Bargaining

On By Shyla FairfaxIn Sci Fi, Shyla's Stories1 Comment
Story #2: The Fixers Series

I look over at Gus. He’s a mess. His hair, the little bit of it that he has, is dishevelled and his eyes are red and swollen. His tie hangs loose around his neck, and his white lab coat is on inside out.

“What time did you leave last night?” I ask him, trying not to sound judgemental.

“Huh?” I startle him out of his disorganized thoughts and he jumps a little. “Oh, uh, I’m not sure. Two or so, I guess.”

I nod slowly calculating my next move. He should go home, but the suggestion will offend him.

“Do you want me to take over the Dylan file? I’m done with mine.” It’s the least I can do; I had created the back log by wiping the history from our time mover – a secret I am still keeping.

Gus looks up from the his computer screen and eyes me suspiciously. But then a relief showers over him and I smile gently as he steps away from the desk.

“Coffee?” He offers.

I smile and nod. I consider telling him to fix his coat, but I let it be. By 8:30, Gus is passed out in the lounge – I never did get my coffee.

At 9:05 the front doors swing open, violently thrashing through the air. A woman storms up to the desk, waving a gun. Behind her, I can see Ed, our security guard, lying flat on the pavement outside. I try to decide what the smart move is, but then I realize I’m only telling myself to think; I’m not thinking. I’m panicking.

“You! You in charge?”

I try to tell her that I’m not but no sound is released when I open my mouth. I’m still staring at Ed.

“Hey! You!” she hollers again, this time the gun is pointed right at me. “Are you a fixer?”

“Yes,” I manage, forcing myself to look into her eyes now.

She’s tall and lean, with long brown hair, some of which is tucked into a wide brimmed black hat. She’s hiding behind dark sunglasses, leather gloves, a trench coat and high heels. I try to take a mental photo of her, for Ed.

“What’s your name?” she asks, leaning in to intimidate me further. It’s unnecessary; I’m terrified.

“S-Sasha. Sasha Green.” My voice is barely more than a whimper, and my heart is speeding up. In her glasses I see my own reflection, and I’m humiliated by the small warped image of myself I see.

“Well, Sasha Green. I have a job for you. An urgent one.”

She slams a medical ID bracelet down on my desk. “Fix it.”

“I can’t do that. It’s – we – there’s a system and laws and -”

“Fix it.”

Realizing there’s nothing I can do to reason with this woman, I pick up the bracelet and scan the barcode into my computer. June O’Donnell: 37 years old, Chief Financial Officer at Cane Inc., Recovered: Extensive brain damage (chipped).

Recovered? Fixers have already taken care of this. I scroll down to see the photo. It’s the woman in front of me, holding me at gun point.

I look up at her, unsure of what to say. She must read my confusion immediately, and removes her sunglasses. Her eyes are watering, welling up with tears, and sparking. A mechanical reaction to water. She’s been chipped alright, made cyborg too. It’s a relatively new technology: to recover lost or irreversible bodily damage metal parts are melded into the patient’s fibres. For damage to the brain that extensive, a chip can be used to replace any of the broken functions. Most often, it’s memory loss. The chip will store new memories for you, and false old memories can be implanted at the patient’s request. It changes who you are, but at least it fills the holes. The holes can drive some people mad. But this woman, June, seems to have gone mad just the same.

I’m watching her, trying to assess her state of mind, and what it is she wants from me, when she lashes out. She slams her hand down on my desk with as much force as she can, and it’s a lot. The gloved hand must be cyborg too. I leap back, and a scramble comes from down the hall.

No. Gus.

“Who’s here?!” She hollers out towards the noise, and Gus exposes himself. June cries out and shoots a bullet in the wall behind me. For a second, I think it hits me, and I’m paralyzed. But when the sting doesn’t come, I exhale.

“I’ve called for help so you’d better get moving!” he yells out confidently. I admire it, but it also worries me. I have no idea what she is capable of when threatened. And cyborg’s are not exactly frangible.

“Help?! You want help? I want help.” She doubles over, and more sparks fly from her face. “Fix me, please.”

“You’ve been recovered, it says so right here,” I say, still completely confused.

“You call this fixed?” she tears off a glove to reveal a cold metal hand. “This is not fixed. It’s broken. I was meant to die on that table and Cane Inc. paid you to bring me back! Against my will!”

My heart stops. I look over at Gus and a veil of embarrassment washes over him. Could he have really cut a deal like that? His expression tells me yes. I’m mortified. I guess I’m not the only one who makes mistakes around here.

“The chip,” he whispers finally, “it’s a new technology. It needed to be tested and”

“And,” she moans, imploring him to admit his mistake.

“And we were told…” he stops, drops his head.

June looks back at me, more sympathetic than violent now.

“Fix it,” she whispers.

I nod slowly, and glance at Gus. He’s on the floor now, crumbled by guilt.

I grab her file, and walk over to the machine.

“September 1st,” she says.

I nod again, and set the date. I don’t know exactly how I plan to stop this from happening, but I will. I’m a fixer, and I fix things.

Shyla Fairfax-Owen ©

Click here to read Story #1: An Easy Fix

Bonded

On By Shyla FairfaxIn Fantasy, Horror, Shyla's StoriesLeave a comment

Bonded Excerpt

I’ve never been a penitent person. Some call it mental derangement, some call it sociopathy, but I just call it love. Some say I’m a victim of that love, but I don’t see it that way. I have never been a victim.

Description

A young woman is called upon by a mysterious man to a mysterious manor… and she can’t resist.

Publication Link

Read the complete story for free in the Siren’s Call Ezine, Issue #23: Bat-Shit Crazy for You

Shyla Fairfax-Owen ©

Grace and the Varmin

On By Shyla FairfaxIn Fantasy, Horror, Shyla's Stories4 Comments

Donnie had never been particularly perspicuous, so when he asked Grace to attend the concert with him she was taken slightly aback. Up until that moment, she had been unsure whether he had any real interest in her, or if he had just been making the best of the situation. She had been a gift after all; a compromise; a symbol of gratitude – though never treated as one. A concert, though, was a clear indicator of affection. Or, at the very least, fondness. It eased her mind, and even loosened the figurative cuffs around her wrists.

The rendition of Sonata no.14 was poor, but Grace tried to appreciate the effort behind it and clapped heartily with the crowd when it was expected of her. She snuck glances of Donnie every now and again, but he seemed indifferent to all of it. At the intermission, she hurried off to the ladies’ room – an excuse to gather her thoughts.

“I’m awful tonight, I know.”

The voice was soft but sent a jolt through Grace, who had not expected Donnie to enter the washroom. Her face flushed immediately, and she stuttered without eloquence. She had no idea what the appropriate words were, nor what reaction Donnie was trying to garner from her. That always made her nervous – not knowing what others wanted of her. He approached slowly, eyes locked into her own. She tried to look away, but found herself mesmerized by his forwardness. In all the time she had know him, he had barely said more than a few words directly to her. In fact, he rarely spoke at all.

Grace’s knees buckled as she backed into the counter, clawing the edge with her satin-gloved fingernails. Donnie came within a couple inches of her and stopped dead. The intensity in his eyes melted away, leaving behind those of a confused youth. He shook his head as though awakening from a trance and looked around. Grace cleared her throat, still absent of vocabulary. In the distance, the bell sounded to urge the audience back to their seats.

“We should,” Donnie started.

He did not finish. He simply wandered out.

Grace spun to face the mirror again. Her dress was a vibrant pink that shone under the pot lights. Disoriented, she tugged at the strapless number to raise it higher on her bust, tucked a few rebellious curls back into her diamond encrusted hair clip, and exited the washroom.

Donnie was nowhere in sight. Rattled, Grace walked back to her seat on the balcony. He was not there either. After the show, Grace stepped into the cold night air and used her cellular to dial her driver. It was supposed to be his night off, but he would have to make an exception. He brought her home, where she undressed and retired to the library; one of the few rooms Donnie had granted her access to (although it was not without a fight).

The next morning she attended to her usual chores. It was while she was dusting the entertainment set and watching the news that Grace heard of the gruesome murders of two concert goers. Both had been wearing stunning pink dresses, much like her own.

She turned away from the screen, resisting reaction. It was not her job to understand Donnie, or his motives. When he came home, she would not even ask the question.

Shyla Fairfax-Owen ©

The Antidote

On By Shyla FairfaxIn Fantasy, Horror, Sci Fi, Shyla's StoriesLeave a comment

Johnny entered the pub through the side door and looked around. The atmosphere was exactly what he had been expecting. The room was dimly lit by low hanging chandeliers that were caked with dust, most of the stools at the bar were occupied by middle-aged men sitting in silence and sipping aggressively, and in the back corner a booth was enlivened by two drunkards carrying on a desultory conversation. Johnny took a deep breath and strode over to an empty booth near the back door. He was close enough to the drunkards now to see their spit flying back and forth and wished he could settle in elsewhere. It was too risky though; the instructions for this meeting had specified this booth, and he did not want to get it off to a rough start.

“What’ll it be?” the waitress asked. She was the type of woman who Johnny guessed was much younger than she appeared. Chronic exhaustion seemed to be taking its toll.

“Um, just a water please.” The waitress sighed, dropping her hands to her side, still lazily gripping the pen and pad.

Johnny tried to smile politely but she took off without a glance back. Only a little scathed by her rudeness, Johnny slumped down in his booth and began tapping his fingers impatiently on the poorly wiped down table.

It was nearly an hour after their agreed upon meeting time when Oliver finally entered. Johnny perked up at the sight of him and gulped the remainder of his second coffee. It was tepid and strong; too strong in Johnny’s opinion but he kept ordering them to keep from further upsetting his waitress.

Oliver gracefully took the chair opposite Johnny, and it was not until they were eye level with one another that Johnny saw how much the other man was sweating.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” Oliver whispered. “It’s been a difficult morning.”

Johnny nodded sympathetically, but said nothing.

“Look doc,” Oliver continued, leaning in now, eyes wide. “This needs to happen, and it needs to happen now.”

Stunned, Johnny began to stammer in opposition but was abruptly cut off by more of Oliver’s urgent whispers. Johnny shifted in his seat, discomforted by the intensity.

“I’m not messing around here. It’s serious. You gotta help me.”

Johnny nodded. Panic was obviously taking Oliver over. Johnny had hoped he would be able to convince him to come back to the lab with him for a proper assessment; a night of observation, even. But Oliver was intent on meeting in this very spot, which should have been a red flag that no amount of common sense was going to change his mind.

“I want the cure. I want it now.”

“It’s not like that Oliver. Like I said, we need to evaluate the circumstance surrounding the -”

“Doc!”

He raised his voice nearly, leaping out of his seat. Immediately afterwards, he became aware of the attention he had drawn, slunk back down, and glanced around nervously. Lycanthropy in such early stages had many possible symptoms which depended upon the infected person’s own genetic makeup. But no matter how you analyzed the data, aggression and the inability to control oneself were always at the top of the list.

Johnny tensed, trying not to let Oliver sense his building fear. The scent, as far as Johnny’s own studies showed, could enhance the potential for sudden onset rage in the infected.

“Okay,” Johnny whispered. “Order a drink.”

Relief overcame Oliver. It was visible, especially in his demeanor which lightened significantly. Oliver hailed over the waitress and had her bring him a tequila. No salt, no lemon. After a deep breath, and a slight smile, Oliver shot the liquor back and rubbed his eyes as if just waking up. Johnny could see how happy he was in that moment; it was a moment he had dreamt of for weeks on end now. The stress of the change had been an unbearable burden, but it would be over now. Johnny discretely passed him the vial under the table, and as it exchanged hands he felt a thankful squeeze of his own.

With that, Johnny rose from the table and nodded a friendly goodbye. As he made his way back to the side door he could hear Oliver order a second tequila; the one he’d poor the vial contents into. It ached Johnny to know he would not get the chance to study this one. All the same, the fallacy of the so-called antidote would be taken willingly, which was to Johnny’s benefit. Yes, they needed to die; but he always preferred it not be directly by his hand. He slept better that way.

Shyla Fairfax-Owen ©

The Sickness

On By Shyla FairfaxIn Fantasy, Halloween, Horror, Shyla's StoriesLeave a comment

I wheeze, sniffle, muffle, and cough – the common cold. Only it’s not so common for me. When it comes, it knocks me down like a vengeful wind. Ten feet ahead of me the world is consumed in a dizzy fog; a miasma of infectious symptoms envelope me so that even my dog stays away.

“Uhh,” I groan as the morning light splashes across my face.

Some of my senses dull, while others seem to heighten, which leaves me even more disoriented. In the distance, I think I hear the hiss of a missile, and for just a moment I panic. Then I realize it’s the kettle and a wave of relief and lulled excitement washes over me. Warm liquid is my euphoria.

I stumble towards the kitchen, fighting my way through the spider webs. In my haze of hindered health, I have forgotten how quickly Halloween is approaching, and how energetically I had decorated only days before the germ storm.

“Morning sunshine,” he whispers as he kisses my cheek.

I nod and force a smile as I reach for the steaming mug. Wordless, still, I gesture to him to shut the blinds and he does. The sudden sensitivity makes me feel like a vampire, which is amusing since it will be my costume in a few days. I almost chuckle, but manage to shiver instead, and he drapes my housecoat over my shoulders.

“You should stay home,” he insists, again; this time I choose to oblige.

After he leaves I send a text message to my assistant saying that I will be working from home today. Neither of us believes it.

A hunger I cannot satisfy courses through me so I crawl back into bed, fully giving into my new found monstrosity. I hide from myself all day and by the time I rise the moon has too. Pleasantly numbed, I stretch out and head to the washroom. The flip of the switch disturbs the darkness and sends my ailments into a frenzy. Squinting and yelping I hit the switch again and let the darkness ease me, but not before catching a glimpse of my reflection.

I’m paled, with sunken cheeks and dark circles around my eyes. Absorbing the welcomed darkness I smack my tongue against the roof of my mouth and realize I am parched. I twist the tap and cool water streams from it. Feverishly, I duck my head and take it in straight from the source. As I drink, my tongue works itself around my mouth, and I can’t help but wonder: have my teeth always been so sharp?

As if testing them, I pierce my lower lip and blood swirls with the water to create a warmer, thicker substance. I have to admit, I like it. In the background I can hear my dog whimper – it’s the only sound I can hear clearly, now. The only smell that is precise.

Shyla Fairfax-Owen ©

Cassini

On By Shyla FairfaxIn Fantasy, Micro Fiction, Sci Fi, Shyla's Stories2 Comments

It was not the first time the cumbersome machine had orbited the sky. Initially, nothing seemed conspicuous; but then the machine began an obvious descent. A shadow cast across his face, the Saturnshine all but disappearing.

He dove off the island; fought his way hurriedly through the icy surface until he was enveloped by the cold salty waters. Deeper and deeper he swam until he could rest his body against the rocky ocean surface. And there he would stay, alone, and afraid. There was something out there – something mysterious.

And somehow he just knew, things might never be the same.

Shyla Fairfax-Owen ©

*This micro fiction is inspired by Nasa’s Cassini Plume Dive Mission.

For more information, visit Cassini Solstice Mission

An Easy Fix

On By Shyla FairfaxIn Sci Fi, Shyla's Stories8 Comments
Story #1: The Fixers Series

I curse under my breath and sneak a peek at next week’s schedule. Most of the fixers will be on vacation, which is a huge relief. It means if I do get caught, they’ll need me so much that there’s a fairly slim chance that I’ll face any extreme consequences. Knowing that makes me feel a whole lot better about what I’m about to do, but my stomach is still in knots.

I know it’s wrong to set up an unsanctioned mission, but I also know that if Gus knew the circumstances he’d approve it. Of course, then I have to ask myself why I don’t just explain the situation to Gus – then I recall my aversion to failure. I don’t want to admit that I messed up. I’m a fixer; it’s what I do. I can fix this.

I wait until the very last night-hawk has retired from her desk, looking overworked but gleaming with pride.

“Have a good night Sash,” she yells behind her as she drags herself across the lab.

“I will,” I reply, trying to sound as natural as possible. It’s not uncommon for me to be the last to leave, so I know the encounter is nothing to worry about.

Once I triple-check the building for witnesses, I pull up the file on my desktop. Ty Simpson: 22 years old, student, deceased, C.O.D. heart failure. Yes, that’s him. I have to catch my breath because although I know the file has auto-updated by now, it’s still jarring to see the word. Deceased. I was supposed to save him, but I grabbed the wrong file, ended up in the wrong hospital. There was an Andy Simpson two states over in similar condition. That’s the location I set the machine to. I had recognized my mistake as soon as I saw him. Ty’s photo had stood out to me; he had these incredibly kind eyes.

The condition he had was perfectly treatable, of course, the misdiagnosis made that pretty difficult. The mistake was obvious within just a few days. It was an easy fix, but I messed it up.

I take a deep breath and hurry over to the machine. I bring Ty’s file with me and carefully enter the location, and the date: Monday. I just have to get back to Monday. I spin around, giving the lab one more glance to verify its emptiness. It’s sterile, quiet, and dark except for the light shining from my station. Perfect. Passer-bys should think I’m here.

Stepping into the machine I feel the rays of electric heat wrap around my body. I seal the door and enter my pass code. I’ll have to remember to swipe the memory drive when I return. That will be a major violation and will not go unnoticed. But as long as the whole week’s memory is gone, it might pass for a technical blip.

My heart pounding, I check my pockets for the meds, and read over the location one last time. Correct. I hit the LAUNCH button and brace for impact. The vibrations kick in and I feel my body undulate in the chaos.

‘It’s OK Sasha. You’re gunna fix this,’ I think to myself.

Shyla Fairfax-Owen ©

Click here to read Story #2: Bargaining

The Visitors

On By Shyla FairfaxIn Fantasy, Halloween, Horror, Shyla's Stories2 Comments

As the minute hand crept its way closer to the top of the clock, Jaime sighed. It was time to begin the ritual. Like every year, she began with her ablutions; she washed her hands, feet, and face with warm water and soap made of goat’s milk. As the water eased its way into her pores she relaxed, her muscles easing. After filling the bucket up she retreated to the living room where she emptied it onto the fire. Embers swirled around her, ashes floated to the floor, and smoke filled her lungs. The room fell dark, a heavy smoke fog obscuring any view she might have had of the clock.

Guessing she probably had a few minutes left to spare, Jaime made her way over to the big window and drew open the curtains. An orange tinted light spilled in from the blood moon, glazing the room with a speciously warm coloring. Everything was still, save for the smoke and moonlight which danced an eerie duet. The ominous BONG began in the distance; the town clock had struck twelve. With a deep breath, Jaime flung the shutters open, letting a gush of cold night air in.

From across the field she could see the corn stalks rustling. They were coming. As they did every year, on this night, at this hour. Crossing worlds could only be done on Halloween, after all.

From the fields, shadows emerged stretching over twenty feet of her lawn. They approached slowly, and steadily. Jaime knew she should hide, but there was still some time for that. She liked to watch the shadows come upon her for a while. This had been the case since she was little. Fear mingled with curiosity in a way that only made sense to her. Over the years, she had tried to explain it to people once or twice, but it was always a feckless endeavor. Nowadays, she mostly kept to herself year-round. She tended to her crops, sold her herbs, and waited in eager hunger for this night – the night when they would come.

She would hide, and they would seek. She knew as well as they did that only someone with a gift as powerful as her own would be a worthy opponent; a worthy prize. Knowing her own strength that way was nothing short of exhilarating. Admittedly, Jaime liked the chase, liked being hunted, liked outwitting the hunters. Then the clock would strike six, and a new day would dawn, casting them away for another year.

Maybe one night she’d surrender. Let them take her. See what all the fuss was about her there on the other side. But not tonight.

Shyla Fairfax-Owen ©

Follow

On By Shyla FairfaxIn Fantasy, Micro Fiction, Shyla's Stories3 Comments

She cursed her own credulity, and followed him into the woods. She hadn’t always been so curious, so gullible – at least, she didn’t think so. He had changed her; opened her mind up to a new adventure. Besides, seeing is believing; and she had recently seen a thing or two she dare not repeat to strangers. What was one more for the list? Worst case scenario, she had fallen into an eternal sleep, and was dreaming herself up a new life… one where she could be anything; see anything; and know all.

Shyla Fairfax-Owen ©

A micro-fiction challenge for Seshata Literary Arts Society

The Waiting Room

On By Shyla FairfaxIn Fantasy, Horror, Shyla's Stories5 Comments

Warren stared down at his form, blankly. He had no idea how to answer questions like, “what is your ideal career?”, or “do you prefer warmer or cooler climates?” Nor did he want to. The truth is, he didn’t much mind being dead, and Limbo suited him well. He wasn’t sure he even wanted to move on, let alone sure he knew where he wanted to go.

But those were the rules. If you were chosen to be a Watcher, you had to go back to somewhere and be someone (covertly).

“Excuse me,” Warren hailed the receptionist but she made an obvious effort to ignore him, again.

He released a sigh of defeat and lowered his eyes back to the form. His number, 057, was fast approaching; once it was called he would have to have some real answers and make some real decisions. The pressure was unbearable. Warren had always had a proclivity towards procrastination and indecisiveness. How had the elders decided he would be a good Watcher? It didn’t seem like his thing.

He had had a comfortable life before the accident. He had managed a meat factory – okay, that wasn’t entirely true. He was the second assistant, but often enough he’d be left in charge. He didn’t have to do much though; in fact, it was an accepted truth that he was only given the promotion to acknowledge his sixteen years of loyal meat-packing service. It was fitting that he had fallen into the meat-grinder and died six months later. The job had consumed his life.

But Limbo was very nice. It was quiet, and polite. Warren liked it.

He looked up. The screen read 038.

Okay, first question: What is your favorite pastime? Button Collecting Bird watching.

‘More outdoorsy.’ Warren smiled, satisfied with his creative response. ‘I always wished I was a bit more outdoorsy.’

What is your favourite season? Summer.

That was a lie. Warren liked Late Fall best because the chill in the air was a good excuse to spend his nights inside. But summer was more suitable for bird watching.

What is your favourite movie?

Warren thought long and hard, rapping his pen against his temple. What was the last movie he had seen? He thought his favourite movie of all time might be something with Indiana Jones, but he couldn’t recall which ones he had seen and which ones he hadn’t. Warren straightened his glasses, an excuse to raise his hand to his brow and discreetly wipe away the sweat.

044.

His heart rate increased as he scribbled down his answer: Indiana Jones. ‘Vague yet direct. All of them, or the most famous one. They’ll get it…’

Warren continued to forge his way through the questionnaire and was nearly done when a new woman entered the waiting room and took a seat next to him. She was beautiful, even though her right arm was severed clean off.

“Lawnmower” she sang out to Warren when she caught him gawking. She didn’t seem offended, at all.

“O-Oh, Oh I’m sorry.” He looked away, blushing.

“You?” She asked through a wide smile.

“Meat Grinder,” he replied, pointing to his bad side. His left arm was mostly gone, the left side of his torso ripped apart, and his left thigh looked as though it had been chomped into.

“I would have guessed shark,” she chuckled flirtatiously.

Warren laughed along nervously. The sweat was streaming now.

“So, where are you off to?” he asked.

“Hawaii, I think. It should suit my free-spirit.”

“Oh? Do you surf?”

“Well, no. I was something of a recluse in my past life. But I’m planning to rebuild my image.”

Warren smiled, and jotted down his final answer. Hawaii, it would be.

Shyla Fairfax-Owen ©