Free With and Without Class by David Fleming Page B

from his hand with the fire burning and ricocheting inside his skull. He rubbed his hands across his sweaty forehead as the intruder reached deeper, making his surroundings confusing, foreign. Alex felt younger—like some punk thirteen-year-old kid. “Fast Amnesia… STOP!” He collapsed.
    *
    â€œAlex Stevens?” a tall man called from the entryway. “Alex, in accordance with Bio Information Act Thirty-Seven we’re entering your premise. Your implant quarter has sent a distress message indicating your health is in jeopardy.”
    A medic and a nurse followed behind the tall man into his Egg and they noticed the torn manuscript pages around the rim of his running, garbage disposal. Bubbles which had been stuffed hastily with ink-scribbled manuscript pages, had been smashed all over his kitchenette’s floor and snow-angel indentations had been left all over the indigo shag of his yolk room . Alex lay on the shag, between snow angels.
    â€œAre you guys from Warner Bros?” Alex asked.
    The tall man leaned over him, “Can you tell me where you are?”
    Alex blinked. “My new story—it’s still on the hard drive.”
    A bored female nurse switched on her pad and accessed Alex’s quarter. “He used Fast Amnesia. The technology’s shoddy. But his vitals are good.”
    A short medic turned off the garbage disposal, “Fast Corp. even knows it can’t erase what a person wants to forget most. That type of memory is buried too deep. I’ve seen this type of thing happening more and more. The brain rebels against Fast Amnesia’s attack and it just makes whatever that person was trying to block-out worse.”
    â€œAlex?” the tall man kneeled, touching his shoulder. “Can you hear me?”
    Alex grinned. “Did you say you were from Warner Bros?”
    â€œWarner Bros?” the female nurse asked. “What’s that?”
    Alex tried to get up on his shoulders but he was dizzy. “…a film studio.”
    â€œA film studio?” she asked. “What’s that?”
    The medic picked up a crushed bubble and picked a manuscript out from the rounded shards. “It looks like he wrote a bunch of stuff, then he crossed out his titles.” He bent forward to read. “He crossed out his title on this one and wrote: ‘The Time Machine…arrives thirty years later’.” He fished out another manuscript. “Moby Dick… with planes.” “Pride and Prejudice… with cockroaches.” “These words don’t make sense in this order. Do you think it could be schizophrenia? Word salad or something?”
    â€œI finished it.” Alex’s face cringed. “Someday… it’ll be a classic. I’m a writer.”
    â€œI can’t believe this,” the tall man looked down. “Kid, nobody reads. Everything’s been written.” He looked to the woman, “What’s this kid do?”
    â€œListed as: Weld Robot Monitor.”
    He squeezed his shoulder, “Kid, listen to me. A welder’s a good trade.” He leaned in closer, “It’s a good trade; you don’t have to be anything more than that!”
    â€œDid you say you were the … Warner Brothers?”
    â€œHe’s delirious,” the medic said. “I’m preparing a sedative.”
    â€œI wrote it. It’s mine.” Alex seemed to admire an invisible beauty floating behind the man, “I call it—I call it… Casablanca! ”
    Â 

Daughter Thieves
    T heir black coupe hovered inches above the ancient highway. Verch pierced through traffic as slim cars, sailing through currents of air, stretched and flashed back into the past. Their car buzzed on, burning fuel. He jerked the handle-wheel to cross lanes alongside a snake truck. The amber bellies of truck platforms flickered, bouncing cargos of nested drums.
    Murphy