Tag: sci-fi (Page 1 of 3)

Read from the beginning at I Don’t Own My Likeness 1.

Not a Hero

The vinyl beneath Vince’s thigh made a soft, wheezing noise each time he shifted in the booth. The laminate tabletop was mottled with ring stains, its faux wood pattern long worn down to a ghost of itself, like everything else in the place, including him. 

A sweating glass of diet soda sat next to a rumpled coupon: Buy 1 Lunch Combo, Get 1 Free. Limit 1 Per Table. Vince had deliberately placed it next to his phone, like a talisman to remind himself that he was being clever, resourceful, and practical. As a self congratulation for the audition he’d just come from, he was getting both lunch and dinner today. Burger #1 now. Burger #2 to go. 

Read from the beginning at I Don’t Own My Likeness 1.

The Credit Card Decline

Vince could see the reflection of his sneakers in the immaculate white tile, slightly distorted under the strip lighting above. Somewhere overhead, soft jazz murmured from the speakers, Davis or Coltrane, something warm and comforting. The produce section smelled faintly of fresh basil, cilantro, and eucalyptus hand sanitizer. 

He liked it here. The carts glided without wobbles and squeaks. The apples looked hand polished. The displays of sprouted granola were arranged like a sculpture. No one here ran. No one shouted. Best of all, nobody looked twice at a man pushing a cart full of kale, oat milk, and a single fillet of organic salmon. 

Read from the beginning at I Don’t Own My Likeness 1.

Do Vesta

“You’re doing what now?” Joe asked, one hand buried in a greasy bag of chips. 

Vince didn’t look up from his phone, just reached over to the coffee table, grabbed a wad of napkins, and dropped them into his best friend’s lap. He’d spent the last half hour scrolling through a queue of video requests, and he’d felt the beginnings of a callus forming on his right thumb. Birthday wishes. Anniversary congratulations. A shout out to a guy retiring from thirty years in the Navy who “salutes like Captain Vesta.” That one had five stars already. 

“It’s called LinePlease,” Vince said, finally glancing over at Joe, who had upended the empty bag of chips and was tapping the remaining crumbs into his mouth. “It’s a gig thing. Fans pay for custom videos. I record a little message, send it in, and they cry, or laugh, or post it online, or whatever. 

Read from the beginning at I Don’t Own My Likeness 1.

Cease and Desist

The email subject line practically glowed on his cracked phone screen. BEER COMMERCIAL—Offer for V. Karros (Confirmed). 

Vince sat up straighter in the diner booth, nearly knocking over a bottle of hot sauce. A waitress in orthopedic sneakers shuffled past without looking at him. He thumbed open the message, his heart rate climbing. 

Inside was a brief note from his agent’s assistant, along with a PDF attachment. No preamble, no pleasantries, just Straight offer, no audition requirement. Attached. Call us. 

Read from the beginning at I Don’t Own My Likeness 1.

Too Vesta

The casting office didn’t even have a logo on the door, just a taped-up sign in black marker: AUDIOCRIME CALLBACKS 9 AM – 2 PM. Below it was a polite request not to knock unless you were on the call sheet. 

Vince signed in just below someone named Derek, which felt like a cosmic joke, and took a seat in one of the tan plastic chairs that lined the beige hallway. The walls were peeling, the carpet was low pile, and a little ring light glowed behind a half-open doorway. 

Read from the beginning at I Don’t Own My Likeness 1.

Alone on the Bridge

He wasn’t supposed to be there. 

The studio lot, usually a hive of motion and caffeine-fueled logistics, had settled into an off-season hush. Only one gate was open after hours now, guarded by a prefab security shack and a bored-looking man in mirrored sunglasses scrolling through a phone. 

Vince hadn’t thought about his ID badge. He reached for it out of habit, half aware it was clipped to his belt loop, and only remembered its uselessness when the scanner chirped red. The guard looked up, unmoved. 

Read from the beginning at I Don’t Own My Likeness 1.

The Exit Interview

The waiting room looked expensive in the way a dental spa looked expensive. Overdesigned and underfelt. Framed posters lined the pristine white walls, all rendered in oversized metallic print. 

Spacedock Omega — 7 Seasons of Galactic Glory! 

Every Star Has a Story. 

Thank You, Captain Vesta! 

Read from the beginning at I Don’t Own My Likeness 1.

Wrap Party with Ghosts

The rooftop glowed like a catalog spread. Sunset bled across the glass towers downtown, turning every surface reflective and cinematic. String lights zigzagged above the patio, their bulbs warm and soft against the deepening sky. A row of fire pits flickered between low couches and planters full of ornamental grasses. From hidden speakers came a steady stream of stylish yet forgettable downtempo synth. 

Vince stepped out of the elevator and into the glow. He was dressed cleanly in a black button up, collar open, and sleeves cuffed just enough to show his forearm. The look screamed, “I’m relaxed, but I still know where the cameras are.” His posture was upright, almost imperially so, though he walked without the stiff rhythm of Vesta’s command stride. Everyone looked up as he entered. 

Read from the beginning at I Don’t Own My Likeness 1.

The Last Unzip

The trailer door thudded shut behind him with a dull clack. The sound was oddly final. 

Inside, Vince’s dressing room was still and stale, just the low hum from the vent and the faint trace of old hairspray and synthetic fabric lingering in the air. A coil of yellow stage tape curled from the edge of the counter. The AC rattled overhead as it pushed cold air downward like an indifferent sigh. 

Hey you—yeah, you, reading this post. This one’s not a quick jolt of transformation kink. I Don’t Own My Likeness is a slow burn, built like a novel, where each chapter tightens the screws and pushes Vince Karros deeper into a change he can’t escape. 

Settle in. It only gets more consuming from here. 

—JHW 

One Last Take 

The stars shimmered around him. They weren’t real stars, of course, just reflected gels against the midnight-black backdrop. But from the way Vince Karros stood at the helm, you wouldn’t know the difference. 

His eyes were locked onto the forward view screen, yet another example of Hollywood trickery. In Vince’s mind’s eye, it stretched into endless, galactic silence. In reality, it was slathered in a shade of green paint not found in nature, allowing the visual effects department to superimpose whatever they wished into the panorama.