My First Bicycle Ride

Contributor: Philip Lautore

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The first time I rode a bicycle was the day I visited my neighbor, Jeze Cantu. Prior to that, I had always used my own two feet for gettin' around.

As I recall, Jeze parked her double wide on the last row of the trailer park. Her model was an Energizer made in Baton Rouge. It came with an extra big bathtub.

Right off, I saw the bicycle parked against a tree near her rig. Naturally I headed straight to it, pausing only to bend over and speak to her dog Mildred.

About then, I heard Jeze shout, “Shut-up Mildred. You’re makin’ too much noise!”

Looking around, I spotted Jeze sprawled on a recliner under a tree.

About that time, I heard her say, “Why Justin Wilson, I thought you napped in the afternoons.”

“Can’t sleep...it's too hot.”

Looking away, I turned my attention to the bicycle.

“Fancy bicycle,” she voiced from the recliner.

“Sure is,” I replied. “I’ve always wanted to ride a bicycle. I sat on one as a child, but fell off and cracked my head when a pig charged me. After that, my daddy wouldn’t allow it.”

Eventually, Jeze came over and stood to my side, fluttering her eyelashes like she always did when she needed to be friendly.

“I hope you’re here for more than just – bicycle talk.”

Fumbling a bit, I said, “What I really wanted was a splash in your bathtub.”

“Some fellow beat you too it.”

“Then, I’ll settle for a glass of lemonade while I wait.”

She laughed, her jowls wiggling in pleasure. “He drank all of the lemonade… said he was thirsty after peddlin’ that thing from the Landing.

I looked her straight on. “Riding a bicycle across ten miles of swamp roads teaming with gators takes plenty of courage. Not many men care to do that.”

“Fellows will do most anything when the mood strikes ‘em.”

She did have a point, so I asked, “How long am I gonna have to wait?”

Jeze cleared her throat. “Well… let me think. He’s been splashing with my youngest for over an hour. I don’t know if he’s interested in my other girl, but right off, I’d figure another hour or two.”

I took a deep breath and returned my attention to the bicycle, realizing that I was admiring a world renowned – Mississippi Rambler.

I pulled it away from the tree. “Did you know this is one of the finest bicycles ever built? I heard about it on the radio.”

Jeze stepped closer, her eyes going wide. “Wow-e… Look at those petals. They have cute, little streamers hanging from the back.”

“Get on top,” I said, swinging a leg over the seat. “I’ll take you for a ride.”

I was already bouncing up and down, getting situated, by the time Jeze got her dress worked over her hips. Finally, she settled on the handlebars, and we were rolling toward the road, feeling a breeze blow in our faces.

She glanced over her shoulder. “Where’re we going, honey?”

“I was thinkin’ of peddlin’ in the direction of the cypress grove down by the water.”

I rumbled across some tire ruts, feeling the bicycle jostle about, but once I got the hang of things, my speed started to increase.

“Don’t go too fast,” she said, tugging the dress higher. “I don’t want a cracked head for having fun.”

“You needn’t worry. Bicycle riding is easier than I figured.”

Soon, my feet were pumping furiously, sending us flying from one side of the road to the other. At the bottom of a grade, we turned into the grove, bouncing along a footpath.

She looked over her shoulder – her eyes wide. “You’re going too fast.”

“Just keep lookin’ straight ahead and tell me what you see. I know what I’m doing.”

I pushed her hair from my face and continued on, my hands gripping the handlebars like I was wrestling a gator.

She pointed to the side, her arm moving wildly. “Follow that path to the right. It goes away from the swamp.”

“I’m trying, but this thing won’t turn. Your butt’s too heavy.”

“Then, you need to stop.”

“Stop... how do I stop?”

Moments later, I was spitting out a mouthful of swamp water. That’s when I saw Jeze glaring in my direction, her eyes ablaze.

“One thing for sure,” she snapped. “You’ve ruined my dress.” She took a step and slipped, her head plunging below water. Struggling, she tried to stand. “And, you certainly don’t know how to entertain a lady. My hair’s soaked, and my shoes are gone – sucked away in the mud.”

Feeling responsible, I helped her wade to dry ground, feeling my feet slog through the muck.

I tried a smile, hoping to calm her tirade. “Accidents happen, but we did get a splash together.”

She ignored it and said, “For your information, falling into a swamp is not the same as splashing in a bathtub.”

I settled on the ground at the water’s edge and listened to her rant, feeling guilty for my actions.

Finally, I turned to her. ”I do know one thing.”

“What’s that?” she asked in a huff.

“I know you, and that’s plenty important.”

She looked at me funny-eyed then she snorted and plopped down beside me, saying, “Sometimes you say such pretty things.”

We sat side by side for many minutes admiring the sunlight filtering through the trees. Finally, she reached for my hand and said sweetly, “If you’ll peddle me home, I'll give you a freebie.”

And that’s what I did. I peddled her home and learned how to ride a bicycle at the same time.


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Patterns

Contributor: Kristina England

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Jamie pushed her way into the booth, her legs squeaking against the plastic.
Henry smiled.
"It was the cushion," she said, playing with her bracelet.
"Sure."
"It was..."
"I'm messing with you. Relax..."
"I am relaxed."
"Sure..."
"I hate it when you do that!"
"Oh boy... Here we go again."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"You can't handle a joke. That's what it means."
Jamie's face fell.
Henry shook his head.
"This is exactly why I broke up with you. You are way too emotional."
"Oh, I can't stand it when you use that word. What do you expect when you say something that hurts?"
"I don't know what's going to hurt and what's not. I have to think way too much before I talk. It's exhausting..."
"I'm sorry... I can do better."
"I used to believe that... I mean, I still do... I just don't think you believe it enough."
Jamie ran her finger along the silver bracelet. She felt Henry scooting out of the bench.
"By the way, you look cute in polka dots," he said.
She looked down at her dress as if to remind herself what she was wearing. She could feel him hovering.
"I forgot you hate compliments," he said, the words jabbing her.
Jamie listened to his footsteps, the sound of the bell over the diner door.
"Thanks," she said. "I bought this dress especially for you."


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Kristina England resides in Worcester, Massachusetts. Her writing is published or forthcoming in Gargoyle, Short, Fast, and Deadly, Yellow Mama, and other magazines.
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A Photo in the Flowerbed

Contributor: Victoria Elizabeth

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The photo landed in the flowerbed, the tiny petals of the annuals embracing it among the HOA-approved red mulch. The elderly couple, frozen in their moment of happiness, hadn’t known that Death, patient as he was, waited in the shadows of their joy, anticipating the occasion to strike.
Four months after their fiftieth wedding anniversary, a stroke took the bounce, which had slowed with the years, from Mr. Nielson’s step in an instant. He laid in a coma for two weeks before his adult children finally overruled their grieving mother and pulled the plug.

She watched as the last artificially pumped breath escaped and the heart monitor went silent. Death stood and waited. The last remnants of fifty years of love drained from the room, leaving an empty body and an incomplete soul.

Life has a funny way of kicking you when you’re down. An example of this would be the pneumonia that set deep into Mrs. Nielson’s chest, which the doctors claimed was caused by her extended stay in the hospital, standing vigil over her husband. Death, though normally impartial, can become greedy when he senses opportunity. And, with three children arguing over who would cover the funeral expenses, Death decided he might as well claim the mother, too.

Their home on Oak Court had been warm, though about thirty years outdated, with Mrs. Nielson’s porcelain plate collection cluttering the tight halls. Her husband had continued to buy them for her every birthday, despite the fact that she had run out of places to put them nearly a decade before. It was amazing how loudly the noise reverberated as their children tore them from the plastered walls, dropping them haphazardly into the trashcan. The collectables of one are often the refuse of another; the majority of the Nielson’s memories were nothing more than clutter taking up precious space for the beneficiaries of the Nielson inheritance.

Customers walked into the white-shuttered home on Oak, fingers trailing on the antique furniture, little boys giggling at the lace doilies coating every surface. The estate sale had gone well, recouping more than three times the cost of the funerals. A single cardboard box remained with the memories of the former inhabitants, a stack of worn photo albums housing the moments frozen in time.

Ten tiny fingers thumbed through the yellowed pages, smudging the handwritten captions. They paused on a picture: Mr. and Mrs. Nielson, smiling broadly as they clinked their wine flutes together. Death watched as the little girl peeled the photo from the page, glue clinging to the edges, and stuffed it into her pocket. She returned to her parents’ side, watching as they purchased the flotsam and jetsam of the dead.

One day, their memories would end up in a box, unwanted. For sale to the highest bidder. Death watched the family leave with their purchases, content and at peace. There were still memories to make, champagne to toast, photos to take. Death could be patient. He would wait.


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Victoria Elizabeth Ann is a lifetime student of the arts, literature, and life as a whole. She is currently studying Creative Writing at Full Sail University and aspires to publish a novel in the near future.
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Roulette

Contributor: Scott Webb

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Thomas and I walked up and down the rows of tents at Aikman county fair. Thomas was twenty-one now and I was twenty-five. I had always looked after him like a brother and it had been years since we had done anything together. We had been together since we were little kids, and even shared a two-bedroom apartment now. It was because of this closeness that I pretended not to see the bright yellow and purple tent with the words “PRIZES! PRIZES! PRIZES!” painted on a large board along the top of the tent's facade.
Thomas ran up to the obnoxiously colorful carnie running this particular sideshow. “Hey Gerry, look at that, cash prizes,” he said as the carnie took notice of us.
“Step right up to the game of a lifetime, you’ve never played anything like it,” The Jester-like man said from atop a soapbox. “To play is free, to win is fortune!” he continued.
“How does it work?” I asked looking at the seemingly empty tent from which he ran his game. The tent was bare with exception to a single end table on which laid a gleaming, .38 revolver. Delicately placed around the gun were 5 bullets.
“Glad you asked my boy, glad you asked,” the jester continued. “This here is a game from Russia, in which every pull of the trigger means you win! Are you ready to play?” he asked stepping down from the box and taking Thomas’ hand.
“I don’t know about this,” I said. Thomas glared back at me.
“You’re not my father, besides he says I can win money.”
“Does he?” I responded.
The carnie quickly cut our conversation short by drawing Thomas over to the table with the pistol. Thomas grinned at the show being put on just for him. The jester picked up the gleaming .38 and twirled it around his finger a few times. Then he tossed it under each leg and behind his back. Finally catching the pistol he threw open the cylinder.
“Now, it’s easy to play, just tell me how much you want to win!”
“Huh?” Thomas looked at the man confused.
“For every bullet in the gun you can win 10,000 dollars per pull.”
“Wow, ten thousand dollars per bullet?”
“Yes sir, up to 50,000 dollars, we did have a couple of gentleman try for the grand 60,000 dollar prize but as yet no one has won! It could be you,” the carnie continued what seemed to be a well rehearsed pitch.
“I’m going to start small, with one; I’ll work my way up,” Thomas said
“Ok, here we go,” the jester said, placing a single bullet into the gun. In two quick motions he snapped the cylinder back into the revolver and gave it a good solid spin.
“Now what?” Thomas asked.
“Now this,” the jest replied turning the gun on Thomas and pulling the trigger. The hammer sprang forward driving the firing pin to an empty chamber. The gun clicked but refused to fire. Immediately following a siren blared and horns trumpeted. “CONGRATULATIONS! You’re a lucky winner!” The Carnie yelled, pulling a large stack of 20’s out of a lockbox and pushing it into Thomas’ hands. “Do you want to play again?” He asked smiling.
Thomas was grinning from ear to ear. “Sure, I’ll give it another go,” he said, “Two this time!”
“Well aren’t we a brave soul, this time for two!” the Jester said, flicking open the gun and adding one more bullet to the cylinder. “Are you ready?” He asked pulling the hammer back and aiming the gun between Thomas’ eyes. Thomas looked frightened, but just for a moment.
“Go ahead,” he said.
“Fire,” the carnie yelled pulling firmly on the hairline trigger. The gun clicked again but still Thomas was ok.
“You should quit while you’re ahead,” I said to Thomas
“Come on now, don’t stop while you’re winning!” The jester said, now forcing two stacks of cash into Thomas’ hands.
“This is amazing,” he said grinning over at me, “I’ve never won anything in my life! One more, last one, three this time.”


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Lindberg

Contributor: Nick Marcantel

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The submarine was making its last run in the depths of the Baltic Sea after a long day of finding nothing of any interest. The crew had become restless and longed to return home after their disappointing voyage. Peter Lindberg, the submarine’s captain, gave into his crew’s wishes and decided to return.
“It’s okay, boss. We’ll just come back next week,” a jolly man by the name of Stephen Richards said as he patted Lindberg on the back.
“Yeah, of course,” Lindberg replied as he swallowed back his discontent. He wanted to find something in the Baltic Sea that he could be proud of, but after weeks of searching nothing even remotely impressive turned up on their sonars.
“Lindberg, do yah’ want some Vienna sausages,” another crewmate piped up struggling to speak as he had his mouth full of the sausages. Lindberg knew immediately that his crew was trying to make him feel better. He admired their efforts, but the only thing that would satisfy him was the treasure that lay at the bottom of the sea.
“No thanks, Johnson. I have to save my appetite for my wife’s dinner waiting for me when I get home,” Lindberg replied.
“Suit yourself. More for us then!” Richards said.
Lindberg chuckled at the response as he maneuvered the ship through the gentle ebb of the Baltic Sea. They were now halfway home when something stirred inside Lindberg’s gut. Something inside of him told him that he needed to try the sonar one last time.
“Richards, get up here!” Lindberg shouted moving away from the steering mechanism of the ship as he moved over to a large table set up with a whole bunch of knobs, buttons, panels, and equipment.
“What’s up? Is there something wrong?” Richards asked weary of the situation.
“Nothing’s wrong don’t worry. I want to check the sonar one last time,” Lindberg said as he powered the mechanism on.
“What’s the point, boss? We’re just on a dry streak; we’ll try again next week.”
“You may be right, but it can’t hurt to try.”
“Alright, whatever you say,” Richards said as he helped Lindberg power on the sonar. By turning a few knobs, pressing a few buttons, and running a few diagnostic checks; the sonar was ready to go.
“Ready?” Lindberg asked.
“Sure,” Richards simply replied as he watched his captain hit the button to start the scan on the ocean floor. They watched the red and green waves on the screen draw a picture of what lay beneath them. After a minute of nothing out of the ordinary turning up Richards completely dismissed the try, “See I told you we’re bad luck. Nothing there boss, just like I said-“
“Wait a minute, come take a look at this,” Lindberg said as he pointed at some strange anomaly appearing right before his eyes. The figure was still being mapped out by the scans, but they could see that it was round in shape and also quite large. Richard’s eyes bolted open as the miracle drew itself right before his eyes.
“What is that thing,” Richards said hardly believing what was happening to him.
“Guys, come see this quick!” Lindberg shouted to rest of the crew as they all ran up to the board to see the miracle at the bottom of the sea.
“Is that a UFO?” Johnson asked.
“I’m not sure. It looks like a giant Frisbee,” another crewmate chimed in.
“Whatever it is, lads. We have landed ourselves a goldmine,” Lindberg said looking around at his crew as giddy as could be.


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Choices

Contributor: Andrew Mang

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The man in the white mask and mechanic’s jumpsuit has been lying in the back of my vintage automobile for two hours. The masked man is patient - much more patient than I could ever be. The masked man has been all over the news for breaking into cars and murdering the unsuspecting drivers after the ignition sparks. Unsuspecting is the keyword. The problem is I am not an unsuspecting victim. I have been watching the masked man lay patiently in the back of my classic vehicle for two hours.
The scene is set: the air is frigid, the ground is wet, and the street lamp is dim.
I believe in fate and this must be my fate.
The masked man chose my car because of these perfect conditions. If I would have parked a few feet forward, or a few meters backwards, the street lamp would be beaming its light directly on my vehicle, and the masked man would be exposed.
Fortunately, this is not the case. I parked the car in such a way that the masked man chose me as his next victim. If that is not fate, then I do not know what is. When your time is up, then your time is up. How could I even challenge fate and ruin the glorious plan of the all-knowing universe?
I must get in my car.
My life should be flashing before my eyes, but all I see is darkness. It does make sense, since the last thirty years of my life have been pain, agony, and hopelessness because of my wife’s death. How could I see anything else but darkness? I hate to sound cliché, but this is the most I have felt since her passing. I know, after I turn that key, I will once again be with my love. My impending death has spawned absolute bliss. How beautiful. This is it. Fate is here and I am happy to accept the invitation.
Here I go.
Wait a minute. Where is the masked man? He is gone. I do not understand. This is my fate. My fate is to become another one of the masked man’s victims and to be reunited with my wife. I am content for the first time in thirty years, since knowing fate had found me and opened its door. Why would the masked man leave? Why would fate leave? That is not fate. That is selfishness. What do I know?
I know nothing.
What has happened to me? I was once strong, but now I’m weak. I was choosing to die by the hands of a killer. I choose to believe it was my fate, only to lessen the personal guilt, but ultimately I know it was my choice. My choices are my fate. I create my fate with every decision I make. Here I stand at the age of sixty, experiencing a period of enlightenment. Self-awareness is upon me and life is finally making sense. But this does not change my will to live and the masked man is back, and camouflaging himself in the backseat of my car. I am enlightened, yet I am destroyed. Fate is not murdering me tonight and a killer is not murdering me tonight. I am. I am choosing my fate. I am choosing to die.
I am choosing to get into my car.


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Invention Convention

Contributor: Tyson Hinz

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Cyrus began his ascent up The Great Tree. This tree was all he had known. Life beyond the tree was unimaginable. As he scaled the tree he thought of falling. How amazing it would be to free-fall thousands of feet to whatever it is that is below the clouds. This was something that his kind thought of quite often, and quite often did they take that leap. Cyrus thought of the joy they must have felt while falling. But was it worth it? They would die at the end but the fact of that last adrenaline rush being worth taking your own life astonished Cyrus. He could not understand how someone could take his own life no matter how hard it was to live it.
Cyrus, during his long life, thought that everyone on the tree should think in the same manner that he did. He could not understand how and why they did not think in his way. They were the same species they should all think the same, and Cyrus’s way of thinking was the best way.
“Kit, Al, you are smart boys. Always pay attention to your surroundings and love The Great Tree,” Cyrus preached to his two apprentices.
Cyrus arrived at his favorite branch; it reached further out than most. He could see a long drop down to the clouds, which were always below him. Cyrus had wondered what was below those clouds and he was going to find out. Cyrus ran from the half waypoint of the branch away from The Great Tree, his mind was full of thoughts and happiness that his questions were finally going to be answered, he was almost to the end of the branch when he slipped on a knot. His head struck the branch and he rolled down and fell through the clouds.
The people of the village celebrated his life. Most in mourning for the dead philosopher. The people knew Cyrus’s obsession with the free fall. Cyrus often made speeches about it to the people. He let them know all of his thoughts on the subject and why he thought people might of done it. He also told them why he might do it one day.
They knew how bold Cyrus was. They knew he took everything he did into deep consideration. So the mourning passed much easier for most of them knowing he left their lives in peace and happiness. The people easily got over his death because of that but never forgot about him.
“I know that Cyrus wouldn’t have chosen to die any other way,” whispered Kit to Al. They are both young and impressionable.
“We should go to the Cyrus Branch to pay our respects,” said Al.
So they went to the branch and sat in the middle of it. They dangled their feet off, pondering what it must have been like to leap off of The Great Tree, especially for Cyrus.
“All he ever spoke of was jumping off,” said Kit.
“Well I need to know what its like. I do not see a point in living here without Cyrus, there is nobody else here like him; there’s nobody that can teach me anymore than he did. If he didn’t die then he must be down there. If he did then I wouldn’t want anything more than to join him in the afterlife,” Al said.
“Oh come on, you know Cyrus would want you to experience all aspects of life before jumping,” Kit pleaded.
“I do not care,” said Al as he leaped off the branch.


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It doesn’t take much to inspire me. Just a glimpse of a leaf falling the right way could set me off on a 500-page novel – overhearing a conversation of simple small talk could spark an idea of a feature length script.
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And Justice For All

Contributor: Brian Coyle

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The day started as any other day. Frank makes his normal trip through the streets of Boston to his job at the docks. Passers by wave good morning and birds call out from nearby trees and power lines. Shopkeepers flip their signs from closed to open. Drunkards spill out of the local tavern and stumble into the cold, streets still wet from the morning dew. A middle-aged man sits on a stoop listening to a radio news broadcast. Frank can overhear the radio as he walks by.
“It is the dawn of another beautiful day in America. Albert Reilly, our beloved dictator has just announced his newest decree to increase restrictions brought in place by the recent embargo on... Frank walks out of the radio’s range.
Upon arriving at the docks, he notices something strange. The large wrought-iron gate that encloses the dock is closed and locked. He tugs at the lock and curses aloud. “Now Albert takes my job? What more can he take from us?”
Two police officers dressed in thick armor padding approach Frank. “Speaking out against your leader is a federal offense. You are under arrest.”
Frank attempts to explain that it is all just a misunderstanding. The officers laugh.
“What do you think? You think he is telling the truth?” One of the officers ask.
“I think what we have got here is a suspect resisting arrest. You know what we must do.” The two officers beat on Frank who manages to fight them back. Upon realizing that they cannot win, one of the officers equips their sidearm. “Turn around and get on your knees.”
Frank complies with the orders and gets on his knees, the sound of tires screech behind him. Just as he turns around, he sees a modified pickup truck fitted with a mounted machine gun barrel down the street, opening fire on the two police officers.
“We haven’t got much time. You need to come with us.” The driver of the truck shouts.
Without any other option, Frank runs towards the bed of the truck and climbs inside. The truck speeds away from the scene of the crime.


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Now I Understand

Contributor: Jerry Guarino

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“Sam, remember when we were in 4th grade, that night your sister Susan went to the college dance?”

“Sure do Joey. Why?”

“I was just thinking. We didn’t know why she was dressed that way or what goes on at a college. In just a couple years, we’ll be in college too.”

“Hopefully” said Sam.

“Well, yes, hopefully. It’s kind of funny how life has changed in just five years.”

“You said it Sam. I wonder what life will be like five years from now.”

“Yeah, I wonder.”

“You’ll probably still be dating Sarah, maybe even getting engaged.”

“And you’ll probably still be dating Mary, if you’re not married by then.”

“Could be. We’ve been going out for six months now. Unless I’m playing college football. You know those guys have lots of girlfriends.”

“Yeah.”

“Hey, you still want to be a doctor?”

“Sure. They make loads of money and drive fancy cars. I just have to get my science grades up. I think you have to get at least a “B” in science to get into medical school.”

“All “B’s” in science, I think. Nothing lower.”

“Wow. You think?”

“Sure. They don’t want any doctors who make mistakes.”

“What about math; I’m failing math.”

“No, math doesn’t count; you don’t need to know math to be a doctor.”

“Good. Hey, what do you want to be?”

“I don’t know. Maybe an engineer. I could design computer games and make lots of money. I’m really good on my X-Box.”

“I thought you were failing math.”

“No, you don’t need math to study computers, just be good at gaming.”

“So, in a few years we’ll be rich. Maybe we’ll want prettier girls by then.”

“Yeah. Better not get tied down with Sarah and Mary.”

“OK, but we should still take them to the sophomore dance, right?”

“Yeah. I think that would be OK. We can let them down easy in the summer. Give us time to plan for the future.”

“Hey what about your sister? How is she doing?”

“Susan. Yeah, she’s in college, but dating different guys. She says nothing serious.”

“Really? But she’s like 22. I thought by then girls are all engaged.”

“I guess not. But they sure are pretty in college. I was over at their library the other day and you wouldn’t believe these girls.”

“Hot, huh?”

“Totally. They all have long, straight hair and big boobs. And none of them have acne like high school girls.”

“Wow. Good thing we’re not getting tied down with Sarah and Mary.”

“Yeah. But they’re nice girls. Got my first feel with her. What about you?”

“Hmm.”

“What?”

“We did it last Saturday?”

“You what! No way.”

“I swear. Her parents were out and we were watching a movie, ‘I know what you did last summer’ with Jennifer Love Hewitt.”

“Yeah, and?”

“Well, we were making out when I saw Jennifer with a tight top on. My boner sprung to life. I thought it was going to pop my pants.”

“So?”

“So Mary saw it and thought she was getting me hot. She got so excited she started to take her top off. By then, it was all she wrote.”

“Dang. When were you going to tell me?”

“Mary said we should keep it a secret.”

“You did. For 3 days. Gimme five!”

“Yeah. Now you can’t tell anyone. If Mary found out, she’d never let me have it again.”

“You can trust me man. So, you have that movie on DVD?”

“Yeah, why?”

“I told Sarah we should stay in Saturday and watch a movie. Her parents are going out.”

“The future is bright, my friend. I’ll get you the DVD.”

“I’m just glad we’re guys.”

“Yeah. It’s a lot of work being a girl.”

“I hear you Joey. I hear you.”


- - -
Jerry Guarino’s short stories have been published by dozens of magazines in the United States, Canada, Australia and Great Britain. His latest book, "50 Italian Pastries", is available on Amazon.com and as a Kindle eBook. Please visit his website at http://cafestories.net
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Growing Up Android

Contributor: R. F. Abercrombie

- -
“I don’t know what to do exactly,” she said. “I know what I want to do but I don’t...”
“It’s your choice,” he said. “No one can stop you.”
“You’re not helping.” She turned her coffee cup with long, tanned fingers. “We could wait another year.”
“You could wait a hundred years,” he said. “You’re only delaying your decision.”
“Again, not helpful.” She chewed on her lower lip. “What would he want?”
“He doesn’t want anything. He doesn’t care.”
She pulled her hands from the table and let them fall into her lap. “I’d like to think he cares a little.”
The man laughed. “He’s only following his programming. He’s not sentient. He doesn’t have feelings.”
“He does care about us.” She stared at her hands. “We’ve taught him so much.”
“He’s a learner bot and a house bot, that’s all. He doesn’t have emotions and he doesn’t understand them.”
She looked at him across the table, eyes bright and fierce.
“You never wanted him.”
“I warned you this would happen. They’re like pets. You can’t help but become attached to them.”
“You don’t care about him. You’d put him down like a dog.”
“If he was a dog and he was suffering and near death, yes, I’d have him euthanized. That’s not what we’re dealing with.”
“That’s what it feels like –- to me.”
The man rubbed his cheek. His unshaven face stung his hand. “What do you want to do?”
“It’s so silly. I want him to stay this age, I want him to stay my little helper.”
“So do it. He’ll be smarter than the average ten-year-old but, otherwise, he’ll be the same.”
“It’s not fair to him.”
“He’s not going to grow up, go to college, get married and have a family. He’s going to age out as a house bot. Our house bot, if that’s what you want.”
She began turning the cup again.
“Do you think he can hear us?”
“Probably. He’s knows us well. This is not a surprise to him.”
“He asked me about mod time the other day, as if he looked forward to it.”
“He was only seeking verification. He does it all the time.”
She stirred her coffee, then let the spoon clatter onto the tabletop.
“I keep thinking that I could teach him to care; to laugh, to cry, to have his own desires.”
“Please don’t go there.” He went to her and knelt by her chair and leaned his head on her arm. “You let him choose his name.”
“King Kwame Mumbambo Stevenson the Third.”
“You let him choose his hair style.”
“Blond dreadlocks definitely make a statement.”
They waited quietly, breathing together.
“He needs to be taller,” she said. “He likes to cook.”
“They can make him taller.”
“I know. They can do almost anything.”


- - -
R. F. Abercrombie is a free-lance copywriter making his first excursions into the world of short fiction.
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