Unreal Encounters by Milo James Fowler

Author:Milo James Fowler
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: science fiction, bizarro fiction, alternate history, short stories, horror
Publisher: Chiaroscuro Press
Published: 2016-11-04T00:00:00+00:00

So How Can It Be a Faux Pas If Everybody Does It?

Mom says it's like pointing when she was a kid, only nobody points anymore—not with their fingers, anyway. She had to demonstrate so I'd know what she was talking about, her index finger dangling in midair. It was just the two of us in the kitchen, and she was programming dinner at the cooktop.

I guess it's a bad habit, but I can't help myself. Maybe I'm too curious.

"Curiosity killed the cats," she tells me.

She had a cat when she was my age, before they all died out. Sometimes animals just become extinct, she says, like the panda and the polar bear and all the others I've only seen online.

"You're pointing with your eyes, and it's rude," she told me after we returned from the gym. Mom likes us to go at least three times a week so her butt will look good. I go to people-watch, and when she found out about that, I earned this present scolding. "You wouldn't pick your nose in public, would you?"

"They're all staring at their Slates. They never catch me looking."

"If they did, Bo, it would be so awkward. I just want to spare you from that."

She must have figured that being fourteen, I was already prone to enough awkwardness as it was.

"We look at each other, you and me." I bug out my eyes at her as she sets down our dinner on the table. My favorite meal: extra-cheesy macaroni with diced jalapeños. "Why isn't it rude at home?"

She glances at me and almost smiles, returning her almond-colored eyes to the spork she stabs into her dinner. She's thirty-two but looks ten years younger, though I'd never tell her that. You don't tell your mom she's the prettiest lady in the complex unless she's having an extra-bad day or you're okay with getting a lecture on why it's rude to look at other ladies for comparison—pointing my eyes where they shouldn't be pointing.

"It's different. You know that." She sighs before taking a bite. "How many followers on your FanFare now?"

"23,000-ish," I mumble around a mouthful.

"See? You're well on your way. Now what if word got out that you were looking at people? What'll come next? Will you start talking to them?" She chuckles.

"We talk."

She shakes her head. "People do whatever they want at home. And besides, I'm your mom. You don't have to impress me with your manners. But I do appreciate them."

"Maybe I don't want to impress other people, either."

"Typical teenage rebellion, is that what this is?" Another sigh. "Do you want to be a typical teenager?"

Heck no. But I'd never tell her that.

At school, I know better than to press my luck. The teachers are trained to look up from their Slates at unpredictable intervals to make sure we're not doing the same. All of our lessons, assignments, discussions, and group projects are done via Slate. We could stay home and accomplish just as much—which is actually a lot; don't be fooled by the tone of my teenage angst-driven narrative.

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