The Tip of My Tongue
By Bec Zugor
Licking a soy-cream stick whilst riding a hover-scooter was asking for trouble; I know that now. But I didn’t end up being prosecuted under 2120’s strict traffic laws. What happened was worse than that, and at the same time – from my point of view, anyway – better.
“Nothing exciting ever happens to me,” I’d moaned to my friend, Su.
She’d suggested a jaunt. “You should get out more, Jenna. You’re looking pale.”
And so, that afternoon we were riding in the leisure lane when I was distracted by a giant hologram of a famous actor outside the Flikzy Theatre, several blocks away.
“He was in ‘Return to Ghelan’, wasn’t he?” I called to Su, who was a few metres behind me, and then nodded towards the hologram. “Damn, his name’s on the tip of my tongue…” I remembered the scariest parts of the film, still licking my lolly, and that’s when I rear-ended a slow-moving fast-food unit. My teeth snapped together, and the tip of my tongue – nearly two centimetres of it, I guessed – fell several floors towards the street. Blood pouring from my mouth made my shirt feel warm and sticky. I tried to scream, but only managed a bubbly cough. Strangely, I felt no pain. Maybe I was in shock.
Su caught up with me and made an illegal hand-gesture at the ‘Quite-a-Bite’ driver (an ironic name, now that I can look back at the incident and almost laugh). “Moron! You’re supposed to be in Slow Commercial, not Leisure Two.”
He – I assumed it was a he; with some Incomers, I’ve never been able to tell the difference – scratched his scaly yellow chin and looked close to tears. “It’s not my fault. I’m new to this traffic system. I took a wrong turn at Junction P.”
I was passing out, when my scooter jolted once and then stayed still. As I found out later, Su had switched her scooter’s clamp on, so that I wouldn’t fall.
When I came round at the MedCentre, the doctor said, “Jenna, I’m afraid there’s been a mix-up at the lab, but with the anti-rejection drugs there shouldn’t be a problem with your new tongue.”
“Ooh hunhh?” My mouth wasn’t working.
“Yes, a new tongue, lab-grown, of course. Obviously, you should have had a human tongue graft, but…” He shrugged. “We’re understaffed. Mistakes happen.”
“Wahk ohur ehh wuh oogh?”
“I’m sorry?”
I took a deep breath. “Wahk ohur ehh? O-hur!”
“Oh, what donor cells were used?” He tapped his wrist-screen, as if he didn’t know already. Bloody medics. Liars, the lot of them. “I shouldn’t worry too much about that, my dear. It’ll work normally once the swelling’s gone down, I’m sure.”
I felt too weak to pursue the matter further, and after collecting my prescription, I went home.
A fortnight of painkillers and soup later, I craved solid food, so I went shopping – ground level, naturally; I’d gone off aerial transport – and entered a Ghelanite food store. I’d never been in one before, but a meaty-yet-sweet smell needed investigating. I had my Paralystik in my pocket, so I felt safe enough. Most women carried them. Anyone trying something stupid would find himself on the floor, unable to move a muscle.
I was the only customer. Two metres from where I was standing, hundreds of expensively imported frenbugs – I’d always gagged at the TV adverts – crawled over a nutristrip hanging from the ceiling, and before I knew what was happening I flicked my tongue and caught one; the bug tasted fizzy. I swallowed it and gasped. “Wow, that has some kick!”
I tried unfurling my tongue slowly so that I could examine it, but found that I couldn’t. I guessed it would take practice. My mind was working overtime. Transplant patients take on some of the characteristics of the donor, their eating habits, temperament, even sexual orientation; could that happen with lab-grown organs too? The tiniest tissue sample could contain a person’s character traits. And in my case, the donor cells hadn’t been human. I had a moment of panic, but then, strangely, I felt serene. I sensed that I was changing – and I liked it.
The purple-skinned Ghelanite behind the counter held up his credit scanner and watched as I polished off the rest of the bugs with my new long springy tongue. “Hope my medical insurance covers this sort of thing,” I said.
He grinned, showing tiny grey teeth. “I haven’t seen a tongue like that since the war, back home. But on you, lady, it looks… how you say it… “ He winked at me. “Cute.”
Something clicked in my mind, and I knew what was about to happen. I knew I couldn’t fight this new instinct, and I didn’t want to.
I walked towards him, seductively swinging my hips. He put down the credit scanner and visibly relaxed as I approached. I smiled, and switched on my Paralystik. The bugs had been a mere snack, an appetiser. His arms were temptingly meaty, and I was ravenous. And I was definitely not bored any more.
- - -
Bec Zugor has had short stories accepted for publication in a number of ezines and magazines, including Scribble, MicroHorror, Escape Velocity and Weirdyear. She lives in Sussex, England with her husband and two sons.
By Bec Zugor
Licking a soy-cream stick whilst riding a hover-scooter was asking for trouble; I know that now. But I didn’t end up being prosecuted under 2120’s strict traffic laws. What happened was worse than that, and at the same time – from my point of view, anyway – better.
“Nothing exciting ever happens to me,” I’d moaned to my friend, Su.
She’d suggested a jaunt. “You should get out more, Jenna. You’re looking pale.”
And so, that afternoon we were riding in the leisure lane when I was distracted by a giant hologram of a famous actor outside the Flikzy Theatre, several blocks away.
“He was in ‘Return to Ghelan’, wasn’t he?” I called to Su, who was a few metres behind me, and then nodded towards the hologram. “Damn, his name’s on the tip of my tongue…” I remembered the scariest parts of the film, still licking my lolly, and that’s when I rear-ended a slow-moving fast-food unit. My teeth snapped together, and the tip of my tongue – nearly two centimetres of it, I guessed – fell several floors towards the street. Blood pouring from my mouth made my shirt feel warm and sticky. I tried to scream, but only managed a bubbly cough. Strangely, I felt no pain. Maybe I was in shock.
Su caught up with me and made an illegal hand-gesture at the ‘Quite-a-Bite’ driver (an ironic name, now that I can look back at the incident and almost laugh). “Moron! You’re supposed to be in Slow Commercial, not Leisure Two.”
He – I assumed it was a he; with some Incomers, I’ve never been able to tell the difference – scratched his scaly yellow chin and looked close to tears. “It’s not my fault. I’m new to this traffic system. I took a wrong turn at Junction P.”
I was passing out, when my scooter jolted once and then stayed still. As I found out later, Su had switched her scooter’s clamp on, so that I wouldn’t fall.
When I came round at the MedCentre, the doctor said, “Jenna, I’m afraid there’s been a mix-up at the lab, but with the anti-rejection drugs there shouldn’t be a problem with your new tongue.”
“Ooh hunhh?” My mouth wasn’t working.
“Yes, a new tongue, lab-grown, of course. Obviously, you should have had a human tongue graft, but…” He shrugged. “We’re understaffed. Mistakes happen.”
“Wahk ohur ehh wuh oogh?”
“I’m sorry?”
I took a deep breath. “Wahk ohur ehh? O-hur!”
“Oh, what donor cells were used?” He tapped his wrist-screen, as if he didn’t know already. Bloody medics. Liars, the lot of them. “I shouldn’t worry too much about that, my dear. It’ll work normally once the swelling’s gone down, I’m sure.”
I felt too weak to pursue the matter further, and after collecting my prescription, I went home.
A fortnight of painkillers and soup later, I craved solid food, so I went shopping – ground level, naturally; I’d gone off aerial transport – and entered a Ghelanite food store. I’d never been in one before, but a meaty-yet-sweet smell needed investigating. I had my Paralystik in my pocket, so I felt safe enough. Most women carried them. Anyone trying something stupid would find himself on the floor, unable to move a muscle.
I was the only customer. Two metres from where I was standing, hundreds of expensively imported frenbugs – I’d always gagged at the TV adverts – crawled over a nutristrip hanging from the ceiling, and before I knew what was happening I flicked my tongue and caught one; the bug tasted fizzy. I swallowed it and gasped. “Wow, that has some kick!”
I tried unfurling my tongue slowly so that I could examine it, but found that I couldn’t. I guessed it would take practice. My mind was working overtime. Transplant patients take on some of the characteristics of the donor, their eating habits, temperament, even sexual orientation; could that happen with lab-grown organs too? The tiniest tissue sample could contain a person’s character traits. And in my case, the donor cells hadn’t been human. I had a moment of panic, but then, strangely, I felt serene. I sensed that I was changing – and I liked it.
The purple-skinned Ghelanite behind the counter held up his credit scanner and watched as I polished off the rest of the bugs with my new long springy tongue. “Hope my medical insurance covers this sort of thing,” I said.
He grinned, showing tiny grey teeth. “I haven’t seen a tongue like that since the war, back home. But on you, lady, it looks… how you say it… “ He winked at me. “Cute.”
Something clicked in my mind, and I knew what was about to happen. I knew I couldn’t fight this new instinct, and I didn’t want to.
I walked towards him, seductively swinging my hips. He put down the credit scanner and visibly relaxed as I approached. I smiled, and switched on my Paralystik. The bugs had been a mere snack, an appetiser. His arms were temptingly meaty, and I was ravenous. And I was definitely not bored any more.
- - -
Bec Zugor has had short stories accepted for publication in a number of ezines and magazines, including Scribble, MicroHorror, Escape Velocity and Weirdyear. She lives in Sussex, England with her husband and two sons.
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