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Notes From the Underground

speculative-fiction

It is a good day to rock.

We end our final rehearsal and step away from our instruments. On the table in one corner of the dark studio sits the bottle wrapped in damp cloth. Jesse, Dickie, and I tie on our headbands. I open the bottle, wipe condensation off the neck and lip, and pour three glasses.

I lift my glass and say, “To music.”

Jesse and Dickie answer, “To life.”

We drink the peach wine, now cool and sweet. But I am the only one who can taste it.

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Full Circle Home

free-scifi

Dan despaired.

He had just watched a depressing French movie about an elderly guy forced to provide medical care as best he could for his wife, who had been ravaged by a stroke.

The subject of old people and their care punched a bruise in Dan’s brain. He had one living parent: an alcoholic, dysfunctional mess of a man who seemed to be going through the stages of mummification, though still breathing....

He would never die, Dan often thought while cradling himself to sleep, because evil like that does not die.

But according to the next door neighbor, the Punch Happy Prick was now pissing his pants and confusing the mail carrier with a hooker, and this left Dan with a heavy feeling.

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bill magnuson and his leaf blower must die

a friend told me
there is a huge cash reward
for proof
aliens are here
among us
visiting our earth

i have such proof

in fact
aliens told me directly
(telepathically of course)
that the next time
my neighbor
magnuson
bill magnuson
turns on his leaf blower
pointlessly
on a perfectly sunny day
and ruins my solitude
destroys my peace of mind
my precious quiet...

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Bad Dogs, Good Tricks

Dr. Nelson believes I have a distorted view of reality. I’ve argued that even Psych 101 students know we all invent our own world. Not one is the same, or real for that matter, whether or not those worlds include two-headed people with proboscis noses and tails made from their own arms, or furry kittens with cloven hooves. I have a “crass imagination, ill-paired with an absence in forethought,” so I’ve read in the charts.

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Coffee and Cornbread

It’s a universal law: the customer wants the one item they can’t afford.

I’ve been working at this diner for three years now. On the edge of Saturn’s farthest ring, I watch the rock shards tumble past our containment shields. The sun is so far away.

“Serve me up some hash and grits, Sally.”

Cletus hangs on the counter’s edge, his work sleeves rolled up. If we needed fresh ham, those forearms would do.

Shipments from the terrestrial planets come in real slow.

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