Showing posts with label Bec Zugor. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Bec Zugor. Show all posts
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.
Flipped
By Bec Zugor
Heads: “That’s it, then. From now on, I’ll make decisions based solely upon the toss of a coin.” Kel kissed his antique 2015 fiver. “You, my friend, will organise my life. Stuff the Corporation and its rules. My life’s been boring for too long; spontaneity is the answer. Now, do I or don’t I?”
Tails: “A fun decision, my silver sage.” Kel filled all the boxes on the Corporation’s Hourly Analysis of Activities/Monday e-form with “NOYB.” Too right. How he spent his days was nobody’s business but his.
Heads: “Spot on. I’d rather have nutriberry jam than SimFish paste anyway.” He ate his breakfast in silence, and raised a glass of soya milk to his wife’s holoshrine. Should he worry?
Tails: Yes. He started to worry; the Corporation could do to him what it did to her. What next? He flipped his fiver.
Heads: “Damn. I wanted tails again.” Tails would’ve meant hiding in his friend Marty’s bunker until he could get an eye transplant and a new ID chip. Heads meant heading for the hills and hoping for a miracle escape from the Enforcers. He gathered some essentials and made his way to the roof of the 80-storey block. The bus arrived. He needed somewhere on the outskirts of the city. N or T?
Tails: “Sector N,” Kel said, waving his hand at the small screen inside the door. Good, they hadn’t stopped his credits yet. The bus was full, so he stood near the door. A blue-skinned Torlanite glared at him, all the while plaiting the tendrils sprouting from her eyebrows. Should he risk a smile? They made fantastic lovers, he’d heard – not that he had time to do anything about it now – and apparently they liked humans.
Tails: Apparently not, and now the whole busload was watching him. Instead, he smiled at the Nuarin standing next to him. He needed to appear casual. “Crowded today, huh?”
“What’s with the coin?” The Nuarin whipped out a tentacle and grabbed the fiver from Kel’s hand.
“It’s a better way of making decisions. You should do the same.” Kel raised his voice, forgetting that he was supposed to be keeping a low profile. “For too long, the Corporation has…” He stopped, open-mouthed, as the Nuarin snapped his precious coin in half with his pincers. Kel snatched the pieces back. He hadn’t expected this. “Do I get off or do I stay on the bus?” he whispered, and flipped. The two halves landed.
Heads and tails: “What the hell does that mean?”
“I’ll show you what it means,” said the Nuarin, lunging forwards and cuffing Kel’s left hand to the rail. He then opened the door, switched on his Corporation laser blade, and calmly sliced him in half. The lower part of Kel’s body fell towards the street below. The upper half slumped to the floor. Eyes wide with shock, Kel used his free hand to try to stop his guts spilling towards the open doorway.
“P-p-please…”
“You can be rebuilt, you know.” The voice came from somewhere near the back of the bus. “If we get to the Medcentre in time.”
“Or you can die.” The Nuarin picked up the pieces of coin from where they lay in the spreading pool of blood, and tossed them into the air. “Tails says we take you to the Med.” The two halves landed.
“I m-may have been wrong about s-spontaneity,” Kel gasped.
Heads: “You lose, so let’s speed things up,” the Nuarin laughed, and aimed his laser at Kel’s neck.
- - -
Bec Zugor has had short stories published in a number of ezines and magazines, including Scribble, MicroHorror and Escape Velocity. She lives in Sussex, England with her husband and two sons.
By Bec Zugor
Heads: “That’s it, then. From now on, I’ll make decisions based solely upon the toss of a coin.” Kel kissed his antique 2015 fiver. “You, my friend, will organise my life. Stuff the Corporation and its rules. My life’s been boring for too long; spontaneity is the answer. Now, do I or don’t I?”
Tails: “A fun decision, my silver sage.” Kel filled all the boxes on the Corporation’s Hourly Analysis of Activities/Monday e-form with “NOYB.” Too right. How he spent his days was nobody’s business but his.
Heads: “Spot on. I’d rather have nutriberry jam than SimFish paste anyway.” He ate his breakfast in silence, and raised a glass of soya milk to his wife’s holoshrine. Should he worry?
Tails: Yes. He started to worry; the Corporation could do to him what it did to her. What next? He flipped his fiver.
Heads: “Damn. I wanted tails again.” Tails would’ve meant hiding in his friend Marty’s bunker until he could get an eye transplant and a new ID chip. Heads meant heading for the hills and hoping for a miracle escape from the Enforcers. He gathered some essentials and made his way to the roof of the 80-storey block. The bus arrived. He needed somewhere on the outskirts of the city. N or T?
Tails: “Sector N,” Kel said, waving his hand at the small screen inside the door. Good, they hadn’t stopped his credits yet. The bus was full, so he stood near the door. A blue-skinned Torlanite glared at him, all the while plaiting the tendrils sprouting from her eyebrows. Should he risk a smile? They made fantastic lovers, he’d heard – not that he had time to do anything about it now – and apparently they liked humans.
Tails: Apparently not, and now the whole busload was watching him. Instead, he smiled at the Nuarin standing next to him. He needed to appear casual. “Crowded today, huh?”
“What’s with the coin?” The Nuarin whipped out a tentacle and grabbed the fiver from Kel’s hand.
“It’s a better way of making decisions. You should do the same.” Kel raised his voice, forgetting that he was supposed to be keeping a low profile. “For too long, the Corporation has…” He stopped, open-mouthed, as the Nuarin snapped his precious coin in half with his pincers. Kel snatched the pieces back. He hadn’t expected this. “Do I get off or do I stay on the bus?” he whispered, and flipped. The two halves landed.
Heads and tails: “What the hell does that mean?”
“I’ll show you what it means,” said the Nuarin, lunging forwards and cuffing Kel’s left hand to the rail. He then opened the door, switched on his Corporation laser blade, and calmly sliced him in half. The lower part of Kel’s body fell towards the street below. The upper half slumped to the floor. Eyes wide with shock, Kel used his free hand to try to stop his guts spilling towards the open doorway.
“P-p-please…”
“You can be rebuilt, you know.” The voice came from somewhere near the back of the bus. “If we get to the Medcentre in time.”
“Or you can die.” The Nuarin picked up the pieces of coin from where they lay in the spreading pool of blood, and tossed them into the air. “Tails says we take you to the Med.” The two halves landed.
“I m-may have been wrong about s-spontaneity,” Kel gasped.
Heads: “You lose, so let’s speed things up,” the Nuarin laughed, and aimed his laser at Kel’s neck.
- - -
Bec Zugor has had short stories published in a number of ezines and magazines, including Scribble, MicroHorror and Escape Velocity. She lives in Sussex, England with her husband and two sons.
