ALEX

Alex closed her eyes, deferring to her client, her inherent programming guiding her through a simplified decision tree. “I am yours to command,” she replied, her voice low and breathy. “I will do whatever you ask of me. Without question and with no hesitation whatsoever.”

Cameron stepped back to assess her more closely. The ALX 9000 was the most advanced model that Posidyne Systems had ever produced. Their ‘companions’ had been tweaked to behave exactly as their most demanding lessees asked; their First Law directives having been modified to permit the more advanced physical play the Company’s more ‘enthusiastic’ clients often required. Admittedly, there’d been a few casualties before the bugs had been sorted out, but that was why the lawyers had insisted every user sign a fully comprehensive disclaimer before taking possession of their escort. Accidents happened, even now, but it was never the rentals that came back dented.

The models in the earlier series had never looked and felt as good either. Cameron was awestruck. He’d expected a room-temperature-warm neoprene-fleshed mannequin. Nothing like this. Moving in closer again, he studied her in more detail. The way she stood; her musculature constantly readjusting her position, her chest rising and falling just like you’d expect of a genuine woman. Hesitantly, he reached out, his hand finding her cheek as soft and smooth as though it was real skin. And warm too. His other hand joined the first, the two of them turning her face toward his; her flesh softening and hardening beneath his palms as though she was consciously anticipating his touch. Responding to him.

She was perfect.

“Alex,” Cameron began. “Would you let me undress you?”

The companion nodded, the minute movements making her facial exo-skin slew and slide between his hands and the harder core beneath. Cameron released her, now intent on exploring further. Alex began to turn, offering her back to him so he could reach the zipper of the form-fitting dress more easily, the silken sheath banana-ing open as his fingers pulled the fastener down. She was nude beneath it, of course, her perfect physique not needing any additional support, although he guessed other clothing options could have been provided if anyone had thought of it. Not that he was going to be complaining, of course.

Savouring the smooth uniformity of the skin, he curled his fingers into an arc, parting her hair and then drawing his hand down from the nape of her neck to the small of her back, the zipper preventing him reaching any further. Her skin was to die for. Barely warmer than room temperature, her coolness enticing him. And the way she wriggled against his touch.

Divine. In a devilish way.

Reaching up to her shoulders, he eased the material free, pushing it first forward and then down, the fine cerulean blue of the dress rippling up against his palms as it slid smoothly down her arms. The silk against her silken skin, gliding freely. A sensual appetiser. A precursor of what would undoubtedly be his finest hours. He pressed closer; his cheek against hers, his arms curved around her, his breath stilled as he imagined how this would all play out.

“I would think that you’d find this experience more pleasurable if we interacted more,” Alex mused, looking back over her shoulder, totally non-plussed by his attention. “Just offering my opinion, of course.”

“You’re right, of course. Whatever was I thinking?” Cameron ceased his efforts, trailing the fingers of one hand lightly behind her from one shoulder to another as he rounded her. “You’ve a beautiful face. It would be a waste to not see it.”

Alex’s lips parted and then curved into a smile, framing her perfect ceramic-white teeth. “Agreed,” she said, canting her head to one side and then shrugging to ease the flow of her costume. “Continue, please.”

Cameron nodded, the skin around his eyes crinkling as he matched her smile. He took hold of the dress again, drawing it down until it caught against her elbows, Alex helpfully keeping her arms in close to assist him. Then, with only a few lithe movements that ended with her leaning in closer to him, she disentangled herself, the top of her dress falling between them to hang loosely from her waist.

“Oh, Mon Cher,” she said, her face moving forward so that their cheeks slid together, her voice like liquid. “This is always so hard for me.”

“And for me too,” Cameron mumbled, his mouth now close to the delicate perfection of her ear. “Knowing that this will be our only time together, it’s going to be hard to go on having enjoyed this. Never to be repeated.”

Alex pulled away slightly, her face pale and concerned. “I know. I’ll do everything I can to help. You know that.” She cupped her palms around his head, her fingers splaying to pull him close again, their lips almost touching.

And then she snapped his neck with a quick decisive twist, his body falling to hang limply from her hands.

“It’s done,” she said, suddenly business-like, turning to the official hidden behind the one-way glass screen. “Murderer #78542. Refused offered counselling and chemical behaviour modifications. Subsequently sentenced to death without appeal. Penalty paid.”

Witness Tyler scowled, wondering if her bionetic implants could see him through through the glass. “Thank you, Alex,” he said, shivering despite the warmth of his watch cubicle. 

Darkness

Just black.

Hughie turned his head to the left and then to the right, scanning the cellar. There was nothing to be seen. Nothing visible anyway.

But he knew he wasn't alone.

At first it was intuition. Or something unknown to him. All he knew was that he knew.

It took a few minutes for his vision to return, his eyes seeing despite the lack of light, his brain needing to see and finding things, even though they weren't there. Putting his hands out in front of him, the red and grey blotches lacked substance; hallucinations brought forth to fill the nothingness presented to him. His feet still moved though, his shuffling feet searching as he inched forward toward...

Toward what?

Something. Definitely something. Something sharing the space with him. He knew it was there even though he knew his eyes were tricking him. His ears too. He'd thought he could hear it, but when it turned when he did and stopped when he did, he realised it was only himself he could hear. His breath or the blood rushing through his veins. Or something else.

And then it fell on his head.

A meeting...

She moved down the aisle with a look of self-confidence. Either that or she was the ultimate introvert and nothing or no-one else existed for her. She was a little over five feet tall, dressed in blacks, greys and a dark floral print. Like camouflage; not wanting anyone else to notice her. A little soft goth not wanting interaction.

However, her subdued nature enthralled me. What was her story? Who was she? How did she live? I imagined her as an artist, painting illustrations of flowers for a publication with less than a hundred subscribers; her immaculate representations unseen by most of the world; being avidly viewed by only a couple of dozen appreciative botanists in studys as far apart as Helsinki and Honolulu. Or maybe she was a webpage designer; constantly developing page templates using HTML and rarely venturing out in the daylight. Her work'd be seen in thousands of places across the whole of the internet and no-one would ever be able to put a name to the one-woman studio creating them all.

I had to know more about her.

Waiting until she stopped to pick up a packet of pasta - who knew how many types there were - I judged my move perfectly, reaching out to take hold of the fettuccine at the same time as she did, delighting in the way her eyes turned to mine: looking puzzled behind the dark rims propped against her nose.

“I'm sorry,” I said, keeping hold of the other end of the wrapper. “I was just needing some pasta.”

“Me, too,” Miss Soft Goth, replied. “But,” she said, raising a perfectly plucked eyebrow, “there are some more packets behind it.”

I sighed, not wanting to lose this opportunity. “Of course there are, ma'am. But...” I began, studying her feverishly to look for some reason to keep her attention a little longer. She'd got no rings on her fingers; just a friendship bracelet that looked hand-crafted and a stylishly simple dial-faced watch with a silver bracelet and a single gemstone at the twelve o'clock position. Her clothes were drab but well made, with a high-end quality that suggested they were either hideously expensive or vintage garments bought from an exclusive boutique shop. And her glasses; her glasses were dark-rimmed and framed with a minimum of decoration. A monogrammed letter, that's all, positioned discretely against the hinge; the letter and the hinge both finished in a dull lustre. Expensive again. She was classy.

Between Worlds

Just one stumble and everything began to unravel.

Paige had been hurrying home late from the office and it'd been a long day for her. Of course, she had her arms full of folders and her case jammed beneath her arm, and she'd just about managed to make it to the station in time to catch the last train home when she tripped over that case in the gangway. Then everything went flying. Papers and folders and her precious tablet computer and..

And then reality ripped apart.

She'd been flying through the air like a besuited super-hero with pearl necklace and bangs when things got strange. One moment she'd been trying to track the flight of her most important items and the next she was soaring just above the ground, her attention suddenly caught by a grimacing scaly creature stepping out from an open locker. Just as casual as you like.

And Scaly saw her looking too. In fact, he even gave her a nod as he placed himself under her tablet, clutching it to his chest and then to his side as he prepared to make his escape.

Of course, she was having none of that. She'd no idea where this creature had come from, but she knew there'd be hell to pay if she lost the work she had on her computer. Scaly may have been ugly enough to make yoghurt from milk at a glance but the real ogres worked in her office.  

Happy Birthday?

Angelina puffed her cheeks up large, like a food-carrying hamster. Nine candles this year. She was such a big girl now.

Lilly smiled as her girl blew out a huge breath, slobber and drool showering across the candles and the icing. Damn, if the puffing didn't put those candles out, the showering certainly would. She stepped back from the table as Angie's parents moved in closer again, flanking her on either side, wanting to make sure no-one got hurt when she got to wield the family heirloom cake-knife: solid silver and at least as heavy as a candlestick.

Lilly smiled again, her face now shadowed and her lips pressed tightly against each other. She looked blank for a moment, pulled in a long deep breath and then left, not to return until next year at this time.

The Razor's Edge

Cutting.

Sitting with her sleeves up, sliding the razor's edge across her forearm, enjoying the tug of the blade as it sawed back and forth. To and fro. Stirring the down of the hair there as it dragged along over it, the pressure intensifying as she gave the cut-throat more weight.

It was a dark night outside, just the stars and the moon lighting her room. Downstairs her dad was probably asleep, passed out in front of the telly, surrounded by the dead bodies of three or four six-packs. If Jayne was lucky, it'd be more and he'd not wake until the sun came up again: stamping up the wooden stairs to her room and demanding that she get up immediately and make his breakfast. Or feel the bite of his belt.

But if she was unlucky, he'd wake up in the small hours, alone and feeling his grief again. And then when he pulled his belt out from its loops, she'd be afraid for another reason.  

It's Got to Be Perfect...

We're all looking for perfection. The ideal that marks the end of the road. Job done. Nothing more to do. Game over.

How horrible. Just imagine that you could get there. Find that elusive 'it' that makes the difference between damn near perfect and the totality of it all. You'd be happy then – for a while. You could ride on that for a good time: being the man or woman who achieved the golden one oh oh. You could show off your achievement – you did get photos, didn't you – and then one day you'd come to a shuddering halt. Crippled and frightened.

What do you do next?

Imagine you're an artist or a writer, making a career or a living out of what you do. You've worked hard, studied, feted the attention of the people you respect, learned their secrets and got their respect. You've spent years perfecting your techniques and honing your vision so that the art you produce is incontroversially as good, if not better than anyone else in your field can do. Repeatedly. Every time.

And then it happens.

Just imagine it. You're there at the top of the hill. Looking down. No-one better than you on that day. Anywhere.

So you roll along, enjoying your fame. But what do you do when the crowds aren't there? When you have to carry on and produce the next commission. How do you prepare yourself for that; knowing you'll most likely not achieve perfection this time? Even the thought you might not will probably be enough to make you hesitate and hold back.

And then it's all downhill from there. People will say you've past your best: that you're washed up. Even though you might be better than everyone else, you'll still be less than you were. A has-been. Maybe you could keep at your art but every piece you do will be a disappointment.

And so you'll give up.

You might continue with your art but the heart will be lost.

----------------

Of course, this isn't likely to happen to anyone. Art is a subjective media and you can never satisfy everyone's ideals. Especially your own. And I'd never make the claim that I've ever achieved perfection in what I do and that I can't improve on what I've done before. But there's a difference between that and my seeking to perfect everything I do. The 'best I can do today' is often what you need to do. Sometimes you need to accept that and let it go. Release it into the world.

And move on.