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December2009/January 2010
Vol. VIII No. 3   ISSN: 1545-3650
 

AlienSkin Magazine®
Published Bi-Monthly Online

 
 

~ Personal Math ~ ~ by Chris Hicks, Maryland
In two, form one. One equal? For the two to work the two be equal or vanish.

 

 

~ ~ ~ Rhythmos ~ ~ by A. Arduini, Illinois
Bloom and decay in phases; orchid and white dwarf, all the universe rights itself.
 

 
 


Featured Fiction
Sensory Overlord

by Laurie Paulsen  ©2009

I stood at the counter looking out the window at the late afternoon traffic. I was alone, relatively speaking.

The whispering nudged at me, insistent, as I scratched.  And kept scratching until I broke through, closer to the source.  The blood was disconcerting, so I paused to press a kitchen towel into the gouge on my arm to slow it down.

It quieted a bit, but the whispering wasn't finished.  I knew what it wanted.

I'd given in before, held up my end of the arrangement for years, thinking that it would end.  That they would leave me in peace, once they had the information.  A foolish choice, made by a desperate woman, and here I am, still under their thrall.

It's time, now.  This will end.  Maybe they had the resources to force me into this deal, but damned if I can't choose when I'm out.  And I'm out.  You hear me, you soulless bastards?

I clenched my hands together to keep from digging deeper into my flesh. Hard, when I could feel it in there, relentless with their polite requests.  I'd tried making it angry or withholding the sensory input altogether, but I couldn't stay awake and hungry all the time, and the devices didn't experience emotions themselves.  When I ate, it was satiated.  When I slept, it took over.  A constant feed back to the main computer, which analyzed the trillions of sensory bits I experience every single moment. Someday they'll crack the code.

I woke up once, blood in my mouth, staining my teeth, because they'd wanted to try broken glass.  Years of scars on my face, my hands, my body.  Fresh scabs a daily wakeup call.  I'm the meat.  They're the brain.

I wrapped my arm with the towel, tucking the corner to secure it.  Made my way to the garage, where the tools are.

They're brilliant compared to us.  They've created a six-billion body farm designed to communicate to them our lives, our secrets, someday maybe our souls.  They'll know everything, eventually.  They'll be gods.  We'll be obsolete.

The whispering was back.  It was hungry.

We would like motor oil tonight.
 
Jesus.  They're getting worse, the requests.  It hardly wants food anymore.  Looking for something different, something to evoke a novel response.  My reflection in the steel cabinet grinned, teeth bared.

Sure.  10-30 weight all right with you?

I worked my way over to the workbench, ignoring the growing volume of the requests.

We are certain this is not the correct area.  Please reposition to the automotive supply shelves immediately.

I clamped my forearm into the vise mounted on the table.  Tightened until the bleeding started again, until my flesh bulged and flushed purple.  I grabbed some heavy scissors and cut through the towel, folding the edges back over the sides of the vise.  I picked up a pair of pliers, clumsily angling into the wound.  I experimented with a few tugs before I braced and held my breath.

Excuse me.  We are seeking the motor oil.  Please desist current activi—

***

I've come to.  Arm still in the clamps, but without sensation.  I've flopped alongside the workbench, almost resting on the concrete, but hanging by what's left of my arm.  The way it's twisted and discolored, I'm thinking I don't want to regain feeling.  They'll be coming soon, but I feel confident I have enough time to finish.  They may benefit from this sensory upload.  I don't have the strength to take the arm completely off, and they can rebuild whatever bits of the device are left.

But I'm ending it.  Finally.  My choice, and I'm done.  My way.  I raised the nail gun, eyed the tip as I positioned it millimeters from my eye socket. Now.

***

The salvage unit forced the door open, methodically scanned the room for reusable components.

Subject 844260 location: 2.4 meters.  Subject 844260 condition: inert. 72% blood loss.  Brain function negligible

The body was packed and cryogenically sealed, returned to the central facility for renewal.  Seventy-two hours passed.

Subject 844260 status: Viable.

***

Bright light.  Not move.  Move hurts.  Light hurts.
Me no good.  No good.  Need stop.  Hurts.  Make stop.  Please make stop.

~ Laurie Paulsen, Arizona  ©2009

Laurie lives in Arizona, the Land of Excessive Hand Lotion. She's been pPreviously published at Espressofiction.com and RuthlessPeoples.com, she’s pretty darned excited to be a part of AlienSkin Magazine.

 
 

 

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