Mixed Bag

by Marva Dasef

  “Of course.” She wondered if an android could be paranoid. Why couldn’t they have this conversation by communicator? Clearly, Tentwofive didn’t want the conversation recorded, as it would be if they talked on-line or at an official function.

  She studied the face of the android for a moment. He would be considered handsome by human standards. Android parents wanted good-looking children just like humans did. She’d even heard some of them hired artists to design their children. Of course, androids never went through the ‘baby’ stages, but began life in adult size. The assigned parents taught the android children culture and societal mores, while they simply programmed factual knowledge into their copious memory banks. Androids attained adult status five years from manufacture.

  Tentwofive also studied her. He had likely downloaded her entire history, but his intent gaze seemed to be looking for more than the hard facts of her life.

  She waited for him to speak.

  When he did, she noticed he aurally projected directly at her rather than in the dispersed voice androids used in most social situations.

  “I do have views on this...Noiba,” he said cautiously. “I only hesitate to express them because I am not representing androids in this Congress. I always maintain a neutral position until I can assess the facts and then come to a logical conclusion.”

  “I appreciate it,” she said. “I, too, try to maintain neutrality until all of the speeches and papers are presented. Sometimes it’s difficult to remain neutral on subjects where I have prior experience. I’m sure you find that true for yourself.”

  He hesitated before he answered carefully. “My own opinion of the matter is that they should give the L5 colonies independence. I suppose it shouldn’t surprise you, but I don’t believe my opinion is based on my being an android.”

  “Please continue. I appreciate that androids can separate personal feelings from logical views.”

  “In the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, several political and social groups on earth felt that a person could be ‘owned’ by another person. They justified this attitude by misreading of a religious text. Further, they claimed they practiced this form of servitude by historical precedent and by economic necessity.”

  “The Lunies are not claiming to own the androids, only the L5 colonies,” Noiba answered. “After all, the 2340 Accords gave androids full citizenship rights.”

  “That is true, but owning the place in which others live and taking all they produce without recompense is a form of slavery. The androids have repaid the Lunar governments for their initial investments. I do not believe they should continue to make a profit from new technologies when the L5 colonies have already made them rich.”

  “Nevertheless, if a corporation has invested in some means of production, nothing requires it to give up profits beyond the initial investment,” Noiba countered, uneasy with the thought.

  “I agree with you on the face of it, but the L5 citizens have expanded and modified the means of production. They now produce and manufacture goods different from the original specifications. An entirely different economy has replaced the simple mining stations that captured and refined the metals from the asteroid belt. Earth and Luna no longer use this original purpose. They now base the L5 economy on research, discovery, and production of pharmaceuticals. It no longer is associated with its original purpose.”

  Tentwofive continued, “Personally, I intend to immigrate to the L5 colonies. I feel I have more in common with these people than those I represent. I believe my future is with my own people. Can you understand this, Noiba?”

  Noiba sat speechless, surprised by the depth of feeling she could hear in the android’s voice. “I see,” she said, not knowing what else to say.

  Noiba nodded. She thought she knew how she would vote, but didn’t hold out much hope for the android’s desire. Unfortunately, history tended to repeat itself. The details might be different, but the story ended the same.

  Soon after, the two went their separate ways. Noiba walked slowly back to her hotel room, head down, deep in thought. One delegate out of many, no matter how she voted, hers was but a single vote. As she neared her room, she raised her head and came to a decision.

  Noiba spent the rest of the night going over every bit of material she could find on the issue. She wanted to know what she was talking about when she stood before the Congress. It wasn’t much, she thought, but at least she will have done something.

  * * *

  The next morning, Noiba went to the Secretary’s office and placed herself on the speaking roster. The clerk handling the scheduling gave her a puzzled look. “You do know the at-large delegates don’t usually give speeches, don’t you?”

  “Yes, but no rule says I can’t give a speech.”

  “One moment, please,” the clerk replied then clicked a button on her communicator. She spoke in directed audio, so that Noiba couldn’t hear her. After a few minutes, the clerk turned back to Noiba.

  “What’s the topic?”

  “The L5 colonies’ resolution for independence,” Noiba answered firmly.

  The clerk made no further comment, but entered Noiba into the agenda.

  “You’ll have five minutes at three o’clock this afternoon.”

  “Thank you,” Noiba replied as she left the office. Now committed, she’d better make it good.

  * * *

  A few minutes before three, Noiba made her way from the back of the auditorium to the speaker waiting area. Her hands shook and she felt perspiration sliding down her back. She wiped the back of her neck and forehead.

  She jumped when she heard her name called. She squared herself up and made the short walk to the podium.

  “Good afternoon, Delegates. My name is Noiba Kune and I have a few words to say regarding the L5 resolution.” Noiba cleared her throat and glanced at her notes.

  “Today’s society is color-blind in the sense that we treat all races of people equally and with respect. You probably didn’t even notice when I came up here that my skin happens to be dark. In another day and age, they would call me black or Negro. Today, I’m just a citizen.”

  The audience quieted as individual side conversations stopped. “Why would anybody be talking about race?” they must have thought.

  “I would like to quote a great American from the twentieth century.” Noiba shuffled her cards.

  “I have a dream...”

  Noiba finished her brief talk and walked away from the podium. She looked out in the audience. Most had returned to their conversations. She heard some applause and saw, far up in the balconies at the back, a few people standing and clapping. She recognized TenTwoFive in the group of androids. Incredibly, he smiled at her. She could now only wish him well.

  The Country Faire

  Literary Horror

  Originally Published in “Weirdly, Volume 1” from WildChild Publishing.

  At the first annual Country Faire in 1973, I joined my group from University to sell ice cream to raise funds. Fifteen women took turns at the booth, enjoying the hot summer days. Days that wore on languidly with a hot sun hanging heavy; my shoulders burned from its ferocity. Customers chatted animatedly, their voices combining with the sounds of laughter, bird calls, and buzzing bees. The ice cream we decided to sell turned out to be a good choice, and I partook of one or two myself. Its coldness was a balm on my tongue and dry throat.

  I volunteered to be an overnighter. Since the booth was open air, we needed someone in it twenty-four hours a day to protect our investment. A lot of people camped with tents or just slept out under the stars. Camping didn’t faze me. After all, I’d participated in such events every year of my youth—Mom and Dad insisted on dragging us to local beauty spots and setting up camp for the weekend. Frugal living, but, looking back, I’d say they were the best times of my life.

  That night, drums beat loudly. Vendors partied around a cozy bonfire. Their bonhomie lured me to join them. The acrid stench of smoke assailed my nostrils
and made my eyes water as I drew closer to the fire. I sat and watched them for a while under the clear diamond-lit night, joining in with their songs and light-hearted banter. An hour later, the temperature dropped. A chilly breeze nipped at my skin. Goose bumps stood proudly, and I rubbed the tops of my arms in an effort to banish them. I yawned and my eyelids drooped. Saying my farewells, I returned to the tent-booth and snuggled in my warm down-filled sleeping bag.

  An urge to pee woke me. Darkness engulfed the tent. My distended bladder throbbed. I hauled myself out of my snug sleeping bag and shuffled on hands and knees to the tent opening. My period had started, and the pressure on my bladder sent painful cramps through my abdomen and down into my thighs. I rummaged around for the flashlight, then trudged off into the trees to the row of porta-johns. Night moisture graced the grass, and the trees loomed before me like verdant men; branches jutted out—wooden arms, gnarled knuckles and all. A shiver beset my spine and, shrugging off my unease, I tugged at the metal handle on the first porta-john in the line and breathed a sigh of relief to find it unoccupied.

  Not wanting to sit on what I couldn’t see, I crouched over the hole and balanced my torch on the edge of the seat. The ammonia smell of stale urine assailed my nostrils and my eyes watered. My throat constricting, I held back a gag, slapped my palm over my mouth and swallowed. I tried to go about my task as fast as I could. My butt nudged the torch. Its beam wavered and dimmed.

  Damn batteries…

  A rustle outside. Someone walking past the john? Footsteps squished in the mud outside the door. My heart thudded and joined in with the steady pace of the footsteps. They stopped. I held my breath. The door ripped open and crashed against the side of the porta-john. A muscular arm hurled my flashlight into the woods before I could see his face. I let out the breath I’d held along with a terrified squeal. A black figure, against a dark night, loomed in the doorway. Bulky. Big.

  He stepped forward and shoved me back on the hard seat. Pain shot from my hips and clawed up my spine. Heart hammering, my gaze flicked around the john. Escape? Impossible. The man slammed his hand over my mouth and yanked me standing. I struggled to open my mouth in an attempt to scream; my tongue came into contact with his palm, tasted beer and smoke. Striking out with my arms and legs, I tried to wrestle him from me, but was trapped in the foul box allowing no escape.

  “Don’t make a sound or you’re dead.” His voice, a fear-inspiring rasp, rumbled around the john. Nausea grew and lodged itself in the form of a lump in my throat.

  Please don’t hurt me… Please, just let me go…

  He moved his thumb over my nostrils and pressed my head into the backboard. I couldn’t breathe, much less scream. The unmistakable whisper of a zipper… My eyes widened, ached. Lungs bursting for air, I brought my hands up to his wrist and tried to pull his hand away. He pressed harder. I longed to scream; widened my eyes further, trying to get a glimpse of his face. So dark, I saw nothing but an outline against the tiny screened window of the porta-john.

  He moved his thumb, and I inhaled that much longed for oxygen. Realization dawned. I quit struggling, wanting it to be over. Sweat rolled down my face, and the lump in my throat grew bigger, threatening to choke me. He entered me, shoving hard, ripping at me. He thrust forward and back, grunted like a pig. My body stayed rigid with fear, my mind retreating to a faraway place where the sun shone, daisies danced in the cool breeze, a stream trickled nearby.

  Finally, he pulled his body away. One hand still clamped to my mouth, he brought his other between us. A cold, sharp blade pressed against my neck.

  “Kneel on the floor.”

  I complied.

  Please don’t let him cut me…

  He pressed the blade and sliced. I felt my skin opening like a Ziplock bag, brought my hand up to the wound on instinct. He snatched his hand from my mouth and quickly exited the tiny box, leaving me to struggle back up into a sitting position. Blood trickled between my fingers and down my neck to my chest.

  Should I scream now? Will screaming make the blood flow faster? My carotid artery must be intact—I’m alive. What if he comes back to finish the job?

  I listened. Complete silence except for the call of an owl and the faint thrum of the drums beating in tempo with my heart. The man was long gone.

  I bunched my shirt up against the wound with trembling hands. Standing, dizziness hit me, the burning flames of Hell speeding through my nerve endings. My heart beat faster, drumming so violently, I imagined it bursting out of my chest.

  I looked out of the doorway. Pre-dawn light tinged the trees, lit those verdant men so that I fancied I saw grotesque faces with leering smiles. Shifting my gaze to the faint outlines of the tents, I pulled myself together as best I could and made my way back to the booth. Hollow, hollow inside, it seemed my body was now void, contained no innards. Tears trickled down my cheeks. Still holding my shirt against my neck, I crawled back into my tent.

  Should I wake the others? What would they do? Sympathize? Certainly, but not much more. I haven’t seen the face of my assailant. Out of the hundreds of people who are camping at the Faire, there would be no way to find him…

  I exchanged my bunched shirt for a cloth, pressed it against my neck until dawn pinked the eastern sky. Mind numb, I woke the others.

  “What the hell…?”

  “Where did that blood come from? Are you all right?”

  “You need to go to hospital. I’ll call an ambulance.”

  I’m not hurt too badly on the outside. No, not on the outside…

  At least, the cut on my neck didn’t hurt and ache as much as the rest of my bruised body.

  At the hospital, the nurse took a rape sample. The police said there was little chance of finding the rapist. He could have been anyone…

  They dropped the case of the Faire rape of 1973 for lack of any clues.

  I’m lucky he didn’t kill me, I know that. But my dreams—or I should say nightmares—are suffused with the smell of feces and urine in an outhouse. I see the port-a-john in my dreams and, unlike the reality, excrement has been smeared on the walls and toilet seat. Urine puddles decorate the floor, morphs into a river of fear. And he enters my nighttime movie, face unseen, his face black, as if hidden by a mask. I suffer the rape in my nightmares night after night after night.

  Regardless, life goes on. I continue to make my yearly trek to the Country Faire. Seldom do I find the right height and weight, but some men have the same fetid odor. At times, I just get the right feeling about someone—a little tingle in my belly or a quick flash of adrenaline speeding my pulse when I notice a hulking figure. Even then, I’m not always lucky enough that he goes to the porta-johns in the middle of the night.

  Still, I’m patient. When it does come together perfectly, I follow him. The screwdriver I carry makes it easy to break the weak lock. Most often, he is facing the wall and does not see the blade that I draw across his neck in one swift, satisfying slice.

  If You Could See Her

  Romance

  Originally Published in Lily Literary Review.

  Mac laughed out loud when Joel Gray sang lovingly to the dancing gorilla. “If you could see her through my eyes...” Cabaret was such a good movie, he thought. He had lost count of the number of times he’d played his DVD.

  Still chuckling at the end of the song, he clicked the pause button. He swung himself off the couch and shuffled into the kitchen for another beer. It’d be nice if he could find someone who’d see him like Joel saw the gorilla. True love was a funny thing. It put up a hazy screen obscuring your loved one’s faults. It was a good thing or nobody would ever stay with anybody else. Just too many differences, or maybe too many similarities, broke up relationships.

  He plopped back on the couch with his beer and clicked Play. After this one, maybe he’d put on Moulin Rouge. Man, Nicole was a looker. Ha, was that an old-fashioned saying? Well, she was beautiful. Heck, that Ewan guy was pretty good-looking, too. They didn’t have to worry a
bout finding love. Not when they were so gorgeous. He sighed and thought it must be nice.

  Mac blinked and realized the movie was over, that he’d fallen asleep in the middle of it. That’s okay. He could always watch it again. Must be tired, though, so off to bed. Snapping off the TV, he lumbered into his bedroom. Already wearing his pajamas, all he had to do was roll onto the bed. Brush his teeth maybe? Nah, why bother? He didn’t have anybody to look, or smell, good for. He just put on his headgear to keep him from dying of apnea and quickly fell asleep.

  In the morning, he woke to birds singing and sunshine streaming through the curtains. Another beautiful day. Rise and shine, sleepyhead. After breakfast, he had to go grocery shopping. He was out of eggs and bacon and another case of beer was a necessity. He’d polished off the last of the beer while watching the movie.

  As he dressed in sweat pants and sweat shirt, size XXX-large, he mentally made up the rest of his shopping list. Maybe he’d get tortilla chips and salsa. It would go great with the Extra-Hungry Man Mexican dinner he already pictured in his mind. Maybe two of them. Guacamole, too. Yes.

  He walked the half block to the bus stop and sat on the bench. The sun felt good on his face and he closed his eyes, enjoying the warmth.

  “Ahem.”

  He opened his eyes and saw the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen in real-life, prettier than Nicole even.

  “Could you move over so I could sit?” she asked.

  “Oh, sure, yeah.” He scrunched his massive butt to one end of the bench, giving her a little room to perch her petite frame.

  He couldn’t help but keep glancing at her. He wanted to take in the reddish-brown hair falling just to her shoulders, green (or are they hazel?) eyes, and the beautifully pure skin. No makeup, he noticed. Of course, she didn’t need any. Her business suit limned her slender frame perfectly. The white ruffle of blouse showing at her neck was a perfect setting for the most beautiful face he’d ever seen.

  She turned her exquisite face to him and smiled. His heart beat faster, his stomach flipped; he even felt his toes curling inside his tennis shoes. Mac melted into a huge, glutinous pile of adoration for this lovely woman.