A lot of things hadn’t wound up the way that I thought they would that year, and my death turned out to be no exception. Due to social distancing I’d cobbled together a sort of pseudo-social life in the comments section of a self-care blog I was ghostwriting for, but it was starting to become a bit too much. Current events had started leaking in there lately, and the tone of the discourse was becoming sinister.

Waymo began as an experiment. The idea, make self-driving cars a reality, became a nuisance to San Francisco, California residents. Protests called, “Waymo Standoffs” erupted across the city, all spontaneous, making the vehicles stop in the middle of the road or force multiple Waymos to block each other.

The voice crackled from the family communication device mounted on the ceiling. The family Ma-Lexa had notified mom of behavior requiring supervision.

“Nice bowel movement, Charley. Be sure to wipe the way we taught you.”

What if my Oma and Opa had not been forced to enroll their three sons in Hitler Youth camps? What if those boys of 6 or 8 or 10 were not taught that they were soldiers in an army to help save Germany and its culture and the Aryan race and the sanctity of their mother and sisters?

The grocery store opened early and Terry wanted to be there right away. She knew that the best fruits and vegetables were set out in the night. If she logged on at the store early enough, it would make it possible for her to get her allotment before they had been picked over.

Open call for speculative fiction short stories and poetry.