My good pal Bill Shunn has published a science fiction short story, "Love in the Age of Spyware," on Salon this morning. Like all of Bill's stories, this one is a concoction that blends social/technological speculation and a fine, bittersweet human story in perfect proportion:
Hayes leans forward and plucks a white flower, six inches across, from the twining vines that festoon the wall below him. He holds the trumpet-shaped bloom against his face like an oxygen mask, its petals having just untwisted for the night. The sweet scent is overpowering — but despite the erotic charge it carries for Hayes, subscribers are dropping out by the tens of thousands, flipping over to one of the other subjects or just getting back to their own lives. Exit polling indicates they'll be back later this evening for the fireworks with Sandra when Hayes finally goes home. But this flower-sniffing interlude? Booor-ing.
The robot, a standard enforcement unit with moderate autonomy, has lowered itself into a clumsy squat, one hand touching the ground and the other questing vainly over the wall for its own moonflower. Hayes' muscles tense as if in anticipation of a tumble. "Here, take mine," he says, holding out his flower.
