The Cube People Read Free Page A

everything was going to unfold. That super computer could map out your entire life. It would know for example that on July 17, 2026 at 1:23 p.m., you would be thinking about getting yourself a chocolate or maple walnut ice-cream cone, the choice you would make, and what kind of cheeky banter you would make with the clerk as you paid.
    So what? That’s what my wife would say. Poor Sarah. She doesn’t care for science fiction. Somehow, I’ve managed to get her to read everything I’ve written. I’m a horrible speller. Sarah is God when it comes to spelling. So I say, thank God.
    Just a few months ago, I sent the first three chapters of The Cube People to eighteen different publishers. Sarah helped me address and organize all the envelopes. “After all the help I give you, you’d better give me a baby,” is what she said after we’d dropped all the packages at the post office. Did I tell you she was wonderful?
    I’m restless. I always have to be working on something, writing. I’ve begun a new novel entitled Hungry Hole . It’s a horror story. I work on it when I can, which is mostly in the evening, though sometimes I write at work. I have a lot of down time at work. There seems to be a lot of people with a lot of down time at work: e-Bay shopping, blogging, planning their vacations. I write. I don’t feel bad about it. I work hard when there’s work to be done. Plus I’m fast, which probably contributes to my free time. I just don’t have the motivation to be a “Peter Cann,” our resident Tech-3 on the floor. He’s the man you go to when you can’t figure out a difficult computer problem. He knows our mainframe system inside out. He’s been here for decades and always makes time for you. Visiting Peter’s cubicle is always an experience because he also has a worldly knowledge of many things: art, history, philosophy, you name it, Peter Cann can tell you about it.
    I have no passion for my work. Doing the kind of code maintenance that we do in my shop is strap-a-sponge-to-your-
chin-to-collect-the-drool boring. Your brain leaks out of your ears. It’s worse than watching Nashville in the crappy seats of the Mayfair Theatre with a drunk and raving Phil beside you extolling the virtues of Altman’s cinematic genius. That reminds me, I need to email Phil back about Thursday’s film. Sarah gave me the okay.
    The phone rings here in my office. It’s the clinic. They’ve lost my sample. I have to go back in tomorrow to give them another cup of my essence.

Hungry Hole: Chapter One
    A Novel by Colin MacDonald
    Ryan managed to hit the goddamn beam, again , on his way down to the cellar.
    â€œFuck,” said Ryan.
    â€œYou okay honey?” asked a snickering voice from the top of the stairs.
    â€œRemind me to pad this stupid thing, or get my legs cut off at the knees,” replied Ryan as he continued to descend, rubbing his forehead, into what Gillian called, “ The-Amityville-Horror -serial-killer-pit-of-hell.” Two bare light bulbs illuminated old wooden shelves, boxes marked “office” and “bedroom” and Gillian’s hardly used exercise bike. The flaking white walls exposed the rust-coloured underbelly of foundation, like the skin of a scab-ridden burn victim. Hunched, Ryan staggered to the little room in the front of the house inhaling a funk of mould, century-old sewers, mushrooms, earth, paint cans and cardboard.
    On his way back he didn’t notice the small crack in the concrete floor. He tripped, managing to smash the last Mason jar of hot and spicy dills.
    â€œShit,” said Ryan.
    â€œYou okay honey?” asked Gillian again, this time with an even deeper laugh.
    â€œI’m fine, but I managed to lose the last of the hot and spicys. Sorry.”
    â€œIt’s okay, just grab some of the extra garlic ones, and get another bottle of wine.”
    As the Rolling