Fiction Vortex - November 2013, Page 2

  “How … how could that have been a dream?”

  “An understandable reaction. It is disorienting, I know, but it will all start coming back to you. You see, we didn’t create your dream world. You did. We only set the stage. A dream is like an inkblot test. We supplied the blank canvas, and dripped the paint on it. You interpreted the dream for what it was and built it as you went along, becoming stronger and stronger, as it became more and more real. And this was no ordinary dream, am I right? Besides the fact that it was long, you had all the freedoms that you would have in the real world. You could eat food, perform sex, and go to sleep at night without a second thought, and all of it felt extremely real. This technology allows the prisoner the comfort of freedom even in a padded cell. That is the true vision behind this invention. Even the criminal deserves some aspect of comfort, and this dream world allowed you that relief.”

  Terrance winced with a searing headache. “But that wouldn’t be real.”

  “Yes, certainly, but those twenty years of your incarceration just flew by, didn’t they?” The doctor smiled. “This technology is highly controversial. The argument is that the criminal doesn’t have the time to think about his crime, and truly find his day of judgment, that this dream state is only distracting him with false ideals. Yet the entire prison is run on this technology. Like I say, there’s no such thing as bad publicity.”

  “You have to let me go,” Terrance pleaded.

  “I’m afraid not. We woke you because this is your day of judgment, Mr. Walker. The agreement is that the sleeper has to be awake for his execution, so he can remember what he did, and pay the penalty for it. I’m afraid that day has come.”

  “But I didn’t do anything wrong! I shouldn’t be here!”

  Terrance attempted to stand and the three men restrained him back into his bed. Seeing how weak he was, he stopped thrashing, but the doctors did not let go.

  “You don’t have any memory of what you did?” the doctor asked him.

  “No! I didn’t do anything! I protected that woman! I loved her!” Terrance screamed.

  “What woman?”

  “The Star!”

  “Was her name Maggie White?”

  “No! I don’t know who that is!”

  “This is common. The subject has a hard time differentiating between his two lives,” he told the others. The doctor extracted a tape player and set it down on the bed. “We tape the confessions of all our inmates, in hopes of jogging their memories at the end.” The doctor pressed play, and Terrance recognized his own voice inside the little speaker.

  “My name is Terrance Walker, I am twenty-seven years old, and I was arrested a month ago for murder. Yesterday in court I was found guilty of murdering … of murdering Maggie White, my girlfriend of four years. I held her cap — captive in my basement for two months, in hopes of protecting her from her abusive father. I also murdered her father when he came to my door looking for her. I was … I was only trying to help her.” The voice was softer now, grinding away to nothing. Terrance found that he was starting to cry. “Her estranged father came looking for her after her mother died. He only wanted the money Maggie inherited from the will, and he wouldn’t take no for an answer. He became physical.” The voice was rising again, now with fire. “She wanted it all to end. She wanted to go to the police, but it was her father, and she couldn’t bring herself to do it. I promised to help her. I offered her my home, and when she was reported missing, I hid her in my basement. I fed her, but when the police started questioning me, I — I panicked and locked her down there. I refused to open the door, fearing … I don’t know. I was afraid that if I opened that door she would leave me forever, after all I did for her. Then her father came to me. He didn’t suspect me of anything. He was worried. He only wanted peace of mind. He heard her screams. I had to kill him. I — I started to pretend that nothing was wrong and that … that there was no one dying in my basement. I went to work as normal. I went about my life. I was burying her father in a cemetery when I was caught … I don’t know. It all seems meaningless now.”

  “Mr. Walker, what about the girl’s eyes?” This was a new voice, an unnamed interviewer.

  “Oh, that. I didn’t have anything to do with it.” Terrance’s voice was so calm, almost mechanical. “When they found her body, some animal had taken them. I’ve seen mice down there before.”

  The tape ran out and the doctor pressed the stop button.

  “Now do you remember?” the doctor asked.

  Terrance continued to weep under the restraints of the three men. “That wasn’t me! I wouldn’t do that to her! I protected her! I kept her safe from him! I’m a doctor! Just like you! Please! Please, you have to know that wasn’t me!”

  “That was your voice, Mr. Walker. And that other reality, that was a dream. Whatever you think you did, none of it was real. None of it matters. You killed two people, and now you must be judged.” The doctor motioned for the two guards at the door, and they walked forward to grab Terrance.

  “No! No! This is the dream! I’m going to wake up now!” The doctors pressed their backs to the wall as the guards grabbed Terrance under the arms. They lifted him to his feet. He was skinny and small, dressed in a white hospital gown with a shaved face and head. He didn’t have an ounce of muscle on him, and they did not stagger under his weight. They dragged him to the door with ease and forced him into a cold hallway. “I’ll wake up on top of that hill. I’ll find her waiting for me. Please! Please, don’t do this!”

  He was dragged into a white room filled with light. The men forced him into a chair and restrained him with straps pulled much too tight across his emaciated chest. A woman stepped up in front of him, holding a syringe. She wore a similar uniform of white like the doctor’s, only hers fanned out into a dress over her knees. She had a white surgical mask over her mouth, and her blonde hair was pulled back into a bun.

  “No! No! I didn’t hurt her! I didn’t hurt her!” he screamed as she stuck his arm with the needle.

  The woman stepped back and then suddenly changed. She became an angel in an aura of white light. Her wings expanded behind her back, and her hair swept from right to left. The syringe was now a brass horn, and she put it to her lips and blew a call. The white light consumed her, leaving Terrance in a colorless void of silence. He closed his eyes, and when he opened them again, he lay at the base of the hill, the water rolling up the beach and tasting his fingers. He must have rolled down the hill, possibly to escape the man with the knife. Nighttime was gone, replaced by the sun. He was alone, and he bled out from the chest.

  The sky was blue and clear. He looked out at the ocean and spotted a boat sailing away from the shore. In this boat was the Star, Olin’s daughter. She was no longer blindfolded, and she did not carry her sword. She had glorious angel wings and a brass horn in her hands. She sat stoically, looking at the hill with a solemn gaze. Even as she drifted farther away, he could see her blue eyes shine in the sunlight.

  “This is real,” he told her, and even though it was nothing but a whisper, he knew she could hear him. “This is what counts. You were right, I was always on the path to enlightenment, and that dream, that horrible place, was what I had to wake from. I will die in this world.”

  “And now you are enlightened?” Her voice seemed to speak to him from inside his head.

  “I don’t know.”

  “You must begin again.”

  “How is that fair?” he asked. “Why do you get to leave by water while I remain rooted to the earth?”

  “Because I am ready to leave, and you are not,” she replied. “I can see again, but you are still blind. You’re back where you started, on the same stretch of ground. But you can start again, and do things differently. But don’t be confused; I forgive you.”

  “I’m sorry if I ever hurt you. I’m truly sorry.” He cried into the sand.

  “What was your first memory?” she asked. “You were only a lad and you created the road out of nothing, for you to
walk on. Do that again. It’s an inkblot test. You create your own surroundings. You make your own meaning.”

  “I’ve heard that before. Where did I hear that?”

  But the boat had already disappeared over the horizon. He hung his head and fell quickly to sleep. The world reduced into nothing under him. All memory, all thought, all sense and pain were cleared from his slate, giving birth to a new world of darkness. When he opened his eyes, he was only a child, and he carried a knapsack in his arms. A road stretched out before him, and he blinked in bewilderment, not knowing where or who he was. All he knew was that he had a road to travel on. He looked at his hands and saw that he wore handcuffs around his wrists. Was he being punished? What had he been born to carry with him?

  The road seemed new, but he started to think that he had done this before in another life, only a dream now, and he would have to do it again. If only he could remember what he had done wrong. He would have to figure that out, he supposed.

  He wished that it was easier to remember a dream, especially when the brain was so hell-bent on piecing it together. All those dark visions swam at his back, prodding him forward, and he took his first step into the sunlight.

  He looked up into the sun and immediately lost his sight. Soon he would forget what it was like to see altogether. He staggered forward into the dark world, begging for an explanation. He begged for something. If only dreams weren’t so cryptic and senseless, he thought to himself. If only.

  Brendan Verville is an English student in Denver, Colorado. His works have been published in the Metrosphere and From the Depths literary magazines, and most recently, his story ”Too Much Sleep” was included in Fiction Vortex’s 2013 horror contest.

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  The Traditional Taste

  by Jon Arthur Kitson; published November 5, 2013

  Second Place Award, November 2013 Fiction Contest

  The robot didn’t slurp. Koa found that obscene.

  No one else in the room seemed to care.

  “It’s not mixing air with the coffee,” Koa said. “It won’t get an accurate flavor profile.”

  “It doesn’t need air,” a technician — ’Brad’ according to his name tag — answered.

  Koa’s eyes rolled. He folded his arms across his chest, squeezed the brass spittoon between his legs and stared down the tasting table at the robot. It sat in his father’s spot.

  It’s blank eyes were lit red. Liquid drained into its chest cavity.

  No spitting. Obscene.

  “Well?” the owner, standing near the door, asked. The company’s palm tree logo, in the form of a gold lapel pin, flashed from his chest in the moist, tropical light streaming through the windows. “How does it compare with Koa’s profile?”

  Brad opened a panel on the robot’s head.

  “Identical,” he said, reading the display. “All points; mouthfeel, tones, even the slight astringency.”

  Everyone in the room clapped, except for Koa, who grimaced, and the owner, who cocked a thick eyebrow.

  “So what?” Koa asked over the din. “It’s all chemical analysis.” To his boss: “The other producers have been doing it for decades, Tom.” To the technician: “All you made is a human-shaped chemistry set.”

  “No,” Brad said. “Its nothing like that.” He patted the robot’s head. “It doesn’t sample the coffee’s chemical make-up. It processes the tasting experience just like a human brain.” His mouth turned into a cockeyed grin. “Just like your brain.”

  Koa’s squat tasting stool threatened to squirt from underneath him as he spun on his boss.

  The man didn’t meet Koa’s eyes.

  “Give it a regular seat,” Tom said and walked out the door.

  ~~~~~

  Koa’s fist hit the desk. The coffee in Tom’s cup flooded its saucer. Koa dipped a finger in the scalding liquid, flicked it at his boss.

  “Dammit, Koa.” Tom brushed coffee off his tie. “Calm down.”

  “You lied to me.” Koa’s eyes held steady on Tom’s. “You said all the tests … all the damn wires stuck to my head … were for insurance purposes.”

  “They were,” Tom said, not shying away from Koa’s stare. “To ensure Palm Island Coffee is around for another 150 years.” He leaned back in his chair. “Now, if you’re done assaulting me with House Blend, sit down.”

  Koa did, but perched on the seat’s edge.

  “Good,” Tom said. “I’m sorry I misled you, but I knew this is how you’d react—”

  “A robot?” Koa said. “Traditional tasting, Tom, that’s what Palm Island is renowned for. We’re the last ones doing it. What’ll this make us? iCoffee?”

  “Yes.” Tom spun the monitor on his desk. “Let me show you something.”

  On screen was the bastard child of a ‘50s sci-fi movie poster and a Hawaiian travel brochure. Palm trees and buxom hula girls swayed in front of a perfect blue ocean. In front of them an ideal Polynesian warrior, bronzed and shirtless, sipped coffee from a delicate cup. Next to him, drinking in the same satisfied manner, was the robot. Its red eyes sparkled.

  The tag-line beneath the scene: Palm Island Coffee, The Past and the Future in One Cup.

  Koa stared.

  “It’s Retro,” Tom said. “Our consulting firm says it’s the latest thing.”

  Koa’s eyes darted to his boss. “That … is … insane. Our buyers will never accept it.”

  Tom turned the screen and sighed.

  “Our buyers are a dying breed,” he said. “The foodie trend is over. That’s what we need to accept. No one cares anymore that our company has been family owned for a 150 years, or that your family has been impeccably scrutinized the taste for generations. Gastronomy, food blended with science, is the new movement.” His elbows rested on the desk. “We have to evolve.”

  “So, what’s next?” Koa said. “Coffee capsules? Gelatin?” His face wrinkled. “Flavored coffee?”

  “Dammit, Koa, we’re still making real coffee. And the robot’s really tasting it.” Tom’s lips curled to a soft smile. “Besides, do you plan on living forever? You’re the last in your line—”

  “This is my fault?” Koa’s eyes dug into Tom’s. “Mine and Lani’s?”

  Tom’s eyes expanded.

  “No,” he said quickly. “God no. I didn’t mean to imply … Really, Koa, that’s not what I meant.”

  Koa shrugged it off.

  “I have cousins on the mainland,” he said. “Maybe one of them—”

  “No,” Tom said. “We’ve got to give the robot a try, for the company. Surely, you can understand that.”

  “All I understand,” Koa said, heading for the door, “is, for the first time in fifteen years, I’m glad my father’s dead.” He stopped with his hand on the knob. “And for your sake, Tom, I’m glad yours is too.”

  ~~~~~

  That night, Koa dreamed:

  He stood next to a hospital bed. Lani, ebony hair plastered to her forehead, whistling breaths bursting from her pursed lips, laid in it. A doctor stood between her stirruped feet.

  Koa’s stomach dropped. He’d had the dream — nightmare — before.

  He had lived it.

  Lani had been pregnant five times. Only one made it to full term.

  He was still-born.

  The doctor announced it was time. Koa cringed. Then …

  A baby cried.

  The doctor handed the swaddled infant to a stunned Koa.

  Who turned, passed his wife and presented the child to the man standing behind him.

  His father, very much alive, studied the bundle …

  Then looked away.

  “What?” Koa looked at the child in his arms.

  The glowing red eyes of the tasting robot looked back at him.

  “No,” Koa said. He looked up; a Polynesian warrior stood before him. His muscled chest heaved. The bleached sharks teeth ringing the Pololu spear in his hand glinted in the birthing-room lights.

  Though no p
ictures existed of the man, Koa knew him instantly: Hiapo Palakiko, his great-plus-more-times-than-he-could-ever-remember grandfather. Family lore claimed Hiapo fought to the death defending Queen Liliʻuokalani, Hawaii’s last monarch, from the pineapple barons and their coup.

  Hiapo’s spear rose.

  Koa gasped as it split his chest.

  ~~~~~

  The robot was already at the tasting table. Brad buzzed behind it. Koa sat and stared out the window. Mist rose off the field of coffee bushes.

  “-Good morning-”

  Koa jumped at the metallic greeting.

  The robot’s eyes glowed at him. Brad smirked.

  “-Good morning-”

  “It talks?” Koa addressed the technician.

  “Yeah,” Brad answered, smirk growing into a smile. “I just installed the program yesterday afternoon—”

  “-Good morning-”

  Koa raised an eyebrow.

  “It’s a learning program,” Brad said. “It’ll grow and develop over time—” The robot offered another ‘good morning’ to Koa. “—and it’s still in beta. If you don’t respond it’ll probably keep it up all day.”

  Koa rolled his eyes, but on the robot’s fifth ‘good morning’, he waved a dismissive hand at the machine.

  This did the trick. With the faint sound of gears whirring, the robot’s head rotated back to straight. For a moment, its eyes flickered brightly.

  “Aloha, gentleman.”

  Palm Island’s Master Roaster entered the room. He slid two trays, each with four full sampling glasses, onto the table.