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The corpulent man straddles a rolling stool, shifting his bulk along a cheap conference table. The table is dominated by three oversized computer monitors. Lines of code scroll down each screen. The surface of the table is a cluttered mess of keyboards, cables, forgotten junk food, and a large gin and tonic.
Continue reading “Created Image by Marco Etheridge”
She looked at him with her huge blue eyes.
“You have a Dollar, Mister?”
With a quick glance at her, he noticed the delicate machinery shining through three straight cuts in her cheek, the plastic flesh hanging loosely over the left side of her face.
Continue reading “Becoming Human by Kat Hutchson”
Welcome to the kick off of AI Week here at Literally Stories! And what better way to look into the future than by taking one look back at the past. Since the subject is Artificial Intelligence, we are happy to present a rerun of a tale written by long time site stalwart, David Henson. It’s called Ronda 12. As usual, David’s sense of humour and wit enhance the piece. And although she is a machine, attractive Ronda (think a “Seven of Nine” type of individual) is actually the most human person in this story.
Continue reading “AI Week – Literally Rerun – Ronda 12 by Dave Henson”
Beginning
It’s hard for me to not be cynical; to not check every would be gift Horse’s bridgework; to not hold the suspicion that the evil that dwells in my heart must be in everyone else’s; to suspect myself for wanting the same evil in the hearts of others to license my own. Funny word cynical. As a belief system it prevents you from go-funding Phishy Royalty, yet in application it can aid you in successful phishing and lying in general. Thus you could say that cynical is a dubious, double-agent sort of concept.
Continue reading “Week 389: An Ode to Cynicism, Good Stories and Dubious Advice Dispensed by A Herbivore”
“We were just here,” said Ned. “Why do we have to visit so often?”
“It’s been a whole year.” Emma took his arm. “Some folks do this a lot more often than that.”
Continue reading “The Visit by Kurt Hohmann”
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I was just sitting there, taking up space, contributing nothing to the Universe other than not plotting its destruction. I was studying the concept of wrath as dispensed by cyber-mobs, and I arrived at the conclusion that those who frame witches do so to forestall winding up bound and tossed into the river themselves. Hardly a revelation, but the truth seldom wows. When you get down to it the words of the prophets are found on the subway walls, tenement halls and in stupid tweets, old chum.
My Imaginary Friend and second in command, Renfield, popped into my office and told me that the billygits wanted to see me.
Continue reading “The Fifth billygit of the Apocalypse by Leila Allison”
The world was so much simpler when Forever 21 was just a shitty clothing store. Nowadays, it’s nothing more than a bar off 42nd street, with a comically-large hourglass by the door filled with sand that never falls. I used to consider it nothing more than a cheap gimmick; another one of the city’s countless tourist traps. The truth is the bar was never what attracted people. All those stupid, far-from-subtle decorations aren’t what people come to stare at; we are.
Continue reading “A Little Time by Dylan Martin”
He couldn’t believe it. It had actually worked. A crude pentagram, circle of ashes on the rug, some complicated mumbo-jumbo and poof, there before George sat a real live demon.
Continue reading “Initiation by Barbara Stanley”
I blame it on the Tintintinabulator, that musical Spirit who goes from ear to ear and secretly whispers catchy songs into semi-catatonic minds. That is my theory for why tunes get stuck in our heads. Currently, Kate Bush is singing Wuthering Heights in my mind. “Cathy” has been at the window for about a week. She’s done it before and will again. It usually takes ten days for her to go away, satisfied that she has once again qualified me for a berth in Crazytown.
Continue reading “Week 387: Blame It On The Tintintinabulator; Five New Memories, Plus a Season Finale”
Tom Kenner sat looking out the window of a waiting room at the Columbus Orthopedic Hospital. He had been through the magazines but, dog-eared and dated, they couldn’t hold his attention. “Maybe staring out the window will make the time go more quickly,” he thought. It didn’t.
Continue reading “Sawbones by Edward N McConnell”
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