Category Archives: Short Stories

The streets were busy when Grenshaw got on his bike at 11:00 to head for the office. Sidewalk pedestrians were spilling onto the street; people were gushing out of the subway stations like ants on an anthill. It was overwhelming. And on top of it all, he had to weave around hordes of slow bikes, all the while, keeping an eye out for flying ads. Those things were getting dangerous.

As he turned onto 3rd Avenue, a small ad whizzed by his head. “Watch it!” he screamed.

“Get your life right,” the ad replied. Get your life right? Where had he heard that?

“The computer!” he said out loud. He felt the base of his neck; sure enough, it was there -barely distinguishable, but there nonetheless. He decided to stop by the shop on the way to the office. “GCF Computers,” he muttered. “Wonder what that stands for.”

As he wove in and out of traffic, he pondered some possibilities – Gullible Customers Forget, Giant Computer Fluke, General Confusion Formula – but just as he was coming up with “Getting Customers Fleeced,” he passed the Marigold Café and saw a sign posted to the front which read, “Out of Business.”

He screeched to a stop, nearly causing a pile-up behind him, and got off his bike. As he was running toward the Marigold, he called the office. Tommy answered.

“Tommy, what the hell happened?”

“Excuse me, sir?”

“The Marigold Café. It’s closed. For good.”

“I’m sorry, sir. I have no idea what happened.”

“We only survive if they survive, Tommy.”

Tommy chuckled. “Really, sir?”

“Yes!” Grenshaw shouted. “We can’t afford to lose this account.” As soon as he said it, Grenshaw knew how ridiculous he must have sounded. Of course they could lose the account. They were Grenshaw Juices. They didn’t need the Marigold Café. They could have lost every single one of their smaller accounts and still be in the black. “Listen, Tommy, I need you to look into the Marigold for me. Find out why they went under.”

“Alright,” Tommy said, hesitantly.

Clearly, Tommy thought Grenshaw was nuts. And hell, he might have been. It really was irrational – all this fussing over some small diner on 3rd Avenue. He was acting like his father had when the Revolution began. Still, he needed this. “Look, Tommy. Just do it for me, okay?”

“I’ll get right on it, chief.”

Chief? “What did you say?”

There was no answer.

“Tommy!”

He’d hung up.

to be continued . . .

When Grenshaw walked out the doors of GCF computers, he found he was facing an alley. He paused and looked down the length of the dark dead end. Funny, he didn’t remember an alley being there. He double-checked that the GCF shop front was indeed the front; maybe he’d walked out the back door.

But no. Everything was as it usually was. Except now here was an alley leading nowhere. He was about to shrug it off and head toward his bike when a small flash of light – like a reflection off a wristwatch – caught his eye. He squinted into the darkness.

There they were. The eyes. They were smaller than he remembered them, but they seemed to be growing bigger. Maybe he was simply adjusting to the darkness.

“How’s it goin’, chief.” Grenshaw jumped at the sound of the voice; standing next to him was the chef from the Marigold. “Did I scare you?”

“No,” Grenshaw lied.

“Just lookin’ down an alley, then?”

“Look, I might be going crazy, but I see a pair of glowing eyes. Do you see it?”

“Glowing eyes, eh?” The chef followed Grenshaw’s line of vision. “Yeah, I see “˜em.”

“You do?”

“Yeah. That’s you, chief.”

“What do you mean?” Grenshaw said.

“That’s you. You’re lookin’ at a mirror, chief.”

Grenshaw turned back to the alley, incredulous. The eyes were glowing and they had tripled in size. He heard a growl, and then the darkness lunged at him.

He woke with a start and sat in bed breathing heavily. His clock read 10:20; it took him a minute to understand that he’d been dreaming. It took another minute to figure out that it was the morning and that he’d slept in four hours. “Damn it!” he shouted.

He phoned the office. Mary picked up. “Mary! I’m sorry I’m late. I don’t know what happened.”

“Sir?”

“Listen, I’m on my way. I’ll be there in 20 minutes.”

“No need to worry, sir. I’ve delayed all your meetings till afternoon.”

“You did?”

“Yes, sir. You asked me to do so.”

“I asked you to do so?”

“Yes, sir. Yesterday, you phoned and said you’d be coming into the office at noon today.”

“Oh.” Grenshaw walked over to the mirror. He stared at his reflection, trying to discern within the depths of his own eyes where the past twelve hours of his life had gone.

“Is everything alright, sir?”

“Uh, yes. Thank you, Mary. I’ll be in at noon.” He hung up the phone and said to his reflection, “What am I doing?”

to be continued . . .

On his way to the office, Grenshaw passed the computer shop and noticed someone inside. For the first time since he’d been aware of its existence, the store was open. He decided to check it out.

When he walked through the doors, Grenshaw noticed that the place was unusually bare. It looked more like an empty art studio than a high-tech establishment. In fact, he couldn’t see any computers.

In the back of the store, a white countertop seemed to be floating in the air. A man seated on a stool behind the countertop was bent over, examining something closely. He was wearing glasses and watchmaker’s loupes. Grenshaw cleared his throat, and the man looked up.

“Oh, hi.”

“Is this GCF Computers?” Grenshaw asked.

“Sure is. Powered by the state of your mind.” He removed his glasses.

“So,” – Grenshaw looked around the shop – “where are they?”

“Oh, they’re right here,” he said, tapping on the countertop. He motioned for Grenshaw to approach, pulled a small square off the countertop, and held it up for Grenshaw to see. It was about the size of a saltine cracker. Grenshaw looked again at the countertop, which, he now saw, was entirely comprised of these little squares.

“That’s it?” He couldn’t believe it.

“Yep.”

“Where’s the monitor? Where’s the power supply?”

“GCF Computers uses an advanced form of wireless energy transfer. Basically, it’s powered by electromagnetic vibrations emanating from other power sources around its vicinity.”

“So it steals energy?”

“Well, no. Most power sources are inefficient. They lose 20 to 30 percent of the energy they’re attempting to transfer. A GCF computer runs on that lost energy.”

“Fascinating.” Grenshaw wondered if such a method could work in factories. What if he could cut costs in his production plants? “Must be expensive.”

“The wireless energy receiver? Actually, it’s fairly cheap, especially considering that it requires no maintenance or monthly expense.”

“Hmm.” Grenshaw gave an impressed nod. “And what about the monitor?”

“Ah, that’s what’s really special about a GCF. It’s a little harder to explain, though.” The man walked around the counter. “Here. I’ll give you a demonstration.” He circled behind Grenshaw. “I’m just going to put this temporary collar on you.” He attached the small computer to a U-shaped band and hooked it to the back of Grenshaw’s neck.

Grenshaw thought he heard the man mutter, “interesting,” but then he heard someone else say, “Welcome to the GCF user interface trial.” He searched the room for the source of the voice.

The man walked in front of him. “So you’ve probably heard the introduction?”

“Yes,” he answered tentatively.

“We’ll start with the basics. You use a computer at your place of business, yes?”

Grenshaw nodded.

“What’s the most recent stuff you’ve done?”

He thought back on the previous day’s work, and as soon as he remembered, a transparent chart projecting the year’s profits flashed before his eyes. “How. . .”

“I assume you’re seeing some sort of chart or spreadsheet? That’s actually one of the more obtrusive programs on the GCF. Most of them don’t have such a clear visual interface.”

Grenshaw was amazed. “How much does one of these cost?”

“Well, we have a sliding scale. GCF Computers are lifestyle computers. Every aspect of their interaction with the user is relative to that particular user.”

“So you’re saying the cost depends on the buyer?”

“Exactly.”

“That’s the craziest business model I’ve ever heard of.”

“Oh, we’re not concerned about making money. We’re in the business of improving life.”

Was this guy for real? He sounded like he was reading from a promotional brochure.

“If you’re interested in purchasing one, we ask that you fill out this application; we’ll get back to you within a week’s time.” The man handed Grenshaw a booklet, titled “GCF Computers: Application for Ownership.” It was 30 pages.

He took it and asked for a pen.

to be continued . . .

Grenshaw didn’t sleep well that night. He was a little anxious about stopping at the Marigold Café in the morning to deliver the plastic mug. And since he hadn’t heard from Tommy after their little meeting the previous day, he didn’t know what to expect when he got to the café.

He got up, perused the place for mice, gathered his things, and left.

Traffic was light, as usual; it was early enough that the air was relatively free of floating ads, and the city was quiet. Grenshaw used to love the early morning hours. He remembered once when his father had taken him down to the water to watch the sun rise over the far shore and cast its light upon the skyline. “Each day brings a new decision,” he had said. That was right before the Revolution.

Funny. Grenshaw hadn’t thought of that day for 20 years.

As he was searching his mind for more details of that strange morning long ago, he turned onto 3rd Avenue. Up ahead, he could see the café, and as he got closer, he could make out a small figure in blue walking away from the small diner. It was the same individual he’d seen at the antiques shop.

He accelerated toward the place, hoping to catch up to the mysterious creature, who had turned a corner, out of sight. He sped right past the Marigold towards the intersection, but he could see nothing when he peered down the alley.

Grenshaw doubled back toward the café and hopped off his bike. “Were you just talking to that person in blue?”

The chef squinted at him. “Oh, mornin’, chief,” he smiled. “I knew you’d be back.”

“I’m sorry. Impolite of me. Good morning.”

“You’re referring to the little guy?”

“Yes.”

“Calls himself Troll. He was a bit upset.”

“Troll?” Strange name, Grenshaw thought.

“Yep.”

“And why was he upset?”

“Well, I used to get my orange juice from him, but now I’m gettin’ it from some other company.”

“He was your supplier?”

“Supplier,” the chef repeated. “Is that what a supplier is?”

“Yes.”

The chef looked like he was figuring something out. “Say, chief, you know a lot about this kind of stuff. What is it you do?”

“Um.” Grenshaw wasn’t sure if he should be revealing his identity as the Marigold Café’s new supplier. “My father worked in plastics.”

“That so?”

“Oh, speaking of which” – Grenshaw got out the plastic mug, happy to change the subject – “here’s a replacement mug for the one you gave me yesterday.”

“Well how about that.” The chef held up the plastic relic. “That’s real nice, chief. Say, you want another orange juice today? Price reduced.”

“Price reduced?”

“Yep. I like to pass the savings on to the customers, you know?”

Grenshaw furrowed his brow.

“Not the way your pa would have run things, is it?”

Grenshaw didn’t answer.

to be continued . . .

Grenshaw’s first instinct was to call Mary in and ask her what she knew about GCF Computers. But, truth be told, he was a little paranoid. Could this whole thing be a conspiracy to make him look crazy? Maybe Mary was in on it.

Instead, Grenshaw decided to kick off early that afternoon and swing by the antique plastics shop on the way home. He’d forgotten to tell Tommy to get a new mug for the chef at the Marigold Café, if Tommy had gone there at all, and he figured he might as well stop in at the plastics store and get himself something. He’d been in a few antiques places recently. They reminded him of his father.

He knew right away the place was a throwback when he opened the door and it sounded a bell – a real bell. A tall, thin woman appeared from a back room. She looked to be in her 60s, and she carried herself with a dignity that further reminded Grenshaw of his father. She said nothing.

“Um,” Grenshaw began, “I’m interested in getting something” – he held up his mug – “to replace this mug.”

She walked wordlessly over to a shelf which housed several plastic bottles, some of which were the kind you would have thrown out back in their day, and some of which were large and durable.

All the merchandise was meticulously organized, each bearing a small, dissolvable sticker with a number scrawled on it. Grenshaw pulled a white, cylindrical container off the shelf and eyed the large number on its sticker. Was that the price?

“How much for this one?” he asked.

She looked at him like he was an idiot. “Sixty two,” she said. Indeed, the number was the price.

Grenshaw turned the mug over in his hands. He remembered these. They were plenty durable. Even in high school, he’d had friends who had owned these mugs. He hadn’t spoken with those people in years.

“Alright,” he said. “I’ll take it.” He’d never have to get another mug after this one. He held up his other mug, considering whether to give it to the chef at the Marigold Café or to buy a new one. But it occurred to him that since Tommy may not have gone to the Marigold, he might have to do the negotiation himself. Best to have a gift in hand.

“Do you have a means of disposing of my old mug?” he asked the woman.

She took it from him, walked out the front door, and set the mug on the sill of her display window. Grenshaw watched as she returned inside. He was utterly perplexed.

“Will there be anything else?”

Grenshaw was momentarily speechless. “Um, yes,” he said eventually. He pulled a small plastic mug off the shelf, this one more reasonably priced. “This too.”

As the woman walked over to her computer, Grenshaw noticed a small, hunched figure outside. Its face was obscured by a large hat, and it was covered a blue, pillowy jacket. It shuffled by slowly and grabbed the mug off the sill.

“What . . .”

The woman motioned with a finger to her lips. “Shhhh,” she whispered. “Neither one of us saw that.” She rang him up, took his money, and silently walked to the front door, which Grenshaw took to mean “you may leave now.” He felt compelled to say something to her other than “thank you,” something that would prove to him that she was human.

At the door, he noticed the GCF Computers shop across the street. He pointed toward it. “What do you know about that place?”

She shook her head. “I make my living off the past,” she said, “not the future.”

to be continued . . .