"Hmmph. Cheap champagne. This must be a special occasion."
"They didn't have anything decent at the liquor store. I didn't feel like making a fuss."
"A very, very special occasion then?"
"Only seven bucks a bottle. Four for twenty-five."
"I was never good at maths. Is that a good bargain?"
"The blissful euphoria of alcohol hasn't kicked in yet. I guess not."
"And you're normally such a cheerful character. This must be a blue moon on a leap year."
"It's my birthday."
"I know. I didn't get you a present yet, but I didn't forget."
"Of course you didn't."
"Hey, I didn't forget last year either. And I got you a present then."
"I remember. I'm grateful, I really am."
"Something tells me there's more bothering you than a lack of a little muffin with a candle in it."
"You know me so well."
"After all these years, even I'd start to notice stuff. Come on, it's your birthday. You survived three hundred and sixty five days since the last time we went through this farce of pagan celebration. Crack a smile, huh? Just a little one? A teeny, tiny Mona Lisa style smirk."
...
"OK, stop it. It's just creepy now."
"Sorry."
"Yeah, I'm getting that a lot. Come on, it's me. You can tell me what's wrong."
"It'd take a while."
"I'm listening."
"Everything's wrong."
"Wow, that's not a sweeping statement."
"Not you. Never you."
"OK, so me aside, everything's wrong?"
"It feels that way. I feel like all the doors open to me shut a long time ago and I've only just realized they were locked. From the outside. And now the walls are closing in."
"And you're in leather underwear with tassels on your nipples?"
"Not this time."
"Damn. I didn't realize you'd got this bad. No offense."
"None taken."
"That sounds more like the old you."
"The old me. All those years I wasted at high school. The time I've made so little use of since. I'm not sure if the future would even notice if I'm gone. Maybe it'd be better."
"No it wouldn't. I say that with authority."
"Yeah. Sorry about that."
"You know, when I was a little girl, I met a drunk uncle once. It was his birthday. He'd gone bald really early in life and he wore this wig. It was a good wig, I guess. It looked like he'd dyed his hair with maple syrup and left the edges silver, but it looked like real hair. Anyway... he came up to me, very drunk, and do you know what he asked me?"
"'Are you a cop or a prostitute? You have to tell me either way.'"
"Heh. No, different uncle. This one looked at me so sadly and he said, 'Sweet niece of mine, take my advice and slash your wrists on your thirtieth birthday for youth is blunder, manhood a struggle, old age a regret.'"
"Benjamin Disraeli."
"Yeah, it sounded a bit too clever to be one of his own. Anyway, the point is, that's when he told me he accidentally stepped on his pet hamster Montague and had been missing him for years, before he started screaming 'We're all hamsters in the great wheel of life!' and passed out face-first into a pineapple pizza. Mozzarella got into his wig and he never wore it again. You know how they say bald men are sexy? He was definitely the exception that proves the rule."
"I appreciate you telling me that. I don't know why you did it, but I appreciate it."
"I told you because you'd see the exact same idiocy I did. I told you because it might make you smile. I told you because you're my best friend in the world and I love you. I told you because, even though this probably sounds totally made up and fake, I am so happy it's your birthday. Today brought you into the world and I will never, ever regret that. I honestly think the world is a better place with you in it, and if there's one thing I know, it's that you're worth it. No matter what trouble you get into, or who you offend or what bad luck strikes, I choose this and you every time without a second thought. I know you're upset, and I want to help."
"...thank you."
"Oh, don't start weeping on me. I have a tough girl image to maintain."
"You really mean that?"
"Of course I do. I've got even scarier since high school."
"I mean that I'm worth your love?"
"I mean it. Worst case scenario? If you're locked in that shrinking room with no way out, then I'm right there with you no matter what. You and me, forever, end of story. Now are you going to help me celebrate the birthday of the most important person in my world, or is all this cheap champagne going to drink itself?"
"Thank you."
"I don't need thanks."
"Even so. Thank you, Andrea."
"Happy birthday, Charles."
The Kindness of Strangers
The brutal shove wasn't actually that painful. The impact was cushioned by the grass. In the normal course of things, if he'd tripped or been knocked over by accident, Mike Mackenzie would have simply picked himself up and not given it a second thought. But he knew a bully when one snuck up behind him and shoved him over.
"What a loser," laughed someone, not the bully themselves but just as much of a jerk.
"And they say blacks are good at sport," someone's girlfriend sniggered, running off with that someone. "Doofus!"
"Gee, Mick," sneered the bully, a young boy of oriental extraction with at least two more chins than evolution had asked for. "You really ought to watch where you're going! Or are you too dumb to put one foot in front of the other?"
Mike once again cursed himself for telling people on the first day of school that he liked sport way better than doing boring book stuff inside classes. He'd thought that would make the other kids agree with him, laugh maybe, think he was nice. Somehow he'd made them all think he was a dumb caveman who just wanted to play games because he was too stupid to do anything else. They all thought that, even if they weren't actually trying to bully him.
Which Vern was most definitely doing.
Mike remembered his uncle always telling him not to lose his temper, and how the moment you got angry you gave them the advantage. Angry people didn't win, smart people did. So how the hell did Vern - someone who still thought there were only twenty-two letters in the alphabet since "double U" didn't count - end up beating him all the time?
Probably because I let him, Mike thought bitterly.
"I guess you get confused all the time, not being able to tell what's your shadow and what's your legs, huh?" Verne snorted like a freshly-injured moose. "Good thing there aren't any other darkies at this school or else you wouldn't be able to know who you were? If you do at the moment, huh? Moron!"
Another boy approached. "Hey," he said brightly. "Was that the last school bell for the day? Can we go home now?"
Mike shot the newcomer a pitying look. "Yeah, we can," he said.
"Cool!"
"Why are you asking black bozo here?" demanded Verne. "He probably doesn't even know what day it is!"
"It's Wednesday," said Mike coolly, realizing he couldn't get his hands out of the fists they were bunched into.
"Hmm. Yep, that's right," said the dark-haired boy, still grinning. "It's Wednesday. I bet he's right about the school bell, too!"
"Stop acting like he's normal!" Verne exclaimed, more and more annoyed. "He's not normal!"
"Cool!" he said again.
"It's not cool!" the bully exploded, rounding on him. "He's black! He doesn't belong here! And neither do you, you brain-donor! You two should get out of here, now!"
"So that was the last bell of school?" the dark haired boy asked hopefully.
"That does it! I want you two gone or I'll make it my business to ruin your lives!" Verne shouted.
The boy blinked, looking hurt. Mike thought for a moment he was going to cry.
"You mean, you don't want to be friends?" he asked meekly.
"Why would anyone want to be friends with you?" Verne demanded.
"I dunno," he admitted. "Why do people want to be friends with you?"
Verne couldn't answer. A look of panic, shame and humiliation flashed over his face.
Mike laughed.
Verne screamed and shoved Mike back with both his hands, sending him cannoning away over the glass verge and onto the hard stone pavement. The other body managed to grab him and they landed in a tangled but unharmed heap. He looked up at Verne and frowned. "Hey, bro, that's not cool. You could hurt someone!"
"Good!" fumed Verne, hands on the blubber where his hips had once been. He looked down his pudgy nose at Mike. "I want to hurt you! I'm going to make sure that you leave this school before any of your stupid blackness rubs off on the play equipment, and I'm going to make sure you never, ever come back!"
Mike felt caught between a wave of misery and a surge of anger.
His companion gazed up at Verne in amazement. "Wow, bro. That's intense."
Verne nodded smugly. "Damn right, it is."
"You'll have to really do lots of work," the boy agreed. "You'll have to spend all day every day working really hard. You won't be able to play games or eat lunch or go to the bathroom. You won't be able to sleep, you'll have to stay up all night thinking about how to get rid of him and then after that you'll have to go and actually do all that stuff. You'll be really busy."
Verne leered evilly at Mike. "It'll be a pleasure."
"I bet you'll be really busy," said the boy thoughtfully. "You'll be so busy you won't notice if someone else is coming up behind you and throw you under a truck. I bet you'll be so concentrating on getting rid of this kid here, you won't even like feel the tires making your face all flat when you get squashed."
"What?" Verne boggled, his confidence waning. "Why would anyone want to hurt me?"
"Why do you want to hurt him?" asked the boy with a shrug. "Maybe someone will want to hurt you before you get round to hurting them. If I were you, bro, I'd make sure that no one was plotting to hurt me. In fact, I'd stop trying to hurt people and get them on my side so if someone does plot to hurt me, I'd totally have friends to look after me. You got friends, right, bro?"
"Of course!" Verne lied.
"Well, you could probably use two more! I'm Kevin! Pleased to meet you!" He looked at Mike. "Who're you, bro?"
"Michael Mackenzie. Mike."
Kevin shook his hand. He didn't even pretend to be worried Mike would leave colour on it.
"So, bro, how about me and Mike here be your friends?" he asked reasonably.
"I don't want to be friends with you!" Verne protested.
"Oh. Fair enough. I'll just be friends with Mike here." Kevin helped him up. "And I can look after him and stop you hurting him and he can look after me and stop you hurting me." He frowned. "Who's going to look after you again?"
Verne turned and stomped off across the playground.
"See you tomorrow, bro!" Kevin called. "And don't think too much, or else someone might trip you up!"
Mike looked between Kevin and Verne's retreating back. This kid hadn't lost his temper. He'd been smart and won.
"That was amazing," Mike breathed.
"What was?" asked Kevin, bewildered.
After a moment, Mike realized it wasn't an act. This kid was as clueless as he pretended to be. At least that meant he wasn't lying about wanting to help. There was at least one kid Mike didn't have to worry about stabbing him in the back, though the odds were Kevin was going to need more help than he could give if the guy couldn't even tell if school was over...
"Never mind. I gotta go home. You should probably, too. Uh, you know where you live right?"
"Course I do, bro," Kevin replied with the confident arrogance of a newborn god.
"What's your address then?"
"Huh? Bro, I'm not wearing a dress. Dresses are for girls."
Mike sighed. "Tell you what, you show me where you live, huh?"
Kevin grinned. "Sure thing, Mickey!"
"Don't call me that."
Slinging their schoolbags over their backs, the two new friends set off down the street.
An Honest Musician
Although I love her and she makes me so proud, I just can't keep up the pretense
That us being together can ever go well - frankly it just don't make sense
She needs someone better and smarter than I to guide her and help her grow strong
How long has it been since I first let her down? She suffers because my choices are wrong.
I'm too selfish to be what she needs, too useless and lazy and dumb
We would have crashed and burnt long ago if she weren't the responsible one
And for what? Huh? I've failed at my dreams
And wasted my life with badly-planned schemes
And for what? Huh? I'm going nowhere
My future is bleak and it's not even unfair
As a big brother too, I've failed time and again
To look after my baby sister, Jane Lane
I'm holding her back and I'm dragging her down, stopping her reaching her potential
My musical ambitions keep running aground, I know I lack something essential.
She paints and she draws and sculpts and she carves, her talent is without equal
Me? I've barely finished the first act, let alone merit a sequel
I can't even get on with her very best friend, she clams up whenever I speak
Janey says she has a crush on me, but Daria always treats me like a freak
And why not? Huh? I'm not a good man
I'm the laziest and stupid of the whole Lane clan
And why not? Huh? See me and frown
Whenever I'm needed, I let my friends down
As a big brother too, I've failed time and again
To look after my baby sister, Jane Lane
Oh every night I dream of a world where Janey did not have a brother
Instead she was looked after and cared for and loved by her sisters and father and mother
There was food in the fridge were no bills to pay, and Janey was never lonely
She and Daria would have the time of their lives, without her brother the phony
Perhaps the band would be better and Monique find true love, one happiness after another
Instead alas I live in this world where Janey is stuck with her brother
And why not? Huh? Maybe Jane is blame?
My little sister's stopped me achieving my fame?
And why not? Huh? Is it her fault not mine
That my music career is wasting my time?
I'm lying to myself, I've failed yet again
To look after my baby sister, Jane Lane
I'M SO GODDAMN SORRY, BABY SISTER, JANE LANE!
***
Jesse waited until Trent had passed out. He got up, plucked the guitar from his unconscious friend's fingers and placed it in the corner of the room. Then he picked up the page of handwritten lyrics and neatly placed it in the bedside drawer with all the other songs that Trent wrote when he was drunk and depressed. Max and Nick never saw them, and if Trent remembered them through the hangovers, he didn't bring them up again.
Maybe tomorrow night Trent would be more cheerful and they could set down some real lyrics for the tune they'd been working on - Enormous Earlobe Girl, about a chick they'd seen in a "National Geographic" magazine. It was a nice dumb idea and it made Trent smile when they talked about it.
Jesse collected the empty beer bottles as he left. He sometimes wondered if Janey and her friend realized just how much Trent drank and how upset he got, or if they just thought he was a real heavy sleeper and naturally mellow. He knew that Trent would want them to think that.
He didn't need Janey worried about him, after all.
Digest Readers
The Carnivore Within
By D.A. Morgendorffer
Hunger. The one thing that all life experiences, the ravenous aching emptiness that must be filled. When food is plentiful, you can concern yourself with petty things like texture, flavor and temperature. The hungrier you are, the lower your standards become. Those unwilling to expand their palette do not survive long in a world where the ability to consume garbage and waste is the difference between life and starvation. It’s all fuel in the end, after all.
Does a Lexus care of the quality of the petrol or the morality behind its harvesting? Does a shark concern itself if the meal is kosher? And just how long will humanity keep to its civilized principles and high ideals when there is nothing for breakfast, lunch or dinner?
When you are hungry you have a very simple choice – you can eat or you can die.
***
The supermarket could have been anywhere, with nothing remarkable about it at all. It had been stripped of anything approaching food or medicine, and what little remained was a random collection of stuff that wasn’t immediately useful. The section on health, wellbeing and dieting was untouched, still boasting cardboard cutouts of thin attractive twenty-somethings amazed at how loose and overlarge their fashionable clothing had become. Jagged explosive-shaped signs drew attention to just how cheap these products were, the dieting pills and powder shakes and herbal appetite suppressants.
They were the last relics of the pre-Hunger world.
The scavenger collapsed, exhausted before the fully-stocked shelves, finally out of strength. He’d gorged himself sick on everything edible he’d encountered, like anyone did nowadays. He’d consumed blocks of rich cheeses and the wax skin too, the paper around cupcakes, licked packets dry. He was crippled by indigestion and gut cramps, and his stomach was an ugly pot-belly on his formerly-slim frame.
He was sick and sore and tired but he had to keep eating. His well-toned muscles and defined figure were a death sentence to him. He remembered a childhood of mocking fatties and the overweight, delighting at how fast and attractive he was as he became a star athlete and they remained forgotten and unloved. Oh, how times had changed.
Once, larger frames had been the height of fashion as only those truly rich and powerful could afford to be overweight. In recent eras, slim and healthy-looking had become considered attractive. As the twentieth centuries, skinny was in until models looked like famine victims. Now, however, there were no undersized people. There were the fat and there were the dead.
And the scavenger, unable to meet one group, was about to join the other.
In a last burst of desperation, he grabbed sachets of diet power tasting vaguely of vanilla, strawberry, chocolate or banana. He ripped them open and poured the sand-like material down his throat. It became thick and cloggy, choking him as it reacted to the moisture in his mouth. He fought to chew and swallow, eyes streaming as he was starved of oxygen.
The Hunger came.
The scavenger, jaws filled with wet sludge, couldn’t even scream.
His corpse would have been considered very attractive, at least before the apocalypse.
***
Can you pinch an inch? Are you tired of pretending the blubber on your torso are love handles? Do you remember being able to eat whatever you wanted and staying perfectly in shape? You know you’re alone and that definitely won’t cheer you up, will it?
But this will! EuroGlobe Industries Comestible Division has made the breakthrough of the millennium with Hunger. Hunger is the diet supplement that actually works on anyone and everyone. People are getting fatter and even now no one has found a way to make health food taste better than junk food. Obesity is on the rise, along with diabetes and heart conditions. But Hunger is about to take care of it, for now and forever!
Hunger is an artificial virus created at EGICD labs that eats fat in human beings. Just add a sachet of Hunger solution to one litre of water, drink and eat away. The more you eat, the more you feed the Hunger and the thinner you get. It’s absolutely safe and absolutely foolproof. When you hit the ideal weight, size and bodyshape, EGICD labs have the antivirus ready to apply.
The future is here. And it’s hungry!
***
“Apparently Russia’s gone,” grunts one of the people ahead of me in the endless queue.
“Yeah, shock there,” their companion retorts. “Woulda thought all those big babushka women would have shrugged off the hunger, no trouble. Guess vodka just don’t have the calories.”
“They shot Zeke last night.”
“Seriously?” There was puzzlement rather than concern. Concern for others died out in the first weeks when the world ended. “What did he do?”
“He and a bunch of the Watchers tried to break into the zoo. Convinced eating a giraffe or something would bulk them up. Dolphins on toast, you know. The crazy stuff Watchers are into.”
“Well, a bullet’s quicker and cleaner than hunger if you ask me. All those Watchers know their number’s up. Us plus-sizers are the only ones worth feeding and they know it. What’s the point wasting rations on a bunch of skinnies, eh?”
“You tell the kids nowadays that people used to actually pay money to be thin, they won’t believe you.”
A long pause.
“What kids?”
The queue shuffles two body-lengths further under the endless sun. It occurs to me that no one here is younger than ten years of age. Overweight babies had a hard time of it before the Hunger, and now few are born. Pickles and ice cream doesn’t cut it nowadays. Still, more left to the rest of us.
***
“My… fellow Americans, we now face… face our darkest hour. The death toll is rising every hour, as doctors waste away in their operating rooms over skeletal patients. Only common decency and American resilience… resilience is what is keeping this country going. We have to… to help each other, to be kind and… and generous and… see us through… the dark… oh Christ in heaven I’m so hungry… can somebody get me a burger? Please, god damn it, I can see the bones through my hands… please… just a bite… I’ll be good… please…”
The last President of the United States was the first one to starve to death live on TV.
***
Just how many hours every day do I stand in this queue to the food depot? Watches are useless nowadays, since anything that can fit round your wrist can make you look like a skinny and unworthy of saving in this brand new world. At night, though, the skies are more beautiful – no traffic to pollute the air or electric light to blot out the stars. The Hunger consumes bodies so completely there’s nothing left but skin and bones, starving any diseases or bacteria. No one smokes any more, since nicotine can shed pounds off you. Lung cancer is down on the 3/5ths of humanity still standing.
The Hunger can’t last forever, we know that. It’s an artificial virus, mutated but still man-made. Still with planned obsolescence. It’s getting weaker every day, and taking longer and longer to claim the flesh from our bones. We just have to keep going, keep gorging ourselves until Leonardo da Vinci’s proportions of the human body looks more like Elvis dead on a toilet, until the Hunger is finally satiated.
And then what?
Can we survive in these massive fat bodies we’ll be trapped in? Overstrained hearts and lungs, no healthy food to be found everywhere? Just how many will continue to die? Will anyone be left to inherit this depleted and gutted planet?
It’s food for thought, isn’t it?
I laugh so hard I start wheezing. Late Zeke’s two pals ahead of me tell me to shut up.
***
…necessary. We repeat, the unauthorized attacks on EuroGlobe Industries have only succeeded in making the current situation worse. The supplies of Hunger antivirus have been exhausted and the mutated Hunger virus is now out of control. The confirmed death toll in the USA alone stands at 420,000 and is rising. All those below the proscribed body-mass index are being eaten up from the inside out, and efforts are being made to try and distribute heavy-calorie food rations.
Widespread panic and looting has begun in all fifty states, while international borders have been closed. Paris has fallen silent and the UN are carrying out emergency summits to deal with the Hunger. The Doomsday Clock has been moved to 20 seconds to midnight.
We urge everyone to keep eating. If you do not feed the Hunger, it will feed on you!
***
At last I’m at the front of the queue. The MPs, bursting out of their ill-fitting uniforms and breathing heavily, keep their guns in their sweaty palms aimed at me as I reach for my ration. It looks like what might once have been called cookie dough, but it’s a dull-tasting fudge that keeps the Hunger at bay for another day, maybe more. It keeps us alive, and we only get what we’re given.
“Not you!” shouts the first MP, so bloated and greasy I can’t tell if it’s a man or a woman.
“What?” I boggle incredulously. “Why not?”
“I finally recognize who you are, lady. You used to be the cover girl on Waif!”
Waif Magazine. My pre-Hunger life. Ancient history. “What’s that got to do with anything?”
“You’re a supermodel,” the second MP accuses, like a Salem preacher facing a witch.
“So? I’m a human being! I deserve these rations!”
“We can’t afford to waste them on skinnies.”
“I’m not a skinny!” And it’s true, no pre-Hunger publication would want a chubby blob like me gracing their front covers without some serious air-brushing. I’ve gone up three dress-sizes since then and my chin touches my chest even when I’m looking straight ahead.
“All supermodels have gastric bands!” shouts the MPs. “You’re not worth keeping alive!”
I consider my options and then lunge straight for the ration bars.
I hear the gunfire and feel the thud of bullets, but I pay them no heed.
I’m too hungry.
***
Dear Ms. Morgendorffer. Thank you for giving us the opportunity to read your work. It's not right for us at this time, but please keep us in mind for future submissions.
Deepest regards,
Editor George A. Dent,
Musings Magazine
By D.A. Morgendorffer
Hunger. The one thing that all life experiences, the ravenous aching emptiness that must be filled. When food is plentiful, you can concern yourself with petty things like texture, flavor and temperature. The hungrier you are, the lower your standards become. Those unwilling to expand their palette do not survive long in a world where the ability to consume garbage and waste is the difference between life and starvation. It’s all fuel in the end, after all.
Does a Lexus care of the quality of the petrol or the morality behind its harvesting? Does a shark concern itself if the meal is kosher? And just how long will humanity keep to its civilized principles and high ideals when there is nothing for breakfast, lunch or dinner?
When you are hungry you have a very simple choice – you can eat or you can die.
***
The supermarket could have been anywhere, with nothing remarkable about it at all. It had been stripped of anything approaching food or medicine, and what little remained was a random collection of stuff that wasn’t immediately useful. The section on health, wellbeing and dieting was untouched, still boasting cardboard cutouts of thin attractive twenty-somethings amazed at how loose and overlarge their fashionable clothing had become. Jagged explosive-shaped signs drew attention to just how cheap these products were, the dieting pills and powder shakes and herbal appetite suppressants.
They were the last relics of the pre-Hunger world.
The scavenger collapsed, exhausted before the fully-stocked shelves, finally out of strength. He’d gorged himself sick on everything edible he’d encountered, like anyone did nowadays. He’d consumed blocks of rich cheeses and the wax skin too, the paper around cupcakes, licked packets dry. He was crippled by indigestion and gut cramps, and his stomach was an ugly pot-belly on his formerly-slim frame.
He was sick and sore and tired but he had to keep eating. His well-toned muscles and defined figure were a death sentence to him. He remembered a childhood of mocking fatties and the overweight, delighting at how fast and attractive he was as he became a star athlete and they remained forgotten and unloved. Oh, how times had changed.
Once, larger frames had been the height of fashion as only those truly rich and powerful could afford to be overweight. In recent eras, slim and healthy-looking had become considered attractive. As the twentieth centuries, skinny was in until models looked like famine victims. Now, however, there were no undersized people. There were the fat and there were the dead.
And the scavenger, unable to meet one group, was about to join the other.
In a last burst of desperation, he grabbed sachets of diet power tasting vaguely of vanilla, strawberry, chocolate or banana. He ripped them open and poured the sand-like material down his throat. It became thick and cloggy, choking him as it reacted to the moisture in his mouth. He fought to chew and swallow, eyes streaming as he was starved of oxygen.
The Hunger came.
The scavenger, jaws filled with wet sludge, couldn’t even scream.
His corpse would have been considered very attractive, at least before the apocalypse.
***
Can you pinch an inch? Are you tired of pretending the blubber on your torso are love handles? Do you remember being able to eat whatever you wanted and staying perfectly in shape? You know you’re alone and that definitely won’t cheer you up, will it?
But this will! EuroGlobe Industries Comestible Division has made the breakthrough of the millennium with Hunger. Hunger is the diet supplement that actually works on anyone and everyone. People are getting fatter and even now no one has found a way to make health food taste better than junk food. Obesity is on the rise, along with diabetes and heart conditions. But Hunger is about to take care of it, for now and forever!
Hunger is an artificial virus created at EGICD labs that eats fat in human beings. Just add a sachet of Hunger solution to one litre of water, drink and eat away. The more you eat, the more you feed the Hunger and the thinner you get. It’s absolutely safe and absolutely foolproof. When you hit the ideal weight, size and bodyshape, EGICD labs have the antivirus ready to apply.
The future is here. And it’s hungry!
***
“Apparently Russia’s gone,” grunts one of the people ahead of me in the endless queue.
“Yeah, shock there,” their companion retorts. “Woulda thought all those big babushka women would have shrugged off the hunger, no trouble. Guess vodka just don’t have the calories.”
“They shot Zeke last night.”
“Seriously?” There was puzzlement rather than concern. Concern for others died out in the first weeks when the world ended. “What did he do?”
“He and a bunch of the Watchers tried to break into the zoo. Convinced eating a giraffe or something would bulk them up. Dolphins on toast, you know. The crazy stuff Watchers are into.”
“Well, a bullet’s quicker and cleaner than hunger if you ask me. All those Watchers know their number’s up. Us plus-sizers are the only ones worth feeding and they know it. What’s the point wasting rations on a bunch of skinnies, eh?”
“You tell the kids nowadays that people used to actually pay money to be thin, they won’t believe you.”
A long pause.
“What kids?”
The queue shuffles two body-lengths further under the endless sun. It occurs to me that no one here is younger than ten years of age. Overweight babies had a hard time of it before the Hunger, and now few are born. Pickles and ice cream doesn’t cut it nowadays. Still, more left to the rest of us.
***
“My… fellow Americans, we now face… face our darkest hour. The death toll is rising every hour, as doctors waste away in their operating rooms over skeletal patients. Only common decency and American resilience… resilience is what is keeping this country going. We have to… to help each other, to be kind and… and generous and… see us through… the dark… oh Christ in heaven I’m so hungry… can somebody get me a burger? Please, god damn it, I can see the bones through my hands… please… just a bite… I’ll be good… please…”
The last President of the United States was the first one to starve to death live on TV.
***
Just how many hours every day do I stand in this queue to the food depot? Watches are useless nowadays, since anything that can fit round your wrist can make you look like a skinny and unworthy of saving in this brand new world. At night, though, the skies are more beautiful – no traffic to pollute the air or electric light to blot out the stars. The Hunger consumes bodies so completely there’s nothing left but skin and bones, starving any diseases or bacteria. No one smokes any more, since nicotine can shed pounds off you. Lung cancer is down on the 3/5ths of humanity still standing.
The Hunger can’t last forever, we know that. It’s an artificial virus, mutated but still man-made. Still with planned obsolescence. It’s getting weaker every day, and taking longer and longer to claim the flesh from our bones. We just have to keep going, keep gorging ourselves until Leonardo da Vinci’s proportions of the human body looks more like Elvis dead on a toilet, until the Hunger is finally satiated.
And then what?
Can we survive in these massive fat bodies we’ll be trapped in? Overstrained hearts and lungs, no healthy food to be found everywhere? Just how many will continue to die? Will anyone be left to inherit this depleted and gutted planet?
It’s food for thought, isn’t it?
I laugh so hard I start wheezing. Late Zeke’s two pals ahead of me tell me to shut up.
***
…necessary. We repeat, the unauthorized attacks on EuroGlobe Industries have only succeeded in making the current situation worse. The supplies of Hunger antivirus have been exhausted and the mutated Hunger virus is now out of control. The confirmed death toll in the USA alone stands at 420,000 and is rising. All those below the proscribed body-mass index are being eaten up from the inside out, and efforts are being made to try and distribute heavy-calorie food rations.
Widespread panic and looting has begun in all fifty states, while international borders have been closed. Paris has fallen silent and the UN are carrying out emergency summits to deal with the Hunger. The Doomsday Clock has been moved to 20 seconds to midnight.
We urge everyone to keep eating. If you do not feed the Hunger, it will feed on you!
***
At last I’m at the front of the queue. The MPs, bursting out of their ill-fitting uniforms and breathing heavily, keep their guns in their sweaty palms aimed at me as I reach for my ration. It looks like what might once have been called cookie dough, but it’s a dull-tasting fudge that keeps the Hunger at bay for another day, maybe more. It keeps us alive, and we only get what we’re given.
“Not you!” shouts the first MP, so bloated and greasy I can’t tell if it’s a man or a woman.
“What?” I boggle incredulously. “Why not?”
“I finally recognize who you are, lady. You used to be the cover girl on Waif!”
Waif Magazine. My pre-Hunger life. Ancient history. “What’s that got to do with anything?”
“You’re a supermodel,” the second MP accuses, like a Salem preacher facing a witch.
“So? I’m a human being! I deserve these rations!”
“We can’t afford to waste them on skinnies.”
“I’m not a skinny!” And it’s true, no pre-Hunger publication would want a chubby blob like me gracing their front covers without some serious air-brushing. I’ve gone up three dress-sizes since then and my chin touches my chest even when I’m looking straight ahead.
“All supermodels have gastric bands!” shouts the MPs. “You’re not worth keeping alive!”
I consider my options and then lunge straight for the ration bars.
I hear the gunfire and feel the thud of bullets, but I pay them no heed.
I’m too hungry.
***
Dear Ms. Morgendorffer. Thank you for giving us the opportunity to read your work. It's not right for us at this time, but please keep us in mind for future submissions.
Deepest regards,
Editor George A. Dent,
Musings Magazine
***
DARIA: Just say it, you read my story and hated it.
JANE: What? Where'd you get that madcap idea?
DARIA: Your increasingly desperate attempts to avoid the topic.
JANE: I didn't hate it. It just seemed, well... the plot felt a little muddled.
DARIA: You think it sucked. Just admit it.
JANE: It had too many styles or something, that's all.
DARIA: It's okay if you don't like it, you know. In fact, I don't even like it. It stinks.
JANE: Look, why don't you show it to someone else? Someone who appreciates literature. Someone named Tom.
DARIA: I couldn't show it to him. It's too intimate.
JANE: Daria, it's about a flesh-eating virus. How's that intimate?
DARIA: You'd think it was pretty intimate if it were eating your flesh.
JANE: What? Where'd you get that madcap idea?
DARIA: Your increasingly desperate attempts to avoid the topic.
JANE: I didn't hate it. It just seemed, well... the plot felt a little muddled.
DARIA: You think it sucked. Just admit it.
JANE: It had too many styles or something, that's all.
DARIA: It's okay if you don't like it, you know. In fact, I don't even like it. It stinks.
JANE: Look, why don't you show it to someone else? Someone who appreciates literature. Someone named Tom.
DARIA: I couldn't show it to him. It's too intimate.
JANE: Daria, it's about a flesh-eating virus. How's that intimate?
DARIA: You'd think it was pretty intimate if it were eating your flesh.
Don't Shoot The Messenger
Dara took a controlled breath, a final glance at the handwritten notes held in her hands, and began.
"Before I make the promised announcement, I would just like to discuss one of the strange and enduring mysteries of human society. Why is it that men are so reluctant to go to the doctor when they get sick?
The answer is pretty straightforward. Men are, generally speaking, terrified that they'll get told by doctors that the mild sniffle they suffer is actually the plague and they'll be dead in three weeks. Of course, this is not something women would want to hear either, but they go to the doctor, don't they? Some might argue that various biological and gynecological matters means women are bound to have closer relationships with healthcare providers, but even so the fact remains men are terrified of being reminded they'll die while women are a bit more composed about it.
Why is this? Well, if a man is told he is going to die he will assume, understandably enough, he is going to be swept out of existence totally and leave no legacy of any note or merit. A woman, however, can always say 'Oh well, I'm dying but I will live on through my children.' As women are the ones who have the babies, they never have any doubts about their children being truly theirs. A man, however, has no such guarantee. What if the baby just looks like him but someone else is the father? In the eras before DNA and paternity testing, how could anyone guarantee a child would be born would come from a specific man? How could any man face death even half-sure their genes lived on?
The answer, of course, is wedlock.
The man asks the woman to not have sex with any men apart from him, to ensure any children she has are his and his alone. In return, he'll look after her and the children and provide for them. He'll also share the duties of not screwing around with the rest of the tribe, since they'll also have to control themselves around his woman in return. So, the man and the woman make a big ceremony in front of the tribes about how they're sticking together from now on, making lots of promises to the rest of their families and in the sight of the local deity. Women are provided for, men sleep a little better at night with the hope the are the biological father of their kids, the tribe increase in numbers and the village shaman gets something to do apart from shrink heads and chew hallucinogenic mushroom.
So that's why a man's stubborn insistence he doesn't need his rash checked up leads directly to the institution of marriage and that's not even starting on the STI clause of trapping someone into a loveless relationship.
Anyway, now I've got that out of the way, my main reason for speaking tonight. I want to announce that Quinn is getting married to her long-time partner and in completely unrelated news is also pregnant with triplets. On the plus side, it means she will not only always be able to fit into her wedding dress, but so will several other people as well. In fact, her bridal gown might double as the marquee if weather requires it..."
Unable to tolerate any more, Quinn stormed up to Daria and tore the notes out of her hand.
"Fine! I'll tell mom and dad myself!" she fumed. "I shouldn't have asked you to do it!"
"No arguments from me," Daria shrugged. I think this speech would be better at the wedding party anyway...
"Before I make the promised announcement, I would just like to discuss one of the strange and enduring mysteries of human society. Why is it that men are so reluctant to go to the doctor when they get sick?
The answer is pretty straightforward. Men are, generally speaking, terrified that they'll get told by doctors that the mild sniffle they suffer is actually the plague and they'll be dead in three weeks. Of course, this is not something women would want to hear either, but they go to the doctor, don't they? Some might argue that various biological and gynecological matters means women are bound to have closer relationships with healthcare providers, but even so the fact remains men are terrified of being reminded they'll die while women are a bit more composed about it.
Why is this? Well, if a man is told he is going to die he will assume, understandably enough, he is going to be swept out of existence totally and leave no legacy of any note or merit. A woman, however, can always say 'Oh well, I'm dying but I will live on through my children.' As women are the ones who have the babies, they never have any doubts about their children being truly theirs. A man, however, has no such guarantee. What if the baby just looks like him but someone else is the father? In the eras before DNA and paternity testing, how could anyone guarantee a child would be born would come from a specific man? How could any man face death even half-sure their genes lived on?
The answer, of course, is wedlock.
The man asks the woman to not have sex with any men apart from him, to ensure any children she has are his and his alone. In return, he'll look after her and the children and provide for them. He'll also share the duties of not screwing around with the rest of the tribe, since they'll also have to control themselves around his woman in return. So, the man and the woman make a big ceremony in front of the tribes about how they're sticking together from now on, making lots of promises to the rest of their families and in the sight of the local deity. Women are provided for, men sleep a little better at night with the hope the are the biological father of their kids, the tribe increase in numbers and the village shaman gets something to do apart from shrink heads and chew hallucinogenic mushroom.
So that's why a man's stubborn insistence he doesn't need his rash checked up leads directly to the institution of marriage and that's not even starting on the STI clause of trapping someone into a loveless relationship.
Anyway, now I've got that out of the way, my main reason for speaking tonight. I want to announce that Quinn is getting married to her long-time partner and in completely unrelated news is also pregnant with triplets. On the plus side, it means she will not only always be able to fit into her wedding dress, but so will several other people as well. In fact, her bridal gown might double as the marquee if weather requires it..."
Unable to tolerate any more, Quinn stormed up to Daria and tore the notes out of her hand.
"Fine! I'll tell mom and dad myself!" she fumed. "I shouldn't have asked you to do it!"
"No arguments from me," Daria shrugged. I think this speech would be better at the wedding party anyway...
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