Almost Science Fiction Science Stories – I’ve had a lot of science stories pile up that I can use to generate stories. Which do you like? You can tell me your ideas–and get free books for them.
Ready? Let’s go!
Rethinking paralysis
Credit: IEEE Spectrum
What is it? Swiss neuroscientists are helping a paralyzed man walk using a brain-spine interface (BSI) that turns thought into movement.
Why does it matter? While researchers have made some progress in treating spinal cord injury and paralysis, scientists have yet to restore natural, voluntary walking motion in a paralyzed person. Gert-Jan Oskam, the man at the center of the Swiss study, says the new BSI feels much more intuitive than earlier versions. “The stimulation before was controlling me, and now I’m controlling the stimulation,” Oskam says. He can now walk more than 600 feet per day and stand for three minutes unaided.
I’ve already had characters recuperate from limb loss by regenerating limbs. Paralysis fixing is a matter of regrowing nerves. I have written some stories about people getting up from wheelchairs through nerve regrowth. Check out this short story:
Assisted Living
by Andy Zach I need to tell you about my own zombie story. It’s about how my parents became zombies. As soon as the zombie turkeys appeared in Illinois, I started cultures of their zombie turkey bacteria in petri dishes. When other animals, squirrels, rabbits, and cows began turning zombie, I added cultures of their bacteria. I sought the ultimate source of animal revivification. It was my PhD thesis and my life’s work. I’ve always wanted to revive animals from the dead. It seemed the secret was through the special bacteria for each species. Naturally, when humans became zombies, I cultivated their bacteria too. That’s where this story starts. My parents were in an assisted living home, and I brought them to my house for a family reunion. Like all reunions, the house was filled with sisters, brothers, aunts and uncles, and food. Lots of good Greek food—gyros, moussaka, and of course, lots of ouzo, the Grecian licorice liquor. We also had cold cuts and a sandwich bar for the in-laws who didn’t do Greek. The trouble began at the bar. My father, Giorgos “Gyros” Zacharias, loves Vegemite vegetable spread. He usually ate it on whole-wheat bread. He acquired the taste while traveling in Australia for his import-export business. That was also where he got his nickname, “Gyros.”
Assisted Living – continued
We had whole-wheat bread, but somehow my wife and I neglected to stock up on Vegemite. “Anastasios?” he asked me as he pushed his walker toward me. “What, Dad?” “Where’s the Vegemite?” “Oh, sorry about that. I forgot to get it.” “That’s okay. I’ll just look around for it.” “I don’t think you’ll find any.” “You’ll be surprised. I’m good at finding things.” I was. The next time I saw him, he was dancing the sirtaki on the patio while playing the “Zorba’s Dance” on his bazouki, a Greek mandolin. He eyes glowed bright red.
“Dad! What happened? You’ve become a zombie!” “Zombie? Who cares! I feel great! Dance with me, Anastasios. Opa!”
Accidents happen. Especially around zombie turkeys. Then you add zombie humans, and problems proliferate. Mix in some ill-planned genetic engineering, and things get crazy.The insanity continues, from the story where zombies are merged with cucumbers to the one where two basement-dwelling nerds gain access to all video content from the past two hundred years—from aliens.Andy Zach pulls out all the stops on his imagination as he serves up this smorgasbord of silliness. Try it. Laughter is good for your soul
One queen saw the problem more clearly than anyone else. Her king and prince had both drowned only a short distance from the shore because no one saw them signing for help. The queen sat vigil all night long, and in the morning she sent heralds with large signs in every language to all the humans, elves, dwarves, fairies, leprechauns, and even a dragon. She pled with all to find something that would let creatures communicate without signs or gestures when they couldn’t see each other. She promised she would give whatever was in her power to whoever could accomplish this.
I left the air-conditioned comfort of the taxi, and the sights, sounds, and smells of the old bazaar in Jeddah assailed me: a robe-clad man on camel plodded by, an adjacent fishmonger added his smell to the fresh dung in the street, and the hawkers yelled their wares.
I could only speak Arabic at a middle school level, but as I strolled through the bazaar, I heard “Fresh dates!”…”Highest quality rugs!”…”Finest gold jewelry!”… “Ancient books! The rarest in Saudi Arabia!”
My head snapped around. A bald, stumpy man in a white caftan saw me look and said, “Books? You want ancient books?”
“Yes.” I spoke carefully, knowing my poor accent. “Can you speak English?” I didn’t have much hope.
The scene was chaos! I knew immediately I was in a different country, judging by the languages I couldn’t understand. I had also determined this was no modern city—I seemed to be on the outskirts of town amid a swarming crowd. Men were shouting and women were crying; meanwhile, I was still trying to figure out how I had gotten there and where exactly I was. Several seconds later, however, that question was answered.
Now, what was he going to do? Brice Butterworth’s boss just told him to double the productivity of Vegan Inc.’s pickle strain they used for their Kilwowski Pickle brand. That was completely impossible.
But keeping his job required it. Brice was the low man on the genetic engineering totem pole at Vegan Inc., the last one hired and the first one to be fired if another recession hit.
He couldn’t think. He couldn’t face this. So he cruised the internet. “The origin of zombie turkeys? I didn’t know they’d found that. Hmm, a Midley Beacon exclusive, the foremost zombie news source,” he read out loud.
“Whatcha doing, Brice?” asked my boss Wilma O’Reilly after sneaking up behind me.
I jumped. As usual, I was cruising the internet, bored with my job. How awkward.
We worked at Vegan Inc., an agricultural conglomerate. I was their lead geneticist in charge of enhancing the qualities of the corporation’s vegetable products through genetic modification.
He woke up staring out his windshield at the green grass of the highway median. Dully, Anthony listened to the sound of his car’s engine cooling, ticking like a clock. He didn’t know why he was here or how he got here.
“Hey, are you okay in there?” came a voice from outside the car.
Turning his head toward the sound, he realized he was upside down, supported by his seat belt and his legs, which were strangely numb.
“Uh,” he croaked.
* * *
“We’re going to cast your leg,” said the nurse in the ambulance. Her name tag read Louise Tall, but she didn’t seem tall. “What’s your name?”
“Uh, Anthony. Anthony Jones.”
“Do you know your height and weight, Anthony?”
“Five-eleven. Two ten. I need to lose some weight. Ow!”
I need to tell you about my own zombie story. It’s about how my parents became zombies.
As soon as the zombie turkeys appeared in Illinois, I started cultures of their zombie turkey bacteria in petri dishes. When other animals, squirrels, rabbits, and cows began turning zombie, I added cultures of their bacteria. I sought the ultimate source of animal revivification. It was my PhD thesis and my life’s work.
I’ve always wanted to revive animals from the dead. It seemed the secret was through the special bacteria for each species. Naturally, when humans became zombies, I cultivated their bacteria too.
He was dead. At least, his business was. And without his business, his wife would leave him and take their new baby. Then he might as well be dead.
His dad had run the Elysium Fields Mortuary for thirty years and had made a killing at it. The first and only mortuary in their small town of Hillvale, everyone got buried there. He charged normal prices, he was friendly, and he helped their community. His dad said to him when he was a teen, “Irving, after you get your college degree, go to mortuary school, and when you come out, I’ll hire you and then turn the business over to you. You’ll be set for life.”
The Taser hit me in the back. I convulsed uncontrollably, shocked out of sleep.
“Okay, wakey, wakey. Time to go model for your mistress,” squeaked a high tenor.
The bearded hulk who guarded us held his Taser ready, in case Lulu and I weren’t fast enough. He was so hairy, I couldn’t tell where his beard ended and his chest began. We donned the haute couture apparel set before us. He nodded his approval and gestured toward the door. He always followed us with his Taser.
“We’ve been here weeks and we don’t know your name. What shall we call you?” I ventured. I had some vague hope of putting him at his ease so we could escape.
He laughed. “Call me Gronk.” He wheezed when he laughed.
So I got him to laugh. Maybe that was progress. Maybe not. He also laughed when he tortured us with the Taser.
“Let me check you, Sharon,” Lulu whispered. She examined my back, where the Taser had hit my sleeping form. My muscles still ached. “No marks.”
Breeding zombie corgis wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.
Heather Mallorn sighed as she reviewed accounts for Her Majesty’s Corgis in Hanna City, Illinois. Certainly, she made plenty on each zombie corgi she sold. Normally, corgi puppies went for $1,200. She earned double that for zombies. The zombie corgies were invincible guard dogs, and cute too, with bright-red eyes. They were no harder to train than regular corgis, just slightly more aggressive. Well, a lot more aggressive.
Kayla Verdera, disabled 7th-grade student and superhero
“Oh no! Did you hear what I just heard?” Aubrey said as soon as she and I rushed up to Jeremy and Dan coming off their bus in the morning at Maryville Middle School.
“No!” Jeremy said, rolling off the bus in his electric wheelchair. Jeremy Gentle was a spindly kid with cerebral palsy. I’d never looked twice at him when I was the most popular and smartest girl in the school. Then I lost my speech and balance to spinal meningitis last year, and I was put in the special-needs class. After we were together awhile, I learned he was as smart as me.
“Of course I heard,” said Dan, who walked behind Jeremy’s wheelchair while holding the back of it and carrying his white cane. “Do you think I’m deaf as well as blind?”
Enough talking! I sent the thought to them all, using my telepathic power. This is too slow!Our math teacher’s car was stolen last night. Mr. Williamson went to play basketball downtown, and when he came out, his car was gone.
I like my friends, but I wish they’d get to the point. We all attended a special disabled class at Maryville Middle School. Disabled kids used to creep me out. Now I, Kayla Verdera, was one of them.
How fascinating! Dancer thought. This book says there are libraries where hundreds of books live. It also says the fiction books are in order by author name.
Dancer scurried off Your Sixth Year Reader to look at Jeremy Gentle’s bookshelf again. Jeremy was Dancer’s owner and unknowing educator. Ever since he’d taught himself to read by studying the newspapers lining the bottom of his cage, Dancer had craved reading.
He hadn’t figured out why he’d started reading. One day he’d noticed patterns in the markings. He saw they repeated themselves in clumps. Then the clumps formed more patterns. He also listened to his owners differently. They also spoke in patterns. “Jeremy” was always called “Jeremy” or “Jeremy Gentle” by his mother, and sometimes by his father.
Diane Newby, George Newby, Lulu Gutierrez, and Sharon Wyndham, privateers
“Arrrgh! Me hearies, eat hearty!” said a short, stocky pirate with an eye patch and a captain’s hat seemingly copied from Cap’n Crunch. The pirate gestured, with a hook instead of a right hand, toward an enormous banquet table laden with food. The one visible eye gleamed red.
“Arrrgh! Where’s the skilly and duff?” said a refrigerator-sized bald pirate with an enormous mustache. His eyes also shone crimson.
“Arrrgh! That be the tacos and enchiladas,” said a small, beautiful pirate with dark hair bound by a red bandanna and smiling blood-red eyes. She pointed with her cutlass toward the Mexican section of the smorgasbord.
“Arrrgh! You be a Mexican pirate?” said a blond pirate with broad shoulders and a Cockney accent. She wore her hair in a long queue emerging from a bloody headband around her forehead. She also had glowing ruby eyes.
“That’s your problem, isn’t it? Try the local apartments. Look for rooms to rent on the internet. It’s not that hard to find a place in Ohio.”
I could tell by his grim expression he was serious this time. He’d been nagging me for nearly a year to move out and “set up housekeeping” ever since I’d graduated from the state university with my BA in video game art and my minor in computer science. I’d managed to wheedle him out of it and delay the date. Until now.
Tell Me What you Think
Let me know what you think of Meet My Characters by clicking here or emailing me at [email protected]. As always, everyone who responds with a comment or email will get a free book from me.
Oops! My SciFi Short Story Book Is On Sale! But just for two more days, so quickly click here to get Oops! Tales of the Zombie Turkey Apocalypse!By ‘two more days’ I mean today, Friday March 24th and Saturday March 25th. The sale ends at 2 am Sunday March 26th.
I’m author Andy Zach and I’ve got a free short story for you from the book.
But first, let me tell you about my short stories before you try one.
Accidents happen. Especially around zombie turkeys. Then you add zombie humans, and problems proliferate. Mix in some ill-planned genetic engineering, and things get crazy.The insanity continues, from the story where zombies are merged with cucumbers to the one where two basement-dwelling nerds gain access to all video content from the past two hundred years—from aliens.Andy Zach pulls out all the stops on his imagination as he serves up this smorgasbord of silliness. Try it. Laughter is good for your soul
I haven’t done this before, but here’s the Table of Contents from the book. I’ve added the chapter icons too. They’re created by my illustrator Sean “Fuzzy” Flanagan.
Now you’re ready for your free short story that follows below.
What’s it about? What if you’re a genetic engineer and you decide to use zombie turkey DNA to make pickles grow? That’s the set up. Enjoy! Click here to read it.
Now, what was he going to do? Brice Butterworth’s boss just told him to double the productivity of Vegan Inc.’s pickle strain they used for their Kilwowski Pickle brand. That was completely impossible.
But keeping his job required it. He was the low man on the genetic engineering totem pole at Vegan Inc., the last one hired and the first one to be fired if another recession hit.
He couldn’t think. And he couldn’t face this. So he cruised the internet. “The origin of zombie turkeys? I didn’t know they’d found that. Hmm, a Midley Beacon exclusive, the foremost zombie news source,” he read out loud.
Let me know what you think by clicking here or emailing me at [email protected]. As always, everyone who responds with a comment or email will get a free book from me.
