Determination
By Robin Zemek

“You must think you’re tough.”
“I know I’m tough.”
Alex just laughed. It was a slight snort with a smile attached.
“You’re tough like jelly.”
She lifted the weight again. Alex watched it go up and down each time.
“I’m serious Roxy, I have seen bowls of jello tougher than you.”
“Shut up. I can do this,” she blew a strand of hair out of her eyes and a short second later it returned to its position.
“You can do what? My breakfast could lift those weights faster and higher. My oatmeal could outpace you ten times over. My orange juice could do laps around you... My... what else did I have for breakfast?”
“Ego?”
“No! I had determination! And not just powerbar sized determination, I had a whole box!”
“Where do they sell that at costco?”
“They don’t! You have to earn it! You earn it with every drop of sweat, every aching muscle, and every rep. You don’t buy abs! You earn them!”
“I’m sure I could buy them somewhere...”
Alex put his hand of the weight, stopping it. He looked her in the eyes.
“You know why you’re doing this? You know why you walked into my gym and picked up my equipment? Or are you just dicking around? Do you want anything out of your life? Do you want to look great?”
“Yeah.”
“Do you want to feel great?”
“Yes.”
“Then Roxy I need you to do twenty more reps.”
He let go of the weight and it slowly sunk back down. She let out a heavy breath.
“Twenty.”
She brought it back up.
“Nineteen.”

Cooking with Baxter
By Robin Zemek

Olive oil was all he smelled. It saturated the air, and sunk deep into his nose.
“Baxter?” he called at the kitchen. Sizzling noises wafted down the hall. He called out again.
He dropped his magazine and got up off the couch. He whistled.
“Baxter?”
He whistled again.
“Are you there?”
The closer he walked to the kitchen the more intense the smell got. His eyes started to water as he reached the swinging door. He nudged it open.
“Baxter, what are you doing?”
Baxter turned around and jumped down from the stirring his fried potatoes. He cocked his head.
“I thought I told you not to cook with that much oil.”
Baxter just barked.
“You remember the grease fire last time. You use way too much olive oil.”
Baxter walked up to him, nuzzling his jeans.
“Don’t try and cute your way out of this one.”
He dashed to the stove, studying it.
“You didn’t even use any basil. And what’s this?”
He held up a clove of garlic. Baxter whimpered.
“Were you even going to marinate the pork? You can’t just roast it bare. This better be the second garlic. I expected more of you.”
Baxter lay down on the tiled floor.
“Baxter! The oven isn’t at 350! You’re going to under cook it!”
Baxter barked.
“Don’t give me that. And don’t tell me you misplaced the rosemary.”
He barked again.
“I told you, third shelf on the left! Have you peeled the carrots?”
Baxter rested his head on the cold tiles.
“No, of course not. Ugh. Jan is going to be here in like ten minutes. What am I going to do?”
He looked at Baxter.
“I told her I could cook. She was supposed to be impressed with this meal. If it’s bad I can’t blame it on the dog. That’s crazy. OH MY- Baxter! Bad dog! Bad-d-d-d dog. This maple syrup isn’t for you. Bad dog. It’s for the braised carrots. Bad dog.”
Baxter licked himself.
“What am I going to do with you?”
The door bell rang.
“Jan! Baxter, up. Cook, Baxter, cook.”
He wiped his hands on his dish towel and bustled out of the kitchen to the front door. He peeked in the eye hole.
Jan was standing in the hallway, wearing a purple jumper and tight black jeans.
He undid the bolt and swung the door open.
“Jan!”
“Roger, how are you?”
A slightly awkward hug later he was leading her down the hall to the living room.
“Mmm, smells good.”
“Wha- oh yeah. I think I used too much oil. Oh well. Just a little extra braised. You know how it is.”
“Yeah. What are we having?”
“Pork, some veg. It’s gonna be off the hook.”
“I can hardly wait.”
A pan dropped in the kitchen and rolled around.
“What was that?” she asked.
He ran his hands through his blonde hair.
“Nothing. I’ll go check on the food.”
He rushed off to the kitchen leaving her on the white couch, admiring his collection of crystal doodads.
“Baxter? Bad dog! Bad dog!”
He was licking the carrots off the floor.
“We’ll just have to forget about the carrots.”
Roger rummaged through the fridge.
“We have some broccoli. That will have to do.”
He rummaged some more.
“And a beet. Half a beet.”
He stood there for a moment staring at the bright red beet, turning it over in his hands.
“Jan,” he called, “do you like beets?”
“That’s fine,” she called back.
“Hear that Baxter, she hates beets.”
He threw it back in the fridge and tossed the broccoli on the counter.
“Steam that. I’ll be back.”
He walked back into the living room and tussled his hair.
“Got it all under control, dinner will be soon.”
“Sweet.”
“Yeah, sweet.”
“Uh, so, how have you been?”
“I’ve been good.”
“Where is your bathroom?”
“I’ll show you.”
He led her into the bedroom and then into the adjoining bath.
“I’ll leave now... let you do your business.”
He closed the door behind him and walked back to the kitchen.
“Baxter?”
The water was boiling over.
“Baxter?”
The pork was burning.
“Baxter?”
The floor was covered with half eaten unpeeled carrots.
Someone tapped on his shoulder and he reeled around.
“Roger? Are you nervous or something? You led me into a closet.”
He tried to quickly close the kitchen door behind him.
“What’s going on in there?”
She pushed her way into the disaster zone.
“What happened here?”
Roger tried to gasp.
“Baxter! Bad dog! Bad dog!”
“I hope he didn’t mess everything up.”
“Well he certainly isn’t helping, good for nothing mutt.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Dumb dog can’t even cook.”
“Well of course! He’s a dog!”
Baxter brushed by their legs and walked up to the oven.
“Oh, he can make a casserole just fine.”
He opened it and shoved a meat thermometer into the pork.
“Damn mongrel can’t even braise carrots...”

Following (3)
By Robin Zemek

People milled on either side of him. The Charles Bridge was one of the busiest tourist bridges in all of Prague and today it showed: the cameras were out in droves. Every few seconds the air lit up with a flash and the crowds were thick and dense.
David checked his watch.
She was late.
That wasn’t like her. Even if her pattern was having no pattern, she was always punctual.
Maybe she just can’t find me in all these people, David thought.
Maybe that’s what she wants: to tease me, make me squirm, make me think I’ve come so close and she’s alluded me.
I hate it when the ball is in her court, but then again it never leaves. I am always at her mercy. And today she has none.
David walked further down the bridge and stood under an elaborate street lamp.
She wanted to meet here so I wouldn’t cause a scene, so I wouldn’t shoot her or kiss her or both. She wanted to meet now so I couldn’t toss her over the side into the frigid river. She wanted to be safe.
Safe would be not showing up.
Today it looks like she’s playing it safe.
What’s life without risks?
Where’s the passion?
Where’s the obsession?

Following (2)
By Robin Zemek

Firetrucks screamed down the street past David, furling his coat and flattening his chin to his chest. The lights painted his shadow on the wall behind him. Their wail faded down the road and he checked his phone, listening to his message once again:
“Tomorrow, Charles Bridge, 10. Bring no one.”
David looked behind him. She’s probably following me, he thought. He checked his watch. Twelve minutes. He could see the bridge.
Each step he took rippled a puddle and each breath he took puffed steam into the air. He picked up the pace.
I want to be waiting there when she shows up, he thought, I want to be able to see her coming. I want to know I saw her, that I was close to her.
His phone vibrated in his hand. It shot to his face.
“Talk to me.”
He was greeted with a dial tone and snapped the phone shut, cursing. This was part of her game.

Serial

Every few days I'll add to this. Serial.Engage.

Following
By Robin Zemek

“What are you going to do when I come knocking?”
“What are you going to do when I don’t answer the door?”
“I’ll break it down.”
“And when I’m not home?”
“I’ll wait for you.”
“And I come home to a broken door? I’d leave.”
“I’d still catch you.”
“So then you know where I am now?”
“I wouldn’t be very good at my job if I didn’t.”
“Funny... I thought I was your passion.”
The dial tone hummed into David’s ear and he placed the phone down.
“Obsession is more like it.”
He walked over to the world map mounted on the wall of his office and drove a pin into Prague.
Pins littered the map. Places like Budapest, Berlin, Naples, Rome, all had pins protruding from them, silent reminders of how close he had gotten. Their little game had all but consumed him.
“She won’t slip through my fingers again,” he twiddled the pin in his thumb and ring finger, “this time you won’t be two steps ahead. I’m catching up.”
He walked back to the mountain of paper work that hid his desk.
“Now everyone is looking for you. No more little game. Now you’re a criminal.”
He excavated some files and held them under the light.
“No one is going to hide you anymore. Tomorrow you’ll be in chains.”

Colonists
by Robin Zemek

It was a strange land, much like a cave. Sky nestled with the ground in an unending loop, it was oddly comforting. I, like most of the colonists, am always in awe at the scope of it all. It seems one dimensional, stretching only forwards and backwards, a long tube.

We’ve grown used to our surroundings in our few days here. The crops are growing nicely as fertilizer is abundant. Several colonists complain constantly about the smell, but colonization is never without a few nitwits who nitpick everything.

The days are long and light is always a constant worry. Sometimes the sun will disappear for days and sometimes it will shine for days. It is a strange alien world. Unpredictable.

We have yet to see any aliens. Some colonists further down have claimed to see them: huge brownish menaces, rampaging over their crops and leaving everything in disarray. We have sent out men to try and tame these extra terrestrial cattle. Even our best trackers have trouble finding them.

There is no north or south, only east and west. Our compasses don’t work here. Everyone has their own idea why. I think it’s because of the intense deposits of magnetized material nearby. Others think solar flares.

The land here is alien, we have abandoned all rationality. Thus is the way when you colonize a colon. But as we like to say amongst ourselves:

“Better than Uranus.”

Robin Hood 3000
By Robin Zemek

The early morning stillness of Sherwood forest was shattered. Treads crashed through the brush and the bleating of electric guitar strained into the canopy.
“Robin! Wait!”
The steady pace of Robin Hood 3000 was too much for Little John, as he huffed and puffed in the robot’s wake.
“Silence!”
The heavy metal ballads ceased and Robin brought his finger unit up to his face plate.
“What is it Robin?”
“Thermal sensors detecting deposits of gold.”
“How can you sense gold with heat?”
“Silence.”
Robin surveyed the landscape, bleeting occasionally.
“Robin?”
“I have determined the rich to poor ratio for the town of Nottingham. Preparing a rebalancing.”
“Are you sure about this? What about the sheriff?”
“Little John, I have been programmed to anticipate risks.”
“And?”
“He’ll be scrap metal when I’m done with him.”
“Let’s hope so.”
“Dear sir, I do not hope, I do.”
“Do what?”
“I do.”
He crashed through the bush and through the fence of McNab’s pig pen. Swine ran out in front of him, squealing.
“Hurry Little John! We haven’t much time!”
“I’m getting to old for this...”
Little John dashed after him, being careful not to dirty his tights with swill.
Robin Hood 3000 crashed through town, redistributing the wealth. Anyone wearing britches was grabbed and unceremoniously shaken until their coins bounced across the cobblestones.
“What is this!”
Robin’s faceplate rotated around to face the Sheriff: Nottingham edition.
“Well if it isn’t the-”
“I should put you in irons!”
“Have to catch me first!”
Robin set off at full tilt, burning a rubber trail into the streets. The Sheriff was in hot pursuit, having just refurbished his motor. A siren rose out of his head and his speakers pelted out:
“Halt!”
“Never in a million years you biddy!”
“Halt!”
“I think not!”
“Halt!”
“Your vocabulary-matron must be broken!”
“Halt!”
“I could have sworn you said that last time.”
“Halt!”
“Salt? I haven’t got any!”
“Halt!”
Robin turned on his stereo, drowning out the Sheriff’s incessant cries with electric guitar riffs. He pulled into an alley.
“Aha! I have trapped you, Robin Hood 3000.”
“I think not,” Robin said, punching a hole in the wall and driving through.
“Halt!”
“I have better things to do, good sir!”
Robin rode into the castle, breaking through the walls and arriving in the courtyard.
“MadeMarian™?”
“Robin!”
“I have come to rescue you!”
“That’s great! What about the Sheriff?”
“Yes, what about me!”
The Sheriff tackled Robin and they both clattered onto the ground where they wrestled and shoved.
“Good sirs! There is another way to settle this!”
They stopped.
“We’re listening.”
“An archery contest!”
“Good show!”
“I do say, that’s an excellent idea.”
“Yes. Tomorrow at midday?”
“Quite.”
They shook hands and parted ways.
Little John stuck his head in through the hole in the wall.
“What did I miss?”
“Back to the forest Little John!”
“But... I just ran here... I need a minute...”
“But we haven’t a minute to lose!”
Robin busted another hole in the wall and barreled back to the forest. Little John heaved his shoulders.
“I’m getting too old for this...”