OPEN LETTERS TO GOD

Dear Lord, Please send me another muse. Mine ran away and I can't find her. Mommy says the folks at the milk company won't put her picture on a carton and the people at the newspaper just laughed at me. I put up pictures on the telephone poles, but I can't draw so well so everyone thinks she's a dog or cat. I only got one phone call, and the man on the other end wanted me to come over to his house to see if it was her, but when I told him that Mommy told me never to go over to strangers' houses, he started calling me Dick (or something like that). So, Lord, please send me another muse.

Dear Lord, Please send me another muse. The one you sent is way too pushy. She keeps making me write stuff during math and science class and Mr. Henderson says he's going to have to call my parents if my grades get any worse. Yeah, so my English grades are pretty good, but who cares about English anymore? Just the other day during recess, the guys were all playing basketball and she kept making me sit on the bench and write poems. Then a gust of wind came up and blew one of them right to Suzy Radisson who ran off and showed all the girls in homeroom class. Now my life is totally ruined. So, Lord, please, PLEASE send me another muse.

Dear Lord, Please send me another muse. The last one you sent is broken. She gave me this good idea for a story, but when I got halfway into it, she gave me an even better idea, so I dropped the first one and started on the second. Then just as I got going on the second one, she sends me an even BETTER idea, one so good that I just couldn't NOT get started on it. And then when I'm almost finished with it, she comes up the absolute BEST idea I've ever gotten. I mean, this one was so good that I looked back on all the others and saw how truly awful they were in comparison. I mean, that old stuff was absolute garbage compared to this new one I started on. So I threw all the old ones away, figuring I'd never finish them anyway. Then halfway through writing this great idea, I saw a movie that came out with almost the exact same idea as the one she gave me first a long time ago. It made a hundred million dollars. Lord, please, send me another muse. Preferably one with fewer good ideas.

Dear Lord, Please send me another muse. I've come to the conclusion that this one is just too damned lazy. I've got all these great ideas for screenplays and novels that'll have me set for life and all she wants to do is play Freecell on the computer and hobnob on message boards. Yeah, OK, so she's got a 90% rate on Freecell and I'm a pretty popular guy online, but dammit, that's not going to make me any money! After four years of this shit, I got desperate and changed my screenname in the hopes that it would embarrass her into getting off her lazy ass. But that's not fucking working either!!!! So, please send me another muse (and sorry about the profanity, but I'm really pissed!).

Dear Lord, Please send me another muse. This one has me writing porno on the Internet. I know I've read and liked porno before, but never thought I'd be writing it. And it's not even nice porno, it's mean and nasty porno about mean and nasty people doing mean and nasty things. I mean, what if my mother finds out? Especially if she reads the one about the guy seducing his mother?! What would she think? I mean, I've never, ever had those kinds of thoughts. Well, OK, maybe once or twice when I saw her taking a shower. And then when I went through her underwear drawer and found her vibrator and that issue of Penthouse Forum. It made me want to go into my room and take off my clothes and... SEE, LORD, SHE'S DOING IT AGAIN!!!!!! Please, Lord, send me another muse.

For The Queen, A Silver Tear

For the Queen, A Silver Tear

"Enter."


"Yes, M'lady."


"Oh, dear Cheralyn, you can dispense with the 'M'lady' crap. My daughters would have me be so formal with childhood friends, but there's nothing for it.


"Beg pardon, my Queen."


"Oh, geez, just STOP it already."


"Very sorry, your Majesty, daughter of Briana, Bringer of the Great Awareness and Leader of half the known galaxy."


"Oh, now you're just being difficult. Come, sit."


"I would, Your Royal Womanliness, but with all the medical equipment in here, it seems your doctors and nurses and whomever does your interior design work didn't leave any room for chairs."


"On the foot of the bed, silly girl. I'll not waste what's left of my voice shouting halfway across the room."


"If you will not allow me the honor of kissing your hand to show exactly how unworthy this one is of an audience...how 'bout a hug?"


"I'm sick, but not sick enough to come over there and kick your ass."


"I guess that means no hug, huh?"


"Oh, fuck you too, Cher...I was thinking more along the lines of an old-fashioned tongue tie..."


...ooooh, did THAT bring back memories!"


"Could you feel it?"


"What?"


"Your lips, your tongue, my tongue... Could you 'feel' it?"


"What a silly question."


"It's just that I...I can't really understand how...?"


"Tactile receptors, hardwired directly into the central nervous system of the body. Not really all that different from the 'old me' in that respect. Except...oh, so much MORE. If I wanted to, I could 'feel' the very air circulating around this room, tell you the exact temperature."


"That didn't exactly answer my question..."


"I don't understand..."


"Remember my sixteenth birthday? The old pond behind Mother's Servant's Quarters..."


"How could I possibly forget THAT?"


"I'm trying to remember your exact words. Something like feeling like the water filling your insides and outsides and still couldn't cool you down."


"Wow, Naomi, I've never felt like this before. I could jump in the water and not cool down."


"Was it like that? Could you FEEL it?"


"Oh...well...yes. It's still ME in here, Naomi..."


"You're breath was...cold."


"I can adjust that."


"But you didn't..."


"I'm...sorry. Really, it's only been a bit over a year for me and there's so much to get used to."


"That long? I'm so sorry it's taken so long to make room in my schedule..."


"I've always loved that about you, girl, you always knew when to steer the conversation..."


"No, really, I've missed you so much..."


"You run half the galaxy. I think..."


"Oh, stop it. I haven't had a real hand in affairs of state in over ten years. All of my decisions are made for me. I don't even get out of bed to pee without the approval of someone or another."


"Oh, Naomi, is it really THAT bad?"


"Oh, okay, I'm exaggerating. I can pee on my own."


"Hah. I'm serious. How bad is it? I feel bad I've been kind of lax in following the news."


"Well, politics being what it is, the family doesn't want to give out too much information about my exact condition."


"I understand. Don't sugarcoat it, girlfriend, I could always tell when you were lying, you know."


"Yeah, believe me, I know. I remember when you caught me sneaking out with that steward from Alpha Ten that Mother decided to keep around for her pleasure. What was his name again?"


"Phalatio."


"Oh, yeah. That name still makes me giggle. Nice to see the memories are still there."


"You have no idea. It never was nearly so easy before the procedure. No brain cells to lose, I guess. It's like having mental access to a supercomputer. The memories are in color, complete with smells, sounds and tastes. Here, see this small access port? It doubles as a projector. I can go so far as to actually project the memories, or any experience for that matter, so that anyone can share the visuals. Or if you really want, I can download it all onto a chip..."


"Oh, don't bother. The kid really wasn't all THAT good."


"Hahaha...I'm sure your mother thought so. What a hypocrite."


"It's a good thing SHE could never tell when I was lying."


"Yeah, she would have had me exiled so deep into manspace..."


"Goodness forbid, word should get back to the Council that the heir to the throne is swapping life juices with the crippled daughter of a dirty birth."


"She was quite the bigot, wasn't she?"


"Product of her generation, I suppose. Can't help but imagine what she'd say if she saw us together NOW."


"Hey, my body may be mostly metal now, but at least a 'Y' chromosome wasn't involved in the rebirthing process."


"Haha, you're probably right. The Vesnia may be green and scaly and smell like feces-crusted nasalapples but they don't have their brains hanging down from their groins..."


"Speaking of the Vesnia, how are the talks going?"


"So far so good, so far as I'm being kept informed. I'm not sure they can be trusted to maintain neutrality, but lure of the new technologies is hard for most of the Council and the system representatives to resist..."


"Well, if they need any witnesses with first hand experience..."


"I'll certainly keep that in mind. I have to admit that, even seeing you here with my own eyes, I still have a hard time believing that such a thing could be done safely."


"So could I, Naomi, but when you're faced with living the rest of what could be a long life..."


"Oh, Cher, I COMPLETELY understand. It wasn't so long ago that I don't remember. The cries in the night. In my arms. My shoulders. The tears on my breasts. In this day and age, it's simply inexcusable that such a condition can be allowed to exist, that a civilized people should turn a blind eye to it. No child should endure that kind of existence."


"Don't tear yourself up with this again, Naomi, please. You can only do so much..."


"But that's the dilemma the Vesnia now present us with. My leading researchers tell me that there's so much about this that we have no understanding of. To actually transfer the essence, the spirit, the memories, the soul..."


"I understand completely, but what more proof do you need? You can but recall those awful times. I LIVED them. I can relive them for you if you wish. I would not find any sort of pleasure in it, but I would gladly do it a thousand times over if it would convince you and the Council to spare future children the same suffering."


"No, Cher, I believe you. Really, I do. It's just that...well, it all seems a bit too..."


"Too what?"


"Let's just say that some of my closest and most trusted advisers have grave doubts."


"About what, exactly?"


"It's actually quite long and involved."


"I have time. I'm positively MADE of time. For the first time in my miserable life."


"Very well. How closely have you been keeping up with current political events?"


"Not too closely, I'll admit. Been too busy trying out the new body. Doing things I've thought about only in dreams."


"Hah, I bet. Anyway, are you aware of the recent problems in the Nadule system?"


"Coincidentally, yes. I was there a couple of months ago to test the limits of the machine body. Went bathing in the lava pools on the southern continent of Nadule."


"Then you know both the governor and assistant governor were assassinated within two days of each other."


"I know they both died, but I didn't know they were killed."


"Due to the political situation in the system, the Council decided it was...too sensitive to give out the exact details."


"Pardon?"


"The system is close to manspace and, as you know, the system decided a generation ago to remain integrated."


"Well, I'm not exactly one to tell them how to live, am I?"


"Absolutely. But there are some among the Council who think that the Vesnia may have had a hand in it."


"Really? How so?"


"As I said, it's long and fairly complicated. Let's just say that the assassinations there weren't an isolated incident. Both governors were female and very much opposed to integration. As were at least five other victims of similar assassinations across the outer systems of the Collective in the past four months."


"Sounds more like your typical 'Y' chromosome problem to me. Why suspect the Vesnia?"


"That's where it gets strange and why it isn't common knowledge at this point. As I mentioned, the lure of the new technologies is a strong one, so my staff has kept a tight fist on the flow of information about them as well as the news of the assassinations."


"And?"


"You noticed the security precautions when you came in, right?"


"How could I not? This place is a fortress. I doubt even a nuke could reach way down here."


"Exactly."


"Wait. You're not saying that they think YOU'RE a target?"


"Sadly, that's exactly what they fear."


"But why would the Vesnia...?"


"That's the question, isn't it? But the overwhelming intelligence we've collected points toward an assassin or assassins with bodies just like yours."


"No!"


"It's pretty convincing, Cher. Whoever or whatever killed Governor Hilton of the Maniba system survived countless rounds of high-caliber armor-piercing fire and hardly flinched. We have video evidence..."


"I don't believe it. In all of my dealings with the Vesnia, they've been extremely cordial. I just can't think that they had something to do with this. I won't!"


"I'd like to believe that too, Cher, but think of the threat. Almost perfect assassins. Or worse, an army of nearly indestructible soldiers..."


"Maybe it's simply an isolated incident?"


"We've ruled that out. The logistics support the idea of multiple killers. We even have seven more highly suspicious deaths that some of my intelligence officers think we ought to dump in with the others."


"But why would the Vesnia do something like that?"


"That's another good question. Some of my advisers think they're playing both ends against the middle and something similar is most likely happening in manspace. Maybe they're just using us as an experiment to see how the technology works? You know me, I'm not an expert in this kind of intrigue."


"So, I'm guessing that this whole thing is more than just swapping juices and exchanging old love stories."


"I'm sorry, Cher, but you have to understand I'm in a tough position here. When the director of intelligence passed to me the known list of essence transfers, your name naturally stuck out. Half of Mother's old staff knew of what we once had, how close we once were. Who knows how the information got used."


"Surely, you're not suggesting the only reason they picked me..."


"Honestly, I really have no idea. I just wanted...NEEDED to see for myself. If any of my staff knew about this meeting, they'd have stopped it cold."


"You know I'd never, EVER do anything to hurt you or the Collective. You KNOW it."


"That's just it, Cher, from what my researchers tell me, there might not be any way for you to prevent it."


"And what exactly is THAT supposed to mean?"


"I'm sorry, this has all gone totally wrong. Terribly wrong. I'd rather die myself than think you would betray me. Betray what we had."


"You haven't answered my question, Naomi."


"I'm not an expert, Cher. I can only go on what I've been told. On what I feel."


"And that is?"


"I'm a sentimental old fool, Cher. I'd like to believe my gut rather than my eyes."


"Just come right out and say it, Naomi."


"I...can't. Because I still don't know. Look, we don't completely understand the technology and there's no way to be sure WHAT goes on during an essence transfer."


"I'm...really not sure myself. What I've become. But I do know I'd rather die than go back to the...thing...that I was."


"Heh."


"What's so funny?"


"C'mon and lay down here next to me. Please? Thank you, Cher. I'm just thinking about the irony of our situation. Growing up, I was the one with all the dreams, with the future of the galaxy in front of me. Now, I'm stuck here in this bed, in this room, in this fortress, not knowing from one day to the next whether or not I'll see the sun again, much less the stars. But you..."


"Yeah, I suppose it is kind of twisted fate. I used to get sooooooo jealous. Not of the royalty thing. Not because of the sins of my parents. But because you could brush your OWN hair. Take a bath whenever you wanted without having to have someone else scrub your back."


"Hey, I thought you LOVED how I scrubbed your back and brushed your hair."


"Hehe, yeah. I guess I did too. But sometimes I take a bath now even though I don't need to. Just because."


"Hey, remember when we spent hours and hours in the study watching all those vids and reading all those books about the old Earth Queens and Kings of Egypt?"


"Do I? You always went on and on about how when you were Queen, you'd have all sorts of pyramids built in your honor."


"Yeah, too bad pyramids are so retro. Never could get the Council to authorize the funds. But I still think it would be really great to eventually be buried with all my stuff, all my pets...well, if I had any pets...and think about how generations and generations of women and kids would come visit and wonder who I was."


"Well, now that I think about it, this fortress kind of looks like a pyramid, doesn't it?"


"Hmm, never really thought about it much, but now that you mention it... Add a few stones here, few bricks there..."


"Kind of gloomy thought, though, isn't it?"NAOMI: "Well, we all have to die sometimes."


"Do we?"


"Hmm?"


"The essence transfer. Think about it. The only restrictions are on the availability of material for new bodies."


"Actually, I'd rather not. There's just something...eh...unnatural about it. But I can't say for certain I'm in the majority among the Council in that thinking. It's just that sort of thing that makes it so...inviting."


"And just what's so wrong with it?"


"I'm not much of a philosopher, but I can't help thinking what kind of society we'd evolve into if a select few gained eternal life. Would they still retain any kind of empathy for those who don't?"


"I have."


"Have you? And even if you do at the moment, what happens in a hundred years? A thousand? Ten thousand? If you never have to eat or drink to stay alive, do you have any compassion for those who are hungry or thirsty?"


"Hmm, I never really gave it much thought."


"Well, I think maybe we need to before we jump headfirst into that particular dirty pool of water. Of all people, you should remember what it's like to have people treat you according to your differences."


"You didn't."


"Well, I'd like to think I represent the overwhelming majority of humanity in that, but my experiences suggest otherwise."


"Well, anyway, if I'm any indication, humanity has absolutely nothing to worry about from the essence transfer process."


"Doesn't it?"


"Okay, Naomi, enough games. Just come right out and say whatever it is you've been dancing around ever since I got here."


"Can you cry?"


"Of course. Complete with water and salt."


"I want to see it."


"Oh, c'mon, silly, you KNOW it's not that easy."


"You used to cry all the time when we were growing up."


"I'm different now."


"Well, that's obvious. But just humor this pathetic old woman that you used to love. Please?"


"Again, it's just NOT that easy."


"Maybe it ought to be. Look at my eyes...Cher. I can do it."


"Oh, c'mon, Naomi, please...stop it."


"I can't, dammit. Can't you see...that's my whole POINT."


"Please...?"


"When we were growing up, every time I cried, you cried with me. EVERY time, Cher."


"Please...don't do this."


"That's what made us special, Cher. MAKES us special. Fucking tears. *sniff* I cried, you cried, hell, even Mother cried."


"Dammit, Naomi..."


"You can't do it now, can you?"


"Please...just stop."


"You said you could always tell when I was lying."


"Of course. My new ears can detect a change in heart rate and body temperature..."


"Fuck your new body, Cher. *sniff* I've been lying to you for the past half hour."


"What?"


"Yeah, that's right. The assassination thing. How sick I am. All lies."


"I don't...understand."


"There aren't multiple assassins, you were right about that. Only one. I guess it gave the Vesnia and whomever they're working with some kind of perverted satisfaction."


"Now just wait a minute..."


"I just had to see for myself, stupid, foolish old woman that I've become. You had absolutely no idea I was lying, did you?"


"I..."


"DID YOU?!"


"I've heard enough."


"Don't waste your time, Cher, the door is a meter thick and the walls are thicker."


"For the love of..."


"Love of what, Cher? Can you even feel...love?


"Stop it, Naomi, just stop it."


"My scientists say they don't completely understand how the Vesnia activate the remote, but they figure it has something to do with radiation of one sort or another. But since we're almost a mile underground..."


"You're talking crazy, Naomi. I'd never do ANYTHING to hurt..."


"I believe you, Cher, you know I do. *sniff* What I'm saying is that you don't really have a choice anymore. None of my researchers have any clue as to how to correct it."


"Damn it, Naomi..."


"Go ahead. Let it out, Cher. Beat on the walls. There's no one within a mile of us. I made sure of it. We have no way of even holding someone like you until we can find out how it works. And there's always the chance that the Vesnia will be able to bypass whatever we set up."


"You can't hold me here forever."


*sniff* "I'm Queen Naomi the Third of the Collective, Cher I love you dearly, but my heart belongs to my people."


"So, what next?"


"You want to watch the video?"


"Video?"


*sniff* "The one from the hidden camera in Governor Hilton's bath. Your eyes are black. They didn't tell you your beautiful blue eyes would turn black, did they?"


"My eyes aren't black."


"Your metal face is expressive now too. You want to see what it looked like when you crushed his skull like a ferronut?"


"I was in the Maniba system, but I never, NEVER went near the royal palace in the two days I was there."


"I'm sure that's what you believe, Cher. You want to see the video? I've got it all set up on the monitor over there."


"I...don't believe it."


"And after that, we can watch the assassination of Prime Minister Napole of Barcine. That one we've managed to keep under wraps."


"Barcine? I spent my three days there riding the Great Waves off the seashore of the northern continent."


"And last month on Cestas 5 when General Danna mysteriously fell to her death?"


"..."


"You said earlier that you'd rather die than go back to being that 'thing' that you were before. That "thing" was a beautiful, vibrant, absolutely adorable sliver of a girl that I loved with all my heart. A kind of love that does not fade with the years. A kind of love that can cause even royalty to turn a blind eye to the truth, a kind of love that...can cause the downfall of an empire."


"I don't understand..."


"I'm dying, Cher. Outside and inside. There's nothing that can be done about the body. But the other...the part that read the reports, watched the videos of all of your experiences of the past six months...that part faces a death of a far worse kind. Yes, I've known about the murders, seven at least and maybe many we might never learn of. I've KNOWN, Cher, known and watched and cried and could have given the order to have you brought here or...destroyed...any time in the past few months."


"But why?"


"Because underneath this royal skin, I'm still the same silly girl who fell in love with you all those years ago. Who am I to deny you, of all people, a few more months of joy after a cruel lifetime of pain and suffering and agony? How can I purge from my addled brain the years of horrible memories, the nightmares, the streams of tears that flowed from these big blue eyes I love so? I don't HAVE a metal body and a supercomputer for a brain, Cher. I can't turn the tears off and on with the flip of a switch. Every day my advisers would give me more evidence, every night I would lay awake crying and wonder to myself when the decision would be taken out of my hands, when one of my staff would go to the Council..."


"Oh, Naomi, no..."


"Off your knees, girl. The decision's been made. There's nothing more for it. You always were quite perceptive, in this your new body hasn't totally failed you. This IS a pyramid. A fortress built to keep a pair of tortured souls confined for all eternity. A tomb to the folly of a foolish old woman who very nearly let love destroy what countless generations of good women have lived and died to build. It was the least they could do to let me choose the moment and location of my passing. Our passing."


"I...will...not..."


"Ah, yes, I was warned this might happen. Poor Cher. A computer is still a computer after all. A program is a program. If there is any part of you still in there at the moment, I demand to see those blue eyes again..."


"This body is virtually indestructible and we are made of time."


"And I have a fairly powerful nuclear device built into the structure beneath this bed, ready to detonate whenever I feel the urge, or whenever my life signs cease. At the moment I really do not care which happens first. Now be a good program and give me my lover back."


"This is not over."


"It is for me. Now, please show us the common decency that my advisers tell me is one of the few values our species have in common and GIVE ME MY LOVER BACK!"


"Oh, Naomi, I..."


"Damn, girlfriend, I told you to get up off your knees. It's unbecoming."


"I...have no words..."


"I don't need words. I need you here beside me. I need to stare helplessly into those blue eyes. I need...what's wrong?"


"I'm so sorry, Naomi...it's like a damned flood. Overwhelming. Releasing everything at once. The screams. The deaths. The blood."


"Oh, poor Cher. Dear, sweet Cher. Would I could hug your mind clean...you're shaking like..."


"Every cry. I can hear every cry. Feel every drop of blood. Please...please...make it stop..."


"What's this? A silver tear, Cher. A gift fit for a Queen."


"Please! I can't...won't live like this...with this."


"I love you, Cheralyn."


*snif* "Please, Naomi?"


"Can you forgive a stupid old woman? This is all my fault. I could...should have acted sooner...maybe spared you a few..."


"PLEASE?"


"Sorry, Cher, but I'm afraid that there's probably only one way..."


"I understand. Oh, I'm so sorry, Naomi. I only wanted to live...like everyone else..."


"Shhh...you owe me nothing. If anything, the universe owes YOU another life...such a gentle soul."


"But now they'll...remember me...as a murderer and you..."


"Fuck all that, Cher. In ten thousand years, history will have been written and rewritten a hundred times. But this wondrous tomb will remain...who's to say what the universe will make of it?"


"I wish I could...we could...go back...if only I had hair and you had a brush."


"Or a bathtub."


"Or a pond."


"I could scrub your back."


"Oh, no my Queen, I shall scrub YOURS."


"I love you, Cher.

TOY

Toy opened her eyes to the sound of the soft rains on the tin roof of the shed. She stopped to process the sound for two-point-five seconds before resuming the daily protocol.

Ten years, two months, twenty days, six hours, forty five seconds ago.

She decided she should take a sample to test the acidity sometime during the daily routine. It was unusual, and unusual demanded a change to the program.

At exactly seven-thirty, she set the kitchen table for two. At eight, she removed the place settings and loaded the pristine chinaware into the washer, set the timer and activated the unit.

At nine, she exited the domicile to maintain the greenery. Noticing that the roses in the corner plot were melting in the rain, she moved them inside for the day. She took a water sample from the loam around the base of the bush, and analyzed the PH level. The water was unusual, and unusual demanded a change to the program.

At ten-thirty, she retrieved the Thursday disc from the library and inserted it into the slot in the back of her neck. Thursday was Master day. Mistress had bridge with the Cardinal Club. Approaching the main computer terminal, she entered the sequence and spread herself on the dining room table. Waiting.

Thirty seconds later, his voice filled the room. "Fucking slut. On the fucking dining room table?!" She accessed her memory files. Twenty-one years, six months, eight days. "What a fucking whore! A waste of good spare parts. You don't even have the decency to put clothes on before you take them off."

He approached her, his organ rising ever closer to ninety degrees with every taunt. "Can't believe we spent so fucking much on a bunch of wires and plastic." Smiling, he pointed to the cameras stationed around the room. "I'm only fucking you so Nancy and I can share a few laughs later. She fucking loves to watch."

Nine seconds later, he was on her.

Exactly one minute and twenty-two seconds later, he was finished. "Hell," he said, between fits of wheezing and coughing, "I hope to hell this holocompany can do what they say. Fucking scammers."

Then, as abruptly as he came, he left. Toy proceeded to the library and returned the Thursday disc to its sleeve.

At precisely noon, she retrieved a single setting from the dishwashing unit and placed it at the head of the kitchen table. At twelve-thirty, she returned it to the unit, but did not activate it. Mistress whispered somewhere in her memory. "Conservation, dear. Conservation. We only have so much water on the planet."

At two, she pressed the button for the automated carpet cleaning system and stood next to the divan and watched as it went this way and that across the living room, finally leaving the deep white shag with perfect waves all pointing north, towards the video wall unit.

She opened the door to the communications room ten minutes before four. The rain was unusual and unusual demanded a change to the program, even if it only meant five minutes. Following protocol, she activated the beacon and sent out the signal. Exactly at four.

"Hello. This is Nancy Applewhite. Is anyone out there? Please? Someone, anyone, please be out there. My husband is gravely ill. I really don't know what to do. I was never trained for this. Everyone else is gone. He can't even...he can't even come to the microphone. The power grid is out and we only have our residential generator. Please... I don't feel all that well myself."

As the transmission ceased, Toy bent her head down and stared at the console. Fourteen years, seven months, nine hours, ten minutes, fifteen seconds ago. She took her thumb and ran it over the spot where the blood had been. It wasn't there anymore, of course, but she rubbed her thumb across it again.

At six-thirty, she removed two of the good china settings from the kitchen cabinet and placed them at each end of the dining room table. At seven, she placed them in the washing unit and turned it on. At seven-thirty, she removed them from the washer and put them away in the cabinet.

When the clock rang nine, she exited the rear of the residence and walked slowly across the lawn. She noted that the rain had stopped and logged it, together with the reminder that she put the roses back out in the morning.

Bending down beside two stone tablets set a few feet apart, she gently pushed aside the branches and leaves that had fallen in the wind and rain. She cocked her head as an unusual sound pierced the usual silence that accompanied this particular part of the daily protocol. She looked up.

To see lights.

Dim lights, but lights nonetheless. Not stars. Not the moon. Not Venus nor Mars. Her eyes were sensitive enough and her program sophisticated enough to know the difference.

Protocol demanded that she exit to the shed to shut down for the night. But the lights were unusual, and unusual demanded a change to the program.

She laid down between the two headstones and closed her eyes.


---to the Master, Ray Bradbury, may he live long enough to enthrall our great-grandchildren---

WZB

Talkin' Turkey

On Sarah Palin and the "great turkey carnage" video. I was kinda, sorta wondering what happened to "pardoned" turkeys...

I feel the need for a Children's Book - "Tom, the National Turkey."

Tom gets yanked from the cages with the rest of his buddies bound for the slaughterhouse. He gets the royal treatment, including his feathers buffed, gourmet turkey feed, etc. Pecks at the Presidential pet and is paraded around the Rose Garden in front of adoring children and numerous paparazzi for his ten minutes of fame.

Then gets carted off to the National Zoo where his turkey feed is somewhat downgraded, but there still are adoring children there to point and poke at him.

Then, weeks later, in the dead of night, someone throws a heavy burlap sack over poor Tom's National Turkey's head. He sits in a very dark place, not knowing his fate. But, hey, it's bigger than those cramped cages he grew up in. Not so bad, really.

Then the door to the truck opens and Tom runs out into the sunlight. Turns around and runs after the truck, but can't catch it. He's alone. Surrounded by...trees. Rocks. Dirt. No turkey food anywhere in sight. He tries to cry like he saw the adoring children do when their mommas grabbed them by the arms and yanked them away from his Zoo pen.

But he can't. Turkey's can't cry. Poor Tom.

Days go by and he tries competing with the pigeons and sparrows for seeds. But Tom has no idea where the seeds are. He's starving. In desperation, he tries to find his way back to the Zoo, finally stumbling onto a highway. Sees a truck coming and since he's only seen one truck in his life, he figures it's got to be coming for him. So he runs out into the middle of the road...

...and gets smacked back to the side of the road. Stumbling in his last moments, he thinks back to how all his childhood friends died to help those adoring children grow up fat and happy around Thanksgiving tables while he, Tom the National Turkey is dying slowly on the side of the road. Helping no one. Well, almost no one.

With his dying eyes, he looks up to see a flock of feathered friends swooping down towards him. Maybe, he thinks...maybe this isn't the end?

Right before the buzzards rip out his eyes and peel the flesh from beneath his National Feathers...

His last thought is how cruel this world is. You spend your life in a cage seperated by the vast majority of your peers, get picked from millions of others to spend a little time at the White House, then spend the rest of your miserable life getting your bones gnawed at by everyone and everything around you...

---oh wait, that's GWBush---

WZB

Back to School

Heather? Don't answer out loud, that would get you in trouble and I don't want to get you in too much trouble. At least not yet. If I ask you to answer, just give me a "uh-huh" in that soft breathy voice. The kids will just think you're talking to yourself.

They're taking the test, now, right?

"Umhumm"

Great. Dont'cha just love these handless sets? You can just sit back behind your desk and no one hears a thing. Of course, we both know it's against school policy to use them while class is in session, but that's half the fun, isn't it?

Now, we're going to have a lot of fun during the next fifteen minutes or so, Heather. Fun with all the horny teens in your class. All those hormones.

Teenaged boys are just little animals, you know. Show them a picture of a naked women and get their underwear all messy. They spend all day in their little classrooms just waiting for a chance to see a creamy thigh or nipple slip. But, hey, that's what educators like you are for, Heather.

Now, you are wearing the purple dress, right?

"Uh-huh."


Excellent! Cut low, but not too low. I want you to "accidentally" roll a pencil or pen across your desk until it falls on the floor in front of your desk by the first row of chairs. Try and make sure it makes enough noise to bring some heads up off the tests. Will you do that for me?

"Ummhumm."

Now, you'll casually walk around your desk, making sure that you're facing the class...and bend down to pick it up. And, Heather, bend at the waist as much as you can...

Damn, I bet at least half a dozen high-school cocks shot up at just that moment, didn't they, Heather?

As I said before, it doesn't take much, you know.

Now turn back away from the class and stop in front of your desk to replace the pencil. You are wearing the thong, right?

"Uh-huh."

Kindly, nonchalantly, bend slightly over your desk and adjust your thong at the waist. Just to give extra credit for those paying attention.

Damn, that makes you wet, doesn't it, Heather? Knowing at least four or five hungry sets of eyes care more about you than they do a silly English test?

"Uh...?"

Oh, come on, Miss Wheatley, of course it does. It makes you positively nasty to know five or six kids under your charge are going to go home tonight and yank off because of you. It makes your nipples hard. Makes your face and chest turn beet red to imagine that, maybe even fifty years later, some kid from one of your classes is going to remember you. And it won't be because they got an A in English...

"Uh..."

Oh, that's fine. You don't have to realize that now. You'll have time enough later. What I want you to do now is much more fun. You are going to walk back around your desk and sit back down in your chair. Will you do that for me, Teacher?

"Uh-huh."

Excellent.

First, I want you to scan the classroom and tell me if any of your students seem much more interested in you than they do your class. And if they are, I want you to announce it quite loudly so that all the little ears hear it.

"Daniel, eyes on the test!"

Ah, quite nicely done, Miss Wheatley. I salute you. If nothing else, teens reject authority. That pretty much assures that even the studious will be wondering what the fuck is going on.

Oh, this is going to be quite precious.

What I want you to do, my little pet...I know your sweet little pussy is hot, but it's going to get much, much hotter. What I want you to do is to put both your hands down behind the desk where the little perverts can't see them. No, no, plenty of time to do it for real later...but what you will do right now is to make them think in their fertile little imaginations...yeah...fuck...that's right, Heather.

Sweat a little.

Slowly move your feet apart in case some especially perceptive little hard-cocked boy is glancing under your desk from the rear of class.

Fiddle with your desk knobs if you have to do something with your fingers. Moan a bit.

Under your breath, of course.

Close your eyes and imagine what it will be like when you finally get release. Picture in your mind what some of them will be thinking...that the subject of their nightly jack-off sessions is playing with her pussy right there in class! Prim, proper, Miss Heather Wheatley...moving her fingers in and out, teasing...

Makes you shudder inside, doesn't it? Maybe one of them has a phone camera focused on you, right now. Will come to you after class. Threaten to put it on the net...

That's right, makes your face turn red, doesn't it?

Good. Better to teach them what a real grown woman looks like as she gets ready to cum.

Give them a show they'll remember. See how many of them can pretend to be marking scan sheets when they're really scanning your lovely body for signs of things they can only dream of at this point in life. Hell, even some of the girls will remember this. Of course, they'll talk. You remember what it was like. You were secretly jealous back then, weren't you? You think times have changed that much? Ha! You'll be the hot topic in the cafeteria before the week is up.

But that very thought makes your toes curl until they hurt, doesn't it?

Speaking of your toes, I want you to slip your lovely, slippery nylon feet out of your pumps. One at a time. Rub your painted pretties against the wooden desk legs. Bring one hand up slowly to your mouth and lick a finger. Stretch your legs out under the desk. Slowly. Arch your back until the swivel chair makes a tell-tale noise no one in the class can ignore. Bump back against the blackboard if you have to get the attention of the A students.

And when you are finished...let me know.




You still there?

"Uh.....huh....ummm."

Excellent! If I know you, and I do, my imagination probably doesn't do you justice, Miss Wheatley. I bet mothers never even dreamed when they stuck their children with names like "Heather," that one day their kids would grow up to be true innovators...but that's beside the point. What you have painted in this fifteen minutes is a picture that every non-attention deficient student in your class will recall until...well, until they have masterpieces of their own to paint.

Maybe even after...

Now, my pet, you will do your best to pretend to...no, I imagine you will really have to compose yourself. Smooth out your dress. Rub your hands across you temples in a vain attempt to wipe away the color from your face.
Cough, softly, to eliminate that uncomfortable lump in your throat.

Even if you don't need to.

Excellent. Imagine all the underwear - and fragile psyches - you just messed up. Feels great, doesn't it?

Powerful.

Not exactly the kind of thing famous pupils will admit to publicly in future biographies and such, but we both know what horny teens really remember, don't we?

What I want you to do now is rise from your chair and swagger to the windows like a junkie who has had her ultimate fix...and...

"Uhhh....."

Turn your back to the class and...making sure your shadow is making a mark on the far wall...bend down slowly over the air-conditioning vents near the window...cool your sweaty neck and face, giving the little shits a really good view of your ample backside...

...then...

"Uhh...yeah...."

Take your hair down.

Slowly.

Carefully.

Let it fall in all its glory into the imaginations of every boy and girl in your sixth period class.

"...and...?"

Put it back up.

Wrap the beret around your fingers like the weapon that it is. Pick it up strand by strand. Twirl it when you feel you need to because all the girls in your classes are old enough to know the code...

...you're hot.

In a way they may never grow into. But secretly long to be...

Sexy.

Heaven sexy.

Heather sexy.

Teacher Heather sexy.

Sexy enough to be remembered in wet dreams long after any of the boys in your class recall the awkward blow jobs behind the Dairy Queen on Friday football nights.

Sexy enough to be remembered long after they marry their childhood sweeties and move out to the suburbs.

Oh, yeah, and when everyone comes up to you to hand you their test sheets, be sure to go out of your way to "accidentally" rub up against Daniel's butt when he gives you his scantron sheet...

Just because...

An EMC Story Idea Just too Goofy to Pass Up

heh, if someone can write a story about a woman being mind-trained to think of giving a blow job as "cock cleaning," surely someone can use this one:

http://www.nytimes.com/2008/07/03/fashion/03SkinOne.html?_r=1&oref=slogin

The spa is essentially a gussied-up examination room down the hall from Dr. Romanzi’s medical practice. At the spa, the signature treatment will be a $150 gynecological exam — in which a client contracts her pelvic muscles around Dr. Romanzi’s fingers — to determine by feel whether muscle tone is weak, moderate or strong.Dr. Romanzi likes to call the vaginal workouts she prescribes “personal training.” Clients could also use an in-office electrostimulation machine to improve pelvic muscle tone or buy a device for home use. Dr. Romanzi said that such treatments are intended to improve bladder control; she said pelvic training may also lead to more intense orgasms.

"No, my dick isn't fucking you silly, my fingers aren't giving me a thrill, they're testing your 'pelvic muscle tone.'"

Seriously, you can't make this shit up.

Dr. Romanzi said her goal was to teach women how to properly perform Kegel exercises, intended to strengthen the sling-shaped muscle that supports the bladder, vagina and rectum. Gynecologists sometimes suggest such pelvic physiotherapy for minor vaginal laxity after childbirth or for mild urinary incontinence.

Hey, Dr. Romanzi, I got your "Kegal exercises" right here. But you gotta follow the swinging watch and unzip me first.

“If you can vote and you have a vagina, you should do these,” she said. “It’s the dental floss of feminine fitness.”

So's my cock, darlin'. It can work just like dental floss. Even cleans your teeth and gums.

There is good data to suggest if you floss regularly, it reduces gingivitis down the road,” said Dr. Erin E. Tracy, a gynecologist who is an assistant professor in obstetrics, gynecology and reproductive biology at the Harvard Medical School. But there is no evidence to suggest that a young woman who starts doing Kegel exercises will decrease her chances of pelvic problems later in life, she said.

Shhhh, damn you! Be quiet. OTOH, I guess every good EMC fuckfest needs an antagonist.

Dr. Romanzi said the pelvic fitness concept is based more on her clinical experience than on rigorous medical evidence. The spa will also offer cosmetic laser treatments intended to tighten the skin of the vulva in post-menopausal women.

Hey, my magic cum medication does the exact same thing! And it's cheaper! Free, even (well, okay, depending on how hot you happen to be).

“The common practice in gynecology is we treat where there is a problem,” Dr. Berenson said. “It’ll be interesting to see if there are people who actually request these services.”

Hell, give me a pocketwatch, swirling hypno-disc, subliminals in the waiting room or whatever and stand back!

---actually, I probably could write something, but I'd be laughing too hard to get through more than a couple pages ---

WZB

Radio Ad We're Not Likely To Hear Anytime Soon

Bud Light Presents Real Men of Genius
Real Men of Genius


Today we salute you, Mr. Erotic Mind Control Story Writer Guy
Mr Erotic Mind Control Story Writer Guy

Armed with a perverted prepubescent fascination gleaned from comic books, cartoons and cheesy horror films, you set out each day bound and determined to find imaginative ways to turn unwilling women into zombie sex dolls.
Love those swirly eyeballs

Be it through the magical plot devices of nanotech, telepathy, magic, drugs or just plain old hypnosis, you diligently labor over the keyboard, hoping to produce something that will make thousands of like-minded Internet readers reach for the Kleenex.
Where are my paper towels?

While most men your age spend their Sundays watching NASCAR or the NFL, you sit in front of your computer hitting the CNT/refresh key at mcstories.com, dreaming of how the rest of the world will view your latest masterpiece.
Hope Simon got my story.

So crack open an ice cold Bud Light, oh Perverse Practitioner of the Pivoting Pocket watch, because if there's one thing the world really needs, it's another badly edited fantasy about a teenaged high school boy finding a magic ring and fucking every female in five zip codes.
Mr Erotic Mind Control Story Writer Guy