Author Archive | Mark A. Rayner

Dr. Tundra admits he has a problem

bloodshot eyes

Once again, Dr. Tundra woke with a splitting headache, the feeling that he’d fallen asleep with a mouthful of half-masticated rat, and a pain in his lower back that could only be called apocalyptic.

He opened his eyes; it felt as though a demented carpenter had been at his eyelids with coarse grit sandpaper all night.

The walls were swimming a bit, and he could just barely focus on the floor, where he could see the empty pizza boxes, Coke cans, and what … was that a pair of panties?

He sat up in bed, and realized that at the tender age of 37, perhaps it was time to admit he had a problem. This was worse than his days of pretending he was Carlos Castaneda — the peyote days. He’d fallen under the thrall of a new mistress, and not the nice kind decked out in leather and handling a whip either. No, he’d sunk into a new addiction. One that could ruin him — ruin his relationships, his work, his life.

At the far end of the bedroom was the TV, and sitting underneath, the device. And within it, the software that caused his cravings:

Fallout 4.

Put down the controller and mess up your eyes with some of my addictive long fiction!

It is wise to consider if you are an addictive personality before you load up any form of electronic crack on your gaming console or computer: Gaming fanatics show hallmarks of drug addiction. Thanks to maxf for the eye. Alltop also has a series of addictions. Originally published in 2008, when the punchline was Civilization IV.

The dream of flight

Fly away (from) home. by Kera Robson

It seemed impossible, but it was happening. Glen was flying!

The geese had flown higher and higher, above the clouds, so he could now take in the glorious early morning sunlight — Glen guessed about eight or nine-thousand feet. It was spectacular. He whooped and hollered with delight. The geese honked back at him. Glen thought he may have been projecting his own elation onto the geese, but it seemed like they were actually excited about their feat too. It was an achievement for both species!

But more than anything, Glen was filled with pure joy. He’d never felt more alive, at one with the immensity and power of the universe. He laughed aloud, over the sound of the the geese beating their powerful wings, louder than the rush of wind in his ears.

Then the 747 hit him.

Looking for your own escape? Read some of my high-flying long fiction!

Alltop misses in-flight meals. Fly away (from) home., a photo by Kera Robson on Flickr.

How I Spent the Ice Age

Mountains, snow, and glacier -- Chile

The new arms weren’t as much fun as I hoped they’d be, but they were sure useful during the crisis.

As you know I’m not really into the bodmod community, but I’d always thought it would be cool to be able to swing from tree to tree, the way we saw the Reclaimed Gibbons do in the preserve, when we were in high school. Yeah, the one down in Souwesto, near the ruins of Toronto, remember? That was a great trip.

I got the new arms a few weeks before it started. They weren’t actual Gibbon arms, of course, but a beautiful bit of work by a friend of mine, who dabbles in bio-enhancement. She mostly works with nano, but I keep telling her she has a real flare for the genetic arts too, so she did a combination. The plan was to spend my vacation swinging with my simian friends in Souwesto. Tree swinging that is.

Of course I got the hair on them; I’m not totally fake!

My musculature had just finished healing — even with the latest developments, flesh bodies adapt slowly to nano — but I don’t need to tell you that do I? Duh. I sometimes forget that we’re all real time now, even you guys on Big Red.

Anyway, the worst happened. Multiple eruptions, right when we were at our peek seeding of the atmosphere. Temps dropped. The snow started falling. Piling up. And bam. Ice age.

In miniature, anyway. Of course, it couldn’t last, but the damage. Wiped out my Gibbon buddies in Souwesto. And nearly got all of us here in Nunavut too.

But these babies were awesome. You know how much easier it is to ski and snowshoe if your arms can provide half the power? The hair was useful too — an extra layer for warmth. And I’ve been told they’re awesome in zero-G, so I think I’ll keep them until after I visit you.

Though I’m sure it still won’t be as weird as your green skin, man. That I have to see with my own eyes.

Enjoy this? There’s more like it in my longer works.

Alltop swings with the yuks. Photo by Stuck in Customs.

Pirate Therapy

Pirate flagLaurence arrived a few minutes late for his regular Thursday morning session, but his therapist usually ran late, so he wasn’t worried.

From behind the door of his therapist’s office, he heard a blood-curdling scream, and then a thump. A door opened somewhere, and Laurence heard a strange sound, almost as though something heavy was being dragged. He heard grunts, scraping, and the rhythmical percussion of something booming on the floor. Laurence looked around, and realized the secretary was not there. He also realized he was standing, tense.

The door to his therapist’s office creaked opened, and he heard a rough voice shout: “Ahoy Larry! Be ye out there laddie?”

“Uh. Yes.”

“Come in, matey.”

Laurence walked unsteadily to the door and opened the door fully.

A pirate sat in his therapist’s chair. He had wild, unkempt hair held in by a greasy red bandanna, and a full dread-locked beard that looked like it was made out of black steel wool. He was wearing a stained white silk shirt, a sash of what was probably once a lovely dark green silk and pantaloons. He had one black boot, and he was missing a leg, which was replaced by a wooden peg that was carved into the shape of …

Laurence looked away.

“Arr matey, don’t ye like me leg?”

“Uh, it’s very creative,” Laurence said. “Um. Um, where is Dr. Glick?”

“She’s in-dee-sposed,” the pirate said. “She’s asked me to take care of her sessions today. Now, repeat after me: Arrrr!”

“Ar?”

“No, like ye mean it. Take a deep breath. No, don’t sit down. Ye won’t be sitting down this morning Larry, ye’ll be workin’! Now, say it: arrrr!!!”

“Arr.”

“Avast!” the pirate stood, the obscenely rounded end of his peg leg booming on the floor. A cutlass lay on Dr. Glick’s desk, and he picked it up. “I want to hear a real pirate yawlp before ye leave, ye bilge rat!”

Larry suddenly understood what that dragging sound had been. He looked around wildly for a weapon to defend himself; he picked up a pillow from the couch. Perhaps it would work as a shield.

“Would ye like a blankie too Larry? I won’t be caring if ye need to carry around a stuffed bear, as long as I hear ye. Now take a deep breath, and say it: arrrr!” The pirate’s voice was incredibly loud.

Laurence dropped the pillow and held his ears. He started shaking.

The pirate took a step closer and pointed the cutlass tip at Laurence’s throat; he lowered his voice and said menacingly: “I’ve slit the throats of better men than ye, Larry me boyo. Now say it, smartly lad, smartly!”

“Arr!” Larry managed, terror driving his voice several octaves higher.

“Grand! Grand!” the pirate enthused. “Now, let’s pretend you’ve got a pair, and say it again.”

“Arrr!” Larry shouted.

“Again!”
“Again! Louder!””Arrr!”

“Arrr!” Larry screamed.

“Arrr!” the pirate joined in.

“Arrr!”

“Arrr!”

“Arrrrr……..” Their joint shouting tailed off, and Laurence realized that the pirate was grinning at him.

“So how do ye feel matey?”

Laurence wanted to say he felt good, but he know that wasn’t the right answer, so he just muttered: “arrrrr.”

The End

Now buy ye’self some eye-patching,┬ásatirical fiction:

Alltop be wanting yer attention too, the scallywags. The title story in my collection, Pirate Therapy and Other Cures.