Category Archives: Short Stories

Grenshaw awoke to lights – lights so bright he couldn’t keep his eyes open. “Where am I?” he said.

He heard a woman say, “Shh. You need to rest.”

When he awoke the second time, the lights weren’t so intolerable. He saw Mary standing over him. He was lying on a couch in the office. “Mary! How long have I been out?”

Mary didn’t address his question. “Can you sit up, sir? You need to eat.” She was holding a bowl of soup and a glass of orange juice.

Grenshaw rolled to his side and awkwardly moved his legs off the couch. Mary handed him the bowl. As he sipped the soup, he felt his strength returning rapidly. It was almost as if he hadn’t just been thrown through an alleyway by a whitewater rapids of churning orange juice.

“You know what I could really go for, Mary? Some bacon and eggs.” Mary winced.

“Sir, I’m not sure you should -” She put a hand on his shoulder to keep him from getting up, but it didn’t stop Grenshaw. He set the bowl down and stood up.

“It’s okay, Mary. I feel alright.”

He paced back and forth, testing out his legs. He checked his pockets for his keys. “Is my bike here, Mary?”

“Sir? I don’t think you should be riding anywhere right now.”

“Really, Mary. I feel quite good. A little weak, yes, but I’ve had worse days.” He walked toward the door.

“Sir. Why don’t I have the intern escort you to where ever it is you want to go?”

Grenshaw paused at the doorway. “Good idea. I’ll get ahold of him right now.” Grenshaw got out his phone and walked down the hall toward the elevator.

Once inside, he put his phone away and whispered, “Tommy, help me out here.”

to be continued . . .

It couldn’t be. Grenshaw squinted at the man in the doorway. “Tommy,” he said, “how is this possible? Even if this is just a computer simulation, I don’t understand how–”

“Do you remember the GCF slogan, Mr. Grenshaw?” Tommy interrupted.

“Tommy, I assume you are responsible for this vision. But how do you know what that man looks like?” Grenshaw said, pointing toward the figure in the doorway.

“The slogan is “˜Powered by the state of your mind.’ Do you know what that means, Mr. Grenshaw?”

“No, Tommy. I have no idea what that means. I only know that what is currently happening cannot be real.”

“As you know, Mr. Grenshaw, the computer itself isn’t powered by your mind. But the software is. Thus, I am.”

“And what does that mean?”

“It means this is not a conspiracy. There isn’t some faceless man at GCF headquarters pushing buttons and manipulating you. You control me.”

Grenshaw pondered the words briefly before saying, “Okay, then, tell me what’s going on here.”

“Oh, no. It doesn’t work like that.”

“Do I need a password?”

Tommy gave a half-grin. “Perhaps I should rephrase. You determine my actions. But the Universe controls me.”

“The Universe?” Grenshaw glanced at the four dark figures as he tried to decipher Tommy’s words. They weren’t exactly frozen, but all four had stopped their activities. It was like they were waiting for something, or maybe like they were eavesdropping. “Tommy,” Grenshaw asked, “can they hear us?”

“On a conscious level, you are not paying attention to the Universe. But on a subconscious level, you are attuned to the Universe. Mr. Grenshaw, I am here to help you move beyond your own self-deceptive consciousness.”

“Was that an answer to my question?”

“No,” Tommy said, “they can’t hear us. But they are listening.”

“There you go again with these damn riddles. You realize I don’t understand a word you’re saying?”

“You don’t need to understand what I’m saying. What you’re about to witness will speak for itself.”

Grenshaw opened his mouth to reply, but one of the boys drew his attention away when he said, “Did you hear that?” By the light of the torch, he could see the faces of both children more clearly. One of them looked alarmingly familiar.

“Tommy,” he said, “that’s -”

Tommy shushed him and said, “I know. Listen.”

“But that’s me!” Grenshaw exclaimed. When Tommy shushed him again, Grenshaw heard a tinkling of water and a distant sound like the rush of traffic.

“Boys,” the man in the doorway yelled, “it’s not safe out here. Come in.”

The ground suddenly began reflecting the torch light; Grenshaw looked at his feet and saw liquid parting around his shoes. The man in the blue coat grabbed a torch and began running awkwardly down the alley, toward the open street, yelling, “Everybody run!” From the doorway, the larger figure stepped into the alley. He grabbed the nearest child and said, “Come on.”

The boy dropped his torch and responded, “But Dad, what about all our earnings?”

The rushing sound was getting louder. “That doesn’t matter!” the father shouted, grabbing both children, yanking them towards the door, and causing them to drop their bags of shards.

Grenshaw felt a spray of liquid on his face just as the boy escaped his father’s grasp and stepped into the alley again, pawing at the ground for his lost “earnings.”

“Tommy,” Grenshaw shouted, “are we safe?”

The sound was now a deafening roar. “No!” Tommy shouted back.

The stream seemed to erupt as if from a fire hydrant. Preceded by a loose gathering of large droplets and stinging needles of liquid, it came with full force and knocked the boy and Grenshaw off their feet.

Grenshaw gasped before being carried down the alley, flipped upside down, slammed against the buildings on either side. His final thought, before everything went completely black, was that the liquid tasted like orange juice.

to be continued . . .

Outside the shop, Tommy was standing at the opening of an alley. “This is where we got the idea,” he said.

“What idea?”

“That night when you thought you saw the monster, we learned something.”

“What do you mean I thought I saw it?”

“We learned to listen to you. There was no monster. We could see that. But you believed it was a monster, which was ingenious.”

“You’re saying I came up with the idea?”

“Not exactly. You created it, but that’s different from coming up with the idea. We did that. But clearly some part of you knew that you were responsible for creating the monster. Your conscience, your subconscious, your soul.”

“Tommy . . . or whatever your name is, I have no idea what you’re saying right now.”

Tommy motioned down the alleyway. “What do you see now?”

Grenshaw looked. As usual, the alley was dark. And sure enough, there were the eyes, a pair of glinting lights.

“C’mon,” said Tommy, walking headlong into the darkness.

“Are you crazy?” Grenshaw watched as Tommy’s figure began to fade from view. He followed reluctantly.

As he proceeded, his eyes adjusted. He could make out shapes: metal trash cans, broken bikes, doorways leading into more darkness. And people? Yes, there were people. Small figures leaning against the brick walls and standing in doorways. They were no bigger than children, but their faces looked weathered.

“Tommy?” Grenshaw asked. “What is this place?”

“This is where your trash goes.”

Horrified, Grenshaw looked from face to face, trying to discern the obscured expressions. “Is this place real or is this another computer-induced vision?”

“What do you see now?” Tommy asked, nodding down the alley.

Grenshaw saw a pair of tiny figures sifting through shards of glass and metal. They moved quickly, selecting the favorable pieces and throwing the others toward a trash can. They held small torches. By the light, Grenshaw could see their youthful faces. These were children.

“Your monster is a couple of poor kids, Mr. Grenshaw.” The boys paid no attention to Tommy. Maybe they couldn’t hear him.

Grenshaw didn’t know what to say. From the shadows, another figure emerged. Grenshaw recognized him by his blue coat. He approached the children and peered over their shoulder. “Good work, boys,” he croaked.

“They might grow up to be criminals,” Tommy said. “Then again, they might grow up to be like their father.”

Through a doorway, a fourth individual appeared in the alley, this one taller than the others. “Boys,” he said, “come on inside.” Grenshaw could barely make out his features, but he didn’t need to. He recognized the voice.

to be continued . . .

“By now,” the shopkeeper explained, “your operating system has become fully integrated into your daily life, so it’s easy to think it’s not there. Still, I’d expect you to know that you had the computer.”

Grenshaw nodded. “I’d expect the same.” What incompetence. Could he sue these people?

“It could be that the system was purposely deceiving you.”

“Purposely deceiving me? You sold me a product that lies to me?”

“We sold you a product to get your life right.”

“Right. “˜Get your life right.’ I’ve been hearing that all over town with that stupid ad you guys run.”

“Uh, we don’t run ads, sir.”

“Of course you don’t. Look. Give me a full refund and maybe I won’t sue you.”

“I’m sorry, sir. You signed an agreement waiving those options, so you’ll be doing neither. However, I think I can help you. Though I have no idea what you’re going through right now, I’m sure it’s the right path for you.”

“Right path? You call seeing monsters in alleyways and talking with interns that don’t exist the right path? What the hell did you sell me?”

“We sold you the single most advanced piece of technology in our modern world, sir. We sold you the most effective way to the right path.”

“You’re telling me a computer knows what the “˜right path’ is? Hell, nobody knows that. How can your company claim to know what’s right?”

“Well, one definition of it is “˜that which ensures harmony and peace.’ And in fact, a computer might know better than we do since it has no self-interest.” The shopkeeper started fiddling with a small keypad. It looked more or less like a calculator. “Our software was developed by a panel of scholars, religious leaders, and key revolutionaries. Surely, you wouldn’t argue that the Revolution was the wrong path?”

Grenshaw thought back to his father. He remembered when they were selling their house; his father had pulled him aside. “Son,” he’d said, “we’re going to have to start making some sacrifices. For a while things are going to be very different. We’re going to have to give up a lot of our luxuries.”

Grenshaw glared at the shopkeeper. “Not everybody liked the Revolution.”

The shopkeeper looked up from his keypad. “I have a son, Mr. Grenshaw,” he began.

Grenshaw’s glare softened. Could this guy read his mind?

“And he doesn’t like taking baths.”

For a few long seconds, the two men stared at each other. Initially, Grenshaw was waiting for more, but he realized the man had made his point.

The shopkeeper pressed a few more keys on his calculator. “There,” he said. He moved one of his watchmaker’s loupes over his glasses. “Yep. It worked.” He pointed toward the door. “Looks like you have a visitor, Mr. Grenshaw.”

Grenshaw turned around to see Tommy standing in the doorway. “Come with me,” he said. “We’ll explain some things to you.” He exited the shop.

Grenshaw was about to follow when the shopkeeper spoke. “By the way,” he asked, “was your father’s name Phil Grenshaw?”

“Yes?”

The shopkeeper nodded and then headed toward the back room. “He was a great man,” he said before disappearing through the doorway.

to be continued . . .

Grenshaw stood staring at the Marigold Café. Inside, a couple chairs were tipped over; the stools that normally lined the diner’s sidewalk bar were piled in a corner. But all else seemed intact. It looked closed, but not closed for good. Actually, if it weren’t for the big sign pasted in the window declaring “out of business,” Grenshaw could imagine customers bustling inside. He could picture the chef flipping fried eggs and bacon.

Hadn’t he just seen the chef yesterday? Wouldn’t he have given some warning? It made no sense. Everything had happened so fast.

Grenshaw dialed the office again; he’d have Tommy look up the details of the account. He wasn’t sure what he was going to find, but then again, he seemed to be discovering all sorts of strange things these days. Might as well try.

Mary answered. “Hello Mr. Grenshaw. This is Mary.”

“Mary, I need to talk with Tommy.”

“Who?”

“Tommy.” What did she mean who? “The intern?”

“I’m sorry sir. The intern’s name is Adam. Would you like to speak with him?”

Grenshaw was only slightly surprised. The way things were going . . . . “You’re sure there’s no Tommy there? No Thomas? Nothing?”

“No sir, I don’t know if we’ve ever had a Thomas working here.”

Of course. “Okay. You’ll have to excuse me, Mary. I’ve had a strange night.”

“No problem, sir.”

Grenshaw walked back to his bike shaking his head. There had to be some explanation for all this.

As he was approaching the bike, he reached in his pocket for his keys. They were gone. “You’re kidding me!” he said out loud. Passers-by looked at him like he was dangerous.

He retraced his steps mentally, trying to figure out where he might have left them. Then he looked at his bike. The keys were still in the ignition. He couldn’t believe no one had stolen it.

As he mounted the bike, he once again heard that voice urging, “Get your life right.”

“Get your life right, my ass!” he shouted, drawing more frightened stares from pedestrians. He checked his watch: 11:20. He had time; maybe the computer shop would have some answers. “They damn well better,” he said out loud; he’d given up on appearing normal.

Fortunately, GCF computers was open. It was the first thing that had gone right today. But when Grenshaw walked in, the man at the counter – the one bent over his work like a watchmaker – said, “Can I help you?”

“Uh, yeah,” Grenshaw began, amazed at the guy’s poor memory. “I was in yesterday?”

“No, I don’t think so,” he said kindly.

“Seriously?”

“Do you already have a GCF computer?”

“I think so.”

The man came out from behind the counter and looked at Grenshaw’s neck. “Yep. You sure do. How long have you had it?”

“Well, like I said, I was in yesterday. I think I bought the computer then.”

“You think?”

“Yes.”

“But you’re not sure?”

Grenshaw scratched the back of his head. “Well, no.”

The man went in a back room and came out with a small plug. “This is gonna pinch a little.” He connected it to Grenshaw’s neck and then moved his hands through the air, manipulating something that was invisible to Grenshaw. “Okay,” he said. “Our records indicate that you bought the unit six months ago.”

“Six months?”

to be continued . . .