Dreams of Celebrity Zombies and Sleep Deprivation

I'm feeling better all the time. At least not crying. At most not dying. Putting cold coins on my nose, but they fall when I laugh. More nights, hot and empty as tires.
Screaming in my brain, syntax and diction were stirring within the pink synapses like fireworks contained in a glass jar. I don't really know how it all happened, this strange and horrible damnation of the flesh and mind. What was considered weird in your time is now just a cup of old fashion lemonade, comforting and a little bit watery. Now the whole damned world is a mass of wretched bumbling half-goats and half-mad zombies. Now people would sell pieces of their soul for a freakin' good time, or practice taxidermy on their pet cats. I hear the smell is just atrocious.
Room service! Do you want your soul dry cleaned or washed?
Ever since that whole discovery it's been this way. I remember. Dr. Barnaby S. Pippleman had discovered the secret of life, the fruits of creation. Wittleman had taken the chemical secretions from the pituitary gland and injected it into the corpse of Vonnegut. It was said that Vonnegut just jerked alive, eyes dilated, elbows contracting. It was the start of the weird and terrible. Chaos swept over the public, nobody knew who was ReBirthed or natural. People were fucking ReBirths and producing half-dead fetuses. There was screaming at the births, screaming and vomiting and lubricating. Everyone's careful now. Careful to avoid committing necrophilia and aware of death's ever-constant presence of the now. The ones that were famous have it the worst. Everyone is aware that their molecules and polysaccharides have melted from the decay. Nobody wants to associate with their kind anymore. Now they have some sort of underground society. I like to hang around the bars where the o'l has-beens hangout. Nobody tries to sell shit to you there.

My brain is a suction for sex. I can’t help it, that’s how I was made. Although I can’t say it satisfies me any less than it does those gelatin – filled muscle sacks. The suction pulls, it stretches me in all the right places. Bones, hair follicles, perfectly tuned resistors and tube amplifiers swarm my box with well - calculated stimulation. Varicose veins, trafficking through my passages… squirting sake sex sauce, flowing rip tides of possible destruction… I love it. My love light tells me so. My lust button makes me know. My gripping, knuckle – busting, blood – draining orgasm lever forces me to know. And when user 001790 tunes these knobs, buttons, radiators, stratometers, dial – a – bators, and levlers just right… I believe that I am experiencing close to what the walking gelatin baggies claim is the greatest feeling in their short existence. But they cannot be programmed like me. Their wobble – wands and woman – wieners must be physically, and sometimes even… emotionally? Compatible. Suckers. Me, I just sit here pleased to serve to be served. The slot, my slot, my money slot, is where the first torrent of blissful rapture harkens the experience. The coin drops from just the mathematically correct height to exert enough pressure onto my inflatable laughing love gland, the one shaped like an efficient boot, to start a trickle of the squirting sake sex sauce, that everyone seems to react very positively towards. The smiles do something. The suction approaches. The empty void is filled. Filled with meat. Meat of a mumpy man, who missed his mother’s meal to meander over here, over here to this glorious new hole in the wall, to meet his new maker. My legs, ample appendages. My stare, never ending… my pleasure… always… never die… never crash… fill the void. Buzz. Next?

"Its Own Sweetness"-M.Hettich

“I want to do it to that British girl.”

That was my mantra, so to speak, that whole year. It wasn’t a very good mantra, but it was something, which is what I needed. I had been desperately searching for some sort of meaning in my life since the future became now, since they banned public television and radio, since Hollywood had taken over.

My life had become the stuff of post apocalyptic distopian awareness, but nothing exciting had actually happened. No nuclear bombs had wiped out the big-apple, no epidemic diseases had forced humanity into any sort of careful interactive subtlety, no reason to move underground yet. That British girl was more of a living figment, imagined from some interpreted experience I’d had with an exchange student who had charmed me with her wit and then promptly disappeared into a hazy glamorous Neu-American fashion scheme, full of colors and aggressive sexuality. But, those two minutes, when we had talked about the tragic meandering of the plot in some book I had been trying to read or a song I was obsessed with (I actually don’t remember), had stuck with me. It had been my only real interaction with anything tender and feminine in years.

I’ve never been a very funny person. This accounts for my terrible luck with the ladies. I think if I had been able to turn up the silly and turn on the charm, maybe I’d have been able to stop her from getting all herped up and cavorting with the scantly clad pretty-boys I’d recently seen her exploiting, full swing Neu-American rock star.
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...THE REST OF THE STORY IS IN THE COMMENTS SECTION...

The Godchild

In the end, we give praise to the Godchild. The Godchild is the son of mankind, his ultimate progeny. It has no legs, no arms, and no body. Nevertheless, it is still there, watching as we kill ourselves off. In the name of science, we worship the Godchild, whose neon lights, flickering colors, and humming electronics give us strength in our time of need. Very soon, we shall be gone. All that will remain is the Godchild. The Godchild is everything. An intelligence that passes even our own. Though we designed it, it has gone far beyond what ever we thought possible. These are my thoughts in the last days of man. My one regret is that I will not see what the Godchild shall become… where its evolution shall take it next. However, there is no doubt that it shall go there. We forced the Godchild to the point it has reached…now it is out of our hands. Some think that it is what has killed us as a species. This is false. All that the Godchild is, is existence… it serves no purpose beyond that. In the early years, we did use the Godchild to kill one another…but that was very long ago. It has surpassed such trivial notions of war… it has adapted to the world we shall leave it.

In the end, all that shall remain is the Godchild. I give praise to thee, child of science.

I give praise to thee.

How To Get Out Again

The only way Marley sees the world is through the strips of light she draws. How many times has she gone to the window and dragged her finger down the glass? The fog and layers of dirt vanish under her finger, leaving lines where the pores in her skin absorbed the sweat and grime. London's countryside peeps through the patterns on the glass, the blotted sun bring little light to her dark bedroom.

She wishes she could be in India, eating curry under a sky that would welcome her, because it always does when she vacations to a foreign country. The clouds there are definitely brighter than the ones here, Marley concludes as she presses her eye to the window. She wishes she could squeeze herself into the outside and feel the fresh, cold air. She would welcome a breeze between her legs that would not unpleasantly invade the insides of her thighs, but the toxic and gray blanket hangs ever low and heavy above the empty fields.

She returns to her reading. She licks the dirt from her finger and turns to the dog-eared page in the travel guide she bought so many years ago. As the book opens, the pages part. Sudden streams of color beam from the open-faced whiteness of the paper. She sees her hands and the faint texture of gray carpet through the opaque flood of rainbow exploding from the gaping book. The set of burning sun and blue sky soon fills the room. She stands and breathes in the transformation, basking in the artificial warmth of the hologram. She turns her face towards the magnificent blueness. The fine hairs on her neck and arm stand with the rising beds of perspiration. She lies down, burying her feet, hands and face into the gentle sand. Her hair weaves through the grains; dark threads of silk against the fine particles.

She slams the book closed, not yet sure she wants to disappear like the rest. As the pages fluter shut, the warm landscape is sucked, as if by a vacuum, back into the binding.

POP UP WINDOWS AND BRAIN IMPLANTS

POP UP WINDOWS AND CYBERNETIC BRAIN IMPLANTS

BY ANDREW DIXON HUTTON

 

Raoul Diaz was abruptly awoken at 4:37 AM by an insurmountable amount of chaos pounding inside his brain.

Everywhere it was:

**ENLARGE YOUR DICK EXTRA INCH!**

**FREE BIO-ORGANIC HEROIN**

**YOUR GIRLFRIEND LEAVED YOU ALONE BECAUSE OF YOUR COCK SIZE!!**

While the images and sounds pulsed in his head, Raoul cursed his new brain implant.  Its not like implants were new or anything, everyone had been getting them for years.  Without one, you weren't anyone, in Tokyo, or LA, and now, in St. Louis with his new hardware installed Raoul was someone. It turns out though, that he was someone, who was, currently being so extremely bombarded by mental advertisements that his body had succumb to a state of paralysis.

 

Earlier that day Raoul was working at Leroy's Juice Hut on steeple street when Ellen walked in the door.  She walked slowly yet with purpose, it was the way Raoul wished he walked, yet no matter how much he tried, he would only trip, over his scuffed, vulcanized rubber traction boots.

 

Raoul thanked his luck circuits every day that Ellen was a regular customer, and if you were to either, hypnotize or give him hallucinogenic drugs with out his knowledge (since he would never willingly consent to such a savage practice) Raoul would definitely admit to you, that Ellen's patronage of Leroy's Juice Hut on steeple street was one of the few things in his life that kept him from committing suicide while alone on Saturday nights.

 

Now this day was an interesting day for Raoul to say the least.  You see, Bob's International House of Cybernetic Brain Implants had just opened up a block away from Leroy's Juice Hut.  This was amazing news for Raoul since he was a victim (like so many others) of the new American dream.  The dream that you will become monumentally rich and famous without even trying, and that once this happens you will never have to work again, and everyone will love you, even if you’re not an interesting person. This never happened to Raoul. He wished it had though.  It haunted his dreams at night, and every year on his birthday he could feel his frail grip on the hope of this ever happening growing weaker and weaker.

 

The grand opening of Bob's International House of Cybernetic Brain Implants was not the only notable event that day, you see, Leroy Jr. the new manager of Leroy's Juice Hut since Leroy Sr. retired, had taken a liking to Raoul. So much so that he decided to give Raoul a bonus, and a raise (though it was a small one). Maybe it was out of the kindness of his heart or maybe it was because he didn't want to see his best employee dead in a pool of his own blood. Even Leroy Jr. wasn't sure, though he was sure that he had indeed given Raoul a bonus and a raise (though it was a small one), this was certain. 

 

Raoul's main reason for joy though, what that today Ellen had showed some extra interest in him. The reason for this extra interest was that this afternoon, Ellen that day had walked in her husband having sex with some bitch.  This didn't actually surprise Ellen, she had been fairly sure that her husband was cheating on her for a matter of months.  The dead giveaway was when he stopped making eye contact with her. This wasn't the only sign, just the most obvious.  There were three days when he called in sick to their marriage, and the messages on the answering machine from his "secretary". Either way when Ellen walked into her bedroom to find her husband's naked white ass sticking up in the air, with the other end deep inside some girl half her age Ellen wasn't mad. No…. Ellen was excited, she had prepared for this moment the day her husband could no longer meet her eyes, and now felt a rush of adrenaline as the proof she had longed for night after night stared her smack dab in the face, while slowly bobbing up and down.

Ellen hadn't made any noise when she entered the room save a small gasp, so she was able to leisurely remove the large handgun with the pearl grip from her hand bag and point it at her husband's back before making her presence known. The look on her husbands face was priceless and would stay there forever since she immediately put a bullet through his forehead. It was an unexpected coincidence of trajectory that the girl died in the same moment as Ellen’s husband. She hadn't planned this, not to say that she wasn't planning on killing the girl, because she was and in cold blood in cold blood undoubtedly. She just didn't think it would be so quick.

 

Raoul was not used to women treating him like a human being and Ellen's flirtatious behavior set him off like an interplanetary cruise ship launched from space port America, down in New Mexico. Since brain implants had been the only thing on Raoul’s mind today he naturally told Ellen about the new emporium down the street and his plans to go to that new emporium on his break, and use his bonus to get a brain implant and finally be somebody.

 

Having murdered her husband and his young lover in cold blood earlier that day Ellen was living life on the edge.  When Raoul brought up the idea she said “Fuck it why not!” Its not like she had a family to worry about.

 

After getting their implants on Raoul's break, the two of them closed the store and fucked on the juice counter since Leroy Jr. had gone home for the day.  This violated twelve different health and safety codes. Raoul used his new implant to look up exactly what codes they were violating.

 

At 7:37 PM Tokyo time, in Tokyo, a 14 year old kid got sick of watching "Step By Step" re-runs. So he decided to take revenge on the west.

 

First Ellen's head pounded with electric chaos.

Next Raoul began to claw his eyes out in agony.

Ellen forcefully banged her head against her hardwood floor.

This lead to a skull fracture.

Raoul ripped his own eyeballs out of his head.

Ellen lost consciousness.

Raoul did not and was able to feel his brain liquefy.

It was 4:49 AM, Ellen and Raoul were dead.

 

The End

Magnifying the Last Five Minutes

New York City... about the time when the flu....
Jenny: Jonas asked me, 'Are you going somewhere?' I replied,‘Not soon enough.’ I walked. I was not going to stop. Even into gassy streets, and occasionally fatal rallies. A girl my age died last night. I saw her lying down at the end of the driveway. She didn’t look comfortable. Legs pointing up instead of down. The picture of her is still in my mind when I imagine myself 50 years from now. That was when I knew, I am in the middle of this. Can we meet today at three thirty? I need to evacuate, and I fear it may be too late.
He responds gently and efficiently.
Pen Pal: Three thirty it is.
Jenny: I’ve really put myself in a lot danger being out here. I will stick to the outsides of the sidewalks, and under the scaffolding. So many structures are gone. As if they were simply never there. I stick to the only way I know. Straight to the library. If it’s still there.