Quick Stories & Poems, Vol. 3

Dive into a captivating world of emotion, imagination, and profound insight with this extraordinary collection of short stories and poetry.

Anthology Contributor: "Futures Hence"

Paperback $17.99 | eBook $2.99

Sample | Sample Reading by Author | Reviews

Sample

I snuggled into the crook of the wall, the bricks catching and pulling the hairs on the back of my neck. With one hand, I cupped my chin, then pushed it up and to the right until I heard and felt a string of pops. People always asked me, “With your seniority, why do you still go down?” The dark was cool and comfortable, the breeze blowing in my face quite pleasant. That was one reason why I still came down: the feel of actual wind.

The breeze changed directions and carried the sharp, sour stink of bar’s dumpster along with it. I did my best to shut it out, but it was not easy, and it was certainly not welcome. Which came to the other reason why I was one of the few Cappers who would come down anymore: bonus pay to risk the smells or whatever else was in the air. There were no bonuses for the distractions that went along with coming down. As a Capper, distractions could be just as lethal as whatever might be in the air or breeding in a puddle.

A soft voice whispered into my earpiece, “It’s coming now. We got it thrown out.” I pressed the thumbnail-sized earpiece deeper into my ear, grateful for that much: my target would be coming to me, making my job that much easier. Inside, his message given, my contact would beat it. It never paid to be on the scene when a Capper delivered. I reached under my trench coat to take my snub-nosed 50-caliber Enforcer out of the back of my belt and unbuttoned the top two buttons of my shirt with my free hand so it would be a little less restricting if I needed to be able to move more freely. It would not be long; my job would be done, then I could go home to a hot bath and safe, sanitized air. I cleared my throat, hacked, and spat out phlegm. That was not good. I had been on the street too long already; my antivirals were wearing off or being overpowered, and I was getting sick. “Shit.”

I opened my mouth wide and moved my jaw to no effect, then plugged my nose with thumb and forefinger, clamped my mouth shut and blew, finally managing to unplug my ears. Not good just got worse. Whatever I had caught was already in my ears, which could affect my balance, which could also get me killed. “Out’a here!” a man’s harsh voice came.

“Out’a here!” a man’s harsh voice came.

I looked over just in time to see a figure tossed out the bar’s back door. It was a “her.” She fell ungracefully to the asphalt, skinning her chin and hands. The first thing to hit was her chin, so it was no surprise when she did not move immediately. The burly man spat in her direction, the glob of glistening saliva arcing up and then down onto the back of her thigh. I did not like that. I could arrest him for that on a 245, assault with a deadly weapon for exposing her to potentially hazardous waste, but I was not in the mood. When he turned, I glimpsed the wide patch of a scabbed rash on the back of his neck above his collar, one of the signs of long-term use of low-end antivirals. If nothing else, it marked him as normal. He slammed the door behind him, rocking the light mounted to the wall beside the door jam. After a count of ten, she looked back, her eyes narrowed in pain or anger, I really did not care which.

Then again, if I did not care, why was I still waiting? I removed my ear-piece and dropped it into my trench-coat pocket.

“I don’t need you anyway,” she muttered, but her voice was thick with emotion. She sat up, caught a big drop of blood as it fell off her chin and wiped it on her pants. She had red-orange hair and a pretty enough face — for what she was — but she had a quirk about her. Something was somehow ... off. I twisted my moustache with one hand and thought about it for a moment. It came to me: she was perfectly healthy. She was not rashy, not coughing, not dripping snot, not even weepy eyes. It marked her as clearly as the other’s rash marked him. She was not even trying to conceal her genetics. She might have even be using it. There were still ones like her selling their blood, saliva — even sexual fluids! — with the promise of their genetic immunities. It was rare to catch it from them, but there were still cases every once in a while.

She groaned, cradling her hands against her chest. She rocked back and forth on her knees, not stopping as she lifted her hands to blow on the bleeding scrapes as a tear rolled down her cheek. 

 I returned my Enforcer to the back of my pants and stood. I would not need it to pick this one up — she was not dangerous. “Hey,” I said and stepped out of the shadows.