More! Astonishing Tales of Astonishment!

I’m feeling pretty sick this week….pretty sick of your bullshit! But mostly just physically ill, so there won’t be a normal post this week; we’re just doing the hackish sci-fi story thing again. I would say “I hope you like it,” but in all honesty, I hope somehow that it harms you physically so that I’m not the only one feeling crappy. It’s not that I dislike you, you see, it’s just that really I love me some me.

Chain of Thought

The doctor moved stiffly from bench to bench. Disinfectant hung heavy in the air, flavoring it with the slight aftertaste of a foreign, chemical burning. The girls watched the projector intently, strapped to their seats, their eyes unwavering on the film being played there. He took the opportunity to test the dilation of their pupils, the color of their gums, and adjust their medication. The half-light of the projector cast a dim, brakish quality to the room. Like looking through the porthole of a ship at night, its glass gone nearly opaque from the decades-old patina of scratches across its salt-worn surface. He still had dozens of girls to see, and the film was quickly spooling downward.

She felt the pull of the pistons on her lungs as they filled with incendiary smoke. The shafts descended, drawing the worn leather of her lungs with them, filling her with the churning fog. There was a dark rumble, a hold, and a muted clap as the motors within her reversed. The pistons pushed, and as her airways ballooned with the pressure, she spewed the wavering gasses from her chattering, wrought iron teeth. She used the energy to set a few rods into motion, the ones that pulled her eyes from side to side. The gearwork that controlled their vertical axis ground into life, groaning its protest faintly. She looked around her, drew another long breath through her baroque intake system, and vented her exhaust in exasperation.

The bulk of her, all that which you could see anyway, lay twisted in a small room full of little girls. The girls sat patiently at individual stations, so infinitesimally small as to be virtually unseen. Her joints, long since rusted, slipped and caught, slipped and caught again as she struggled into life. The massive grills on her head wobbled momentarily, before obligingly shifting direction. She expelled another vast cloud of spent, burning fuel across the room, trying to avoid striking the girls directly. They seemed oblivious to her ruinous presence. They were enraptured by something at the front of the room. Her eye gear lumbered to a halt, wavered, then adjusted force to the forward rods. The massive bulbs of her eyeballs, clouded with dust and the burn-off of old filaments swiveled to the follow the girls’ gaze. Her sight-line caught a figure moving amongst them, and the intricate mesh of cathode tubes that composed her brain began to fire.

Gargantuan lengths of chain were called up from the stores beneath her, each link a toggle that could be switched from vertical to horizontal, from yes to no, from nothing to something. Several thousand of these lengths began to rattle and vibrate as they were spun at faster and faster revolutions through the millions of switching centers scattered about her head. Eventually a tally of all switches was made, imprinted on another chain, and sent to the image recognition stations in the sockets that housed her eyes.

An older man stood among the girls. He was dressed formally, the only one there not in uniform. The girls, all young and identically clothed, waited patiently, bolted into their stations. As the man moved about the room, he would pause, periodically, to examine one of the girls more closely. The girl would then activate, culling a response from what little thought those tiny heads could hold, and the man, seemingly satisfied, would continue his patrol about the room. The crude metalwork of her chains sizzled and snapped as they were spooled and unspooled, run and re-run, switched directions a hundred times a minute. Some glowed white from the friction, others had yet to move an inch, their nigh infinite length inert, running solemnly away into the darkness below.

Perhaps this interaction, crude though it was, operated as a facsimile of a switching station. Perhaps there were a million rooms identical to this one, joined end to end in a vast labyrinth of halls filled with tiny, tiny girls. Perhaps the man was the switching station, the girls the toggles. He modified them, one by one, and they responded. They moved from yes to no, from nothing to something, from one to zero, and he took their tally. He would, once this operation finished, send their collective response to another room, and another man would modify his set of little girls into a different arrangement, and send his response again. The labyrinth would hum with motion, information congealing in the air like a tumultuous mist until a set pattern of all the rooms was determined. There to be sent to an even bigger switching station, one which would run the infinitely dense program written by the girls and come to some grand, cosmic conclusion.

So what, then, was her part? She was aware of herself, as a mass of hard iron and burnt steel in a net of soft, vulnerable flesh. What was her function here? She sent her now insignificant seeming toggle system into motion, and awaited a response. The radiant heat of her switching stations flexed and bent her struts, the million different metal strikes inside of her joining and rejoining until they were only one pure note of activity, until there was an abrupt stop.

Ah, of course. She knew now what she was; she was the relay. She was to send the patterns of the girls from room to room, each with their own version of her, and all in communication. What was information without a system with which to send it? What good were these massive algorithms of girls and quaint, formal men without her billion chains to send their calculations onward? Purpose was found, purpose was necessary. She was validated, was a valuable cog in the machinery of the grand decision. Ten million toggles switched and switched back; they sent a feeling of contentment to her. The man had completed his tally, made his adjustments, and strode amiably towards her great and complex façade. Her sight-bulbs flickered into light, rotated, and caught his signal.

He was asking her a question, but something was wrong. She had no method to accept his input. He used no gears, no toggles or chains, no punch-cards or switches. He made a sound at her, again and again. Just sound, like that of clockwork and bells, and she had no way to respond. Seventeen thousand miles of chain whipped into action, they rotated and whirled about her data centers, their message was a state of being she was forced to assume. It was that of fear, and she received it. She coordinated a desperate chain of information, and when the message was impressed upon it, licked out onto tons of forged steel, she spewed it outwards at him.

She hoped desperately that he had the necessary tools to read it.

The massive glass globes of her eyes rolled frantically around in their housing. Her clumsy, rusted digits tapped in useless agitation. The steamwork boilers that ran her chains chugged laboriously in the abyssal depths of her gut. The steel-ribbed bags of her lungs pulled in shallow, hurried draws of the burning smoke that fueled her engines. She waited apprehensively, conflicting acres of chain running fear, hope, desperation, and anticipation through her switching stations at random. She retracted the message chain halfway, and hurled it at the man again. It is a message, she wanted him to know. She needed him to haul one of its great links into his mouth, run it through some unseen network of gears, and understand.

“She threw up on me,” the doctor said, dripping unpleasantly in the middle of the auditorium “twice.”

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15 Responses to More! Astonishing Tales of Astonishment!

  1. Anon says:

    I suppose you’re sick from whatever you caught fucking your dogs.

  2. Ah I see. Your masterful spinning of the story is a metaphor for the artist. The unresponsive girls are a metaphor for ordinary people, but the doctor is the artist with perception of things higher than what the girls see in their everyday life. Also the girls seem to throw up on the artistic man who possesses the bravery to stand above the everyday worries of the proletariat. The artist perceives more than the mere brainwashing of mechanical girls.

    Not many people could spin such a masterful tale, with such compassion for the artist, bravo Robert.

  3. Brett says:

    Hehe… robot little girl puke.


    My comment has to be intelligent just because Forty’s sounds vaguely so?


  4. Muledriver says:

    Your second book should really be a collection of these short stories.

    Nice stuff.

    Yeah, nothing smart-ass to add. Just liked the story. Good imagery.

  5. the girlfriend says:
  6. Brett says:

    So Robert, I noticed that DOB, Swaim and Gladstone didn’t invite you to their Inauguration Party. Are you the weird kid who eats paste at Cracked?

  7. Robert says:


    Seriously, though?

    You’re going to frequently troll my page, commenting as an anonymous user, reiterating the same unoriginal insult? I refuse to believe somebody out there has that little to do with their life. Therefore I choose to instead believe that you are a haunted spirit who died while reading this site, and is now trapped within its confines – eternally tormented by your earthly prison and lashing out with vengeance at those still living around you. It just makes me less sad to do so.


    Sweet bullshit skills. Lit. Major? Or just naturally gifted in the art of pulling smart sounding words out of your ass?


    1. Yes

    2. They forgot about me (seriously, that is why.)

    3. I’ll be moving house for the superbowl so I won’t be on the next one either.

    4. I will be on the Oscar one, Feb. 22nd, where I will most likely wander around lost and frightened, occasionally yelping for assistance when I hear loud noises.


    Thanks dude, some of these I have longer versions of and used as jumping-off points for larger scale works, and some of them are just micro-fiction there to tell you about clockwork robot puke. In some ways I am complex, in most ways I am not.

    Dearest Girlfriend,

    That is awful. Thank you.

  8. Anon says:

    dogs fucking etc.

  9. Thankfully no. I’m getting a degree in a certain science.

    I did however go through the standard Eastern European high school education, which while containing less unprotected sex than the American system had plenty of practically useless shit.

    So while you were busy getting as much sex as possible in high school I did fun things like read Dostojevski, Dante, and learn some Latin (Latin actually comes in handy in uni).

    Things are improving with trends moving towards more unprotected sex and less learning, as our capitalism grows older.

    But really, no wonder communism failed.
    I mean education. Pfft.

  10. Robert says:

    Man, fuck your high-falutin’ science and your fancy-boy Dostowhateversky.

    Fried chicken and NASCAR forever, pinko motherfucker!

  11. Jason says:

    I think that Mr. Troll (Anon) is jealous of the dog that he imagines. Sad really, clockwork robot puke and the various other insanities that ooze out of Roberts so called “brain” are much more fun. Perhaps Mr. Forts the wise and sexy could implement a bit of his so called “science” and identify what actually is between his hat and his chin?

    P.S. Enjoy moving – It Always sucks for Everybody.

  12. Fortesque says:

    Balls Jason, shiny, shiny testicles. And mechanical chihuahuas.
    This is the only conclusion any true scholar can theorize.

  13. Bobolequiff says:

    Huh, I’d always assumed his beard had reached in and taken control of his actions.
    I guess chihuahuas works too.

  14. Jason says:

    I think the “Invader Zim” reaction to chihuahuas is the most appropriate……

    Spies for the ENEMY!!!!”

  15. Meto says:

    Message:This is weird, but awesome. The reader goes through these paragraphs waiting for meaning to manifest and then it just ends with robot puke.

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