The Art of Self-Destruction

By Douglas Shoback

What is profoundly disturbing about the rooms is not their construction—they are only as big as a walk-in closet, minus the clothes and shelves and racks. It is what is held within them: women created solely for the pleasure of men.

These coded women, however, are for a more visceral type of enjoyment than sex. They exist to be killed.
Programmed solely to be violently harmed by the men who rent them, these holograms, called “hommies”, do not fight back. They do not question their intent. These women willingly give themselves completely to the man who rents them, disappearing back into software and code once the blood is done flowing.

Until there is a glitch. A bug in the program. And one of the women, a hommie, starts to question her existence—at the expense of her user’s...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Douglas Shoback
• Release date: Jul 18, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301265954

Douglas Shoback

Douglas Shoback scribbles down words that, for some odd reason, are published and read. By actual people.He has a Masters in English, Cultural Studies, and Film.In the mid-2000s, Douglas taught Creative Writing and Composition Studies at the University of Northern Colorado. He went on to teach high school English and then moved to London for five years--ironically teaching English Literature and Composition to British Secondary School students.Teaching became too overwhelming and he moved back to the United States and rebooted his life in his home, Colorado.Douglas writes Speculative and Science Fiction and essays about pop culture.He is a proud Whovian. Bow ties are cool and kindness means everything.Douglas is currently working on a collection of two short stories due at the end of 2020.You can find me on Mastodon @[e-mail]@[e-mail]

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The Art of Self-Destruction

By Douglas Shoback

Copyright 2019 Douglas Shoback

Published by Douglas Shoback at Smashwords

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Table of Contents

The Rooms

Glitch in the Program

Desiccated Sock

We Don't Make Mistakes

The Heart Wants What the Heart

The Machine Stops

Red Paper Lanterns

There's No Place Like 127.0.0.1

µ

The Sky Above the Harbor

About the Author

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The Rooms

What is truly disturbing about the rooms is not their construction-they're only as big as a walk-in closet, minus the clothes and shelves and racks-but what is held within them. Most rooms hold a presence, a feeling of past inhabitants: their feelings seeping into brightly painted walls or bubbled wallpaper stippled with floral patterns. Dreams, pieces of lives gone by. A reality forced into empty space, humanity becoming a piece of plaster, laminated wood, wainscoting, perhaps the carpet, if there is any. These rooms don't have plaster or wood or carpet. They do not hold a presence. They hold a scream.

At first glance, each room looked normal. Tiny spaces that served no purpose outside of existing. Lined side by side, rooms extended down an alleyway, metal doors scored and matte in the buzzing lights overhead, each one the same. Step inside a room though and it took over. It enveloped you, sucked you into darkness and pumped the air from your lungs until the faint light from overhead ventilation faded and faded