Prepubescent Passion, Submission 3 by Charlie Arnold

Who said it was better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all? I gaze through my vale. Tally marks count the pain. Would she feel lost if I were to disappear taking my love with me? I will be departing soon and it will take less than five minutes. Then it will start again. Can she see my soul through the cracks of my black nails?

Dark 3mo 93

Did She Suspect, Submission 3 by Brian Zook

Their marriage was in shatters, but rekindling an old flame was not what he had in mind. He thought there would be no harm in looking up a college girlfriend and catching up over a drink. He just needed to sort through some things with somebody who understood him. His recollection of his former flame was that she was a good listener, unlike his wife, who came across as increasingly aloof.

He looked up her number and called her.

How long had it been? Eight years?

“Yeah, let’s get together.”

He was honest with his wife. Told her he was seeing an “old girlfriend” for a drink, and she didn’t ask any questions.

So there he was, sitting at the designated bar waiting for his former girlfriend to walk in. She peeked in, as if she wasn’t sure if this was the meeting place. She saw him and smiled. She was just as he remembered her. Brunette. Spunky. Fun. Just a few additional wrinkles around her eyes.

They quickly ran through their “How’ve you been’s” and “Remember when’s” and got down to more serious catching up. He found out she was recently divorced. She kept talking about her adjustment to being a divorcée and inability to cope alone. He felt obligated to help, but knew his boundaries. After a couple of drinks they parted and he promised to keep in touch. It was an overall pleasant encounter between old friends, and it felt good to unload, but he didn’t like seeing her so sad.

A chance encounter with her the following month lead to another friendly chat and another invitation to meet more formally. This time they decided to get together at a restaurant that he suggested, and she told him to invite his wife. He made some excuse about his wife hardly ever being around and told her it would just be him.

So they met again.

Again, over dinner, the divorce came up. He expressed his concern. She thanked him. He felt strangely attracted to her, but remained professionally platonic.

Is this being unfaithful? No, nothing had happened. He had even told his wife that he was meeting her again, this time for dinner.

“So who is she, just out of curiosity?” asked his wife.

Other than an intrigued look on her face when he mentioned her name and who she was married to, she was cool with it. Cool?

Did she suspect?

Did she know?

Did she even care?

Another encounter was arranged between the old friends. This time she chose the restaurant and it was more cozy. At one point during dinner, during a particularly vulnerable remark that he was making, she reached out and briefly placed her hand on his. He let her. She quickly withdrew her hand and visibly blushed. He gave an awkward smile, but he was just trying to be polite. Then he reached for her hand, and they held hands across the table. His heart was beating audibly, and his mind was just a blur. What were they, teenagers again?

Slippery slope. Point of no return?

Oh, but the thrill!

Nip this in the bud, he thought. Later that night after he got home and after much mental turmoil, he called her and told her he couldn’t see her again. She understood. The tryst was over.

Next, he decided to confess his wandering heart to his wife. He assured her that nothing had happened. Not even a kiss. Just friends catching up.

His wife listened at first, then smiled and finally burst out laughing. She couldn’t contain herself. The irony was unbearable. She finally leaned over and told him uncharacteristically bluntly:

“Honey, why do you think she’s divorced? I’m having an affair with her husband!”

Confession, Submission 3 by Lee Martin

“I’ll be home soon, honey. I had an impromptu astromeeting,” said David.

“Ok. Would you like me to generate FishStics® for tonight’s eating interval?” asked David’s wife Helen.

“Nah, I was thinking cosmoburgers.”

“Sure! I’ll see you when you come home!”

David winked at the screen in his autotran, and the connection was closed. He kicked back and looked through the clear glass bubble above his head. His sunglasses shone with the reflection of a clear blue sky while a stock price ticker passed at the bottom of the right lens. “Life is good,” said David, and so did the sticker on the back of his autotran pod as it zoomed over the courseway on his trip back home.

He knew somewhere above him, or perhaps below him, Helen’s autotran was flying back home, too.

“Yuck, FishStics®. So gross.”

Their pods arrived at their home dock at almost the same time. Helen stepped out wearing a streamlined black and silver dress, large globular silver earrings, and tall chrome boots with glowing colored lights that brought her just under David’s height. David stood at the front door, silver jacket over his shoulder, two days worth of a beard, black-and-orange striped tie loosened over a silver shirt. Helen smiled at him as she walked toward the door.

“I wonder if the kids are home yet,” said Helen.

Their Home^TM was a recent model with tall windows framed in a durable concrete mixture. From the 132^nd floor they had a wonderful view of the opposing 132^nd floor of the adjacent units.

David turned to smile at his wife as he held his wrist to the doorplate, and after a soft click and a little tune played from a small speaker, the door swung open. The sunlight poured over their modern furniture and plants. Little screens on the walls told important bits of information; temperature, pressure, percent of breakfast cereal consumed per person per day…all the metrics to lead a modern life.

“It feels a little cool in here…” said Helen. “ALICE! What temperature is set as the default for Friday afternoon?” she asked. “Hello, Helen. Our unit is configured to offer an average Friday afternoon temperature of 68°. Would you like a cappuccino?” replied a squeaky voice from a recessed speaker in the ceiling. Helen set her astrobag down on the mech-couch. “Well it feels much colder than that! And the digiLamp is missing! And where is my compuCoffeepot?” Small shiny pieces of metal, screws, and wires were sprinkled on the floor.

“Honey! In here!” exclaimed David.

Helen ran into the kitchen, only to find a large hole in the wall. They gazed out at the autotran pods flying by on the countless courseways.

“Billy? Jane?” called David. “I think our house has been iBurglarized!”

“Are you serious?” cried Helen.

“Helen, I am e-serious.”

“Honey, look…” whispered Helen.

On the table sat a note, hastily written in crayon.

“Dear mom and dad,

I turned Jane into a cyborg. I’m sorry!

-Billy.