Story no. 27.
The bloobie dropped from cruising height to communication height an arms’ length from Eliza’s nose.
She had been daydreaming, her brain somewhere in the south Pacific or maybe on the tundra in spring, feet carrying her toward the market without much input from her frontal lobes, so the sudden whoosh and appearance of the alien made her start backward, arms wheeling wildly.
It arched its neck down to look at her, antenna and eyestalks twirling inquisitively. It adopted the I-Wish-To-Communicate position: floating like a vertical log in the air, tail rolled up beneath, segmented arms folded neatly over its torso. She noticed this one had only four pairs instead of the usual seven.
Story no. 20! I admit I have been having a bit of difficulty keeping up, what with end-of-term papers and all. I’m on break now though!
I have often wondered how it is that people don’t notice immediately that I am depressed. Surely my arms are depressed arms. Surely I push buttons with depressed fingers. Surely I drink coffee with depressed slurps.
The truth is, not many people pay attention to an elevator robot, even if he has fished a half-full cup of espresso out of the garbage and is drinking it with noble sadness. Though to really be frank, I don’t actually know any other elevator robots, so this is roughly seventy-six percent conjecture on my part. As I am forcibly tied to my profession with a number of welded joints, the option of going to look for my own kind remains only a passing fancy, a daydream of sorts.
Story no. 10.
Analise wasn’t sure where the packages were coming from, nor could she guess when the next one might arrive. This one, like all those before it, was delivered by parachute. All of them had dropped gently into her life when she alone – playing in the back garden, sitting in the hallway after being sent out for disrupting class, and this time, walking home from school. The wooden box was wrapped in brown paper, and the top slid free from two slots cut into the inside of the box.