Blue Girl and the Stars

By Mark Stattelman

A collection of dark stories of speculative fiction. A mix of stories, mostly mystery and suspense with a speculative bent. Along with one straight up mystery that's not speculative, and one straight up horror story.
In a future where memories are a commodity, bought, sold, swapped, stolen, etc., you never know what you might run across. How about a brutal murder? And the killer wants the evidence back.
That's just one of the tales.
How about a future with a couple of creepy robot children? One woman only wants her son back, but she gets more than she bargains for.
In another story, a computer genius has a puzzle to solve. She helps a detective try and figure out why there were three seemingly accidental murders, and yet there are no bodies.
There's a story in which a woman isn't really sure whether she murdered her husband.
And the horror story? Well, is the woman crazy, or is something weird actually happening as she takes her flights of fantasy?
Definitely a dark collection of tales!
Think Alfred Hitchcock Presents, Philip K. Dick and Harlan Ellison, mixed with a little bit of Stephen King.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mark Stattelman
• Release date: Jun 16, 2021
• ISBN: 9798215950661

Book preview

Blue Girl and the Stars

Memories are a commodity . That’s all. Some memories are more valuable than others. It just depends on the person. When I ran across memories of the blue girl and the stars—well, those memories were worth something. I just didn’t realize it at the time, at least not at first.

Of course, to somebody, somewhere, certain memories are always worth something. It’s all a matter of finding the person who is looking. Mostly, it is a matter of luck. But sometimes luck was on my side. That day it was.

Started out, however, as a day just like any other . . .

Hi, mother, I said. She didn’t respond, which was usually the case. It must be hell, not being able to hold onto memories. I often wonder what it must be like having nothing. That’s why I started collecting memories in the first place, just so she would have something, at least for a few minutes or so. The memories I give her aren’t hers, of course. They had belonged to someone else initially. I didn’t figure it mattered much, though. I kissed her forehead. I’m always afraid it would freak her out if I were to kiss her cheek. I’m a stranger to her after all. Most of the time I’m a stranger. I can usually tell by the light in her eyes. If she seems to light up ever so slightly, then I know she has a clue. Of course, sometimes that just means she thinks I’m my older brother, or my father even. I’ll take what I can get.

I sit and wait a couple of minutes, just to get acclimated. I guess I like to think that she’s adjusting too. Hard to tell, though. Not much adjusting, really, I wouldn’t think, when you’re dealing with pretty much a blank slate to begin with. After a little while I slowly reach over and place my hand on her wrist. It’s like I’m checking her pulse. I’m not, though, I’m just finding the implant, the button.

If you’ve got two healthy people, you can just make the memory transfer mentally. Both of you have to get in sync, however, find the button in your mind. When one person can’t even find a hint of a memory, how’re they supposed to lock onto a specific thought of where a trigger is in order to get in sync?

I press gently. It takes a second or so after I push the button, and then there is a sense of dizziness, just for another second or two as the transfer is made. I blink my eyes and shake off the dizzy feeling. It’s like momentary vertigo. I look at mother and notice that she brightens immediately. The memories aren’t hers, not even remotely. She doesn’t know, or care. But there is something there, something sparks, comes to life. She smiles. She looks at me then. Hello, she says, smiling. You must be new.

Yes, I say. I am. Brand new, I think. Brand f-ing, spanking new. She smiles again and looks around the room. Then she turns toward me.

I remember . . . she starts. My heart leaps, and my chest begins to pound. I know it’ll be nothing about me, really. I remember when you were little and we used to go to the beach. You were so cute, with your little plastic yellow shovel and your little red bucket. You used to love digging in the sand and then shoveling it, dumping it into the little red plastic bucket.

She brings her hands up and covers her mouth. She squeals gleefully. You were so, so cute.

I smile. It isn’t me she’s remembering. It’s someone else, some other little boy’s childhood. I have to keep reminding myself of this. It’s a lot like going to a fortune teller and listening to this person telling you something generic. You want to latch onto it, believe in it. You know better. What kid didn’t have a small plastic yellow shovel and little red bucket at the beach?

Mother brings her hands down and smiles at me. Oh, look, she says, looking past me. She rises from the rocker and starts toward the window. There is a geranium on the ledge. Just a flower in a pot. The flower has caught her attention. The flower is colorful and has triggered something. It’s somebody else’s past, like I said. But that’s okay. It animates her, gives her life, at least for a few minutes. Give it a half hour, or maybe a full one, sometimes two if we’re lucky, and then it’ll be the zombie-like state all over again.

Hey, March. Buddy hollers from across the room. He’s playing the game, Wahoo. That’s what it is called. No more than a square wooden board with an Indian head painted in the middle, on one side. The other side has a checkerboard on it. On the side with the Indian head, there is an arrow painted in each corner of the board, pointing toward the center, toward the Indian’s head. There are small holes in the board where the marbles go. You start out with the marbles in the holes along the arrow’s shaft. Up to four people can play. Each person has different colored marbles, five or six each of the same color. There are holes around the edge of the board, and then to the left of the arrow. The arrow is where you start out from, there are holes leading in toward the center. Each person rolls a dice, and then moves the marble that number of holes, whatever is indicated by the dice. If you land on a hole with someone else’s marble, their marble goes back to the starting position in the arrow. I believe that’s how it works. The trick is to get all your colored marbles worked around the board to fill up the proper line of holes. Then the winner is supposed to holler Wahoo! It’s an old game. Buddy had the board and then a few of the marbles, but didn’t know how to play the game. I had noticed it one day, and then kept my eye out. Eventually, even though it took about eight months to a year, I ran across a memory of the game. I shared it with him. So now he plays with a couple of the other residents. I had even located a few more marbles to complete the count. It’s a simple game. Doesn’t really matter how simple something is, though, if you don’t have any idea how to play it. Glad I could help Buddy out. And now it’s as though I’m his friend for life. That’s a good thing. He also looks after mother, keeps an eye out. He looks toward her now, and then turns and grins at me. I wink and nod.

Oh, Mr. March? A voice behind me.

Hi.

Hello.

It’s one of the girls on duty. I turn and we stand looking at each other for a second. She gets distracted for three or four more seconds, watching one of the patients. Just a minute, she says, starting to go after the patient. She stops. Never mind, she says. She looks at me. Does she mean never mind about whatever she was going to say to me, or never mind about the patient? It’s unclear at first. Here, she says. So it must have been never mind about her going after the patient. Reaching into her pocket, she pulls out a piece of paper, a note of some kind. Someone left this for you, early this morning.

I racked my brain for a second. Was my brother in town? Who knew I would be stopping by here? Then I opened the note and saw the scrawl. Bennie, I forgot. Bennie knows my routine. Got something for you, the note read.

Thanks, I said, looking up from the note, smiling at the girl.

Sure, she responds. She was looking at the patient again. Turns out she did have to go chase him down.

I look back over at my mother. She is standing at the large window, staring out. At first, I think the memories have worn off. But it would be too soon. She turns and rubs her fingers across the plant that is in the pot. Just wool gathering, I thought. She was just reminiscing about things that had never actually happened in her life.

So that’s pretty much how the day started, like normal.

I stuck around for another hour or so. Considered playing a game of Wahoo with Buddy and his friends. I might have stayed and done just that had I not had the note from Bennie. I kissed my mother on the forehead and said goodbye. She smiled and waved. I wanted to leave while there was still an ember or two left of the memory-boost I had given her.

THERE WAS A GUST OF wind as I stepped through the sliding glass doors and out into the street. I had my coat collar raised, but still had to turn away and close my eyes. I felt a biting spray of grit and dust brush my cheek as the wind blew past. When I opened my eyes again the snow was blinding. I didn’t mind. I enjoyed the brightness of the sun playing off the snow, especially in the early spring. There were clumps of snow, and patches of brown mixed in with a little bit of green. There were still wide expanses of snow on the ground. I didn’t care. I was feeling good. It might have been the momentary light in my mother’s eyes that had done it. Probably. As I walked along, I wondered how much time I had before I would be in that condition, the zombie-like state.

Research teams had been working to solve the Alzheimer’s problem for decades. They thought they had it licked, or at least a workaround with the memory circuits. They had accessed memories, figuring out where the memories were stored, or so they thought. The experts had touted a cure, or, well, not exactly. The circuits the scientists implanted worked for a time. The patients could transfer their memories to the circuits for safekeeping. In the early stages it worked. And it should have worked, in theory. All the patient had to do was transfer the memories from the tiny circuit memory to the slate that had been erased. The memories would be there, safe and sound. The only problem was that the patient couldn’t remember where the implant was, or even that it existed at all. It was like writing something down on a notepad, and then forgetting where you had left the notepad. Something like that. That’s the way I see it, or think about it.

The technology worked great for healthy people. You could store your own memories or someone else’s, pretty much for as long as you wanted. Of course, you only had a finite, or limited amount of space to work with, while memories are infinite. There are an infinite number of memories out there, just floating around, being passed back and forth. And so, a market sprang up where one had never been before. Want to know what it feels like to take a trip to Tahiti? Just find that memory, the memory will trigger certain emotions, feelings. It’s as though you have been there. So that’s really how it got started, people swapping vacations. The old Bluetooth capability helped to transfer the memories. The only problem was that you had to get the chip installed. At first, there were ethics concerns, and laws put in place, which led to violations.

The black market is always going to exist. Technology always makes its way into the hands of the general public, eventually. And it might just be a good thing that there is a lag between when it all starts and when it reaches the public. Usually, all the kinks have to be worked out. You jump on the bandwagon early on, you might have to suffer side effects, or deal with glitches, etc. And too, there is more memory space now than there used to be, and the implants cost pennies compared to the big bucks of the initial release.

I don’t give much of a shit about the thing, and probably wouldn’t have even had one installed if it was just me. It is only that I thought early on that it would help my mother. It didn’t end up working out, of course. I still use it, still feed her memories.

It’s funny. My brother and I had a big falling out about it early on. I wanted to have the implant installed in mother’s head and my brother was dead set against it. He was against all of it. Now he has an implant, his wife has an implant, his kids . . . They even have a subscription service where you can download a certain number of memories per month. Hell, I wouldn’t be the least bit surprised to find out that they even had a chip implanted in the family dog’s brain. He could just lay around and have the sensation of chasing cats or cars or whatever. I try to use a little moderation.

I scavenge, searching around for interesting memories now. Really, I just like exploring, seeing what’s out there. You can find most anything on any given day. Missed the game last week? Somebody’s got it for sale. It isn’t exactly the same as watching a digitized version of the game—you’re getting the real feelings along with it. You get the sensation of what it felt like to watch the game at the time, not after the fact. Watching the digitized version later, you know the game is over, you feel less enthusiastic. But if you jack into the feeling of watching it . . . hell, I’m not sure if I’m making any sense explaining the difference. I guess the feeling sort of overrides the knowledge that the game has already been played. Of course, it has been known for centuries that if there is strong feeling involved when you see something or do something, the memory is clearer and more long term, easier to remember. If you have no feelings of interest toward something, or some event, chances are slim that if someone asks you about it later on, you’ll remember much about it. That’s just how it is.

Hey, March, mon.

The voice came from behind me. I had just stepped off the curb and was headed to the next block. I, of course, knew who it was the minute I heard the voice. Gabriel was sitting perched against the side of the building, around the corner, out of the direct path of the wind. He had his faded green army coat wrapped tight around him, and a scarf wrapped around his neck. His Rasta hat was pulled down tight. The knees of his trousers had holes in them, his own bony knees poking out.

Hey, Gabe, I said. Whatcha know good?

Know nothin’ mon. Know nothin’, see nothin’.

I hear ya, brother, I say and bend to stick a couple dollars in his cup.

Bennie lookin’ for ya, mon.

Headed to him now, buddy. I pause. No new thoughts? Sometimes Gabe throws me a couple good memories. Sometimes we trade a couple back and forth. Ah, mon, nothin’ you might be interested in, ya know?

I do know he’s Bennie’s second. Sometimes Bennie stores a memory or two with Gabe for safekeeping. Just as a backup, a little extra security. Pays him good for the space.

See ya, brother, I said. Stay warm. Stay safe. I started on my way again.

Safe, maybe. Ain’t no stayin’ warm, not today.

What you talkin’ about, I said, turning around and raising my arms high. It’s a beautiful spring day.

Almost, brotha. Almost. Ain’t quite here yet. Ain’t soon enough.

Ahh, you ain’t feelin’ it?

Only the chill . . .

I laughed and continued on my way, pulling my own collar up a little higher.

I had to make a stop before goin’ to see Bennie.

I OPENED THE DOOR TO the greenhouse and walked in. Mrs. Wells was in the far corner. She turned, holding a potted plant. She walked toward me and smiled. Hello, March, she said. Not many people used my first name, which is Alex. For some reason March was easier. Only one syllable, I guess that was it, the reason.

I nodded hello and then glanced toward the far corner.

Mrs. Wells turned and looked. She leaned in close and whispered to me, She’s tending to the plants. She winked. We’ll make a gardener out of her yet. I expect she’ll be able to grow just about anything by the time she’s twelve. She’ll have quite the green thumb.

Not there yet? I smiled.

Mrs. Wells smirked and shook her head. She looked again into the far corner and raised her voice in a friendly manner. Consuella, someone is here to see you. She started off then toward the shop. A very handsome young man, she said. Of course, Mrs. Well’s couldn’t be more than six or seven years older than I am. Consuella didn’t turn around. I walked to the back, into the shadows, past the hanging baskets and all of the tall greenery. There was a dampness, and a sweet smell that was somewhat cloying. The whole place was beautiful though, and very surreal, almost as though I was making my way through the jungles of Africa or South America. The only thing missing were the sounds of animal life. There needed to be birds cawing, and monkeys flinging themselves about.

I got within three feet of Consuella and crouched down. She was wearing red rubber boots and a bright yellow slicker. Her dark hair was damp and curly. Consuella, I said. There was no response. I placed a hand gently on her shoulder. I turned her. She turned easily enough; she just wouldn’t do it on her own. I should have brought something, I thought, just before I turned her. I should have. Why hadn’t I thought of it? Next time. When she was facing me, I saw that she held a small spade. She had been digging in the dirt contained in a large terracotta pot. I wouldn’t imagine that there were seeds in the pot, buried somewhere. Of course, there could have been. Had she been simply digging? Absently shoving the small spade into the dirt and shifting it and then shoving it in again? Could be, I thought at the time. She was absently staring at me with her soft, muddy eyes.

Consuella had been a very lively and talkative girl at one time. I had dated her mother, so I knew Consuella well. We used to have a lot of fun. She had loved tickling. She