A Sandwich Shop in Chicago, 1 AM
by JeremyT
The door of the sandwich shop blew open in the harsh Chicago wind. Something darted, low to the floor, through the gap and inside. James couldn’t make out the blur of the shape, but it had four legs. A small cat or dog. It happened sometimes. Strays took shelter wherever they could from the cold winter. His boss had once found a raccoon in the backroom near the bread ovens.
“Shit, what was that?” said Toby. James was supposed to be training Toby on the register, but it was too cold for customers.
“Dunno,” James said.
“It ran behind the drinks into the corner,” Toby said. “You want me to go kill it?”
“No way,” James said. “I’ve got seniority. I’ll get it.” He stretched yellow rubber gloves that they used when cleaning the baking sheets over his hands and lower arms. Armed himself with a broom, and opened the half-door out in the lobby. He approached the corner cautiously.
“Damn, man, I hope it don’ have rabies or nothing,” said Toby.
A small silver and brown dog was curled up between the wall and the drink fountain. It looked strange, stretched out and longer than any dog James had ever seen. There was blood, from some unseen wound.
“Please don’t kill me,” it said. “I’ll be dead soon enough without your help.”
“Why did you come in here?” James asked.
“It’s just some dumbass dog, it can’t answer you,” Toby said from over James’ shoulder. James didn’t take his eyes off the coyote.
“I want what everyone wants,” it said.
“What does everyone want?”
“To get high,” Toby said, wandering back to the register. “And for their shift to end.”
“To not die alone,” said the coyote.
“I could call a vet or something,” James said.
“Just push it out onto the sidewalk, it looks all fucked up anyway,” Toby said.
“It’s too late for that,” it said. “Please.”
James crouched down beside it. Its eyes were the same color of the gloves. Brilliant yellow, like sunflowers. He reached out to pet the coyote’s fur. It whimpered softly.
“Can I leave early?” Toby asked.
“Yeah,” James said without moving. “Leave whenever you want. I’ll stay here.”
The coyote closed its eyes. Toby clocked out.
Home Sweet Home
by David
Midnight passes, the new law takes effect. At first, nothing happens. About 12:20 Patricia’s climbing-rose wallpaper starts to move. Pastel pink and green dots are changing color, turning orange (orange?), swirling into new patterns, patterns that spell
The Home Depot,
with a happy homebuilder hammering away in 3D, with sound.
Okay, I shop at the depot, they have good stuff. Evidently someone knows what I like.
The Home Depot swirls around. The swirls form new patterns that are colorful and organic, and yes, they know what I like. But this I prefer to keep private. This better not be animated and with audio, but hard-core rhythm starts to grind out from a million microspeakers and some guy with my face and a horse’s member starts banging away at a groupie.
Shoving panic down. I have to get rid of this wallpaper. Patricia’s coming over. I’ve almost got her ready to move back in, and now this! The wallpaper abruptly changes to dogs catching frisbees, but I’m not fooled. This isn’t permanent.
“House!” I call. There is no answer. “House! Disable the new wallpaper.” The groupie is back.
“You don’t like me?” She pouts.
“I like you fine,” I say, “it’s just that this is not the time.” And why am I talking to wallpaper? Advertising nano is going to ruin my life. Unless this’s a glitch and they’re going to fix it soon. The wallpaper suddenly changes to a montage of historical ads. Cheesy jingles from the 20th century emanate from speakers that erupt like chickenpox all over the walls and ceiling. I run to the door (which is advertising some kind of mortgage refinancing) and it doesn’t open.
“Excuse me,” I say. The guy looks up from the ad and focuses on me. This is a little disconcerting.
“Sorry,” he says, “but you really should consider our offer. You’ll come out way ahead after five years.” The last part is muffled as the door slides into the wall and I dash out onto the stoop. Patricia is there, hand raised to swipe the identity plate. I almost knock her off the porch.
“I’m so sorry,” I start, but then my eye is irresistibly drawn to her dress. It seems to be an advertisement for home gym equipment above the waist and feminine products below. “I was going to say my house has been taken over,” I say.
She smiles. Words spell out on her teeth: “Yellow teeth? Don’t you fret. Ultra-white’s the brightest yet!” Today’s weather scrolls across her forehead. It’s going to be a nice day, she says.
The end
