This is the Dumbest Timeline
We share unpublished fiction here now.
When I recently considered publishing short fiction here, this is actually not even close to what I had in mind. I was not referring to flash fiction I wrote in 2015 and absolutely forgot about. But like, why not. (Oh, because it’s unedited and the action is confusing in at least one section and despite knowing that, I’m not inspired to work on it. Some things are fine imperfect. Like that sentence.)
So yesterday, someone shared the below article on Bluesky (where you can find me if you're into that kinda thing) and this tiny snatch of story I wrote almost a decade ago came to mind.
Anyway, for the first time, here’s some previously unpublished fiction.
MC & Me
By Bethany C Morrow (that’s me!)
That MC & Me is a literal storefront gives it a safe, nostalgic feeling. The way people once strolled in and bought cell phones – the handheld devices it has quickly become almost impossible to find, even for the avid collector – one can stroll in and customize a Mental Companion.
There are screens, but not for sale. Aisles, but nothing to select and buy. Rather infomercials are playing and the aisles are spaces between cubes of sound-cancelling plexiglass. In these, actors go about one demonstration or another: a teenage girl compiling a grocery list for some reason; an elderly man trying to complete a crossword; and some sort of executive working on a very important presentation. On each side of the cube, a transcript of the conversations fade in and then out as shoppers stop to watch the actors engage with the internally implanted MCs who would otherwise speak only to their host, as voices inside their heads.
“I feel like I’m forgetting something.”
You are.
The teenage girl throws back her head in a seemingly silent laugh.
“How would you know?”
You said you’re making grandma’s fresh fruit tarts. You’ll need shortening.
“Are you sure?”
I’m looking at the recipe.
The teenage girl laughs again and she reminds her MC that Mental Companions can’t “look” at anything.
None of the store’s patrons walk away annoyed by the unlikely exchange or at the unabashed kitsch of a shopping list, of shortening or of a personal trip to the grocer. Familiar with the looping concept of live advertisement, they simply move along to the next cubicle before the discussion of the shopping list begins again.
When Sky tugs her friend from the second cube before the old man’s text appears, she rushes in front of another shopper and quickly starts to speak.
“How do you know if you’re talking to an MC?”
The young man’s name tag is the only indication that he’s neither a shopper nor a live display and still he seems caught off-guard. He looks past the young woman momentarily and toward the friend who’s avoiding eye contact – and hopefully association – by scratching the skin above her brow. It’s only meant to shield her face but he’s sure it’s something more. Acne is more advanced than science, after all, and the afflicted young man is distracted by the urge to pick at the blood red nipples staining his forehead. He hasn’t decided if that’s what her friend couldn’t stand to see when Sky speaks again.
“If someone had a Twin-C, how could you ever know?”
“Sky, come on.” The friend tries to pull Sky away – the way she tried to convince her this was not the best idea – and the effort works just as well the second time around. It isn’t the unfortunate looking clerk in front of them, or even the unnecessarily populated store and the likelihood that in a few short moments they’ll all be paying attention. It’s this irrational fear that Cam will find out – though how in the world could he – and that he’ll have humiliated Sky again. “Let’s just go.”
“Okay.” But Sky isn’t talking to her friend. “There are Twin-Cs and Compliments.”
“Yes?” he replies. There must be sweat between the peaks on his face now, little beads to make the whole hideous canvas glisten, and he has at least four hours left to work. A million people will look directly at him in that time, like she is doing now. And all because interactive employment looks better on college applications than cyber.
Sky’s brow crumbles. “Yes?”
“Yes. There are Twin-Cs and Compliments.” He plasters on a weak smile. “A Twin-C is a mental companion designed to replicate the personality and communication style of the host, best if you want an AI to whom you can delegate things like daily correspondence or schedule planning. Compliments, on the other hand, are designed to be more stimulating, giving the host a different perspective that can be useful in anything from creative brainstorming to professional preparation, and are the AI of choice for elderly or lonely hosts seeking limitless conversation.”
She hadn’t interrupted him mostly because she doesn’t know what to say. Now that she is actually in the store, her best friend squeezing her clammy hand in a way that says both that the young woman will stay with her and that she wishes they had never come, Sky can see this was a bad idea. But here she is.
“Um.” She rubs her lips together and lets her eyes drift away from the young man. “I just want to know about Twin-Cs,”
“Sure,” he says too quickly. “What do you want to know?”
She rubs them together again and her lips are still dry. Her friend is just behind her and Sky is afraid she’s just about to cry.
This was a bad idea.
“We want to know if some coward spent the last four months delegating his relationship to a Twin-C.” Sky’s friend pulls her closer. “Four months, right?”
“Yeah.” Sky almost smiles. “Give or take.”
“Four months.”
“So,” the young man begins.
“So, are Twin-Cs effective enough that Cam-the-Coward could delegate relationship communication to it and then also have it call and break the whole thing off because he isn’t man enough?”
“Oh. Um.”
Now he touches his bright red forehead, absently stabbing a pimple that looks ready to pop.
“Yes.”
***
Sounds fun, amirite.
