Under New Management

by Scott Craven

As soon as Diego heard the opening refrain of “Happy Birthday,” he knew his carelessness had put him in a dire situation. His instinct was to blame Deandra who, according to the monthly calendar of office events, meetings, and celebrations, was observing the fifty-fourth anniversary of her birth.

And here he was, still in his cubicle, staring at a screen filled with numbers that hadn’t made sense ever since the takeover.

Diego quickly logged out (“No employee shall leave unattended a computer terminal in active mode,” guidelines mandated) and slid his chair back under the desk, center to the keyboard (“Vacant cubicles must be maintained per schematics as detailed in Section Forty-Two, Instruction Four of Human Resources Manual, Fifth Edition”).

Even as he made the final adjustment to ensure his chair was in place, Diego peered over the sea of desks and low, fabric-covered walls to the glass-enclosed breakroom where employees were packed around its centralized rectangular table. Through the open door, Diego listened to a harmony worthy of a professional acapella group. His dismay resulted in the fact the song was near its conclusion.

“Damn,” he muttered, knowing the consequences of missing a social gathering, especially one as imperative as a birthday. Only baby showers and retirement parties were more important, and there had been only a few since the merger and/or acquisition (details remained hazy).

The Old Man

by Sean E. Britten

The old man’s alarm sounded like a sunshower, gathering strength until the trickling water turned into a waterfall. Light crept into the corners and gently illuminated the bedroom. The old man stirred and rolled over. Artificial intelligence scanned his face and measured his wakefulness.

“It is seven AM, time to get up,” a soothing but clearly artificial voice said.

“Goddamn you, I want to sleep!” the old man replied.

Light dimmed and the waterfall noise faded to a low trickle, but neither committed to vanishing completely. The old man thrashed feebly, trying to get comfortable. As always though, that sound of running water fired up his bladder. Pressure quickly escalated to a sharp, urgent pain. Grumbling, the old man rolled to the side of the bed and struggled upright.

“Do you require assistance?” the AI asked.

“No, goddamn you! Old, when did I get so old?”

Kill You with Kindness

by A.R.C. Mitra

Kevin was a nice guy. He was the nicest guy around. That was his defining characteristic, everywhere he went. What a nice man. What lovely manners. He had heard those words said about him, when the speaker believed he was out of earshot, more times than he could count.

It was being nice, being polite, that was the key. There were desperate women all across the country, in every corner of every town. Plain women with peroxided hair and acrylic nails, eager for a little attention, for a kind word. The overlooked, the abused, the deserted, the put upon. Kevin could identify them a mile away. Easy prey. A little flattery here, a thoughtful gesture there. A please and a thank you, opening a door, pulling out a chair. All the little acts of chivalry that they had been longing for. Before they knew it, they were putty in his hands.

So even if an old lady couldn’t find the pearl earrings she always kept on her bedside table, she’d never suspect the lovely young man who had installed a fire alarm in her bedroom that morning. Even if there was less cash in the till than there ought to have been at the end of the day, the waitress never even thought of that charming man who almost leaped over the counter that afternoon to help her clean up a spilled pot of coffee. Even if some woman, somewhere, said something bad about him, intimated he’d done something terrible to her, no one would really believe that the man with the pleasant smile and impeccable manners would ever do something like that. She’s mistaken, they’d say. Or, she’s lying.

Yes sir, it was being nice that had gotten him this far.

Emotion Sells

by Alden Terzo

“These numbers can’t be right.”

“Double checked them myself, Chief. We asked over four-hundred customers to rate various product concepts utilizing the new tech. This was top of the list.”

“You’re telling me we’ve developed the most advanced synthetic neurological system ever devised, and this is how our customers want us to use it? This is honest-to-god thinking and feeling AI. If I tell the Board we’re going to build this—don’t lean on my desk—I’ll have the shortest CEO tenure in the company’s history. What about the nanny-bot? Or that personal therapy thing?”

“As you can see on page two, all the products scored well. But not everyone has kids, and a lot of folks found the therapist concept a bit creepy. This one had nearly universal appeal.”

“It’s kind of dark.”

The Hygienist

by Rob E. Boley

The bell above the glass door chimes. The noise always makes her cringe. Catherine lets go of the door and steps into the standard climate of fake wood chairs and neat stacks of old magazines. The waiting room at Sunset Dental Services is every bit as empty as her heart. The night’s cold breeze blows dead leaves ahead of her. The bell jingles again as the door closes behind her. The sound echoes in her empty heart, taking her back to the last time she saw her son, Connor. Maybe after tonight, she can end the pain once and for all. Maybe she’ll be whole again.

The office smells vaguely of candy, the way watermelon gum tastes like watermelon, which is to say, not at all. She kicks the leaves aside and waves to the receptionist, Darlene, a cheerless crone with severe hair and yellowed teeth. Seems like she’s always here, as much a fixture as the sign on the wall: You don’t have to brush all your teeth, only the ones you want to keep!”

“Full moon tonight,” Darlene says. On her dry lips, the words sound like an accusation.

Catherine nods. “Full house?”

Darlene stares at her through horn-rimmed frames. “I just hope we can make it through the night without an incident.”

My Precious

by John Guo

The house was haunted, or so I thought. It had started on the seventh day after my wife’s death, a day on which ghosts are believed to return home for a final visit before moving on to the afterworld for reincarnation. My wife, as it turned out, had decided to stay. She wasn’t violent, at least not for the time being. She could be treating me the way a naughty cat treats an unlucky rat—teasing it before killing it.

She moved things around while I was asleep. Objects turned up in unexpected places: utensils in the fridge, remote controls in the microwave, keys in the bathroom sink, bed sheets on the living-room floor. One morning, I woke up next to one of her dresses. A blue one. My wife had owned many dresses, most of them blue, in varying shades. Blue had been her favorite color as a painter, and the color of her mood in the last two years of her life. I stared at the dress for a few moments, picked it up, and brought it to my nose. A faint scent of lavender still clung to the fabrics. Having made a mental note to switch to another brand of detergent with a different scent, I got out of bed, folded up the dress, and replaced it in the cardboard box stowed in the corner of the bedroom closet. A few days later, another dress crawled into my bed. This time, after putting the dress back, I carried the cardboard box to the study, placed it on top of the bookshelf with the help of a chair.

And it happened again the very next morning. Frustrated and groggy, I sat on the edge of the bed, looking down at my feet. My slippers were nowhere in sight. I bent over to look under the bed. No luck. It was some time before I stood up, snatched the light-blue dress from the bed, and shuffled barefoot to the study. When I opened the door, I was greeted by a strange tableau: a chair beside a bookshelf, a pair of slippers at the foot of the chair, on the seat of which sat a cardboard box with its flaps sticking up.

The sight brought about a surge of relief, for I suddenly realized that I could have been the one who had been haunting the house. I sleepwalked when I was under stress. And I had been under a lot of stress lately. But the relief left as quickly as it had come. Why would I want to spook myself? Why would I want her presence in my life when I’m trying my best to forget her? Why would I cling to the past when I’m struggling to move on?

The house was haunted, I decided.

Home: A Film Spooling Unattended

by Evan Burkin

Framed photos and heirlooms fill a series of bookcases, which, against the walls of George’s studio, resemble a city skyline. On each shelf, mementos glow, exuding pale browns and yellows. They soften his soul after a day under his office’s fluorescent lights.

Whenever he enters his studio, he looks at one shelf of items. Today, he focuses on photos of his family during Easter, Halloween, each holiday of 2100. His mind picks up memories. That was the first year he cut the turkey at Thanksgiving. He can almost feel his father’s cotton apron cradling the back of his head. His father’s hands were so large; they covered his shaking hands, steadying them.

It stays, he decides. Each day, after viewing a random shelf, he considers whether to replace the display with another collection from one of the apple crates peppered across the rug, brimming with photo albums of his family and leather-bound notebooks, like his grandfather’s war journal and aunt’s childhood diary.

Boom Hiss Jane

by Mark Stawecki

Boom Hiss Jane is ready for another monotonous day and doesn’t mind at all.

Machine 45 is there as always, a complex, monstrous companion. Jane takes her place beside it, overalls stained from the grease and lubricants that are the factory’s blood. She takes plugs, converters and bolts from various bins and puts them together, making a larger piece that she places on a conveyor belt to be taken to Machine 52. She does it again and again and again. Fits them together, places them on the belt which moves into a small furnace which goes Boom! as the doors close and hiss as it heats the pieces and fuses them and spits them out into a new piece for the next worker.

What do the pieces become? That’s not her concern. Only the functioning of Machine 45. It has been like this as far as she knows.

Supplements drop out of the feeding tube on the wall behind her. She swallows them when the display prompts her to then continues working. Jane simply knows when it’s time to exercise and moves into Room 102 where she stands on her disc before the instructional monitor. It lights up and shows an image of her, Jane, going through today’s exercises and stretches. She squats and jumps, flexing her arms, pulling back her fingers in sync with her computer twin.

At the end of the day, she goes to Chamber 74 and lines up for the shower tunnel. Slicer Liz stands before her, Burning Sara behind. Both are dressed as Jane: dark blue overalls, stained with grease and lubricants. Shaved heads covered by caps. Jane knows Sara by her freckles, Liz by the scar on the nape of her neck. Liz hadn’t always had the scar, yet Jane neither remembers nor cares how it got there.

The three move into the tunnel, disrobe and place their clothes in the laundry chute where they get sucked to somewhere. They step under the sprinklers where a series of pipes and faucets rain water and soap over them. They pass through the wind room where they are dried with pleasantly warm air as they walk to the other end. They collect their nightgowns and go to Chamber 53. Jane lies down on Bed 32, Liz and Sara on each side of her. She closes her eyes and promptly sleeps.

Gilded Cage

by Neva Bryan

Jenny sensed the change in her body while she was delivering the lecture to her advanced human anatomy and physiology class. A fluttering in her chest.

Probably anxiety.

She was carrying a hellish class load this semester. On top of that, her husband’s mood the past week had her on pins and needles.

The wispy tickle in her chest distracted her. She lost track of what her students said in response to her questions. As soon as class ended, Jenny stuffed her materials into her bag and rushed out of the classroom.

The drive home only made it worse. On the best of days, she dreaded coming home, never knowing what to expect from Matthew. Was he going to be the thoughtful, loving man she married three years ago? Or was he going to be the angry, dismissive dictator who had begun to take up residence in their house eight months ago?

Now, though, the weird feeling in her chest exacerbated the dread. She pulled into the driveway. Matthew’s car wasn’t in his spot, so she relaxed.

Once inside, she tossed her bag on the floor and ran to the bedroom. As she pulled off her blouse and skirt, she padded over to the mirror that hung on the closet door.

Jenny screamed at her reflection.

All Things of Grace and Beauty

by D. Thomas Minton

An hour later, Logan realized the woman was only pretending to be asleep.

“I’ve got no interest in hurting you,” he said, “and I hope you intend the same.” The cool light of an electric lantern reflected off the shaft of the baseball bat laying across his lap.

Thunder cracked with enough force to rattle his bones. Pebbles and ash skittered off the windowpanes as the electrical storm raged outside.

Logan looked up at the ceiling. “Worse than usual.”

Giving up the pretense, the woman opened her eyes.

“That’s better now,” Logan said. “Mind explaining why you’re on my land?”

She licked cracked lips that were stained gray from the ash. Logan was amazed she was here at all, given she had no respirator and how far up Rounder Peak they were. “Passing though,” she said, her voice raspy.

Her response implied a journey from one place to another, but what place was there to go anymore? In the hours following the impact, things had unraveled with a dizzying quickness. Rioting, looting, violence — human society had quickly come apart.

“I’ll be on my way,” she said.

A Scar on the Map

by George S. Walker

When Garcia’s heart finally stopped pounding, it was because he already knew how he was supposed to die. Being killed by a jaguar wasn’t it.

There wasn’t much blood. Vasquez had died quickly, like the translator: fangs puncturing his neck and skull. The jaguar hadn’t bothered to feed. Vasquez’s wheellock pistol lay only a couple yards away, unloaded. The jaguar wasn’t in sight.

Garcia’s gaze darted between trees in search of the predator before turning to Saywa, crouched on the forest floor. Dark hair cascaded onto the shoulders of her scarlet Inca dress, bound with large silver pins.

“Just us two, now,” he said.

The young woman’s gaze met his, her look revealing how much she hated him. She’d been helping track the Inca thief for three days now. Before starting out, Vasquez had requested one of the expedition’s war dogs instead of Saywa. They all knew the dogs could track. But the conquistador in command had said no: if they lost a war dog, there was no replacement, not until a new litter. Natives could be replaced easily. In fact, the Inca emperor seemed anxious to be rid of Saywa.

The translator — dead yesterday — said Saywa had been to the land of the dead and back. Garcia had spent too many years in the Church to believe that. And as a cartographer, he knew there was no map for that.

Usually, you bury a corpse. Sometimes you don’t. Garcia had never liked Vasquez; it had been mutual. And he didn’t want to linger so close to the jaguar’s kill.

This Year's Apocalypse

by Steve Loiaconi

R.E.M.’s “It’s the End of the World as We Know It” blared from the grocery store’s speakers overhead, because somebody somehow still thinks that’s clever. Signs everywhere advertised “red sky” deals on perishable goods. “I survived Crisis 2030” t-shirts filled the seasonal racks near the entrance. I half-expected to see beach balls bouncing between the aisles.

It was – until the end – a fairly typical summer shopping trip. I played my role as a mom, making sure our purchases were moderately healthy and reasonably under budget. Shana played the eager and easily swayed child, begging for anything that was shiny, sugary, or unicorn-themed. Luke was, well, Luke – a middle-aged man with a short attention span, a weakness for enticing discounts, and aspirations to be a more cultured and adventurous eater than he truly was.

“I’ll get some fruit,” Luke said when we reached the produce section.

“Stick to the list.” I held up my phone to remind him I had texted him the full grocery list in advance. He sighed and glanced at his screen.

“Where’s your sense of adventure, Cassidy?”

“We both know how this ends, Luke.” I crossed my arms. “You pick out five or six exotic and inordinately expensive fruits, you only eat apples all week, and I have to drink kale, kohlrabi, and mango smoothies so nothing goes to waste.”

His face lit up. “Do they have kohlrabi?” he asked, scouring islands stacked high with leafy greens and bright citrus.

“You don’t even know what kohlrabi is.”

“It’s like rhubarb, right?”

He stomped away and returned moments later with a bag of apples and a bunch of bananas that were already turning brown. I placed the apples in the cart, but I pointed him back to the tropical fruit display.