reached out once again for the leash. “Chuck, why don’t you let me try. At least to the corner. At this rate, we'll miss Happy Hour—even tomorrow's.”
“Yeh, OK. Good luck. Still, it’s funny, me and my pooch always looking back. Why do you think that is?”
“Can’t answer for you, Chuck. But for Kitty I’d guess she’s just looking for where she took her last dump.”
“Yeh, maybe life’s like that too!”
Kenneth M. Kapp lives in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, writing late at night in his man-cave. www.kmkbooks.com
Judging Josiah
ALAINA HAMMOND
“Who the Hell are you to judge me? Bunch of judgmental judges, that’s what you are!” Josiah snapped.
“Come now, Josiah. I’m sure we all can come to a reasonable agreement,” said Nicholas.
“Here’s an agreement: You can all kiss my ass!”
“There’s no need to be crude.”
“Whatever. My outfit was basically regulation. It was only SLIGHTLY modified. I really don’t see why everyone’s so bent out of shape about it.”
Robert cleared his throat. Maggie audibly sighed. Sarah covered her mouth in an attempt to hide her smile. This whole thing was just so patently absurd.
Nicholas resented that he was the only one—besides Josiah—who was speaking. He rubbed his temples.
“Josiah, while it’s true that the Batman cape you were wearing blended in relatively well with your robes, the Batman mask was highly inappropriate.”
“Ugh. Fine, you win. If I’d known being a judge was gonna be so boring, I never would have joined your ranks. You guys are lame.” Josiah jumped on his skateboard and exited in disgust.
Claudine articulated what the rest of them were thinking. “I’m beginning to think he never should have been appointed to the Supreme Court.”
—Alaina Hammond
Justice Endured by the Madness of Mind
CHRISTOPHER COLLINGWOOD
Waiting for the chrysalis to open offered its own form of madness, an insanity which inspired William to go further and further into his worst nightmares.
Time seemed to conspire with the prison cell, slowly torturing William with its strange shadows and distant sounds, causing his thoughts to completely consume him.
A telepathic shiver reached Williams’s mind, as the cell compartment opened and a large creature slid into the room.
A huge tentacle slowly reached the chrysalis, piercing the mucus membrane, allowing a hand to become free, then slowly breaking the exterior of the pod, enabling William to push his way out of the chrysalis.
There had been a time when the creature lived in memory, a psychic torment that allowed it to feed off its prey, it knew the power and the terror of the mind held in judgement.
The creature suddenly gave a violent scream, retreating to the edge of the chamber, its death sentence had finally been revealed, justice by the tormented thoughts of a mad man.
Chris was raised in Sydney Australia, devoting his spare time to writing and illustration.
Behind the Statue
ZARY FEKETE
Sixteen was a year of translation. From strict Hungarian classrooms to an international school in Budapest, where Michael Jackson and Iron Maiden bootleg cassettes passed between friends and the city whispered of change. Statues came down, but on Friday nights we gathered beneath the glow of McDonald’s arches, pretending not to care as we pocketed the paper trays like contraband maps of America.
One night, in a park smelling of wet stone and cigarettes, a game turned toward me and Nevin, my Egyptian classmate. “Go into the trees,” someone said. “Don’t come back until you’ve kissed.”
We slipped behind the statue of a half-forgotten poet. The voices faded. She looked at me, dark eyes steady. I wanted to hold her hand, but my palms were damp.
Her breath was mint and tea. Her lips soft, the lightest touch of her tongue…then my body locked and I pulled away too soon.
“I’m sorry,” I blurted.
She smiled. “Why? It was nice.”
We walked back. Laughter greeted us, knowing, harmless. The game moved on. But the kiss stayed.
It was no romance, not yet. It was an initiation. A gate swung open. A new vocabulary: not memorization, not recitation, but the shock of being alive, being seen.
Years later, I still think of that night…statue darkened by rain, mint on her breath, the taste of permission. For the first time, the world felt like it was mine.
Zary Fekete grew up in Hungary and lives in Tokyo. Loves books and podcasts.
After September
BETTY STANTON
I walk toward the place where we first stepped when we had no homes, no reason to stop for relics. The air was swollen with laughter then, loud with its own wealth before cameras swallowed me whole and you kept the moon on a leash.
Today it is different. She runs into you now, frantic with her need to be everything to you. She holds herself out like an offering, and you take her in. I move slowly. I will not rearrange my body for you. I will not fracture into your shape. Time chisels us into acceptance. There is no winning. Only waiting. She believes you two can be one. I believe it too. Belief is nothing but surrender.
The wind is humid. It brushes past like the breath of something already buried in these backyard echoes of childhood. Play collapses into schedule. Love collapses into habit and I walk toward the place where we first stepped when we had no homes, no reason to stop. I carry the silence that comes after.
—Betty Stanton
Please, Cheese Me, Whoa Yeah
Lee Hammerschmidt
“Man,” Detective Garnish said, looking at the encrusted cheese covered face of shady real estate tycoon Monte Rayjac. “All he needs is some marinara.”
“Add bread and salad,” Detective Galangal, Garnish’s new partner said, “and you’ve got a full meal.”
Both men chuckled.
“So, Doc,” Garnish said. “What happened?”
“Well,” Dr. Humphrey Dowdy, medical examiner exemplar said. “He was restrained and the melted cheese concoction was poured over his face, filling his mouth and nostrils, cutting off his breathing. He died of suffocation.”
“He couldn’t just spit it out and blow his nose?” Garnish asked.
“No,” Humphrey said. “Fried mozzarella sticks.”
Lee Hammerschmidt is a Visual Artist/Writer/Troubadour. He’s authored 10 collections of short stories and illustrations.
Travel Journal Entry #3
E.J. LEROY
A plastic bottle
Remnant of humanity
Universal thread
Odd thoughts while writing this travel journal entry. Faces and feet pass in a blur in front of arches and mosaics. Everyone talks about the architecture or cuisine while traveling, maybe the language and national dress. But there’s a plastic bottle in the road, a universal sign of both littering and global capitalism. In a flash, I see the commonality of all mankind, not through family, friendship, or love, but litter. The familiar packaging, the international brand name—how can anyone fight when we share the same water and imbibe from the same companies?
E.J. LeRoy is a Pushcart Prize-nominated writer with a forthcoming mpreg novella. Curious? Visit http://ejleroy.weebly.com.