by Chad Lutzke
Jed's face was covered in tears, blood, and anguish. It was the face of a man who had let go of his sanity and checked out completely. He caught sight of Donnie and looked up at him.
"I told you, I won! Jed ain't dead." Jed lisped through a wide, toothless grin.
Notes on Deprivation
This story was also a picture prompt. It showed a boy's feet standing next to a drain. That's it. Somehow I came up with the disturbing piece you just read. At the time of the idea, I had been struggling with my first bout of insomnia. It wasn't a big deal, but it came out of nowhere and wasn't that pleasant. In the past, and to a very small degree, I have felt what lack of sleep and nutrition can do to you mentally (obviously not to the degree of poor ole' Jed here) –from changing your mood, to causing unneeded anxiety and worry. While I'm proud of the story, between heavy procrastination and the dark content, it wasn't my favorite writing experience. Eat good, get plenty of rest, and brush your teeth!
Feeling Blue
Dr. Leo Yomin buried himself in his work for years after his wife’s death. Within this time, he created a mechanical friend—a walking iron trophy: Stanford. The creation was an attempt to fill the void left behind by his wife. The doctor went so far as to provide emotions for the robot. But over time, Stanford grew curious regarding one emotion the doctor purposefully neglected to provide: Sadness. Eventually Stanford was able to convince the doctor to instill within him an understanding of his creator’s melancholy.
Stanford stood curiously by, as his creator worked long hours within the laboratory—a hidden cave atop a tall precipice. With Stanford’s metal body towering hundreds of feet high, he had squeezed into the ravine and peered over the cliff, basking in the blue glow of the new emotion being created within the cave.
Days went by before Dr. Yomin exited the cave with a large glass tube filled with a glowing blue gas. Stanford secured his position tighter within the ravine’s crevice and readied himself to be shut down. An excitement stirred within him as the doctor walked along his outstretched arm, onto his shoulder and up to a hinged panel. Once open, the panel held a simple power switch and six slots; five of which were filled with tubes containing gas of varying colors. Dr. Yomin pulled at the switch, and the rhythmic whirring within Stanford ceased. His eyes lost their back-lit glow, his body holding still against the cliff.
Holding back tears, Dr. Yomin carefully placed the tube into the empty socket. The doctor looked at his creation reluctantly. For years it had been a friend and an encouragement. Part of him longed to continue his debate with Stanford concerning the missing emotion; like a father to the child who wants too much candy; the child ignorant to the stomachache that lies ahead. The doctor gave a quick cough, pulling himself together. He turned on the switch, shut the panel, and walked across Stanford’s arm back to the cliff’s edge.
The whirring commenced and the robot’s eyes glowed once again. Stanford looked down at his creator whose attempt at forcing a smile failed, while tears flooded his eyes. Stanford turned away and stared distantly at nothing. Empathy for the doctor’s loss struck him, and he felt a deep understanding of his creator's grief. The glow of Stanford’s eyes dulled. He reached for the doctor and gently took hold of his body, being careful not to crush him. Something he had practice for years. Stanford pulled himself up the cliff and walked to the other side that overlooked a deep canyon, standing tall over the rocky terrain below. He looked to his creator, who gave him a subtle nod and a tightened smile. Stanford held the doctor close to him, leaned forward, and let himself fall—creator and creation crashing into the hardened earth.
The rubble emitted a hiss as the glass tubes broke, wisps of color reaching toward the inviting sky.
Notes on Feeling Blue:
This was originally submitted as a contest entry. The idea stemmed from a picture prompt—a rather friendly and curious-looking robot peering over the edge of a cliff and into a cave that illuminated blue. I sat, stared at it, and initially came up with the idea that this robot would feel sadness for the first time but wishing he hadn’t. It all went downhill from there and ended up as this romanticized suicide pact. That being said, suicide is horrifying to me. When I hear of someone young committing it, it tears me up inside. I’ve been through some absolutely horrendous times that seemed as though I would never be able to come back from, but purely by the grace of God I did. So when I see someone end their own life—particularly younger people—knowing that if they would have stuck through it, their best days are ahead of them, it saddens me. This is a fictional tale of sadness in an old man who misses his wife, and a robot who has gained an understanding—though distorted—of what his creator has been going through. So unless you’re an old scientist who has created a gigantic robot as a friend, stay away from cliffs.
Quitters Never Win
"What's he asking for now, Anderson?" The director of operations was tired. Tired of the games he was forced to play here at work. The pay wasn't enough and neither was the sleep.
"Sir, he's asking for another chair. An overstuffed chair to be exact, sir," said the timid underling. He sensed the director's impatience.
"Another chair? He can't even use this stuff, and even if he could, how would that blob of a body even situate itself in a chair?"
"Sir, he said that if he didn't get another chair that he would stop producing."
"Yeah, like we haven't heard that before.” He paused long enough to put out his cigarette. “Call Richard for a list of today's garage sales. Get the dirtiest chair you can find. If you see one on the curb, grab that instead."
"Yes sir." And with that, the underling fled the tension-filled room.
The director stared ahead looking through a giant pane of barely transparent glass. A film of greenish black substance covered it much like the algae in an unkempt fish tank. The room beyond was littered with condemned furniture, including two stuffed chairs, two beds, a dresser, and two night stands; even an old broken television. Each item was covered in a lacquered mess of blacks, browns, and greens; some still slimy, some dried and peeling. Otherwise, the room appeared empty. The thing was in hiding again, most likely squished under one of the beds.
The director pressed a blue button in the control room and began speaking through a microphone. He had a completely different tone than the one he'd used only seconds before.
"We've got your chair incoming. Would you like us to remove one of the other chairs first?"
A quick jet stream of green and black liquid sprayed the window from the other side forming the word "No."
The demands of the thing were getting more and more ridiculous. Its intelligence had grown, and it had become well aware of mankind's dependence on it.
The director pushed the blue button again. "You know, we don't really need you. You know that don't you?"
The thing shot another stream at the window. This time it read "LOL."
The director slumped in his chair. Not only was it developing intelligence, but it was evolving and adapting to modern American culture. The director felt helpless and defeated, like a junkie sitting on a mound of free smack with a spoon that never rusts and a needle that never dulls.
A spastic, inhuman knock shook the small doggie door near the floor at the side of the desk, alerting the director it was time to collect. The director stood and pulled one of the small, three-section totes from the stacks along the wall and shoved it through the doggie door. Through an almost clear area in the window, he could see the thing grab the tote. Its long humanoid—but jointless—arms pulled the crate behind the mass of its body, which resembled nothing more than a pulsating mound of pink flesh, like a dollop of raw cookie dough before it melts in the oven. Disgusting wet noises could be heard through the small door, and soon after, the spastic knock repeated, followed by the tote being pushed back through.
The director bent and picked up the tote. "You'll see. We don't need you. We can stop doing this at anytime. You should be thanking us." With that, he pushed a green
button and spoke into a different mic. "Room 7 ready for pick up."
He secured the three separate lids of the sectioned tote and stared at it. Each section’s lid had a single word barely readable: "Tobacco," "Alcohol", and "Pharmaceuticals." He slid the tote toward the door as two men opened it and retrieved the cargo.
"This one going to company A or B?" One of the men asked.
"B. Now get it out of here." The director slumped back down in his chair, grabbed a lighter off the desk and lit a cigarette. "You'll see. We don't need you."
More substance sprayed on the window before him, but he couldn't bring himself to read it. He knew it only mocked him.
Notes on Quitters Never Win
This story was written as a result of Shock Totem's one-hour flash fiction challenge. Every other Saturday night, participants are given a picture and have exactly one hour to write a story using the prompt. Then we all critique and judge each other's work. That week's picture was that of an old room where everything was overgrown with moss and grass. This story is an obvious social commentary on America's addictions and the willingness to submit to them no matter the cost.
Torn
I will not waste your time nor mine attempting to provide an appropriate description of her. The words simply do not exist. I can only tell you that with my eyes I have seen the most glorious of sceneries; more than the most resplendent star—a splendid favor to my eyes. And as deeply as I longed for her, I could not have her. My story, as you will see, is not one that concludes with a happily ever after. I am, in fact, in disgust as I write, because I am torn between my true love for her and my own selfishness.
My affection for her started the moment I spotted her from afar. That very morning I had been awakened by a fiendish nightmare that had left me feeling cold and empty. Throughout the day, I had been struggling to lift my spirits and find reasoning behind my melancholy from merely a dream, when my mood drastically altered as my eyes set upon her. Instantly I forgot all I had been pondering. She strolled along the walkway across the avenue from me. A small, white dog led the way in front of her; a short, dragging leash connecting the two. I stood paralyzed as though newly crippled, and believe I may have even stopped breathing for a moment. I watched as she bent to caress the dog’s long fur, and jealousy struck me as she stroked the creature.
As you may suspect, I had fallen in love at that very instant. The word smitten seems appropriate. I felt I needn’t hear her speak nor know anything concerning her, as her very presence spoke for her.
I followed the woman until she had reached an apartment, one that I guessed to be her own. I could not, however, bring myself to approach her. I felt an overwhelming timidity, as her beauty intimidated me. As she shut the building’s door behind her, I grew furious with myself. I vowed if ever I saw her again, I would crucify my bashfulness and make myself known.
From that evening on—if I was able to sleep—I dreamt of her. My every waking thought was of her. I became obsessed. My life now lacked and was insufficient of any true meaning. The yearning was like a lust for water in the desert. Heaven had been opened up for me to gaze upon its perfection, only to have its gates shut in my face, leaving me with the pallid sights I was accustomed to. The newfound craving was nearly too strong for me to bear.
I found myself curious as to how I became so fond of a woman I had but seen only once; as though a spell had been cast upon my very heart. Do not let this part of my tale lead you astray. This story is not of voodoo nor any other form of witchery; yet its full contents and reason cannot be entirely exposed just yet. You must first hear with an understanding and sympathetic heart, for as I have told you, I am torn.
Exactly four days had passed since I was blessed with seeing her. As much as I tried to avoid it—for fear of being perceived as a perverse voyeur—each day I went across the avenue from where I had seen her enter the apartment. I spent most of the hours in waiting, continuing with my daily writings. But my work now took on a more poetic prose. Perhaps my employer would delight in my new literary voice.
Near the end of the fourth day, she walked out of the apartment door, dogless and dressed in a most elegant summer gown. My throat dried with anxiety as I walked toward her. I had not anticipated the actual meeting. I had not, as you might think, practiced any form of speech. So when my approach had finally been made, I was nearly unable to find my voice.
The actual words I spoke I can tell you not, for I was gripped with a fascination that crippled my memory. A long awaited hope had sprung forth from its shell, only to drown me in its flood of attained reality. I do know there was an introduction on my part, and that when I did speak I sounded not entirely like a fool. I had kept some dignity and composure.
Regardless, she evaded me and paid me not so much as a glance, nor did her walk slow. I strode to catch up to her as she passed me by. Again I tried to greet her, and again I was neglected. I stood in a daze struggling to cope with the incident. I had never met the woman, and she had—to my knowledge—no cause to react to my greeting in such a manner.
Had her beauty gone to her mind? Was I merely another rung on her narcissistic ladder?
After such disappoint, I retired home and sat; sat and meditated on the day’s happening. My heart suffered the loss of my expectations, and I could not rid my mind of her.
For the next seven days, I plucked the choicest of flowers from my garden and laid them on her apartment steps, along with a bit of poetry. I did this in the early morning hours as to avoid being spotted. In doing this, I felt I could tear down the stone wall that so clearly encircled her heart.
I perceived in my mind that flattery would win her over, as each day she woke to the tokens of love awaiting her on the steps. I would soon confess as being behind the romance, and also of my love for her. A week’s worth of anonymous admiration was more than enough to prepare her heart and mind for me to approach her once again. Pieces of my heart had been left upon her steps. They had praised her beauty and fed her esteem. Surely she would speak with me now.
To attempt the meeting again, I had picked a day she looked exceptionally mesmerizing and I could no longer refrain from speaking to her.
With flower in hand, I ran to her and began reciting my newest piece. As I read, she continued to walk. As a result, my words failed to flow as fluently as I desired. I found myself trying to read the poem, gaze at her, dodge pedestrians, and keep from colliding with trees, lamp posts, and street signs.
She did not stop. Even as I concluded my poem she did not break her stride, nor acknowledge my existence. I made an attempt to offer the flower, but this too was ignored. I called out to her, but as though she were deaf, she gave no sign of hearing me. I walked backward in front of her, but it was as though her eyes failed to see me. Her dedication to disregard my efforts drove me mad. I stopped directly in front of her, but she, at that precise moment, turned to cross the street.
I screamed at her with a desperate voice. Louder and louder I screamed. I did not care that I stood on an occupied street, full of observing people. That I found myself yelling—and then cursing—at a beautiful, innocent-appearing woman. Neither she nor they understood the nights I spent without rest reflecting upon her. The anticipation of seeing her each day but lacking the courage to take hold of the priceless treasure. The aggravation of being a poet yet lacking the prose to seize her heart.
As my last scream echoed, I waited for the sound of silence—the sound of a hundred people staring at me, calling me insane with their glances. To my amazement, nothing changed. People carried on with their day as though I had not stood there howling in the middle of them all. As though they too ignored me.
I threw insults at the surrounding crowd.
Nothing.
I yelled once more, flailing my arms about me wildly like a lunatic.
No reaction.
I stood bewildered looking around me. Not one person eyed me in the slightest. Not one glance. I laughed aloud and congratulated them on their consp
iratory jesting with the clapping of my hands. This, of course, was a prank of some sort—a joke at the expense of the desperate and lonely romantic.
My laughter shook with uncertainty, threatening to lose control. Was I indeed losing my mind? I laughed all the louder as tears—not of joy or sadness—but of fear, ran down my straining and stretched face. It was then that a large man and his held briefcase passed through me.
It was then that I realized I was dead.
I looked down at my own body in panic. I expected transparency, but I appeared as solid as I felt. I stood in a fixed position and let people walk through me. My heart would have raced until it burst if it had been beating. For some reason—I cannot tell you why—I felt a calmness, and my panic gave way to awe.