Last Meal Ticket

In a dystopian near future, a chef who prepares only the final meals of the condemned takes it one order at a time…

(estimated reading time: 22 minutes)

Last Meal Ticket

by

Blaine Arcade

For once, the Republicans decided to pay for something. Stranger still, they were paying for public luxury, welfare class. Rather than a renovation it was more fitting to call it a metamorphosis when the workhorse building that had served a dozen governmental purposes got new paint, burgundy and charcoal, big curtains everywhere like a theater, crowned with three additional floors, and soundproofing that made the interior absorb anxiety.

Big rooms full of people still granted a sense of solitude in the weak lighting, turning others into shadows and props. Elegant, always fading and sinking like dusk in a sand tunnel, the Hall of Corrective Reduction had become an admired fixture of the city almost immediately after its transformative surgery.

Where did Republicans find the money for a public service? After the moral revolution of January 6th, 2025 and the elimination of the Demon-rats all public funds were successfully moved from the deep state and into less leaky deep pockets, safe and secure. Those pockets didn’t open very often; congress under the supreme president insisted it was earmarked for investment, and once those investments paid out the American people would see ten thousand times what they put in. Continue reading

Don’t Strike the Platform

Don’t Strike the Platform

by

Blaine Arcade

Cupcakes awaited in the break room; the scent was clear as he’d passed by. His coworkers figured he couldn’t smell through the hood, but it was much thinner than people thought. Black as night, yet clear as a bell. All his senses were needed to get his swing right.

And by the reaper he had gotten it right, every time, every year, up to today. His final swing: the 733rd. One strike. If it took two his record was ruined. Retirement would sour. Cupcakes would taste like ash.

The swinger made his way up the five steps to his black platform, sealed slats ready for runoff. Closed audience. Two television cameras. Everyone around the country knew him, but none knew his face, just the expert swing. The block was locked in with the basket. Clean, but not slippery. Good job Phil. Phil was on rags and mops. Good guy, No perfect record though.

Up came the squirmer with his handlers. They marched him up, bent him, and locked him on the block. Squirming couldn’t do any good now, but most kept going like live bait. Continue reading

Regular Romp #12: Leor the Tenth, Possibly Last

Regular Romp is an interactive fiction activity over on our Twitch stream where I ask a regular a series of questions before turning their answers and a corruption of their username into a short story.  Stop by twitch.tv/blainearcade if you’d like to participate.

starring

LiorX

Sixty-eight people milled about on the beach pretending to enjoy various activities. There was a game of volleyball going; the ball hadn’t touched the ground in more than forty minutes. Neither team had scored yet. They didn’t need to. The game was simply decoration, like the surfers lounging against their posted boards and the children building sand castles so tall and symmetrical that no actual child could resist toppling them. Continue reading

Twitch Stream Story: Terms and Services and Awhhh who Cares?

Prompt: Someone makes you an offer you can’t refuse. You refuse.

Those five streets always sounded like there was a train just under them, something clicking rhythmically against the tracks. I never saw a station anywhere, but after compartmentalization I was out of the loop. There didn’t seem to be much point to reading the news from different compartments or looking at their layouts when nobody was allowed to visit them. Continue reading

School Supplies

(estimated reading time: 24 minutes)

School Supplies

By

Blaine Arcade

Breeeeeeek, breek, breek. Sort of like a cicada, but according to the box it was supposed to be a tree frog. I hadn’t liked tree frogs in about six years, but when Mom said she was going to keep my room just as it was after I left she sure meant it. So I was being woken up by a plastic golden alarm clock shaped like a frog. It breeeked in my face and flashed the lights behind its purple eyes.

I swung my legs over the side of the bed and winced when my feet hit the floor. Pain. Docs said my leg should be one hundred percent by now. Liars. They wanted me to get hurt again; it’s just more money in their pocket. Miss the family doctor. Think he was a real family doctor… like a cousin removed a handful of times or something. You need your blood mixed with theirs to get them to really care. Continue reading