Goodreads Book Giveaway
by D.C. Lozar
Giveaway ends July 16, 2017.
See the giveaway details
Giveaway ends July 16, 2017.
See the giveaway details
CyberWeird Stories is finally finished. The cover is amazing and I couldn’t be happier with the fantastic stories inside. Available in e-book and print with the audiobook due to be released in late July. Thanks to everyone for your encouragement and support. The long wait is over just in time for your summer reading.
A boy bends down to examine a tiny bug on the cement. It has too many legs, mean pinchers, and its black shell glints metallically in the afternoon sun. Fascinated, he pokes at the wriggling creature with a twig and waves over his friends. A crowd approaches, but the bug is gone. Frantic, the boy slaps at his sleeves, runs his fingers through his hair, searching for the little monster that he knows has somehow gotten under his skin.
These stories are like that.
In the past, science fiction and horror writers were philosophic soothsayers who warned the public about scenarios that wouldn’t appear for decades. Now, the impossible happens the day after we think of it.
Nursing homes run by robots, androids that contract cancer, criminals sentenced to virtually experience their crimes as if they where the victims, printed people, children trapped in neo-ghost-cities were the adults have disappeared, and a space explorer who finds the homeland of H.P. Lovecraft’s Cthulhu.
These are just a few of the fascinating stories you’ll find wriggling across these pages.
Just be careful they don’t get under your skin.
I’ve been busy editing a collection of short stories I hope to put out in June or July 2017 – I’m making cuts, fine-tuning and rearranging some previously published pieces, and writing a few new ones – The working title is Cyberweird Stories.
For this post, I thought I’d share a poem I wrote the day after the twin towers were hit.
The New War
By D.C. Lozar
Shadows unseen attacked at first light.
We bled but knew not whom to fight.
The year was two thousand and one.
Our golden age of innocence was done.
Misled arrows directed by hate
Opened the door to our new fate.
Blazing flames engulfed twin towers,
Symbols of freedom’s united powers.
A third blameless missile deepened our pain.
What was all this death meant to gain?
America looked to the thorn in its side
And found a wound gaping wide.
Mothers and Fathers would come home no more,
Full family circles now made poor.
Eyes open wide, mouths drawn tight,
Even our children knew all was not right.
Evil has raised its cowardly head.
Tears fill our eyes as we bury the dead.
One is too many, two too much.
Loved ones never again to touch.
The fourth guiltless bullet dropped to the ground,
Disarmed by heroes newly found.
Our Nation’s strength is suddenly clear.
Men and Women bound together against their fear.
We are one people, one hand, one fist.
They went for our heart, and by God, they missed.
Stand with your brother, your neighbor, your friend.
This is the message we will send.
As a family rocked by sorrow,
We swear to make a new tomorrow
Where faceless promoters of worldly terror
Will know just how much we care.
A war we declare on a group unknown.
They will pay dearly as we set the tone.
We pledge to find and destroy all that is dark.
We will not forget this searing mark.
Those who would keep shadows hidden from sight
Will find us eager and ready to fight.
No longer will there be safety in hate.
Evil and terror we will eliminate.
We will look past color, culture, and prayer.
Each life we will examine with precious care.
But if terror is the basis of your belief,
You will feel the full fury of our grief.
Nations will unite at last,
Leaving behind their troubled past.
Call to your neighbors and hold their hand.
This world is everyone’s home, life, and land.
Shadows at first light were aimed at our hearts
Only to find that we are more than our parts
September 11, two thousand and one,
The New War has just begun.
What if we learned how to live forever by transferring our minds into new bodies? There are limited resources. Not everyone contributes to society in a meaningful way. How do you decide who deserves this new immortality?
You test your children.
Emma is determined be one of the first twenty of her fifty siblings to cross the finish line in a race designed to weed out the chaff so she can earn citizenship in Amaca. How much is she willing to sacrifice to get what she wants?
Where do the new bodies come from?
Violet’s bare feet slapped the snow-white metal floor, a rhythmic tap-tap-tapping sound, which rang shamefully down the long corridor. She had slept in, woken alone, and nearly vomited on seeing the time. Missing class was one thing; missing Chaff Day, well, that was a nightmare come to life.
This was her fault. Not two days ago, she had had a full-on conniption when Naomi woke her before morning bells. Everyone had seen it, had stood back as it happened, and so, as penance for being a total slice to wake up, they had let her sleep – thanks guys.
She tore off her clothes, wadded them into a ball, and tossed the mass into a wall pit as she veered to the right. The hallway narrowed and dipped. She heard the applause, the enthusiasm of the crowd, and felt her heartbeat double in her chest.
“Outfit 1910A,” she yelled.
A gear-and-piston wall panel opened, and Violet snatched up the folded race clothes of a novice. Changing mid-run, her legs and arms flailing ridiculously, she cursed as her shorts tore along one side. Fine. Perfect. Now, it would be a real show.
There was no way to put on her shoes, a pair of green mag-levs, while running, so she tucked them under an arm and poured on the speed.
The corridor snaked to the left, widened, and spat Violet out into the open air of the stadium. Blinding sunlight and the familiar oven-heat of the metal track slid like puzzle pieces into her mind, and her worries evaporated – This was Chaff Day!
The stands were filled with Amacan citizens and their robots. News cameras zipped like angry flies around the track, regurgitating their sticky images onto the floating projection vids above the arena.
On screen, Violet’s desperate run down the corridor – a bed-headed demon-blur of naked flesh – replayed in slow motion for all of Amaca to see.
They knew she was late!
Did they know she missed sessions?
A cold sweat formed on the back of Violet’s neck as she jogged to where her family, a pod of forty-nine, waited.
“You blew it,” snickered Steve. At seventeen, muscular and dim-witted, he was the class tough. “They’re going to disqualify you for skipping class.”
“I was there.” Violet pushed charcoal-black hair out of her face and stuck her tongue out at him. It was a childish move, but the fly-cameras loved it. “Check your band.”
Bell, her best friend, and sister, looked up from the digital visiband they all wore. Her soft gray eyes widened with amazement. “But, I didn’t see you there.”
“I was in the back,” said Violet, bending to pull on her shoes. She loved mag-levs. They made her feel like she was flying. “Just came in late.”
Steve’s narrow mouth tightened with confusion as he scrolled through the morning roster. His green eyes burned. “This is wrong.”
Violet shrugged and moved to tighten Bell’s shoes; the smaller girl never locked them properly. Looking up, she smiled reassuringly. “You’re going to do great.”
Blinking back nervous tears, Bell nodded. She was blond, tan, and wiry. “You to.”
“You hacked it,” said Steve, awestruck. “You hacked your band!”
Violet sprang at him, her fist descending. “Did not!”
Viktor is a vagabond treasure hunter, a warrior, and a physician who lost his license for doing experiments on extra-terrestrial predators. Determined to win back his Earth citizenship, he follows clues that lead him to the Bermuda triangle of asteroid belts. The Cthulhu used a device called the Herald to control time, and Viktor hopes to use the ancient artifact to defeat death. The Herald is kept on Yuggoth which legend says is at the center of the Cernobog Asteroid Belt – right along with a black hole.
As a long time fan of the pulps, I wanted to create a story that blended my love of Robert E. Howard’s story “The Servants of Bit-Yakin” with H.P. Lovecraft’s “At the Mountain of Madness.” I set it in space, sprinkled it with forgotten European folklore, and hope I’ve spun these classics into something unique. Please enjoy.
Norbert’s life is perfect – He’s a fully employed reporter, married, and about to have a child. Unfortunately, the sick robot he followed ten years ago has decided to stage a robot revolution on the same day as Norbert’s baby is due to be born. Unwittingly cast as the spokesperson for the human race, Norbert struggles to protect his young family and the genetic integrity of his species. This novelette is the 3rd and final one in the “Sick Robot” series.
Humans are priceless.
When high heat is applied to dead flesh it becomes ash.
Ash is made up of carbon, which is essentially coal.
Coal compressed at high pressure becomes a diamond.
Diamonds are priceless.
Diamonds come from volcanoes.
Villagers dropped humans into volcanoes.
Maybe the natives knew more than we thought.
Knowledge is priceless.
New ideas are written down in books.
Books are made of paper, which comes from trees.
The carbon cycle needs trees.
Trees make oxygen.
We need oxygen to read books.
Did we learn anything?
Children learn faster than adults.
Adults have bigger brains.
Is that why we keep trying to make technology smaller?
Supercomputer use diamonds to think like us.
By D.C. Lozar and Ellen Kristoff
Every eye in the courtroom turned as the Wolf, dressed in a navy-blue Bailiff’s uniform, padded down the aisle.
“This session is called to order. All rise,” growled the Wolf. “The honorable Brothers Grimm presiding.”
Two Siamese cats dressed in flowing judge’s robes entered the court from their chambers. Their wet amber eyes scanned the fairy tale characters on the jury. The three little Pigs cowered, little Red Riding Hood stuck out her tongue, and Hansel and Gretel stopped throwing spitballs at the back of the old Witch’s head. There was a hushed silence as the two cats took their positions behind the bench.
“Please take your seats,” yapped the Wolf. The gilded buttons on his double-breasted vest shown with authority. “Case number: 317 – Mr. James A. Troll vs. The Gruff Family. Defense’s side was heard before recess. The prosecution may begin.”
Humpty Dumpty rolled out of his chair, adjusted his necktie, and pushed his client’s wheelchair to the witness stand. “If it pleases the court, I call Mr. Troll.”
Mr. Troll reeked of expired aftershave and cabbage. A filthy neck brace held his chin steady while a leg cast poked out from under his tattered overalls. His large brown eyes scanned the court and found the immaculately dressed Billy Goats sitting in the defense box. The sparse steely whiskers on his cheeks quivered.
“As a victim of workplace violence and inadequate health care myself,” began Humpty Dumpty. He dabbed at the perspiration on his brow, highlighting the poorly mended cracks in his shell. “I know far too well how slander and misinformation by the media can rob a victim of their just say in the public eye. Thus, we are asking the court for damages amounting to thirty-five gold shillings to cover the hospital bills, lost wages, and emotional distress incurred by my client.”
Pinocchio worked jerkily with a coal pencil to sketch the jury’s expressions of awe. The damages requested were twice what any reasonable jury had ever awarded.
Whispering, the three Billy Goats leaned into a huddle. The youngest chewed nervously on the edge of their table.
“Mr. Troll,” continued Humpty Dumpty. “Please tell the court what happened on June twelfth?”
Mr. Troll grimaced as he straightened in his rickety wheelchair. His voice was unruffled and polished “Certainly, Mr. Dumpty.”
Mrs. Spider’s forelegs fluttered over the court’s stenograph, recording every word.
“I was called to repair a particular bridge on the lower east side. My employer, Tinker, Inc., had informed my office that there was a dangerously loose floorboard that, if not timely repaired, could lead to public harm. Grabbing hammer and nails, I rushed to the location. Climbing under the bridge, I quickly discovered that three of the structure’s wooden slats had indeed come a part. The most efficient way to repair said damage was through the use of glue and nails. I was in a cramped position and so was unaware when I spilled some of my quick drying glue onto the nails as I prepared to do my work. It is my habit to place nails in my mouth for easy access and, in so doing, I subsequently sealed part of my mouth together.”
“That was when the first of those three hooligans came strutting up to the bridge.” Mr. Troll pointed forcefully with a sausage-sized finger at the Three Billy Goats. “I yelled that the bridge was unsafe and not to cross. But the first one ignored me and strutted on by as I held up the floorboards with my arthritic shoulders. I’ll admit my words may have come out a bit garbled due to the glue on my lips, but I’m sure I said I wanted to complete repairs.”
Humpty Dumpty took out a scroll and scanned it quickly. “The Billy Goats contended earlier that you said you would eat the youngest one’s hairs.”
Offended, Mr. Troll looked to the judges. “My point exactly. They’re twisting my words, making me look bad. Why would I eat just his hairs? That’s ridiculous.”
The Grimm Brothers nodded sagely, conceding the point.
“Well, no sooner did the first one cross, then did his larger brother appear. Again, I yelled a warning to stay off the bridge as it might collapse.”
“Here, the defendants claim you said that you would eat him in a snap,” read Humpty Dumpty.
“Ludicrous.” Mr. Troll spread his burly arms and rolled his eyes. “This time, I practically broke my back trying to hold up the slats as the middle thug tramped over my head. He even had the audacity to warn me that his older heftier brother was on the way.”
Gasps of compassion issued from the spellbound jury.
“Knowing that yet another careless pedestrian was about to cross, I shimmied out from under the bridge and positioned myself in front of it. My intention was to prevent a catastrophe.” Mr. Troll shifted awkwardly in his chair. “I am by no means a hero, but I felt I had a responsibility to warn the fellow.”
“Quite right,” agreed Humpty Dumpty. “We should all be so lucky to have someone warn us of unseen dangers.”
“The final Billy Goat was quite large,” continued Mr. Troll, “but he looked mature enough to understand the situation. I put out my hand, smiled as best I could, and said I’m pleased to meet you.”
“He said, ‘I’m going to eat you!’” bayed the largest Billy Goat.
“Order!” The Grim Brothers’ gavels slammed into the desk.
“Do you see his temper?” asked Mr. Troll. “He rushed me, horns down, and head-butted me into a nearby tree. I woke several hours later with the injuries you can all plainly see. My wounds left me unemployed and indigent. Evicted from my apartment, I now live under the same fateful bridge that I tried to repair.”
“Thank you, Mr. Troll,” purred one of the Brothers Grimm. “Does the defense have anything to add in cross-examination?”
Snow White, dressed in a snappy business suit, strode forward. Her eyes blazed with righteousness. “Yes, your Honors. Just one single request.”
Reaching into her silk pocket, she pulled out a small sharp nail and placed it on the banister in front of Mr. Troll. “I would like Mr. Troll to pick this nail up for the court.”
Mr. Troll’s face fell, and a layer of perspiration emerged on his craggy brow. He looked sheepishly to his council for help.
Humpty Dumpty having complete faith in his client’s innocence waited coolly for Mr. Troll to comply.
Fumbling with his freakishly large hands and sharp claws, Mr. Troll struggled to grasp the tiny nail. It skipped and skittered away from him with each attempt.
The jury gasped with horror. They had almost fallen for Mr. Troll’s story.
“I contend that Mr. Troll has never repaired a bridge in his life,” said Snow White primly. “As he cannot pick up a single nail, I demand that his unfounded claims be dismissed. I also propose that the court imprison Mr. Troll for making false accusations against three of our town’s most upstanding citizens.”
“Agreed,” snarled the first of the Brothers Grimm.
“Case dismissed,” hissed the second of the Brothers Grimm. “Security, please take Mr. Troll into custody.”
With tears of happiness streaming down their snowy beards, the three Billy Goats hugged each other and Snow White.
Mr. Troll bounded out of his wheelchair and made a mad dash for the door. Prince Charming, his sword already drawn, caught the fugitive easily and dragged him from the room.
Humpty Dumpty shook his head in bewildered regret at having lost yet another case while Hansel and Gretel resumed throwing spitballs at the back of the Witch’s head.
The Wolf drew a creased sheet of paper from his breast pocket and read. “Next on the docket: Case Number: 318 – Ms. Tabatha Goldilocks vs. The Bear Family.”
Of the side effects listed on the sheet accompanying all prescriptions, one of the scariest is the admission that our pills could cause death. This is considered a bad thing. But, maybe we shouldn’t jump to conclusions.
by D.C. Lozar
The certificate I handed to my doctor said I was dead.
What’s more, it recommended (in no uncertain terms) that he approve an immediate autopsy, as my demise was suspicious in light of my young age, lack of family history, and excellent health. Indeed, Dr. Finn commented last year that if I took care of myself, I could expect to live another eighty years. I shook my head as he squinted at the document. This was why we still had human doctors – apparently, medical scanners made mistakes.
“It says here that you’re dead.” Dr. Finn had been old when I was a child. Not that he looked it. He had a trim build, fair complexion, and only a touch of gray along his temples: Such were the benefits of modern medicine, of pills, to be precise. His ocean-blue eyes filled with concern as he looked up at me. “How do you feel?”
“Fine.” I did feel well. For the last two weeks, a sense of quiet calm, a resting balance of my mood and body, had washed over me so that I was never hungry, tired, or irritable. I flew through my work projects, completed routine home chores happily, and found I had a reserve of energy and time left over to spend with my wife. We spoke more than we had in years, went on dates, and took up hiking. “Never better.”
“How’s your appetite?”
“I’m not hungry.” Curiously, I hadn’t eaten anything for several weeks.
Dr. Finn listened to my heart and lungs, checked my pupils, and felt for a pulse. His hand trembled as he did the exam, and I remembered one of his pills gave him the shakes. Taking my middle finger, he pinched it hard between two of his own. “Does that hurt?”
“No.” It didn’t – not even a little.
Frustrated, his voice hinting at his growing apprehension, he ground his knuckle into my sternum so hard I felt he might break a the bone. “Painful?”
“No.” Alarms went off in my head. Until today, nothing I’d ever presented with had rattled Dr. Finn’s professionalism. “What’s wrong?”
“How have you been sleeping?”
“I haven’t needed to.” Not sleeping, I’d finished next year’s taxes, read three books, and written some op-ed columns. In fact, I was starting to think that whole thing about needing eight hours a night was a complete scam.
“Okay…You need to be completely honest with me, James.” Dr. Finn slumped back in his rolling exam chair and folded his hands on his lap. His expression was pained but forgiving – he wanted me to know he wouldn’t judge me. “Are you doing anything differently? Have you traveled out of the country? Has anything strange or unusual happened to you recently, anything at all? This is important.”
Perplexed, I shook my head.
He leaned forward. “Are you taking drugs?”
“Not drugs.” I hesitated, wondering if I should mention it, unsure if there were any connection. “Just some herbs I found on the Internet.”
“They’re all natural, completely legal.” They were. I hadn’t even needed to pay customs to ship them from Costa Rica.
“What’s in them?” The corners of Dr. Finn’s eyes crinkled, a sure sign he was on the trail of a diagnosis.
“I don’t know. They’re supposed to make you happy.” I was defensive and worried that we might be getting off track. The website said the herbs were of an ancient and rare variety, blended using a secret family recipe, and only available for a short time. They guaranteed users one hundred percent satisfaction, or they would refund our money. Indeed, the reviews were all five stars and overflowing with glowing testimonials. In retrospect, I will admit, I neglected to check if the customers were verified purchasers but, at the time, their endorsements convinced me to give the stuff a try. “Besides, I ran out two weeks ago.”
“How long did you take them for?”
“I don’t know, about a month.”
“Why didn’t you order more?”
It was a valid question. I had tried, but the website, an amateurish endeavor with a hand-drawn smiling skull as a logo (an element I initially took to be a creative, albeit ironic, marketing tool) said supplies had run low. Potential patrons were advised to check back regularly for updates. Additionally, individuals, like myself, who had finished their course of supplements, would not need to reorder as they had taken enough to guarantee eternal happiness. So, I answered truthfully. “They ran out.”
Dr. Finn adjusted his wire-rim glasses and harrumphed. The disregard he entertained for alternative medicine was well known to both his staff and patients. Here now, was proof. I could practically hear the gears locking into place as he prepared his monolog about the dangers of self-medication. Rather than listening to the rant, I decided to mollify him before he started. “I should have asked you.”
“Well, yes,” he admitted nonplus.
We waited another moment for his prepared speech to re-arrange itself into something that might be a better fit for my particular circumstances. “Be that as it may, the real problem is simply that you have no heartbeat, respirations, or vitals. Your body temperature is that of room air; you feel no pain, and, by your own admission, you are not sleeping or eating, and these hard facts leave me with no alternative but to conclude that you are, as much as it pains me to say it, clinically dead.”
“That sucks.” It wasn’t the most profound thing to say, but I challenge anyone, given the same circumstances, to come up with something better.
“Of course, there will be no fee for today’s visit.” Dr. Finn walked me to the door and shook my hand. “I don’t have a license to treat the dead.”
“I’ll say you died due to natural causes – in particular, an overdose of imported herbs – and sign the death certificate this afternoon. The medical examiner is a friend of mine, so I think I can get him to sidestep the autopsy.” There were soft tears in Dr. Finn’s eyes. He wiped them away with a trembling finger. “I’ll miss you, James. You were one of my favorite patients.”
“Goodbye.” I felt awkward. It was like he was waiting for me to hug him or pat him on the back. Maybe he was looking for forgiveness for having let me die, for failing me, or maybe it was hard for someone who spent their career preventing death to see it smile back at them. I gave him a fist-bump. “I feel okay.”
“I’m glad,” he sniffed. “I’ll call your wife and let her know the bad news.”
I thought about how that might go. “You don’t need to, Doc. I’ll tell her myself. First thing. I think she’ll take it better coming from me.”
He cocked his head to one side, unsure but relieved. “You were very young. Your death will come as a shock. Tell her to call if she needs any pills to help with the grief.”
I moved toward the exit. “I’ll let her know. Thanks.”
Dr. Finn gave me an apologetic nod, and I left.
Now, here’s where it gets weird.
Being dead in the modern hi-tech world does not “suck.”
Au contraire (I’m learning French), it’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me.
I can break any law I want, and no one can arrest me. I fly for free, watch movies without a ticket, and never worry about dying in a car accident or natural catastrophe. My debt is annulled, and my wife cashed in my life insurance policy for an exorbitant sum – owing to my prior statistically low probability of death. Needless to say, whatever preliminary qualms she held about the diagnosis (we considered getting a second opinion but then thought better of it) have since evaporated.
When we married, we vowed to stay together “until death did us part,” but neither of us feels like we need to take this literally. We’ve always felt a deeper than mortal connection, and now, with no financial concerns, we’ve been able to quit our jobs, travel, learn new languages, and enjoy our lives together with a freedom that would never have been possible if I were alive.
So, when the smiling-skull website procured a new but limited supply of herbs and offered them to the public, I wrote a glowing testimonial, taking care to document that I was a verified and exceptionally happy customer.
I did leave out the part about dying.
They’ll find out soon enough. Besides, it’s like what Dr. Finn explained when I asked him why he still took his pills when they gave him the shakes. “Everything has side effects, James. You just have to learn how to live with them.”
The first short story in the Fringe Series – Dr. Evelyn Stranger treats creatures most would consider monsters. Werewolves, ghouls, and witches living in New York City need a particular sort of physician, one skilled at treating the worst horrors the supernatural world can shovel out. She’s paid a high price for her training and so takes it personally when her latest client, a horny poltergeist, tries to get out of paying her fee. NC-17.