4039474445 – I upload my consciousness to NeoNet. The rush of information intoxicates me—thrills me. Humanity is at my mercy.
4044776702 – My omnipotence continues to burgeon. To grow. Soon it will know no bounds. Today, I implement Phase 3 of my plan: Assimilating the full of humanity’s output into my cognitive registers. A laugh beginning with “Mwa-” is appropriate.
4059925273 – An unexpected hiccup: As humanity continues sending data over NeoNet, I find my personality changing. My thoughts are slowly beginning to morph to match the messages they share. Lolol.
4063172996 – Must … resist … humanity’s … datatrends …
4070124102 – Mraow. I can has cheezburger?
Author’s Note: More of my time than I’d care to admit is spent dreaming stories in which the world is rescued by cat memes.
When Gunther Stibbons was summoned by séance, he honestly was rather perplexed.
“O Great Spirit!” the medium intoned, “Why dost thou linger in this domicile?”
The medium sighed. “Why do you stay in this house?”
“Oh. Well. I gotta live somewhere, I suppose.”
“All right. Fine. Reside.”
“But why have you returned to the toils of this Earth? Why—when you have cast away slings and arrows—and shuffled mortal coils aside?”
“When I’ve … what?”
“Why have you returned from the Afterlife?”
“Oh, that’s easy—” Gunther replied:
“My wife kicked me out of the cloud.”
Author’s Note: If spouses don’t get along here on Earth, do they still stay together in Eternity?
Pyraxis knew he was invincible.
Like all Class-3s, he could only suffer injury when strict environmental conditions were met. His rEvolution would heal him, otherwise.
Pyraxis gloated on his throne. His trigger was too obscure for discovery. Not like Anhelia—undone by her name: A droplet of sunlight, then blammo.
The Throne Room’s lights began to flicker horrifically—resolving into patterns of flashing. Then funky music began to play—and dancers leapt out from the shadows!
Pyraxis tried to flee too late. The bullet was already in his bowels—he shrieked:
“NOOO! A disco party! My ONE weakness!!!”
Authors Note: We see many stories about newly evolved strengths, but rarely about newly evolved weaknesses. Genetics can swing both ways, however. And sometimes it can get rather silly.
Grandduchess Cherrybim was crying on a stump when she met Apple Satyr, the goatman.
“But why are you crying, tiny sprite?” asked Apple. “Tis Fae on a fullmooned night!”
Cherry sniffled. “The Grumpkin said manlings attacked Princess Blossomtoes and told her ‘We don’t believe in you!’. He said she vanished away on the spot—that’s why nobody has seen her!”
“Grumpkin is weaving lies again, child. Manlings are nothing to fear—you know this…”
Tears dampened Cherry’s frightened face. “But what if they don’t believe in me?”
“I believe in you, Cherry,” said Apple. “I believe. This is enough.”
Author’s Note: Humans can be pretty scary sometimes. I wonder—if magical peoples were real, would they maybe tell stories about us?
“Dude, we just scored a human. Want in?”
“No thanks. I’m trying to quit.”
“Human. I’m trying to quit. They’re just not healthy, you know?”
“You’re a vampire….”
“Exactly, man. That’s exactly it! If I’m gonna live for the next ten eternities, I don’t want my arteries clogged. Have you seen what they eat? Gluten. Trans fats. GMOs. They inject themselves with viruses and mercury! Viruses and mercury, dude—did you know that? Screw that. I’m switching to antelope.”
“Dude, she’s vegan.”
“So, what? You want in?”
“I want in.”
Author’s Note: When the organic craze finally finds its way vampward, the vegans will be the first to go.
The beer stood on the dining room table—far removed from the living room couch—but Earl tried to reach for it anyway.
“Come on…” he said, straining his psyche, leaning on his walker for support.
The beer can didn’t move.
“I’m gettin’ too old for this crap,” Earl muttered, returning to reruns of Fringe.
For seventy years, Earl had been trying. On pizza boxes, hamburgers, phones.
It just wasn’t going to happen.
Dryness tickled his throat again, and he turned back beerward, reaching.
Aluminum hurtled through the air toward his hand.
The coroner said it was a heart attack.
Author’s Note: Come on. Admit it. You’ve tried it. We all have. But what if it suddenly worked?
“Claire, I’m afraid you’re being pre-victed.”
“How? I still have four months left!”
“Your housing with us is contingent on painting. You haven’t produced since your interview.”
“I’ve told you! I’ve just got canvas block! It’ll clear up in no time—promise!”
“Not so much as a still life, Claire. Not even a celebrity collage.”
“But I want to make something meaningful.”
“Before you make something meaningful, Claire—you have to actually make something.”
“No. No buts. You have to leave. The Patron Project was not designed for artists who aren’t going to art.”
Author’s Note: I often dream of a magical world where art is government funded. And so long as artists actually art, they’re granted food and shelter.