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The Rude Mechanicals Find a Three-Letter Word for God

funny-stories-rm1

“What’s a twenty-two-letter word for a relativistic quantum field theory?” the Washing-Up wanted to know. 

It was a sleepy Gormsday off the western coast of Andromeda. The Washing-Up asked his question because he was doing the Times crossword puzzle.

There were three Rude Mechanicals. With the brains of the Six Million Dollar Mannequin, the astonishing strength of Buns of Steel, and whatever the pile of cookware called the Washing-Up was good for, they could accomplish any task, solve any problem. But today, the Mechanicals had nothing to do. When boredom sank in, you could expect more than a resulting funk. You could anticipate a depression with the gravitational heft of a minor black hole. The emanating gloom would make nearby asteroids weep.

The other Mechanicals had to do something, and fast.

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Interspecies Crisis

funny-stories-scifi

I had warned him: If he followed me, I would be his only wife.
Arkkh! he said.
Anguished.
But he followed me.
And, when he followed me, he left all of his wives, his vast harem of elephant seal females, behind on the rocks.
On his body there was a proud network of marks: a record of his entanglements with rival (but lesser) males; a bloody price paid--and paid again--for the acquisition of so many consorts.
Scars.
But he left them.
Because I was worth it.

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The Street

muppet-scifi

The job market was so dried up, you could only hope and pray for some shitty, part-time shiftwork underneath some dilapidated footbridge. The days of getting a comfy, monster-under-the-bed type job were long gone. Holding out for your own closet to scare out of? Hah! What are you smoking?

The market bubble had gone bust, and every night, the streets in my neighbourhood were getting worse; monsters were slinking in every shadowy alleyway, cracked out and strung out and begging for your last dime.

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Transformed In A Flash

transformative-flash-scifi

"I've always said you were an original thinker, Alika, but the incarceration of a criminal AI in a coffee vending machine is a most curious idea."

Alika frowned.  "He's not a criminal AI.  It is true that some of his ideas, were he to carry them out unbidden, would be against the law.  It is his insensitivity that I have an issue with, Chiku.  But …  he may still be useful to us."

"So is this a slap on his proverbial wrist?  Or simply a reminder of our biological superiority?"

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Normandy Re-Remembered

free-war-scifi-story

As Bert Jackson stormed the beach he couldn’t get the thought of his mother’s kitchen windows out of his head. The windows were so real that it was as if they were directly in front of him. They had blue wooden trim and the latch on the inside that had been turned to the left before mom had gone to bed. Behind the windows the tips of the spider and parsley plants spread above the kitchen sink. The stone wall around the windows was well-worn, in some places covered with small white circles, marking where he and his brother, Maurice, had pelted it with their baseball. The windows glimmered in the sunlight; his mother was behind the glare, calling them into lunch. A lunch of ham and cheese sandwiches and chicken broth. Maybe an apple or, if they were lucky, chocolate pudding.

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