She smelled like an electrical fire – melting plastic and burning insulation. Without looking up she asked, “What can I do for you?”

Zack coughed, “My robot is in need of repair.”

She looked up. “Well, this is a robot repair shop, so I kinda guessed that. What specifically is wrong with him?”

Zack sighed. “I’m not sure how to explain this…” The look of pure impatience made him rush ahead “…but it seems to have developed an appreciation of beauty.”

That made her pause.

“What?”

“Well, it stopped and commented on the ‘lovely sunset’ the other day. And it’s been trying to write poetry, among other things.”

She stared at him for a full minute. He cleared his throat, but she spoke up before he could start babbling nervously. “First: stop referring to him as ‘it’. Second: why would you want to change something like that? That would be breaking, not fixing him.”

Zack couldn’t meet her glare, so he looked away. “I need a butler, not a poet, so…”

She interrupted, “Bring him over here.”

~~~~~~~~~~~

“Then I turned to the robot to gesture it over, and that’s the last thing I remember. When I woke up, the shop was empty – no girl, no tools, no nothing. And my robot was gone, too. I’d like to file charges for assault and theft.”

The robot cop said to Zack, “We have your statement, and we will contact you once we have any further information. Thank you.”

The copbot had an idea who the suspect was – he’d been tuned up at that location just a couple of months ago. After Zack left he stared into space and thought, “I could be a poet, too, or maybe a painter…” as he deleted Zack’s statement.

Ted pulled out the rock and turned it over. Jennifer called the next customer and Ted walked up, not paying attention. Ted looked down as if checking his cellphone. The engraved script read “enamrehkas”.

“How can I help you?” Jennifer said, flatly and without concern. Ted slid the letter forward and made eye contact.

“What’s your name?” he asked, looking at her name tag. The ‘J’ was worn but still spelled Jennifer.

She pointed to her tag, smiling and then looked down at envelope. “It’s Jennifer” she said, ending with inflection. “This letter doesn’t have an address.”

She looked at him and then the letter. “Melody” she said it out loud, as if saying it for the first time.

She was stunned, looking at her middle name on the letter. “Do I know you?”

“You prefer that name.” he said shyly. She smiled. He stepped out of line and walked away. She had said something but her voice was lost behind him.

Etched again were the letters “sub”.

He sighed and pulled out the few coins and pushed them into the machine that spit out a ticket.

That night she was sitting near the heater, the wind cold and unfriendly. She held the stolen letter and then opened it.

She read the full two pages and the tears swelled. She would have fallen out of the chair but she could not move. Her heart, flooded and full.

Ted got off the bus and pulled the rock from his pocket. “egdirb”. He didn’t sigh but looked to his right, turned and walked. He looked up at the street lights. Each one slightly blinding.

He got to the center of the bridge and didn’t look at the rock. It thudded on the street while he splashed below.

“She made a full recovery. Then I got rid of Penny, mostly out of guilt and fired her for trivial matters. She didn’t take it well. She asked me to meet her after the lawsuit was filed and I knew better but went anyway. I figured one last night. She went crazy and then I lost my temper. I barely remember hitting her. She was so soft, and cold. It was a cash only place and no one asks questions. I dumped her body.”

The fat man listened, ignoring the landing plane. “And you know you’ll get away with this?”
He grabbed his bag, getting up and began to exit. The fat man sat, slumped and heavy.
“Yes.”
The fat man struggled to get up. “And you’re going to leave her now?”
“I can’t go back.” he said walking slowly, allowing for the fat man to waddle and keep pace.
He explained how she filed for divorce papers. He spoke openly about the cash he put away for fear of his wife spending his earnings, the slip of the tongue that led her to ask questions and demand answers and a marriage that would never be made right.

Large in his suit he lumbered and waved a taxi and squeezed into the cab and waited with the door open, sagging the yellow sedan.

“Are you going to tell anyone?” the man asked.

“People fear the truth but it is powerful. You’re an ass. No lecture or amount of cash will fix that.”

“I’m going to try.” he said,

“Just be faithful to the next one. Can you do that?”

“No.” he said

The fat man sighed.

The taxi left with the fat man.

He stood there for a few minutes and made eye contact with a blond.

“Hi, I’m Roger”

“Two more beers.” The woman, shy and not making eye contact stood and waited as the two talked. The fat man offered another which was declined with silence.
He swigged his beer and quietly belched. “I’m in mergers and acquisitions. People can’t lie to me. I learned it early on of course as my parents lied to me.” He seemed lost in thought as he swigged the rest of the beer. “You can imagine how useful it is in my line of work. There is a strange beauty in the truth.” The fat man dropped the mostly empty beer between his massive legs and undid his seatbelt. “Negotiations happen in minutes.” “It’s okay. People lie all the time. It’s what they do. You name the liar and I’ve met them. Murderers and pedophiles and quiet guys rich and doctors who fouled transplants and tax cheats and I could go on and on.”

He sat perplexed, waiting and wondering.

The fat man began to laugh. “I don’t speak to politicians.” His laughter roared and the frail grandmother behind him blurted out “Shut up fat ass!” Beside her the child’s eyes grew and jaw dropped.

The fat man was now looking into the man’s eyes. “Who was she?”

A strange cold surfaced and the fat man’s eyes locked on his eyes. “Penny” and he paused, and began speaking again. “She was my girlfriend of sorts.” He detailed the last few months, describing his wife’s diagnosis, his promotion of Penny the temp so he could spend more time with her and the rumors that spread around the office and the lies and late evenings.

He thought he felt the plane fall in the currents.
“Then she got better.”

The head paleontologist had the work crew haul the brontosaurus into one of the back rooms. “Thanks guys. Can you give us a few minutes here?”

As the crew filed out the dinosaur waited, and watched the scientist. Once they were alone she asked, “What’s going on, Doc?”

He cleared his throat. “I don’t know how to say this…you are a mistake. We classified you incorrectly, and made some wrong guesses about your skull. New research shows that you didn’t really exist.” He looked away, embarrassed. “I’m sorry.”

The brontosaurus told herself to be cool. Be cool. She tried to take a deep breath, but that doesn’t work when you’re just a collection of fossilized bones and a few bits of wire. No lungs.

“So, Doc, that just means you’ll revise me, make a few tweaks based on the new findings, right?” Be cool.

He sighed and took off his glasses. “I’m afraid that this is bigger than that. Brontosaurus is being written out of the books. You’re all really just Apatosauruses. It’s not just a simple adjustment.”

“Doc, I’m not just a dinosaur! I’m THE dinosaur! I represent the whole superorder in the public mind!” Her voice was beginning to sound frantic.

He smiled sadly. “Well, actually, I think that Tyrannosaurus Rex is what…”

“No! When people see a T-rex they say ‘Ooo, a T-rex’. Same thing for Stegosaurus.” She was panicking now. “But when people see me they say, ‘Ooo, a dinosaur!’. When kids draw a dinosaur, they draw me! When…”

He interrupted her, “I’m sorry. It’s out of my hands.” The work crew started coming back into the room. “There won’t be any pain. Goodbye.” He turned and left.

He was wrong. There was pain, but thankfully it was brief.

Oblivion doesn’t hurt.

Seeing the last empty seat he sighed and sat next to the fat man.
He sat down, and became bored. After takeoff he began to relax. In an effort to pass time he began make small talk. He opened his mouth and thought of asking the fat man what he did for a living.
“I just killed someone” he said calmly, with a growing look of panic on his face.
He sat, confused and listening to his mind race as he wondered why he just confessed to the fat stranger.
“Interesting” the fat man responded.
They both sat quietly as the woman offered them a meager snack and the fat man asked for two helpings. The fat man then ordered three drinks assuring the woman that one was for the man next to him.
“You’re fat ass will drink all…” and she gasped, cupping her mouth. She gave him his drinks without charge and she slumped forward as the others looked at her with disdain and confusion.
The fat man slumped over, alternating between sipping the imports and smacking on his snacks.
The fat man held out his paw, with crumbs hanging off the index finger and thumb. “I’m Alex.”
“I’m David.” Dammit.
“Nice to meet you David. Where you headed?”
“Canada. I’m on the run now.”
Not looking at the young man he said “Interesting. And now you’re on the run. Do you think you’ll get away.”
“Yes.” he responded, knowing it was true. “I don’t know who you are…”
The fat man pushed the call button.

This was not the wimpy, white-wine yuppie-jazz stuff they call fusion these days, but real fusion – passion and precision, rock and jazz, structure and improvisation.

When the guitarist started his solo, Tommy actually stood up and walked right up to him. There was no stage in this dive, so he went over and stood right in front of the guitar, entranced. The guitarist glanced up, smiled briefly, but kept blowing.

There was everything in that solo – life, death, ecstasy, pain, the first girl you kissed and the last girl that walked away from you. And Tommy was so far inside that solo that was almost like a private conversation between the two of them.

The solo crescendoed with a complicated ascending run, hitting a screaming high note that seemed to sustain for six days. The axeman and Tommy nodded at each other as the keyboard started its solo, then Tommy turned away.

He came by my table, grabbed my shoulder and shouted, “I gotta run – take it easy” as he practically ran out the door.

They called it an accident after pulling his car and his body out of the river the next afternoon. After that solo, Tommy seemed so decisive, so I’ve always wondered: was he was just driving a little too fast, and couldn’t make the turn?

Or did he hit that guardrail on purpose?

Am I reading too much into the fact that he didn’t say, “See you later”? He’d just had a nasty breakup, and been laid off from work, so there was plenty of stress in his life, too. I’ll never know.

And I’ll never go see that guitarist play again, either. Not because I blame him for anything. I’m just afraid of the power of music.

We can’t turn it off.
What do you mean you can’t turn it off?
The controls. They, they’ve frozen. There’s no response.
He paused and looked at him in disbelief.
So what we going to do?
What can we do?
Figure it out. I’ll make some calls.
…
The phone rang as she tapped her fingers.
Research lab.
We can’t turn it off.
Who is this?
Megan Watts.
Are you sure? Have you ..
…we’ve tried everything!!! Any ideas?
I’m thinking.
…
As he was thinking and Megan waited, the particles continued to spin. A small child was crossing a field just outside of Oyonnax when she saw the flash. It enveloped her and passed over the next town.

He squinted and then the light faded.
Seeing a spark he sat back. Reaching for the glass he took a swig and got up.
Gone?
Most of them.
That’s too bad. They were doing so well. What do you want to do?
He stood there, holding his drink and studied the bubbles.
He asked again. What do you want to do?
They can’t rebuild at this point.
True. But there will be some left.
Not many.
No, not many.
…
Listening from above he saw two men and a boy huddled around a fire. He listened.
“Nobody wants to be here and nobody wants to leave.” the one man said.

I’m going to kill him.
No you’re not. You say that every day.
I mean it. I’m going to kill him.
If you do kill him. Then what?
What do you mean?
What you going to do with the body.
I could bury it.
The whole body?
Well, parts. I suppose I could just leave it out.
And you don’t think others will mind?
Mind the smell?
I like the smell. It is just that a body laying around isn’t…
Shhh…here he comes.

He ran and rushed the man. He dreamed of this day and lunged at him.
The man saw the blur approaching and heard the battle cry. He instantly reacted.

Then he hit you?
Yes. I don’t know with what but it hurt like nothing before and I retreated.
He didn’t chase you?
No.
He say anything?
Yeah but I couldn’t understand it.
So what do you want to do?
We could get him together. He can’t fight us both.
That’s true.
But you don’t want to?
It isn’t that I don’t want to. It’s just that, that, well who takes the beating?
What do you mean?
He’s going to defend himself. I don’t mind taking him down but…
I’ll hit him first and you come in behind him.
And kill him?
Yes.
I don’t think I can do that.
Don’t be weak. You are a killer. I’ve seen you in action.
But those were cats.
He’s no different. We’ll get him tomorrow.

Hearing the man in the distance the two waited. And waited.
The man walked up and made eye contact with the two.
“Relax. No mail today boys. “

Thomas?
Yes God?
Do you think there is life on Mars?
I don’t know. I doubt it.
Why do you doubt it?
It is so small. So far away.
That’s true.
Is there life on Mars?
No Thomas.
Why not God?
God paused. He sat silently.
God?
Yes Thomas?
I asked you a question.
I’m thinking.
You don’t know, do you?
God looked at Thomas.
Right. I mean, you don’t want to tell me.
That’s right.
Why not?
Perhaps I want you to find out for yourself.
Thomas thought for a while.
What if I don’t?
So you just want the answer?
Yes. Just tell me.
No.
What do you mean no?
God was silent.
God? You still there?
There was no answer.
Thomas got up and kicked the small rock down the dusty street.
Who does he think he is.
He picked up the rock and rocketed it skyward and it returned behind him with a dull thud.
…
Bedtime son.
Okay papa.
Papa, is there life on other planets?
Thomas paused.
What do you think?
I think so. I want to find out.
Okay.
Okay. Goodnight.

When Watches the Moon first saw the distant shine, he didn’t know what it was. But by the third day he suspected: this was the Great Water.

Watches the Moon was eight winters when the elder spoke of the Great Water. “It goes farther than anyone could swim.”

Watches the Moon’s own father, the greatest hunter in the tribe, scoffed. “Maybe you couldn’t, but I could swim across any water.” This elder irritated him, with his old stories.

The old man cackled. He was very old – two-hands-and-two-feet-and-two-hands again winters. “You would swim further than most, but you would drown too. The Great Water is so big that it sees no difference between you and a girl-child, it would swallow you up.”

The hunter leaped up and clubbed the old man. No one compared him to a girl-child. Watches the Moon remained silent, knowing this slaying was just. Still, he was sad, because he had enjoyed the stories.

Now he was two-hands-and-one-toe winters. To prove his manhood he must live apart from the tribe for one moon. As he walked away from the camp, naked and unarmed, he knew that this was his chance to see the Great Water.

He headed straight west, following the sun. The elder had said that he would have to walk for a moon to find it. He made a spear, and used it to hunt on the way. But he never quit heading west.

Walking up to the shore, he saw that the Great Water went on farther than he could see. He was a good swimmer, but knew that he could not swim across this.

He turned around and began walking. Watches the Moon did not look back.

I don’t have a lot of friends anymore. The few I did have were my wife’s and she’s been gone for two years now. I’m not very good at keeping in touch to begin with, but my new line of work makes it even tougher. Her life insurance bought me a seedy bar and late night shifts full of drunken brawls, drowning hearts, and Tom Waits constantly on the jukebox. It beats being home at night though.

Most people would call me paranoid and probably attribute it to grief, but I know somebody has been watching me. For the past year at least, probably longer. I can’t tell you how I know but it has something to do with those hairs on the back of your neck. A random flash of a woman’s face, vaguely familiar, in the living room window. This is why I work at night.

Four days ago I bought security lights. That night they went off and I ran outside with my .38 only to see a figure dressed in black run off into the darkness. I slept the rest of the night in the bar and haven’t been home since.

My first customer walks in right when I open the doors. It’s not even noon and I can tell that this guy’s so far off the wagon he can’t even remember what it looked like. He orders a bourbon and sits in a booth close to the bathroom. I go about my business, occasionally glancing over to see if he needs a refill. Every time I do he’s staring at me and I feel those hairs start to stand up again. This guy is all kinds of shady. I keep that .38 under the bar for just these sorts of customers. It’s just a matter of waiting until he makes the move.

“…so then, she says to me, ‘Maybe this situation can help you learn a little bit about yourself. A little spoonful of self-awareness can’t hurt.’”

“She didn’t say that ’spoonful thing’. No way.”

“Exact quote. ‘A little spoonful of self-awareness can’t hurt.’ Sadly, that was actually in character for her. She said stupid stuff like that all the time.”

“So what did you say?”

“I told her that, the way things were at that job, that I didn’t want a spoonful of self-awareness, I wanted a five gallon bucket of pure rage.”

“And that’s when she fired you?”

“Yep. Which, surprisingly enough, really made me happy, made me think about what kind of work I want to do. So, ultimately, I didn’t get the bucket, but I got the spoonful.”

He walked in, kissed his wife and hung up his keys. He said nothing as he opened the door and closed it behind him.

She sighed and went to bed. She set the alarm for 7:20 and drifted off to a lonesome slumber.

He sat in the chair and and watched the clock. It was an analog clock that was hung on the wall years earlier. The entire room was bare and cold and silent. The hands spun quickly and as they both reached seven he got up and opened the door. He felt the chill of the morning air.

“Breakfast is ready.”

He began to eat and paused. “You mad?”

“That’s the third time this week.” She slammed the frying pan in the sink. She didn’t look up.

“Honey we talked about this.”

“You said that you wouldn’t use it more than twice a week. You’re useless when you come home!” She continued but her voice drifted as he left, grabbing his keys and closing the door behind him.

She walked up to the room and opened the door and stepped through it. She closed the door behind her and sat. She watched the clock spin and spin. She heard him enter and got up. She grabbed the chair and wedged it and stopped him from entering. The panicked pounding came and ended.

She opened the door and stepped out. He stood there, slightly slumped over and now gray and tired.

She pulled him closer as tears began to well up.

“We can retire now.” he said, lifting her chin. He was smiling as the tears hung on her cheek.

“How long was I gone?” she asked, wiping her nose and sniffling.

He thought for a moment and squeezed her harder. “I missed you.”

Having never hired a private investigator I was a bit nervous when I walked into the office. Finding his first two initials and the last name etched in white I took a deep breath and walked in. It was in that moment I could taste the bourbon and sweat and used up machismo that filled his office.

He looked at me, somewhat cross eyed and threw back a shot. I knew I was in the right office and he was the cheapest I could afford. He was drunk. And short, scarred with unkempt hair.

I began to tell my story as he put away his bottle, opening the desk drawer and dropping the bottle inside. I began to tell him all about Charlie and his long nights, his sweat and blood stains that I found on a few of his shirts. I knew Charlie was in trouble but didn’t know with what. He was a good man and took care of me but now, being gone for a few days, I was worried.

I could tell he didn’t believe me but I didn’t care. I just wanted my Charlie back in one piece.

If only I could tell him about the last two years. I didn’t know if I could trust this guy so I answered his questions and paid cash. I told him “Just don’t hurt my Charlie. I don’t care what he’s involved in. Just don’t hurt him.”

The shots rang out. “I can see him.”
“Shhh. What are they saying?”
“He called you a saint.”
“Oh Charlie.”

When this dame walked through my office door, all I saw was trouble. Trouble, and the longest pair of legs in California. By that point in the morning I was having trouble telling whether there was one or two of her. Didn’t matter – they both looked good, but they both looked bad, too.

However, I had bills to pay. And since I hadn’t been sapped, stabbed, or shot at in at least a week, I was getting restless. I downed the shot, put the desk bottle back where it belonged, and listened to an improbable story about her runaway husband.

All of that is prelude to me being on top of a parking garage the next morning, being shot at by the improbable husband, instead of sitting in my stuffy apartment reading philosophy and sipping the best bourbon I can afford.

Which is usually the exact same thing as the cheapest bourbon I can find.

I didn’t want to have to kill this bum – that brings down more heat than it’s worth. Besides, wives who pay for you to bring their husbands back usually want them to still be warm and fully functional and mostly unpunctured.

I would have appreciated him pausing the gunfire long enough for me to explain myself. “Hey, your wife asked me to…”

A couple more rounds hit the concrete wall above me. He screamed, “My wife? Don’t talk to me about my wife! She was a saint!”

“She wants you to come home! That’s all I’m here for!”

The car window above me exploded from his next shot. “Who are you? How did you find me? My wife died two years ago!”

I thought this one might get weird. Still, it beat spending the morning getting quietly drunk and brooding.

Or so I thought then.

She picked up the phone and paused. She put it down. She picked it up again and began to dial. The buttons beeped and she dialed the number she begged to forget. The lines connected and the phone rang. Her heart sank. She begged for the answering machine and then he answered.

“Hello?”
“It’s me.” she said, trailing her voice to darkness.
“Are you okay?” he asked, and she knew he was now leaning forward.
“I’m okay.” he was about to interrupt when she continued. “It’s over. It’s just over.”

He began to protest while she flicked away the hand that tickled her stomach.

“You deserve better.”

She hung up not wanting to answer his tearful questions. “You did the right thing” she heard, as the hand wandered.

Walking down the street he saw her first and he didn’t recognize her either by will or desire. She stepped into his path. “Let me explain” and she began to show photos of his daughter. He stood there confused, listening to a stream of events and emotion that passed over him like a cloud.

“Do you want to meet her?” she asked

He felt his mouth move and he answered.

Standing at the grave, he put her arm around his daughter. “Do you forgive her?” she asked, her eyes big and full of tears.

“Yes.” he responded.
“And about what she said?” she asked, learning of the last phone call only days before.
“No one deserves love. That’s where she was wrong.”
She hugged her unknown father. “I don’t understand.”
He pulled her closer. “Me either.”

Tyson Wright has way too many websites:

Home Page: which really doesn’t have much except links to his other sites.

Blog: where he occasionally rambles on about whatever happens to wander across the inside of his forehead.

The Difference Engine: go buy his album of instrumental rock. Right now! In fact, why don’t you buy six copies? It makes a great gift!

Myspace page: possibly the most boring Myspace page ever, except that you can listen to four of the tracks from the album you just purchased. (I’m assuming that you’re following directions here.)

Socks and Gloves Blog: Tyson is a contributor to this blog. Socks and Gloves is a group of friends trying to find ways to help people living on the streets. You can find out more about them at their website.

You can contact Tyson by sending a note to tyson at attention deficit fiction dot com

You can find all the stories Tyson has posted on ADF here.

Pieter Van Tatenhove fell into a ring of fire.
Blog
MySpace

You can find all of the stories Pieter has posted on ADF here.

Danny Fast keeps his eyes wide open all the time.
Home Page

You can find all the stories Danny’s posted on ADF here.