“I know your type, honey,” she said mysteriously. “But don’t take offense. You’re the kind of man who can talk about it all day. You probably spend days on end putting your words out there, your life’s work crafted in frenzied little sentences that say nothing and mean even less, words that populate, multiply and pay the rent. But it doesn’t say a damn thing about you, whoever you are. The words are just words. But they aren’t you. You can’t be found anywhere in your blog. Am I right?”
Triple found the logic of the spoken word difficult to follow, and so he tried to imagine her words as stringy, perpendicular paragraphs flowing across his computer screen. He dissected them. Considered their weight and import. He had made a life of seeing words, of writing them, but not hearing them.
“If I ascertain your meaning,” he answered at last, “I gather you consider yourself to be some kind of relationship goddess.”
“Not a goddess, honey. A gift! You want to open me?”
Triple had read about such women. Whores, they were called. Prostitutes. But most of them had exchanged sex for conversation decades ago. The life was easier. And the pay much better. “I’m really not interested in a relationship,” Triple blurted.
“You’ve got me all wrong, sugar … this isn’t about putting our bodies together. This is about putting our words together. You came here because you wanted to make a real connection. Flesh and blood. Am I right?”
Triple tried calculating the running total of her words in his mind. It wasn’t time that was being wasted, but the syllables themselves. “I am …” he said finally, “as you might say … incredibly lonely.”
Daisy stirred on the couch, batted away a lock of silken blonde hair from her green eyes, and stared at Triple’s young, handsome face. She wasn’t trained in psychology any more than the bartender was trained in integral calculus, but her years on the streets had taught her the fine art of counseling. That’s why some men paid for her services. They wanted to hear the truth about themselves. They needed affirmation — if even for a moment — before returning to their cratered-out lives and starved, digitalized existences.
“Listen, sugar,” she said. “I’m going to tell you a story.”
Triple leaned over, set his elbows against his knees, and cradled his head in his hands.
“Many years ago, there were people. Not like now. But people who inhabited these walls because the world was free. There were people then who didn’t sell themselves because they had to live, but who lived because they wouldn’t sell themselves. The best brightened this world for a time or times, and I have been told that words flowed then as freely as wine. Out of lips. Out of mouths. And there were people who drank them. The words were the people. And no one paid to hear them, or to give or receive them as payment. There was no sadness like theirs. Nor no greater joy. To speak face to face. To know the other. And there was time. Time eternal. Before time was taken away and the words with it.”
Daisy groaned a satisfied sigh and relaxed against the couch, her breathing nearly a lustful panting. “That’s what I mean by us, sugar.”
Triple had read various blogs on the taboo — the history of the world when there was time and words were free — and all of them followed the basic storyline espoused by Daisy. Still, he wondered if she considered herself a prophet? He wondered if she talked to the bartender without paying, giving herself away freely? But he didn’t have enough words left to pursue that line of questioning. He wondered about his cache of remaining words in her wrist calculator.
“I don’t think,” he admitted, feeling less inhibited in her presence, “that I would be so lonely if I were allowed to hear spoken words without paying for them.”
“None of us would, honey,” Daisy readily admitted. “But then, where would I be?”
Triple realized the catch. Such freedom would necessitate a complete overhaul of the social order. He might not get paid for his blog. Daisy might not get paid for her conversation. The world as they knew it would break apart.
“There’s a bill in congress now,” Triple said, “that, if passed, would allow husbands and wives to sign a contract when they get married. They could forgo the payment policy and agree to speak freely with each other.” Triple had been blogging mercilessly against the bill, but most of the words that emerged from the corridors of national power were on the fringe of the Ethernet, and heavily censored.
“I was married once,” Daisy said sadly, her soft voice falling away. “Many years ago. We were young then. Less inhibited. And yes, we talked.”
“For nothing? For no reason? Free?”
“Why would we need a reason?” she sighed. “There were so many beautiful things to talk about. The color of the sky. The flowers we planted. The promise of children. The—” Her voice trailed off into unformed syllables that did not register on the wrist calculator.
“I think—” Triple began to give his opinion, but then realized, out of old habit, that his opinions were the property of the firm. Every opinion was to be blogged: his thoughts on policies, politics, yes, but also his opinions about the taste of the beer in the company refrigerator, the sensation of descending into the office, his forthcoming review about the mystery vegetable he had pulled from the drawer. These were property of the firm, not to be given out in back rooms of near-deserted bars.
Daisy understood his dilemma. “It’s okay to think,” she said. “Just don’t say you are thinking it. That’s how we make connection, honey. You have to overcome the fear.”
“Then…” Triple continued, choosing his words carefully, but trying to let go, “I would like to affirm your idea of marriage. I trust it would be … fun to speak and listen without limitations.”
Daisy smiled.
“Are you still married?” Triple asked sheepishly.
“No,” she said, staring at her red polished fingernails. “He died — Joe died — in the Middle East War. We did have a child. But he’s grown now. And our relationship is traditional.”
“You mean you don’t talk?”
“Just digital communication,” she said. “But he’s a good boy. Not one to make waves.”
Suddenly, Triple found himself keenly interested in Daisy. She was a mystery. And he wondered where she had grown up, what she enjoyed when she wasn’t being paid for her services. “What do you like to do for fun?” he asked.
It had been years since anyone had asked her a question like that, had been willing to pay for the answer. She touched a red fingernail on her chin and pondered the answer. “Do you know what I like to do, sugar? I like to paint. I enjoy creating the world over again. In fact, these walls…” Her voice cracked a bit. “These walls are filled with my creations.”
Triple relaxed in the chair as Daisy pressed a button on the arm of the couch and brought up the lights in the back room. Suddenly the room stirred with color, like a rush of intoxicating beauty. Triple stared dumbfounded at the paintings on the brick walls: magnificent seascapes wrapped in whorls of azure and turquoise and foamy white; brilliant red-gold sunsets unlike any he had ever witnessed through the periscope; images of people touching each other in stunning wardrobes of aqua-green, velvety browns, and royal purples; lovely mountainscapes in star light and autumn blaze; visions of cities gleaming in yellow, translucent light and glistening glass; the exquisite grace of flowing rivers; ravishing brushstrokes of rainbow hues coupled with elegant movement.
He feasted on the paint, not saying a word, and listened while Daisy spoke.
“I enjoy this room,” she said. “It’s my sanctuary. You’re one of only a handful of people who have seen it. Which is sad, really, but necessary. And now you know that there is beauty in the world and that people used to talk about it, and enjoy it together. This is my love, really. When I’m using my brush, I’m having a conversation. It’s as if these walls are my best friend, and I’m speaking whatever I want to say and I’m listening to what the wall is whispering to me that day. Maybe it’s the ocean, or the mountains, or
the people I used to know, but all if it is a conversation. Everything in this room reminds me of the world as it was, how it used to be.”
Triple didn’t move.
“Thank you for asking about me,” Daisy said as she turned out the lights, the mural melting once again into the darkness of the perimeter. “That was sweet of you.”
“I can see why you like to paint,” Triple told her. “All of it is beautiful. Marvelous, really. Your work should be in a museum.”
“Thank you. But I’m afraid I don’t much care for censorship. I’ll just keep the conversation here with me. That way, I won’t get lonely.”
Triple made another mental calculation. He had plenty of time; he was not due back at the office until morning light. He felt good about his word selection. “I believe our time is about up,” he said, then caught his error and smiled. “Actually, I guess time isn’t really a problem,” he added. “It’s the words I’m paying for.”
Daisy glanced at the calculator display, offered a frown, then said, “You’re a premature ejaculator. But you never did tell me your name.”
“Gary Triple,” he said.
“I’ve read your blog,” she admitted. “And believe it or not, I actually hoped you’d show up here one day.”
Triple thought she meant it. But she could have been padding the count, too. The total was approaching. “That bad, huh?”
“Your blog is insightful,” she said, “but trite. And I don’t follow politics. I just take the drugs I need. Beta-blockers. Poloxycycline. Some vitamins. Occasionally a shot of cortisone.”
“Pharma-Century, I hope!”
“Off the street. Cheap stuff from China.”
Triple said nothing, but his face revealed a hint of disgust for her black-market purchases.
“Don’t look at me that way,” Daisy said with a pause. “Just remember me.”
“I will,” Triple said.
There was an awkward moment of silence as the room stirred, then Daisy rose, stepped off the distance to his chair, knelt beside him, and kissed his cheek. Her lips were full, moist, and she deposited a smudge of lipstick near his dimple. “That’s for us,” she whispered.
Triple smiled at her, opened his mouth to tell her about himself, but didn’t know where to begin. He could scarcely remember where he had come from. His past melted into his future and his heart sank as surely as he would descend again into the earth. “I know I don’t have much left on the meter,” he said. “But could I hear you say your name?”
“Daisy,” she whispered in his ear.
He closed his eyes. Listened to the sound of her breathing.
“What else is there to know about you?” he asked.
“I’d like to tell you—” An alarm sounded on Daisy’s wrist calculator. She stopped speaking.
Triple knew that he’d reached his limit. Still …
He sat silently in his chair, staring at Daisy, who smiled warmly at him. She said nothing, but Triple thought that, for a moment, he could read her mind. It was as if she were enjoying his company — not because he was paying her to talk — but because she was willing to make herself available to him, and was willing to simply sit in his presence and be. Was she lonely, too? But Triple wondered if anyone could even quantify that reality anymore.
Triple sat in the chair, inside the dark room, staring at the lovely woman as she returned to her couch, the woman named Daisy, who did not move, nor make any attempt to move. He glanced at her ankle watch, but determined that time was not important. He sat for long minutes — or was it hours? what did it matter? — and observed the way she polished her fingernails with the emery board, the way she smiled, the way she slept, when, at last, she did sleep. And he was still there when she woke, though she did not speak.
~~~~~
Later, after the stars began to dissolve into light, Triple returned to the elevator, descended once again into his cavern bunkered deep in the earth, and stirred his blog by recounting his decision to bite into the mystery vegetable. He blogged on politics. The latest senate bill. He pushed the drugs the firm manufactured.
He thought of writing about Daisy — per his contract — as all of his thoughts and opinions legally belonged to the firm.
But he didn’t.
Rather, he kept her there, like a gift, deep inside his mind — a memory really — and cherished her words and beauty for their own sake, wondering when he might surface again. And if he did, if she would still be there, waiting for him.
Todd Outcalt is the author of twenty-five books in six languages and has written for such magazines as Morpheus Tales (British), Alpha Centuari, Rosebud, and Red Wheelbarrow.
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Undead in the Daisies
by Holly Casey; published May 10, 2013
Third Place Award, May 2013 Fiction Contest
A plan of action for keeping your garden healthy and beautiful while dealing with the monstrous horde at the door
The question of how to deal with botany-unfriendly, undead nuisances while trying to keep your garden looking its best is one of the most frequent questions I receive. By the time I hear the question, people are frustrated, confused, and angry. Underneath the rhetoric, the real question is, “How do I get rid of these unholy monstrosities?”
With that in mind, I think there are a number of reasons why gardeners everywhere have trouble keeping their landscapes lovely during this growing apocalypse.
1. The small band of survivors they have joined up with has a pattern of only protecting the vegetation they deem “useful.” The begonias and roses are left to be trampled underneath the hooves of hell spawn while the corn and squash are ruthlessly defended.
2. They have never seen someone bludgeon the rotting head of a zombie to stop it from limping through their marigolds, or, if they have, it was a big, messy situation.
3. They are so uncomfortable with conflict that they are unwilling to defend their meticulously planted plot of greenery against the ungodly mutations inexplicably attracted to the bright colors.
4. They feel guilty “wasting” clean water on decorative plants.
5. They worry such an extravagant show of fantastic life against the backdrop of this ravaged land — infested with beasts and monstrosities that come from both hell itself and the foolish, unknowing, undeserving hands of man — will lead them further into a spiraling depression that they had hoped to escape using this one spot of beauty.
Despite its discomforts, confronting the undead horde can be one of the most important tasks of gardening you’ll face. Many a gardener has spent hours pruning, weeding, and watering, only to have all their hard work dug up and destroyed by a roving pack of werewolves one night when the blood-red moon is full, looking upon our world as if it was the emotionless eye of the cruel god who has forsaken us. Of course, the truth is any type of accursed beast has the potential to ruin your plant life, and the real question is just which kind are you dealing with.
If you remember The Days of Innocence — a time before the oceans were a constantly thrashing and churning white foam that could no longer sustain life because of their violent restlessness; a time before the technology we relied upon failed us as radiation leaked out of unseen cracks, power lines refused to carry a charge, and computers randomly fired missiles; a time before the earth was split open like an egg to release a terrible brood of ravaging fiends from hell — well then you remember what it was like to deal with all the annoying insects and animals in your garden. And, I bet you remember what a hassle it was to deal with them! Just one remedy would not get rid of all those pests, and the same thing still holds true.
Now if you’re a younger reader, you may not know what an insect or an animal is (they were given a quick, sweet release from this world that we humans were denied), but I bet you do know that while a stake to the heart will take out a vampire, it will do little to a zombie, and the same principle holds true when keeping these monsters away from your freshly trimmed topiarie
s. You’ll have to use a different deterrent for the varied amount of depraved horrors that turn up at your door.
Demons and Vampires: Since both of these are highly satanic creatures, you can use similar tactics to protect your garden from them. Crosses around the edges of your flowerbed will work fairly effectively, but holy water is definitely your best bet. If you can find a man of faith who hasn’t cursed the god he once believed loved us, definitely try and get him to bless some water for you! Also, as an added punch against vampires, plant garlic. The bloodsuckers hate the stuff, and you’ll have a fangtastic new seasoning!
Werewolves: This one is a bit more difficult. These tortured beings only take their twisted form once a month, but they can do a lot of damage when in the throws of an agony that only comes from existing in a mind-breaking limbo between human and beast. Any type of silver will deter them, but your best bet is just to shoot them with a silver bullet, it’s the only way to kill them, and put an end to their trouble for good. Protip: If your friend has soil under his/her nails and smells of your honeysuckle bush that was dug up during the full moon last night, try stabbing him/her in the neck. If your friend doesn’t die, you have your answer about what really happened to that plant!
Mutants, Zombies, and Those Simply Driven Insane by this Never Ending Nightmare We Inhabit: Now, these are probably the hardest little buggers to keep out of the petunias. They have no inherent weakness except for the classic headshot, and, except in some individual cases, there are no substances you can simply place in your garden to repel them. My only advice for this is to join with those who are just as willing as you to fight to the death for the last living things of beauty to remain on earth. For example, I have joined a convent sworn by blood to keep flowers alive. We have created a towering wall, made from the bones and gore of those aberrations of nature determined to undo our sacred work, that encircles the new Eden we have nurtured. Many of my sisters have lost their lives fighting off the devils that would try to break through our wall of death to obliterate the only elegance, the only delicacy, the only poetry left in this world. Also, since everyone in the convent is a gardener, we all have fun planting tips and trivia to share!