Wasted Youth

"Youth is wasted on the young."

"Agreed. All young people want to do is have fun, go on adventures, play sports, work out, join social clubs, have sex, see the world, fall in love, attack the status quo, learn new skills, create art, make friends, get high, topple the oligarchy, save the world from self-destruction, dance the night away, see how fast they can go, push boundaries, eat at all the cool places, risk life and limb, and trip the light fantastic.

"That sounds nice, but the reality is mostly posting to social media and binge watching Friends."

"Point taken."

Symbiotes

When she saved me from the Caligulan Brain Fever outbreak, I stopped seeing my NUR-5E unit as just a fussy nuisance. Fascinated, I threw myself into learning coding and robotics, and now she’ll never be touched by anyone else.

We look after each other, you see: she keeps me alive, and with my skills I upgrade her, and deal with any viruses or mechanical issues. I’ve outlived all the ‘friends’ who called me mad, and she is decades past her notional service life. We’ll never stop.

“I love you,” I say. “I will always care for you,” she replies. “Forever.”

From Guest Contributor Alastair Millar

Alastair is an archaeologist by training and a translator by trade. His published flash fiction (and social links) can be found here.

Her Dream

Little by little, she slept. The world had become rather too much. She began, in the night, when no one was watching, stealing away to where she couldn’t be found. Her great disappearing act. But before long, she’d be pulled back to the incessant waking wants, needs, demands. So she honed her skills. Cut social ties, snuck off earlier. Worked from home, held out longer. Staked claim to a full half of each day. And of what did she dream? Every night, the greatest dream of all. A world without work, without demands, where she could sleep as she pleased.

From Guest Contributor John Villan

Caramel Sauce

“Sweet,” Dad said, licking his lips.

“Different,” Mom added.

We were seated in the dining room for Thanksgiving dinner. Mysixteen-year-old brother wanted to showcase the skills he had masteredin a culinary arts course.

“Wait!” he exclaimed.

The rest of us watched him taste the meal before him. An expression ofbewilderment spread across his face. He ran back to the kitchen andreturned.

“I emptied out the wrong pot,” he conceded. ‘The caramel sauce wasmeant for apple cake.”

“So what is left for the cake now?” Dad asked while Mom and Irefrained from laughing.

“Turkey gravy.”

From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

Krystyna writes poetry, fiction, and creative nonfiction.