Posts Tagged ‘Holly Schofield’

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Escape Pod 983: The Robot Whisperer

“The Robot Whisperer” first appeared in Fighting for the Future cyberpunk-solarpunk anthology in 2023

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The Robot Whisperer

by Holly Schofield

Emilia heard the door bang as Kore entered her workshop. Dishes clattered on the side bench. “Be there in a minute, I just have to…” She let her voice fade. How could you fix a magnifying light when you needed to magnify it to see what you were doing? And her hands were trembling again. She set down the tiny screwdriver in frustration. She was too old for this. Too old for everything. And her calendar was blinking at her again.

“Come on, Mom, it’s getting cold.” More clattering. “Your tinkering can wait.”

“You know, there was a day when I was considered more than a tinkerer.” Emilia picked her way through the crowded stacks of old electronics gear to where Kore had laid out dinner, a lentil stew and a chicory latte, both freshly steaming from the collective’s communal kitchens.

“You’ve still got it, no worries.” Kore chuckled and gestured at the faded thank-you certificate on the wall. “All of the oldtimers still have a crush on you.” In the corner of the frame, bronzed by the late afternoon light, a small printed photo perched: Emilia on the day she’d arrived six decades ago. Mirrored sunglasses—retro even then—and short black hair with an ironic flip to the bangs. And her tight black clothing, so unsuited to the climate-changed heat of western British Columbia. The collective hadn’t wanted to let her in. She’d represented everything wrong with city life—gangs, drugs, high tech for the sake of high tech, not to mention faith in capitalism and perpetual growth—everything the newly formed collective had sworn to reject.

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Escape Pod 602: Trash Talk

Originally published in Simian Publishing’s Future Embodied anthology in 2014.

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Trash Talk

By Holly Schofield

I’m not a complainer, not me. I roll with the punches. I’ll be just another dead trash collector in about ten minutes but, hey, that’s okay. My son won’t die and, here’s a bonus, my life insurance policy will pay out.

Unless they consider it suicide.

Here we are, hugging in the middle of my living room, me in my robo-assist, my fists locked behind Ricky’s head, up high, like a boxer’s. Ricky, that’s my son, he’s pinned right against my chest.

I can’t see much now, things are blurry; must be sweat that’s in my eyes. Maybe that’ll save me ’cause it’ll short out the servos sooner or later. That was a joke. I’m hanging tough. By the way, guys, before you do anything down at the cop shop with this voice record, edit out all the emotional crap Ricky and I said earlier at the beginning, like right when it started recording, okay? Kinda embarrassing.
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Escape Pod 563: Two Steps Forward

First appeared in the anthology Scarecrows edited by Rhonda Parrish.

Podcast: Play in new window | Download (Duration: 22:32 — 29.0MB)

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Two Steps Forward

By Holly Schofield

I eased myself down off the running board of the ’28 Hudson sedan then laid a hand on the hood in mute sympathy for its overheated pistons. A quick buttoning-up of my topcoat and a tug on my fedora and I felt ready to approach the farmhouse.

The old woman on the veranda watched me as I drew close. Fly-away gray hair surrounded a narrow, clever face, faded housedress atop rubber boots, she was as much of a hodgepodge as I used to be. The late model Stewart Warner radio perched on the windowsill shimmied with “The Spell of the Blues”. I hummed along as the saxophones swooped and soared.

The old woman fingered the jumble of items on her lap as if looking for a weapon and I stopped a few feet from the bottom step of the porch.

“Afternoon, ma’am.” I tipped my hat, not too far, and put my hands in my pockets. “I won’t take up much of your time. Your husband built that famous automated scarecrow, am I right?” At her tightening mouth, I quickly added, “I’m not a reporter, just an admirer. I saw that scarecrow ace the dance marathon at the Playland  Pavilion in Montreal last winter. Truly hep to the jive.”  The ballroom’s mirrored walls reflecting the graceful moves of the dark-suited figure, hands as clever as Frisco twirling a chiffon-clad partner—a sight worth seeing, all right. The old woman grunted and picked up a dirty rag. She poured something golden and syrupy over it from a pickle jar, and began rubbing a coaster-sized metal disc—a flywheel? a gear?—with more vigor than necessary.

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