Issue 129 June 2024

Table of Contents

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Editorial: Us Versus Them

by Rebecca Halsey

June 6, 2024

“Why do people go to war?”

That was the question my eight-year-old asked at dinner the other night when we explained that the U.S. holiday, Memorial Day, is in honor of military service members that have given their lives in battle.

Following her question, the adults and teenagers did shifty eyes around the table. There’s no good answer. There’s no one answer. As a veteran myself, a former cog in the military industrial complex, the only truth I’d come up with was that there’s something inside of us—a result of evolution probably—that pushes us to band together. Like and like, us versus them.

Recently, a group of my neighbors banded together to try to stop a church from building a new temple. To what end? To save the farmland, they claimed. But the land wasn’t a farm. To prevent traffic, they said. But the road isn’t busy on Sunday mornings. Is it surprising that the neighbors are middle class white folks while the church is servicing a Korean community? Us versus them.

The specific church is called the Holy Korean Martyrs, one of multiple, similar congregations throughout the United States that are named in honor of Christian peasants massacred for their faith in the 18th and 19th century during the Joseon dynasty. This regime pushed Neo-Confucianism over all other religions. Us versus them.

The founder of the local Holy Korean Martyrs congregation fled North Korea as a child during the Korean War, a conflict that was partially the result of the U.S. and the U.S.S.R. (notably allies at the time) dividing the peninsula in order to push out Imperial Japan, who by that time had colonized Korea. The same Cold War divisions that led to the Korean War spawned conflicts around the world from Nicaragua to Afghanistan. Us versus them.

When my daughter asked why I joined the Navy, I told her it was patriotic to do so at the time. It was just after the terrorist attacks on 9/11. Similarly, my grandfather joined the Navy after the attack on Pearl Harbor. But my dad, sandwiched between us, was in college during the Vietnam War and believed that patriotism wasn’t so precisely obvious.

Now, having become a student of America’s involvement in Afghanistan and the “Global War on Terrorism,” I can see he was absolutely right—“us versus them” is a snarl of incredibly complex socioeconomic, religious, and ideological factors that have played out over eons.

Try explaining that to a second grader!

As a weekend artist, my dad—who labeled his artwork with the pseudonym “Latrobische”—embraced the postmodernist trend of using art to portray irony and political cynicism. The cover of this issue features a pen-and-ink piece he completed in 1986 in response to Israeli and Palestinian skirmishes. Considering our collective history, is it any surprise that it remains relevant almost thirty years later?

Considering our present endeavors, what can we expect of our future? For FFO’s June issue, I’ve selected stories of surreal futurism that also feature a take on nationhood or tribalism, and how this mentality can affect individuals. Some of these protagonists resist their prescribed groupings, some are just hoping to survive.

First up is Caroline Hung’s “War Makes Flowers,” a grim reminder that whatever beauty found in war can be unbearably grisly. But I did not fill this issue solely with images of war.

Justine Gardner’s “Are They Cake?” shows the extent to which someone will go to improve their family’s status.

Lindz McLeod returns with an original, #ownvoices story, “The Brides, The Hunted,” which tackles the 80s-era trope of heteronormativity in cliquish youths.

FFO assistant editor and returning author, Yelena Crane, delivers a truly unearthly vision of entire nations trapped by the choices of others in “Face Full of Nations.”

And possibly our most unexpected story this month is Kurt Pankau’s “A Pin Drops,” in which the characters are one strike away from having to reassemble their family.

Thank you for reading! If you just love what we do, consider becoming a Patreon patron. It’s because of our patrons that we are able to increase the number of original stories this month to five! You can also subscribe via our independent distributor Weightless Books.

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War Makes Flowers

by Caroline Hung

June 7, 2024

[themify_box color=”gray” icon=”warning”]Content Warning: War, Body horror[/themify_box]

The war was here. Smoke rose from the cities, columns of fire and ash. The concrete piled into hills, and twisting rebar sprouted out to the air. The houses were gutted, carved into segments. Apartment buildings were felled, crumpling to the streets. The temples were desecrated, the schools turned into graveyards, and the sea of flames raged endlessly in the mountains—all around, everywhere.

As shrapnel storms rained upon the land, a baby boy was born in a wrecked clinic. Cradled against Mama’s bleeding chest, the taste of iron on his lips was sweeter than any milk, and her cold, lifeless touch soothed him to sleep. For the next sixteen years, the child would be found, abandoned, passed between strangers until they all perished too, blown to bits or riddled with holes. Their mound of corpses would shield the child from constant barrage.

Nameless and dressed in tatters, the child stumbled upon the Army’s gates. They put him in the wrong-sized uniform and passed him a wrong-sized rifle, then called him Soldier Boy. The child was happy to be given fresh clothes, but to take the clothes, he had to take the job too. As Soldier Boy, he would roam the lands forever in service to the Army, fighting their battles wherever they may be. If he refused to pay this debt, the Army said, he would join their enemies in a burning pit instead. He would bathe in the fires, and the flesh would melt from his bones. Clueless as he was, he didn’t wish to burn.

Soldier Boy, Soldier Boy. Onward marched Soldier Boy. The memory of tainted mother’s milk was all he knew of love, and the tune of mortar fire lulled him to sleep every night. He communicated only in wailing screams—varying pitches of fear, horror, despair—mimicking the voices heard from hospitals. He ate meat off the carcasses in his trail and drank from the graying puddles. Bullet casings were his candy. Grenade pins were prizes to be collected. He was Soldier Boy, singing torment in the city the only way he knew how.

When the ten-thousandth missile struck, a billboard fell from its pole and landed face-up on the highway. The billboard had nearly crushed Soldier Boy, but he stumbled across the rubble and looked down upon it. Printed in faded ink, a man and a woman had their noses pressed together in a film advert, though the theaters had long been destroyed. Springtime blossoms surrounded them in a dramatic flurry. Soldier Boy reached for a flower he had spotted, growing from a vine. The flower was a decapitated hand, tangled in wires, fingers purple-red. Soldier Boy searched the city for more flowers—all the different kinds. Bulbous tulips, ruffled peonies, and delicate baby’s breath. Yellowing eyeballs, cauliflower ears and a skullcap with luscious curls still attached to the scalp. He tied everything together in a lovely bouquet, the best he’d ever seen, and far better than the wilted ones in the run-down shops.

It was perfect.

Before the next missile entered the skies, Soldier Boy ran back to the Army’s gates and into the crowded infirmary. He tripped over a fallen soldier, blackened from fire, and his moans of apology echoed down the long aisles. With every explosion in the distance, the hanging fluorescent flicked on and off, curtains swaying between cots. Soldier Boy straightened his shoulders. At the very end of the aisle, a young lady stood dressed in dirty-white uniform. She was prettier than any actress on a billboard, and she could hear no sound with her ears. No explosions, no gunshots, and no songs. Her entire life was spent in silence, yet she diligently counted the day’s dead, barely stopping to rest.

Three thousand and eight. Three thousand and nine. Three thousand and ten—

With the bouquet hidden at his back, Soldier Boy approached slowly and stopped a few steps before Nurse Girl, careful not to startle her. He only wished to make her smile.

Three thousand and eleven, three thousand and twelve—

Nurse Girl turned. Her eyes, hollow as death, gazed upon the offered bouquet. Without making a sound, her mouth gaped wide open. Her face lit up with joy. Her hands, crusted in dried blood, flapped excitedly in the air. She pointed to herself, a soundless question, For me? And Soldier Boy nodded vigorously, stifling the breathy scream from his throat.

Nurse Girl opened her mouth. Seconds later, her voice came out in a weak, rasping tone.

“Wow,” she said.

Soldier Boy’s jaw dropped. It was the loveliest voice he’d ever heard, sweeter than any song he knew.

“Wow,” Nurse Girl rasped again as she accepted the gorgeous arrangement. She breathed in the floral scents, hints of ichor rust feces. She pointed to a tulip-eyeball, then pointed to Soldier Boy in another voiceless question, her throat tired already. You made this?

Soldier Boy nodded again. A squeal escaped his lips, though it was muffled by a grenade explosion next door, followed by the crushing tanks, rapid gunfire, blaring sirens. Coming closer.

Just for me? More pointing.

“Just for you.” More nodding.

The war was here, again. Soldier Boy took up his rifle, but they would all die, this time, and the enemies had surrounded them completely. Bouquet in hand, Nurse Girl placed a light peck to his cheek, a parting gift. She restarted her death count—three thousand and thirteen, three thousand and fourteen—and Soldier Boy charged into battle for the first and last time, heart a-flutter.

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Are They Cake?

by Justine Gardner

June 14, 2024

“Five minutes!” the PA drone calls out, winging past the nozzle tinting the fondant of Franklin’s left arm. He watches the drone zoom through the open trailer door—sees green fields, sunshine. Thinks of his allotment back home, Bolinda planting her seeds.

The fabricators have him by the armpits before he slides all the way to the floor.

“Now, now, Mr. Franklin, can’t have that, can we?” They haul him up, check his seams as they soothe and cajole. In the seat opposite, Geneva snickers into her smock. She is so pumped full of juice she is practically drooling. He snarls at her. They give him another dose.

* * *

“Tonight! It’s the moment we’ve all been waiting for.”

Franklin wakes to the sound of the host’s nasal bellow booming through the speaker of his plexar tube. He doesn’t remember anything after makeup. But here he is, arranged on the display stool, ready to play.

“The final judging!” The applause sounds like rain tapping the tin roof of Franklin’s shelter. His eyes burn in the stale cold air of the tube; blinking is difficult. Geneva is in the tube to his right. Seventeen weeks ago, there had been thirty-two others on the stage with them.

“Our judges will review the two remaining contestants and we’ll find out who is the best at ‘caking it’ when we…cake it off!”

The rain is harder now, Franklin thinks. Bolinda’s seedlings will wash away.

“Let’s meet our panel.”

The crowd hoots and stomps. The thumps of their metal and composite feet shake the stage. Franklin wants to stomp back, to howl and pound the walls of the tube. But he can’t; he can only breathe, try to blink, and hope he doesn’t shit himself again.

“First, Dr. Ska Hamelin, renowned biomechatronic artist and cake enthusiast!” the host continues. More cheers. “And Marn Estevez, owner of the EatLife consortium and UN global human food ambassador.”

Get on with it, thinks Franklin.

“And last but not least, our very own Nyla Yardi, winner of season twelve of Cake It Off!” The crowd erupts, whistling and screaming.

Franklin is starting to feel more relaxed; they must have upped the happy gas in his tube. They always do that right before the stage slides forward for the main event. This means it’s almost over. If he gets through this he’ll be rent-free for years. And Bolinda can finally buy a decent pair of legs.

The motor whirrs and Franklin readies for the stomach-lurching swivel as the stage swings into view. Their tubes are now lit from above and below, making them glow like relics in glass cases.

Franklin sees the glint of Nyla Yardi’s golden prosthetic with its flashing ruby lights as she waves at them from the judges’ table. He hates her the most; she should know better than to smile like that.

“Before us we have our final contestants. Each week they have managed to avoid elimination by appearing to be completely human in composition, while their comrades fell away, one by one…” The tubes spin slowly as the host continues. “Our cake fabricators really outdid themselves this year?” More applause. “But now things get interesting, am I right, Nyla?”

Nyla laughs, slaps her golden arm on the black lacquer of the judges’ table. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Dan.” The audience roars. Franklin feels a twinge in the arm that is not vanilla sponge.

“You mean you don’t recall when Sid Arnaud’s hand was not, in fact, cake?”

The crowd breaks out in feverish laughter, the judge’s teeth shining in the lights. Franklin notices someone standing in the front row, waving silver fingers. They shout: “Hiiii, Nyla!”

The host swivels on his bearings. “Look, everyone, Sid’s here!” he announces.

“No hard feelings, right, Sid?” Nyla calls back. More laughter.

“Okay, okay, down to business.” The host swings back to the camera. “Our two remaining contestants are… Geneva, from Poplar. She’s a mother of nine and resplendent tonight in silver lamé. Who knows what lurks beneath the surface?”

Geneva rotates past. Her blue eyes are wide and blank.

“And Franklin, the hometown boy and single father of a young daughter who could use a little…” The screen lights up behind him: he knows it’s showing an image of Bolinda. “…leg up in life.”

Snickers. Franklin twinges. They are laughing at his daughter. Although everyone in this acid-seared sector had started life the same—born without an arm, a leg, a foot—they mock her bargain-basement prosthetics and wave their gold- and silver-coated exo-steel.  

“So, judges, your task is to select one remaining contestant and determine correctly which part of their anatomy is…made…of…cake.” The host pulls a long sword from the scabbard at his hip. “Please review Geneva and Franklin carefully. After all, we will have to test your decision…” Groans from the audience. “There are sixty seconds to choose who is ready to finally … Cake it off!” He lifts the sword, slashes it through the air.

The timer starts. Come on, Franklin thinks. Pick one and end this already. He feels the judges’ gazes as they look him over, seeking the cake disguised as part of his body. At this level of competition it could be anything, even an eye.

The buzzer sounds, a wash of relief floods through him. No matter what, it’s done.

* * *

He wakes in a darkened room. Machines beeping. A hospital.

“Dad,” says a familiar voice. “Dad!”

He tries to turn toward the voice. He can’t move.

“Dad.” Bolinda’s face is in front of his. She kisses his cheek. Hugs him around the neck. He struggles to hug her back, hold her tight. He’s done, he’s finally done. But he can’t sit up or move his working arm—

He gurgles around the tube in his mouth.

“Don’t,” Bolinda says. “You can’t talk right now. But it’s okay. You won! We’re going to be okay.”

He groans with relief. He wants to hold his daughter, cradle her, but he can’t move, can’t do anything at all.

Comments

  1. Heather says:
    June 15, 2024 at 6:30 am
    Oh! I really like how this one played with my expectations.
    1. Yeewen says:
      June 19, 2024 at 7:55 pm
      He’s mostly cake and the audience guessed correctl?
  2. Randall says:
    June 22, 2024 at 5:39 am
    Some stories you can forget by the next day after reading them. This is not one of those stories. This is disturbing, wildly creative, and well done. Hats off, author.
  3. KT says:
    June 30, 2024 at 4:45 pm
    I don’t even know how to describe my emotions with this one. If the winner lost so much, how much did the losers lose?

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The Brides, The Hunted

by Lindz McLeod

June 18, 2024

At lunchtime, away from the watchful eyes of our teachers, the girls always want to play brides. Any rag or tear in their clothing is proudly shown off, as if they were grown up already. The boys know better than to protest about the game. Smart boys keep their mouths shut and trot around, whimpering, allowing themselves to be caught quickly—but not too quickly—by clumsy Ashley or sweet Khalisa.

No boy wants to be caught by red-haired Stacey, who files her nails to perfect points and bares her teeth at the slightest provocation. A boy may not make the same mistake twice, but every day is a new day and every day might bring a new mistake. One or two of the boys are enticed anyway, elven-jawed moths bewitched by the blue flame of her cruelty. They think they can fix her, if they love her enough, worship her deeper, obey her faster.

I know the truth; there’s no fixing girls like Stacey. Still, her notice is a roving spotlight—one fears to be caught, but longs to be bathed in it. I run around like the rest of the boys, the slap of my boots on the ground a testament to my place in the world. Rooted. Grounded. Buried. What I wouldn’t give to instead be in that tightening circle of girls, with their starving eyes and their quick hands, instead of a loose line of boys. Stacey moves rook-straight, parting the crowd, heading directly for me. I duck behind another; better him than me.

The bell rings for class, saving me. The boys who were caught are teased as sluts. The boys who weren’t caught are teased as prudes.

No one dares tease a girl.

At home I keep my mouth shut and my eyes aimed down at my plate.

By the time the sun sets, my father has already closed the curtains against the world. The kitchen counter spotless, the floor a mourning mirror. My mother is long asleep in her recliner, ringed by empty bottles like cross-legged children eager for a story. When she wakes, it’s all I could have been a bride and I gave it up for your father and if I could turn back time. She has violence in her bones, just like Stacey, and it’s a rare day my father doesn’t show signs of it. I pretend to go to bed, but I climb into the window seat instead and wait for a glimpse of the brides.

O, the brides.

In their ragged dresses they stalk the streets at night, following the sour-musk spice-flower stink of men. In their hands, they wield crescent-sharp knives, each crying for a place to sink deep and sweet. Legend says it was once the other way around, that men once roved in packs, sniffing and snarling, looking for a girl to satisfy them. I picture the mass weddings I’ve seen—grooms in their fine kilts, their smart jackets, their bare knees. The blunt clubs of their faces, the weasel-twitch of their throats as they wait to be selected. That’s not the life I want; that’s not a life I can bear longer than a single breath.

The wind breathes through the leaves of the low trees which line the road, wrenching my attention back. The first flicker of movement. The brides move in a loose swarm, flowing like water from pool to pool of amber streetlight. The brides are leonine, their hair blossoming bright under their lace veils. The brides are cygnine, their movements elegant and sharp, cutting through the night and leaving a trail of petals behind them. The brides are anguine, noses high in the air, following the scent of warm male bodies. I’ve been watching them for two years now. It’s no longer enough to see them through glass. I want to smell them, to let them pass within a shadow’s breath of my fingertips. At the back of the pack, a new figure, hair blazing like a comet. Stacey.

I hesitate. I move towards the door. I hesitate again. They’ve accepted one new member already, and they only take two a year. I scuttle downstairs in socked feet and out through the back door. Outside, the world is silent. No rustle of silk. Yet the air is rose-daubed, pink-petaled. They can’t be far. Just one look, I promise myself, tasting the sweet lie. That’s all I need. I make it as far as the road before one of them steps from the shadows. Terror thrills up my spine, prickling every hair on my scalp. More emerge, surrounding me. Their bare feet are silent on the stones. I expect them to rush me, to deluge me in a single wave, but they stop abruptly. One of them sniffs the air. Their knives hover at hip-height.

One of us? they ask, heads tilted.

My stomach clenches, bile rising in a great, yellow-hot rush. I swallow it down. To tell the truth will destroy my world. To lie would be death. In my heart of hearts, I knew coming out here would force me to choose between one life and another. Tears choke me. Yes, I admit. One of you.

Sister, they croon. Oh, sister mine.

Soft hands tear my clothing, rendering me just as ragged as they are. A lace veil is placed on my head, obscuring my vision. This is what it takes to be a woman. I must not falter. The brides will give me everything I’ve ever needed and nothing I’ve ever wanted. Stacey smiles at me and it’s no longer the vicious snap of the predator, but the shoulder-check of a packmate.

A cold handle pressed into my palm. A wide-eyed neighbor boy, presented to me on his knees, his cheeks wet and shiny. His throat, pale in the moonlight, kisses my blade.

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Face Full of Nations

by Yelena Crane

June 21, 2024

A Nationscape sits and grows on Hilga’s face. Residents crowd at the bags under her eyes, alien skyscrapers rise and fall at her lash line. There’s unexpected wonder as her chin billows with industrial smoke. Except the weight causes her eyelids to droop, traffic on her lips makes it difficult to smile, and transportation tracks dig into the creases of her forehead. If the price of beauty is pain, the industrial Nationscape from cluster AG­37 doesn’t make her look beautiful anymore.

Hilga applies foundation to even the stumps of clearcut peach fuzz.

“Please, take it off!” they beg, suffocating under beige color 671 and crushed in the curving pad of her eyelash curler.

Hilga shudders. The other modifications never communicated, not in any understandable way. She’s still washing off the makeup when there’s a knock at the door.

It’s Bea’s face in the peephole, the way Hilga had never seen it before. Gone were the pastoral field-blushed cheeks and Renaissance-arched cheekbones. Just a barefaced Bea, somehow still beautiful the way Hilga never could be.

Despite the haggard state of her own face, Hilga unlatches the door. Better her friend laughs than strangers.

Alien structures dangle from the tip of Hilga’s nose. Scratching will compromise their integrity, so Hilga resists the urge.

 “You’re still wearing that? Nationscapes are so last season,” Bea says.

“Since when?” Hilga saved for years rather than settling for a knock-off, and she’d only worn it a week before the tightness and pinching. A week of being more than the ugly friend, even though Bea never called her that.

“No big deal, just go to my facialist and get it fixed.”

Hilga’s eyelids twitch and her stomach churns. “What would that mean for them?”

 “Since when does that matter?”

Since they talked! Hilga can’t just leave them in a biohazard bag to rot. If Nationscapes can communicate, they should demand a responsibility regular cosmetics don’t.

* * *

The facialist takes them to the backroom for a courtesy trade-in. Desperate pleas escape from the boxes in storage. Hilga never thought to question how the cosmos had been made small enough for wear, it was easier not to ask; easier to pay—take loans—if it meant finally being attractive.

The facialist kicks at a column to quiet them. “Sorry about that.”

Many display boxes still bear the original packaging with the developmental age and locations from across the universe.

“They’re not returned to their place of origin?” Hilga asks, knowing the answer.

“Who has money for that?” The facialist blows dust off a catalog. “The AI age has wires and servers that complement natural bone structure and there’s no chance they’ll migrate elsewhere to the body. They’re lab made, if you’re feeling sentimental.”

But AI isn’t in. As a child, Hilga underwent her first modification. Even though procedures were simpler then, she still can’t remember her natural appearance.  Bea had the face to brave going bare, Hilga may not.

There’s an urgent tug at the tragus of her ear. A whisper from tiny pleading voices. “We never meant to hurt you,” they say, “please.”

Everyone all over has that in common, not wanting to and causing pain.

“I’m sorry,” she says. She doesn’t dare ask forgiveness.

From her forehead to chin, the lights flicker and die.

The facialist operates among the unwanted and aging stock, using specialized tweezers and a magnifier for the removal. Hilga winces as the inhabitants scramble to escape, fail, and disappear onto a 4×4 square of cowhide. With the lid propped open, Hilga can’t ignore the screams. She tells herself she hadn’t been the one to harvest them from outer space. Powerful people made planets into decoration subject to the whims of economy and fashion. Not her. One person doesn’t make a hero.

“Am I doing the right thing?” Hilga says.

Bea’s flipping through magazines. “The AI didn’t look half-bad.”

It’s not what she meant.

Though still puffy from the detachment, the lines of Hilga’s forehead soften. Her cheeks reveal a natural, if dull, blush. So that’s me. She thinks about the faces she’s worn, the face she could have had all along.

“See, problem solved!” Bea says.

Hilga wonders how long until this trend passes and they’re both back in the chair for a different implant. She can’t keep doing this. Hilga holds in the tears, moisture will make reattachment harder. “I’ve changed my mind. How much for your entire stock?”

Even with depreciating value, it costs a fortune. Lives always do and Hilga doesn’t have the finances or face-estate to save them all.

“I’ll take back my industrial and….” She points to the loudest box.

“You’re sure?” the facialist says. “It won’t look pretty.”

She’s sure, remembering their horror under the magnifier.

Bea refuses to join and go against fashion trends but she still holds Hilga’s hand through the pain. Anesthetics dull the ache of implantation; they don’t erase it.

The migrants crowd and stomp. Technology can only shrink them to ten micrometers for even coverage before Hilga’s face is full and her account empty. There’s so many more who can’t fit, whose cries remain muted in plastic.

“Can’t you squeeze in a few more?”

“Too many already. All those different nations together, you’ll have wars before they settle,” the facialist warns.

“But they’ll settle?” She only has her one face to give.

“You’ll have pockmarks.”

She’ll have rashes, aches, burns; chronic pain. She stands no chance at beauty now. Hilga runs a light hand over the bumpy melting pot of her face.

 “Thank you,” some cry.

All Hilga hears are the muffled chants of “pick me” from the Nationscapes left behind in the backroom. It won’t ever be enough, but she hopes no face is too small to make a difference.

Comments

  1. Bob Finegold says:
    June 22, 2024 at 1:36 pm
    “Everyone all over has that in common, not wanting to and causing pain.”

    Marvelous. 🙂

    Yelena, you accomplish so much with so few words. Relatable characters, wondrous and original plot ideas, and poignant themes to successfully elicit reader emotion.

    You have the gift, Yelena.
    Mazel tov!

  2. Giovanni says:
    July 18, 2024 at 8:44 am
    This was such a wonderful read. Great concepts tightened into a neat and clear story. I enjoyed your metaphors in this story!

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A Pin Drops

by Kurt Pankau

June 28, 2024

I stand apart from my new family. They hate me. I’m here to replace someone they loved. When the green light comes on and it’s time to stand in our lane, they’ll push me to the front so I can be hit first, again. So I can be broken. As if that would bring back their friend.

Fuck…

Cybernetics changed bowling forever. It started with the advent of smart-pins. We set ourselves up and report scores and statistics automatically, and we’re more resilient than the old hard rock maples. They programmed us to form tight bonds, to march out into the lane as a cohesive whole, to look out for each other and protect each other. And when we’re old and broken, we’ll be escorted to the recyclers with honor, surrounded by the soft chanting of our loving families.

But then came the arm attachments for bowlers, and that’s when the slaughter began. Oh, sure, they’re illegal in the pro leagues, but out here in the casual alleys, cyber is king. Bowlers get drunk and try to destroy us. Literal cheers as we’re killed for sport. It’s how I lost my first family. Some asshole murdered seven of us in one throw, and the survivors were split up to fill out other sets.

The ball goes by and your brothers and sisters fall, never to rise again, but you’re still standing. You’re being targeted now. Will the second ball hit? Or will you have to hastily exit the lane and count the dead? You tense up, but if you get hit, the worst thing you can do is dig your feet in to stay standing. The ball goes by. You’re still here. For now. So you count the dead before the next frame…

Saturday. Dollar beer night. They keep shoving me out to the front. We’re supposed to rotate. There’s a point system. You get more for being farther up, and if you don’t have enough, you automatically go to 1. But apparently it’s possible for everyone to have enough points–barely–without ever being in the 1 position. They did the fucking math on it, and they’re using it to punish me. Punish me for having the bad luck of seeing too many of my family murdered at once.

The only one who feels bad about this is a Brunswick who arrived shortly before me. She’s so young. Still shell-shocked from the never-ending bloodbath. She never shoves me. But she won’t talk to me between frames for fear of being shunned by the others.

And she’s low on points. If I get a break from being in the front, it will be because she’s too afraid to leave the back row. And she knows it.

I hear a deafening crack from the next lane over, then the soft chants of a family escorting the fallen to the recycler. I’m not going to survive the night, am I? Oh god…

Brunswick whimpers.

“Stay to the right,” I whisper to her.

“What?”

“When we go out, stay to the right. The next bowler is the guy with glasses, and he always hooks wide. He hardly ever hits 2 or 4.”

“Thank you,” she mouths.

The green light goes on. We run out to the lane, and I’m shoved to the front once again, with Brunswick behind me in the 2 position. The ball whiffs by on the left side slamming into the 3. The back row is pummeled, but 1, 2, and 4 are safe. The next throw hits the gutter. We exit the lane and report the scores.

The others are muttering curses at me. How dare I stay up when they got hit. But not Brunswick. She gives me a nod of gratitude. She made her points with that.

Only a few more frames until we get a break between games.

The green light goes on. I hear a horrifying sound. Some drunk jackoff with a cyber arm shouting “Let me show you how it’s done!”

“But you can’t! It’ll invalidate the game.”

“Ah, fuck it. I’ll buy you another game.”

An arm goes back. Oh, god… And then I notice Brunswick in the 2 position again. She’s lost in her own head. She’s facing the wrong way—looking at the next lane over where our comrade just died! We’re not plated on all sides; she’s going to get killed!

The others shout at her to fix her footing, but it’s too late. The ball is coming. And it’s coming fast. So fast.

I tense up. If you get hit, the worst thing you can do is try to stay standing. But the game’s invalidated anyway, and Brunswick…

I dig my feet into the lane.

There’s a deafening noise and the world cracks apart in my vision. I look down at what used to be my legs. I did it. I stopped the ball. I protected Brunswick.

Howls of laughter from the bowlers that their drunk friend got punked by a bowling pin.

I collapse. As my joints give out, I realize I’ll never stand again.

I’m dragged off the lane.

“Why did you do that?” shouts Brunswick. “Why?”

“Families… protect…” My voice modulator goes out.

She begins to hum.

Others join in.

I can hear it… The sound I thought I’d never actually get to hear. The soft chants of my fellow smart-pins as I’m escorted to the recycler.

“We’re so sorry,” they say.

“We should never have treated you so badly,” they say.

What is this? Are they accepting me? Finally?

I look up and see their tearful faces. Goodbyes mixed with apologies and pleas for forgiveness.

And I forgive them. I forgive them all. The joy. The bliss. I have a family again.

The green light goes on. And as I’m lowered into the recycler, I find myself floating towards it, towards a lane that extends into infinity…

I have a new family. They accepted me.

And now I’m going to join my old one…

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