Adi Dynar, Short Fiction

Paper. Precious paper. I feel I am committing an unforgivable crime even writing this. Crime is not the right word. Crime implies a moral code created by someone else that one must abide by. Sin, perhaps, is the correct replacement. “Sin” is going against the standards and life-sustaining choices I have consciously adopted to further my life goals. So, yes, it is a sin to be writing on this paper. What’s the expression — I paid an arm and a leg to procure this diary. It came from Earth — humanity’s home world. Those who are not born on Earth and have never visited do not know what paper is. For that matter, they don’t know what trees are, or wood pulp. Here, in the asteroid belt, all writing is electronic. For those who will read this diary — and I hope many hundreds of years from now this diary will get passed down from one hand to the next until even these words will start looking archaic and crazy to the reader — they will find a lot of gems like this expression, “pay an arm and a l...

His smile had an attractive quality, the smile of a man of the world who used it, not to cover his words, but to stress the audacity of expressing a sincere emotion. “Congratulations, you’re hired. You can start on the 17th, yes?” That would show the bosses how it’s done, the foreman thought. Another no-good bum I hired to fill the department with my kind of people. The city sanitation department is not where one comes to work if one likes to work. And it is not a sought-after job either. So what if someone wants to work there? You don’t need to like it. You only need to follow instructions. What’s in the job anyway? Why should someone revere it? Doing the job well is not in the job description. The job needs only bodies and muscles, not brains or loyalty. What if some people are lazy and slack at their workplace? Chalk it up to on-the-job injuries and get worker’s compensation? People working in sewers are only so many feet away from themselves living in the sewers. It’s only human. Y...

The first time Adam rode a bicycle without training wheels, a scar, a nasty one, appeared on his left knee. He squeezed his eyes shut instead of the breaks. The bike careened out of control, and he ended up in a ditch after inertia dragged him a few feet to get there. For a few seconds, he stared at the gash. He could almost see the bone of his kneecap. His Uncle Rich, teaching him to ride the bike, came to Adam before pain did. Seeing the brief worried look on Uncle Rich’s face, the five-year-old Adam did the only thing he could do in that situation — bawl his eyes out. “Let’s patch you up. Scarred but never scared, eh?” Uncle Rich said, collecting Adam in his arms after Adam’s tears were satisfied by their soliloquy. Uncle Rich was treating Adam like a big boy now. Not someone to be coddled. But an equal — equality that comes from the realization that real pain, that dividing line between child and boy, has now been successfully crossed by a five-year-old. It did the trick. Adam’s fa...