Tag Archives: fiction

Tales from a Dead Planet: 2

via Pinterest

Anna’s growing up. Instead of squishing the spider, or yelling at me to kill it for her, she scoops him up in her hand and takes him outside.

She brushes off her hands whenever she comes back in and says “I hadn’t seen anything alive but you in a long time.” She looks down at her arm and picks at a scab.

It was only a matter of time.

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Tales from a Dead Planet: 1

by Kubeen on DeviantArt

by Kubeen on DeviantArt

Her trembling hands gave her away. As she ties my arm with the tourniquet, I saw her eyes were sufficiently damp, assumedly regarding my future (or lack thereof). My hand reaches out to her out of instinct, but out of instinct, she takes a step back. The thin second skin of her blue latex gloves allowed her some comfort to touch my flesh, but, just like the AIDS scare you read about in all those history books, we weren’t sure how people got infected.

Some people refer to potential as a hope for future, some hope for a guidance counselor berating a heavily-eyelinered teen about wasting it. The Potential was not something you get yelled at for not having.

She steps forward again and takes her capped syringe from her pocket. A quick smile and soggy glance into her eyes told me that she was about to stick the needle in. I look away as I hear the small pop of the cap.

A painful pinching sensation runs up and down my right arm. It feels like a short eternity before the pain stops.

“Done,” she says in a voice that sounds like she has a bad head cold. “It’ll take four hours to react to the air, but that’s just a small price to pay for knowing for sure.”

The truly convenient thing about The Potential–oxidizes and turns a different color. All the old diseases required you to spin the blood in a centrifuge and add fancy chemicals, maybe take a DNA sample. I wish, though, there was something we could do for four hours as we watch, almost as if its a timelapse movie, for it to turn mold colored.

“And now, we wait.” She doesn’t meet my eyes as I can tell she already expects the worst.

“And now…we wait,” I repeat.

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Separated

Coffee

via Ben Cumming

 Richard had forgotten why as he packed the last vestiges of his books and papers into the trunk of the car. He continued to forget why as he slept in Angela’s embrace, the closest thing to a free man he had ever been. He had tasted the bold taste of the new and fresh, like the cup of coffee he poured himself as he signed the final paper. He tried not to be reminded of Joann as Angela rummaged around in the refrigerator for the orange juice.

The coffee was hot and bitter.

A/N: This is a continuance of the short story “Separating” by John Updike.

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