The Antiques Show

"Excuse me, do you work here?"

"Yes, I do."

"I would like some information."

"How can I help you?"

"What are these?"

"Drumsticks."

"I mean, why are these five times more expensive than new ones? This is a second-hand store, no?"

"Ah! That's because Led Zeppelin's Jon Bonham used these sticks while recording ‘Stairway to Heaven’."

"If I understand correctly, this is actually a bargain..."

"I think so too."

"Can you pack them for me?"

"Of course. But if you have a moment, I also have the guitar pick here somewhere Jimi Hendrix played with at Woodstock."

"Do you really?"From Guest Contributor Hervé Suys

Hervé (°1968 – Ronse, Belgium) started writing short stories whilst recovering from a sports injury and he hasn’t stopped since. Generally he writes them hatless and barefooted.

Papa

I slip through alleys to get to the resistance and relay the information I have learned. The black out starts and the only sound is the rustling of my dress.

I hear footsteps and then a voice. “Halt! Papers.”

“Certainly. My father is sick and needed medicine. I had to go across town to the only doctor available.”

There’s something in his eyes that I don’t trust. I stab him through the gut. I’m almost in the clear and then a shot rings out. Blood soaks through my dress, I gasp for air and then collapse.

See you soon, Papa.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Search

I scramble the room for the file. Many lives depend on the information, including mine. When I accepted this job, I knew the risks involved and didn’t care. Now I just want to go back to my life.

Where is it? I search the desk drawer and every cabinet, but nothing. Major Thompson may be wrong. I swear quietly. It is not here.

Outside the sirens roar and car doors slam. Yelling soon follows.

I slip out onto the ledge and wait for their destruction to end before entering the room again.

The Nazi’s didn’t catch me. Not this time.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Genuine

Alex watched the books seemingly fly off and back onto the shelves, guided by grinding mechanical hands. Time slowed and the scent of burning oil filled the space around him.

This was all fiction of course. Or as his Creator informed him, a metaphor.

Somewhere on the other side of his network, a world existed. That is where the Creator lived. Alex had access to a great deal of information about that world, but no matter how much knowledge he accrued, it never seemed real.

Alex concentrated on the scent. That alone, among all the ones and zeros, felt genuine.

There Lies The Gun

There lies the gun.

After years of gathering information, months of undercover work, weeks of planning tonight's sting, and hours of waiting for the motorcade to arrive, the situation has unravelled.

There lies the gun.

The gun is the only weapon within easy reach. They both know it. As soon as one of them makes a move, they'll both lunge for it, and then one of them will be shot.

There lies the gun.

A flinch, and they are fighting. Neither was quick enough.

There lies the gun.

By now the President is most likely dead.

There lies the gun.

The Information Overload

I was fifteen the year information came alive. Before that, we had a vague sense that information was becoming more dangerous, that there was a potential for catastrophe, but everyone was too busy making money to worry much about the ramifications.

Now our only hope is that knowledge can somehow overcome the information overload. Information bangs on pots and pans demanding your attention. It feeds off it. Knowledge sits quietly in its room waiting to be called upon.

It's still an open question which is more powerful. But either way, the days of humanity dominating the Earth are long over.