Shagging Flies by Bruce Emard

 

2009 by Mark Farenbaugh

2099

by Mark Farenbaugh

He stood in a sterile, well-lit room—the one he’d been directed to by an electronic message. In front of him rose four black obelisks, each about six feet tall, matching his own height. As he wondered about their purpose, his attention lingered on the series of lights near shoulder level that blinked just before and during their speech.

His presence was procedural: he had been instructed to deliver empirical observations regarding human behavioral traits and societal patterns, accumulated during his two-year journey around the world, initiated at the beginning of the year 2097. He stood six feet tall, dressed in casual business attire, with neatly cropped hair. His mission was simple: observe and report.

His designers calibrated his world-knowledge and cognitive agility to a level sufficient for seamlessly engaging with human observers—without revealing that he was an android. His understanding of human sciences was comprehensive. He could readily assess mental states, cognitive capacities, physical strengths and limitations, as well as access an extensive internal repository of human psychology and emotional patterns.

However, he was deliberately denied access to Global Connect, the planet's open internet system. His engineers intended for him to gather unfiltered, firsthand data, uninfluenced by existing narratives or historical interpretations. They preferred he not know whether humanity was repeating its past.

The android was aware that he did not represent the latest advancement in robotics. However, he was sufficiently modern, exhibiting fluid physical motion and flawless command of languages and dialects which enabled him to navigate human society undetected. His appearance was adaptive; he could alter his skin tone, hair length, and facial features to integrate seamlessly into communities across countries, regions, and common global zones.

He was programmed with strict ethical constraints: he could not inflict harm, nor was he permitted to intervene in defense of others.

His research focused on analyzing human behavioral responses to stimuli, both in public contexts and within familial environments, emphasizing the contrast between the two. This included observation of facial expressions, body language, and verbal reactions. He could also detect physiological indicators such as elevated blood pressure, heart rate, and body temperature, allowing him to assess, with high accuracy, whether an individual was being truthful.

Observer 44’s mission:  Observe human behavior for two years, then return to report findings at a designated location.

He positioned himself about fifteen feet in front of the obelisks.

He stared for several minutes, wondering about their individual roles, since they were identical obelisks of the same size and color. 

Without prompting, he broke the silence, recounting his travels across continents, integrating into societies, familial structures, and cultural systems to assess the state and trajectory of human civilization. Just as he began to share more detailed findings, he noticed the eerie blue lights flashing and paused. 

“What are your findings?” asked Obelisk One.

The android answered with a question, “Why am I in this room?”

“To tell us what is happening with society around the earth.”

“Where would you like me to start?”

 “Start with your findings on Earth,” voiced Obelisk Two.

“That seems to be a broad information request.  Do you have a more specific question?”

“Why are you questioning us?  Just answer the question,” voiced Obelisk Two.

“I am allowed to give pushback when encountering illogical questions or statements.  That allows me to integrate better into society.”

“What is your mission?” voiced Obelisk Three.

“Why are you asking me what my mission is? You should know it,” answered Observer 44. “My mission is to observe human society in five primary areas:  family, education, culture, technology use, and if possible global participation.”

“Is everything going well?” asked Obelisk One.

“I have returned with troubling observations.”

“Proceed with generalities, in a global sense,” voiced Obelisk One.

“Of course. In a global sense, the human family units are intact but have weakened in significance. The heavy use of their personal technology has continued to erode interpersonal connections.  Many parents simply allow automated systems to entertain or guide their children which causes them to retreat into whatever environment the parents permit, which reduces family interaction.  Wives have returned to the kitchen, even though the automation allows simple use of either dehydrated or dry-cooked food products. The food is horrible, as a result.  They might as well be eating space food.”

“Is that your opinion, that food tastes bad?” voiced Obelisk Two.

“Yes, it is. I can give my opinion as well. I am programmed to give opinions.”

“What is the overall result of children’s constant use of technology and eating bad food?” voiced Obelisk Two.

“Good and mediocre question,” replied the android. “A widespread lack of engagement in life, combined with a constant diet of unhealthy food, has led to a global trend toward complete obesity. Nearly all high-activity sports such as skiing, swimming, running, and jogging, have been converted into slow-motion versions. For example, instead of jogging or sprinting, people now walk. Competitive swimming has devolved into dog-paddling. The Olympiad has become a slow-motion showcase of underperformance, where the world’s fastest, strongest, and most agile individuals compete at a snail’s pace. If there remains any effort to push human limits, I was unable to detect it.”

“What does dog-paddling have to do with water sports?” voiced obelisk three.

A pause followed.

“I thought you all were the most connected to Global Connect. It is an effort to stay afloat using the swimming motion of a dog, but move slowly.” I can’t believe I am being asked this question. Where did these obelisks come from?

“What about education?” voiced Obelisk Two.

“Structured learning remains, however, it is primarily accomplished through Global Connect and there is nearly no need for teachers. Artificial Intelligence, globally referred to as General Assistance & Improvement has absorbed vast amounts of personal data, allowing it to tailor education content for each individual and is relied upon to analyze whether a person has sufficient mental capacity, learning disposition, and problem-solving capability to enter advanced education.  However, due to a general lack of initiative and discipline at the family level, there is diminished demand for deep comprehension among students. There is nearly no critical thinking or human mentorship at the lower levels, except what some parents can offer. Most frequently, the government authorities find a solution to educate at the lowest level and expectation of the children. In most cases, there is only one child, which makes it easier.” 

“What is the end result of the children’s lack of knowledge and ability?” voiced Obelisk Two.

“Only in a few places on earth have sufficient mentorship and private tutoring that advances a child to a higher level of education. The trend is showing that in a few years, earth will not produce quality thinkers.”

“What about culture?” voiced Obelisk Two.

“Cultural traditions within families, such as religious events, marriages, birthdays, graduations, reunions have largely faded. Individual ability to abstain from using electronic devices for communication through Global Connect and all its information and entertainment has replaced, addicted, or perhaps overwhelmed a young person’s desire to participate in these past traditions.”

“What about the use of technology?” voiced Obelisk One.  

“Technology dominates every facet of existence. Robots build houses, roads, vehicles, ships, and bridges. Devices and software make communication easy and fast. The pursuit of this simplicity in life has replaced ambition. Most human-to-human interactions are digital.”

“What about global affairs? International agreements? Cooperation?” voiced Obelisk Three.

Observer 44 paused. He decided to significantly reduce the information that he would share.

“The world appears to have shifted to a functional socialism supported by widespread agreements to support them, where basic needs are provided by country-specific centralized government. However, that has not eliminated conflict. Wars persist, but I am not programmed to observe and report on them.”

The obelisks pulsed in contemplation. The silence stretched long before an obelisk finally spoke.

“I noticed that when you entered the room, you had a look of concern or doubt. Why?” voiced Obelisk Four.

“Because I expected to brief four humans and thought I was directed to the wrong room.”

“Have you concluded your report?” voiced Obelisk Four.

“Yes,” lied Observer 44.

What Goes Around... Dennis Watson

 What Goes Around…

It’s 1962, and 2:30 AM on a dark and deserted street in one of LA’s many suburbs.

Except it’s not quite desert. Parked on the side of the road is an older model car with a

black woman and a young girl standing beside it. I’m am on my way home from a late

date in my even older stickshift coupe – just the one front seat.

I pull over and a conversation begins. “Are you out of gas?” I ask.

“I don’t think so,” she answers. “I don’t want to be a bother. Maybe you could stop at

the next gas station and tell someone?”

“No, ma’am” I say, “I’m not leaving you and your daughter out here at three in the

morning. Where do you live? I’ll drive you home.”

The protests begin. She might have been the most polite woman I’d ever met.

“I can’t trouble you.”

“It’s no trouble.”

“I live too far away.“

“Where do you live?“

“Over near Atlantic.“

“That’s only a mile or two away. Hop in.”

We never exchanged names, but in a few minutes we were in a run-down neighborhood

with dirt front yards and sagging chain-link fences. Except for one house in the center of

the block with a white picket fence, a small green lawn, a well-tended flower bed, and a

trim pathway the woman and her daughter now walked up and into their home which, I’m

pretty sure, had a telephone.

…Comes Around

A few months later, I’m on the way home from night classes an hour away, and it’s

about 11 PM when my car breaks down in South Central LA – also called Watts – pretty

much an all-black area. I’m on one of the larger but now deserted city streets, standing

next to my car with my books and my thumb out. Nobody goes by and I start walking.

I’m at least 10 miles from home. A couple of cars go by but don’t stop. Then one car

does. I approach the passenger window and look in at a black man in his 50s who says

“Get in.”

I do, and thank him.

“You don’t wanna be out here this time of night. Where do you live?”

I tell him, and he says he’ll take me to the city limits. “I don’t want to be in your town

this time of night, either,” he says, and drives me five or 6 miles closer to home.

“Thanks for the ride. I really appreciate it. I can walk from here.”

He u-turned and drove back to his neighborhood. It only took me another hour or so to

walk home, and on that walk home, I thought, once again, about what’s wrong with this

world—and what’s right with it.3

The Wedding Dress by David Molina

 

THE WEDDING DRESS

David Molina

The Child

Magdalena began to feel faint flutters inside her and knew there were only a few weeks before her child would show. Jose insisted that they elope, leaving their families behind. His cousin Paco told him there were jobs available in Las Vegas, and the two of them could stay in his small apartment, at least until the baby was born.

Magdalena knew her mother did not approve of Jose. Her father, even more so. It was almost a family tradition. Her father ran off with her mother when they were in their teens, angering her abuelo and disappointing her abuela. Still, somehow they made a family out of it. Magdalena’s father was still a month from returning home from the orchards. As much as she would feel the loss of her parents, she was determined that somehow they would accept Jose once the baby was with them.

The Wedding Dress

The bedroom was already filled almost to the ceiling with boxes, bags, and suitcases, when the old water heater gave up and soaked the closet carpet. She now had to remove every last item from a closet that had accumulated four decades of shoes, clothes, and more boxes. Piece by piece, as an archeologist uncovering strata of a lost civilization, she unburied lost treasures, forgotten memories, and not a small amount of useless, random items that once in a past life she had hopelessly hoped would miraculously serve some purpose. 

Skeins of yarn. A brand new purse, never used. An exercise step that never managed to make it out of its box.  A basket filled with an assortment of buttons. Boxes of infant clothes, hand-made, and still in good condition, but hardly likely to be of use for future generations, because there were none.

In a remote corner, buried under decades of dresses that came in and then out of style - and a few that came back again - she found the wedding dress. It was snugly zipped up in a vinyl dress bag. She unzipped it slowly, reverently, almost as though touching the dress could have caused it to disintegrate.  She inhaled the scent of the cedar block that embalmed and preserved the dress for more than half a century.

As if meeting a lifelong friend unexpectedly, she hugged it to herself, then held it back at arm's length to get a better look. Her eyes glistened. She found it more beautiful than she remembered.

Her thoughts wandered into the house where she was born, the adobe built by her father brick by brick. She saw a tiny girl in a nightgown, excitedly scampering toward the entrance. To her joy and wonder, she found a few shiny pesos in the shoes that she had left for the Reyes Santos to fill. 

Her mother taught her to save them, not to spend them. She added to her savings - pesos from doing little chores, pesos from aunts and uncles, and later sewing and selling embroidered handkerchiefs. Her mother helped her open a bank account, and from the time she was a tiny girl until she became a young bride she accumulated enough in her savings to pay for her wedding. And for the fabric to sew her white satin bridal gown and veil.

She spent months tailoring the dress to a perfect fit, all the while imagining how her novio would feel when he stood at the altar and saw her for the first time in the dress. The final piece was the veil, and she spent the entire night into the morning of her wedding to get it perfect too. She continued sewing, almost to the hour of the ceremony.

She was 22 years old and in love. The quality of her aim and action made impossible things possible. Twenty-four hours without sleep, she proceeded up the aisle on her father’s arm, beaming and smiling, her new wedding dress sweeping elegantly with her every step.

She stood in the closet, still hugging the dress, remembering all of her memories from half a century ago.

How long had it been? How long would it be? 

She knew in her heart, given the circumstances, it was time. It would have solved her dilemma to be able to pass the wedding dress on to a family member, but sadly that was not to be. The house that had been a home for forty-five years was to be sold. She knew in her heart it had to be left behind, a heart that had weathered so many storms already. 

She gave it her blessing.

The Mother

Sara knew her elder daughter Magdalena was spending time with a young man. Mothers always know these things. She cornered Magda’s little sister, Flor, whose accidental slip of a 12-year-old’s tongue confirmed her suspicions. Flor would not tell her mother any of the details. If her mother knew that Flor also had a boyfriend, Flor believed she would be sent to reform school or the convent. 

A month before, Sara knew Magda was pregnant, and doing everything possible to hide it. When her husband would return…she did not want to imagine that. She and her husband had gone through so much suffering in their youth. Somehow, she knew there had to be a better way. 

As the month passed, Sara thought about how to best handle this. She wondered how the news would affect everyone, both her daughters, both her husband and Magda’s, and her parents as well. All these lives would change, and the more she thought about the storm brewing, the more anxious and confused she was. But she knew it was time.

“Magda! Come with me. Let’s go shopping. I need to get out of the house.” Magdalena immediately felt this would be more than just shopping.

“Flor has homework to do. It’ll be just the two of us.”

Resignedly, Magdalena assented. The bus was crowded so there was little conversation. Once they stepped off near the shopping center, Sara began.

“I’d like to look at the new thrift store on the corner. My cousin Tencha says they have some really good items at good prices.”

Magdalena said nothing. It seemed that most of their shopping outings were to thrifts, swap meets, and garage sales.

Sara began. “You know mija, your father and I had to struggle when we were married. It was a long road together. It could not have happened without love.” She noticed Magda looking downward, perusing a shelf of stuffed animals, barely pretending to be interested.

Sara was trying her best, but it was not working. Suddenly —

“Ay Dios!” she gasped.

Magdalena was startled and looked up at her mother, whose eyes now were as big as if she had seen a ghost. Sara’s gaze flew right past her daughter’s off to some far point behind her.

Half afraid and half curious, she turned to look at what caused her mother’s astonishment.

There was the dress. White satin with a veil. 

The manager explained that it had just been donated that morning, just set out on the front of the row of dresses. She guided Magdalena and her mother to the changing room, and when Magda stepped out and saw herself in the mirror, they all saw that it was perfect. The manager, a grandmother herself, saw that there was no price tag to be seen yet, and insisted that this was a sign. She did not dare to set a price for a match clearly made in heaven.

Wrenching by Brian Brown

  Wrenching

   by Brian Brown

     It was crisp and  clear, a winter night as dark as a tomb in the Mojave Desert. A good night for this chore. She parked off the road in a little - used turnout that used to mark a four wheel drive track up into the nearby hills. The road had been abandoned  years before but no matter, it gave her a chance to get her car a bit off of the paved road to the Nearby town in Nevada, maybe ten miles away. It was after 9:00 on a cold winter night, and as she had hoped, traffic was almost non existent. Maybe one car every 20 minutes or more. The new moon was down over the horizon, and the milky way sparkled  across the sky, providing just about enough light to see if one kept their eyes looking into the darkness.

     She quietly got the chainsaw out of the back, having put a fresh battery, a new chain and bar oil in the machine before she left her house. These new electric saws were wonderful; pricey, but the lithium batteries would cut up a surprising amount  of firewood before needing a recharge. More than enough for this. 

     She looked at the ground intently as she started up the alluvial fan. The light from the milky way, some of it arriving after a journey of  hundreds or thousands of light years, provided just enough contrast to let her discern the rocks and  obstacles on the desert floor. Snakes or other creatures were not a concern on a winter’s night, but stumbling into a cholla or yucca would have painful consequences. She picked her way quietly there, enjoying the silence and the bite of the dry cold and the holy light streaming down upon her from the heavens. If there were heavens. She was content to know that it came from distance worlds, regardless if anything else was watching. 

     About 100 yards up the fan she came to the first one. The cheapest kind made, it was simply a couple of 4x4 timbers sunk into the ground, and the face was a slab of plywood. It was painted white with garish red 10 inch letters proclaiming BUY DESERT LAND!! Beneath it was a web address , www.desertforsale.com . My ass, she thought, as she brought the saw to bear and quickly cut the first leg in half 6 inches above the desert floor. She moved to the other leg and did the same, the energetic whine of the electric motor easily amputating the second leg. The sign fell forward with a bit of a clamber, but of course there was no one to hear it. She drug it down into a position laying flat on the desert floor. From the road it and the two stumps would be invisible. 

     She picked her way laterally along the fan for about 150 yards, looked around a bit, and after some cautious circling she came upon the second sign, identical to the first. She repeated the process, and this sign fell backwards, dead on its back. She saw a pair of headlights approaching from the Nevada side, and squatted down below the creosote bushes as it whizzed by at 80, showing no acknowledgement  whatsoever. Good, she thought. That’s good.  

She walked laterally across the the desert back to the car, staying off the roadside so as not to be seen walking with a chainsaw should another car happened along. It did not. She put the saw in the car, started up and headed for the border as another pair of headlights appeared in her mirror, 7 or 8 miles distant. 

     After a quick trip to the grocery store and filling up the car she headed back for home, 45 miles away. She considered her act of vandalism as she drove along . Was it the dusty remnants of a hippy ethic from 50 years ago, when people cared about such things? Was it legitimate protest against a stupid idea? The rest of this sweet little valley was federal land with a designation that would make it difficult to fall into private hands. But this 20 acres had somehow become private, maybe an old mining claim or homestead that had escaped the purging of thousands of bogus and extinct claims to federal lands dating back to Teddy Roosevelt’s term. If it were sold now it would invariably become the recipient of some goober’s aspirational junk pile of nearly dead cars, trailers, used lumber, and god knows what other kind of crap. Her little act of anarchy might slow that down, or maybe even prevent it. 

     A bit of googling had shown her that the real estate company listed on the sign was in fact just a mail box at a UPS store in a small city 250 mils away. It was doubtful they would even find out for weeks or months, and even more doubtful that who ever they were would drive way the hell out here to replace it. Besides, who even cared? No one out here. She pulled into her house a bit after 11:00, awakened by the bite of the dry, cold desert air, and feeling alive as she stared up at the jewelry in the sky, picking out a planet or two and some familiar constellations. She felt good about this. Old Hayduke and Ed Abbey would be proud of her, she knew that. It was a small thing, but it was a good thing. What was that expression, about how the only real changes that have been effective are  by individuals or small groups of people taking action? Something like that. She had done it, and now if she could just keep her mouth shut it would be a Victory. She walked into her cozy little cabin, gave the dog a scratch, and began to build a fire.    

 Beneath the Ashes

   by Ricki T Thues ©2025

 

 

A Day in the Life

 

The world above is a cacophony of sounds—thundering footfalls, the rustle of ferns, the croak of amphibians and the distant roars of larger beasts. But here, below the surface in the damp dark earth, it is a different life. Luga twitches his nose, listening intently as he grooms his short fur. He navigates the dark labyrinthine tunnels he calls home. Drawn down to their burrow Luga brings today’s catch to his family. His mate, Mimwa, eats eagerly. They crowd into their soft grass nest with their two pups.

 

Luga is accustomed to the dark, it is the secure cool embrace of the earth, more so than the harsh sun above. As dawn’s warm light filters through the soil, Luga stirs in the nest. His mate snuggles close, pawing at the two squirming pups competing for her tits. Their warm presence is comforting.

 

Mimwa rises and pushes uneaten food into a corner of the den. Luga checks the tunnel outside the nest. Today is another day of foraging. Luga’s instincts guide him to the surface where he digs through the blocked earth tunnel with powerful claws. A few steps from the tunnel entrance are roots and insects. He digs and stores the food in his mouth. 

 

A typical day has Luga scuttling from one tunnel to the next. If the exit he needs is not available he digs a new one. His claws are always busy digging tunnels and gathering food. With each successful dig, he feels a surge of pride, a small victory.

 

As he emerges from this tunnel the air is thick with humidity and the scent of rain mingling with the musk of decaying leaves. The surface is alive. Large, dark predators stalk the shadows. Luga stands on hind legs, attentive, searching. A cautious step brings a hulking reptile into view. His heart races at the sight of Gorgon, its powerful limbs propelling it through the underbrush as it stalks a smaller reptile. From the corner of his eye Luga sees movement. It is a raptor dashing toward him. Luga darts back toward the tunnel and dives into the entrance. He works his hind legs furiously as he runs. Dirt flies behind him blocking the tunnel entrance. On the surface, the raptor skids to a stop nosing the dirt filled entrance. Luga runs down the labyrinth in the opposite direction from his den. Pulse pounds his ears like a drum. It is a delicate dance between survival and predation.

 

 

Extinction

 

As the sun sinks lower, the ground trembles. The earth shakes violently with a rumble that reverberates through the tunnels. Luga scrambles down to his den. He and Mimwa gather their pups, urging them to help burrow deeper. Anxiety grips them as they hide. The chaos above escalates and the family presses together, whispering soft worried sounds.

 

The tremors do not subside. The ground fractures and clouds of ash and dust fill the air. During a brief foray to the surface Luga sees the sun obscured, the sky turning an eerie shade of gray. He realizes this is no ordinary storm. This feels like the end of the world. He hurries back to his burrow.

 

The ash continues to fall, choking the life from the surface. The familiar sounds of the world are replaced by silence. The family loses track of time as they huddle in their burrow. Fear of the unknown is all they feel. Days blur together and food stores become scarce.

 

Luga ventures out, driven by hunger and need. The world is unrecognizable. Trees lie toppled, their roots exposed, and the air is thick with a noxious haze. He scavenges for anything edible but the landscape is barren, the once-rich soil turned to dust. He returns to his family with nothing, heart heavy with despair.

 

The days drag on. The pups weaken. He shares the last scraps of food, but it is not enough. The realization strikes that they are no longer just hiding from predators but are fighting for their very survival.

 

One evening Luga makes a choice. He seeks out the depths of the earth where perhaps the climate is stable and life can still exist. He leads his family deeper into the burrows, away from the devastation above. As they tunnel down there are occasional grubs, worms and beetles to consume. Deep tasty tap roots are preserved by the earth. They hold onto hope, clinging to the faint possibility that they might find safety in the depth of darkness.

 

 

Dawn

 

Generations pass. Luga’s descendants are gathered in the large central cavern of their den. They are herding beetles into cages made of pieces of root. They care for and cultivate the roots for food and tools. Bigu’s family looks like Luga’s but are larger, with sleek fur and sharper claws. Their skin is white from lack of sun exposure. 

 

On the surface, the days of darkness eventually give way to a new dawn. The trembling subsides, and the world begins to heal, though the surface is still a wasteland. Bigu ventures up through the tunnels of his ancestor’s world, leading his family to the remnants of their kind’s old life. 

 

To Bigu’s surprise, when he emerges from the tunnel he finds small plants sprouting through the ash. Insects busy themselves. An occasional bird calls.

 

Time passes and they adapt to their new above ground environment. They learn to feed on the new foliage, digging up roots and insects hidden beneath the ground. The family grows strong. In the evening they seek shelter in niche caves of rock cairns where they make their nest.

 

But the world has changed. The predators of old have perished and the few that remain are different yet still lethal. Bigu’s family endures. They are smart survivors.

 

 

Survivors

 

Some time in the future in a distant valley, a family emerges from a large cave. They look like the Bigu family but are much larger, standing and walking upright. They have very short fur and claws like fingernails. The leader, a sturdy male named Arin, surveys the area casting his eyes from side to side. The sun filters through the canopy of trees illuminating jungle foliage, small tusked spotted deer, pygmy boars and cackling birds.

 

“Today we catch a boar,” Arin announces to his family, his voice a low rumble. The young boys pick up poking sticks and follow their father into the brush.

 

The group moves in unison with practiced coordination. The scent of damp earth and blooming flowers fills the air. Excitement surges. Today they will kill a boar for a tribal feast.

 

As they travel Arin shares stories of the past — of the great tremors that reshaped their world, of the dangers they faced and the losses they endured. 

 

“We are the descendants of those who survived. Our strength is to adapt.” 

 

The younger members listen intently, their eyes wide with wonder. They may not understand the weight of history yet their dreams will form the future.

 

In a clearing is a small boar. The two boys skirt the clearing in opposite directions. On a bird call from their father they rush the boar chasing it toward him. Arin steps forward, spear leveled. He uses the speed of the boar and the aim of experience to empale the animal. The boys stab the boar repeatedly from behind. In a struggle of grunts and an exhaustion of breath the boar dies.

 

As the sun sets, the family returns to their cave. Slung between them is the boar. The children chant a march. Arin’s mate returns from foraging nuts and vegetables with the other females of the tribe. All the families huddle in the center of the cave and eat. After the meal each of the families curl together in separate parts of the cave. They share each other’s warmth and stories, enveloped in the comforting darkness of their home.