This story is a response to the May Speculative Fiction Prompt by Diane Wallace Peach

It has been a long time since I started feeling this weird thing in me. I am becoming more ruthless. I started feeling less and less empathy for people. I am not sure where this is coming from, how it started, why it started. But it sure freaks me out. Not feeling sad for a kid who fell and hurt was not my thing. Now, this has become my usual reaction. Or rather, I have become reactionless. Heartless.

Sometimes, I still feel some pity for people and whenever I feel this, it makes me happy. But then, I remember the other times when I do not feel this and become unhappy again.

I think about this change in me all the time. Maybe I should not. Maybe I can sit down and just watch a…

Diana Peach May Speculative Fiction #Writingprompt

METAMAN104

It was bad enough that they made him sleep in

bails of hay and have no connection to the outside

world, but the half chest and new arm were

alarming. This hadn’t been part of the deal. He

was desperately trying to hang on to the last breaths

of his former life and it was getting increasingly

difficult by the minute. As he stared down at the gold

plating and began examining the intricacies of his

new arm, he got lost in, thought? He could feel

strange twitches of memories? He concentrated.

These were strange and powerful longings.

He knew somehow these yearnings would

never cease, though his desires were fading.

He remembered a word. Love.

He vaguely remembered, feelings? hurt?

these….

were… important… thought?

passion?  

pain?

name…. Love.

Patricia. Pat ricia.  Pa tri cia, Pa………………h.

©J.E.Goldie May 12, 2019

-Meta (from…

This story is in response to the May #Writeprompt over at Myths Of The Mirror… I wasn’t going to partake this month (as my muse has deserted me), however, I got a little shot of confidence from a dear beta reader recently, and found a bit of muse lurking in the deepest recesses of my heart. Thanks, lovely one. 

It all began – as these things are wont to do – innocently enough. The greatest technological advancement and breakthrough of the modern era was not an artificial heart, nor a cybernetic hand. It was a bionic toe. DJ Amber Starzzz – DJ of choice to the rich and famous of Hollywood Hills – had an unfortunate accident in her million dollar kitchen, when a 750ml bottle of vintage Dom Perignon slipped from her diamond-studded gloved hand and smashed on her foot – severing her big toe, bunion and all.

Warning – adult content.

He was the perfect example of everything she’d been looking for. With the body of Adonis and the smile of Casanova, Mary Daniels knew she was in for a good time.

He had sat her down on the bed and allowed her to undo the buttons on the white dress shirt he wore. Something down below had stirred within her as she undid the fifth button and got a glimpse at what lay beneath the white shirt. Not yet, she had told herself, let the excitement build and take in every single second of the anticipation of what was to come.

When she had looked up into his dark eyes, as she undid the last visible button of his shirt, she had imaged that he was communicating with her telepathically. ‘Go on’, said his voice in her head, ‘pull up the…

My heart doesn’t bleed anymore

It’s a circuited bread board

Integrated circuits instead of veins

Resistance and capacitors running brains

my technical intellect has exponential GB memory

My megapixel vision is extremely sensory

But my receptors are not gregarious

They were always machine programmed precarious

My emotions are artificial intelligence

I’m a humanoid with diligence

My Tear fluids are only sodium chloride

I might be flimsy or fragile

But I’m the future

Officially here! Sooner!

Written for:- May speculative fiction # writing prompt

After a brief hiatus.. Diana Wallace Peach is back with her monthly Speculative Fiction Prompt and the image is riveting…..not my usual genre…but had fun….

The Enhancement Project by Sally Cronin

They had been working through the night to save his life. The atmosphere in the operating theatre was one of frenzied concentration, with only clipped instructions from the lead surgeon as he worked to stem the bleeding. Scrub nurses moved around the three doctors in an orchestrated dance, slapping instruments into waiting hands, or wiping a brow of its sweat.

Doctor Shanda Graham watched from the gallery and clenched her hands in front of her. If she was religious she would have prayed, but all she could do was focus on the skill and experience of the surgeons working on the man on the table. His enhanced body armour had protected him from the blast on his right side…