The history of the baobab

by Ibrahim Elkhalifa, Khartoum, Sudan

For as long as the semi-arid soil had existed, baobabs had stood tall. Wide and imposing.

Its deformed branches shaded animals and people, its trunk craved out to hold rainwater for the inevitable droughts.

Its sour chalky fruit was soaked for drinks, brewed for more potent drinks by moonshine brewers and enjoyed by children who sucked it and spitted out its black seeds.

Its bark was an essential ingredient for numerous remedies and its leaves soaked in water, alleviated period pains.

The baobab is associated with spirits, griots and assigned great spiritual Importance.
Most young people today have never heard of a baobab, let alone seen one.

The decimation began in 2026, when an Italian furniture designer on Safari was struck with the quality of the Baobab timber.

An international race for Baobab wood began and this rare tree slowly disappeared from the landscape.

At the present time no baobab trees are recorded as existing.

This decimation is noted as being the fastest of its kind, due to the rarity of the tree.

From the African Encyclopedia 2057 7th edition.

Manchester Boulevard + St. Andrews Place

by Ike Moses , Los Angeles, CA, USA

"Where you from, loc'?"

Jawan didn't reach for his piece. The question came from close enough range to determine he had already come up short. Getting caught slipping like this wasn't what worried him—all Angelenos eventually fall on the active plate beneath them—he worried about who might catch him.

He turned and saw two young men approaching on a single hybrid-electric bmx. The man on the handlebars cradled an old-fashioned Russian assault rifle, making it fair to conclude that they weren't a pair of census takers. The rifleman was a lightweight with sinews and muscles woven so tight that Jawan almost thought his flesh was made of Kevlar. He convinced himself that even if he did get the drop on ol' boy riding bitch, the bullet would have been wasted anyway.

It wasn't until the bike stopped, a yard or so in front of him, that Jawan got a good look at the pedaler; another teenager whose wrinkle-free icegrill matched the cold clarity of his navy irises. The men were now close enough for Jawan to read the ink flashing across the gunner's bare torso: "TINY TOON W/S ROLLIN NIN3-OW3 NAYBAHOOD CRIP." Every letter "I" in this alert was represented by an arrow pointing down. He noticed live graffiti on the crumbling stucco behind the bike team was broadcasting the same information, in synchronization with Tiny Toon's tattoos. A never-ending R.I.P. roster scrolled up Tiny's left forearm.

"S'wrong, homie?" Tiny questioned as he jumped down from his perch with the rifle pointed in the general direction of Jawan's sinuses, "You forgot where you stay? If you can't remember, I got a place you can rest at. Right across from The Forum."

Jawan had family there. At least he did before strays scavenged the mausoleum ruins.

"The 89th side of St. Andrews," Jawan answered to the rifle barrel.

"Don't act ignorant, my nigga!" Tiny's patience waned, "Who you with?"

"I live alone, 'migo!"

Tiny pressed the muzzle hard into Jawan's clavicle valley and asked with even breath, "You ain't registered to vote yet?"

Jawan choked a "Nah," keeping his answer short in fear that an excuse would insult the man who held an AK point-blank at his Adam's apple.

"Wacco!" Tiny called back to the bike pedaler without breaking Jawan's eye-contact, "La tableta. Tráigalo aquí."

"Símon," Wacco obeyed. His loose t-shirt reluctantly followed as he hustled over with the tablet in hand. After thumping the transparent plane a few times he asked Jawan, "¿Cho nombre?"

"Jawan. Or just Juan. Jawan Morgan."

Wacco seemed irritated by the irrelevant information, but he continued recording Jawan's personal data with dutiful disinterest. The tab's clear interface allowed Jawan to see Wacco's hand movements from the other side. Images were only projected on the front, however, so Jawan squinted to read what was reflected in the kid's glazed lenses. Upon completing the application Wacco turned the computer over to give Jawan the opportunity to review his answers. Jawan nodded before glancing at the screen.

"Now, what set you claim?" Tiny directed the question with more muzzle pressure to Jawan's neck, darkening the hickey above his collarbone.

"Get this shit off me!" Jawan loc'ed out for a moment and slapped the rifle nose toward his shoulder, "We both know ain't no petró in that AK!"

"You sure about that, cuz?" Tiny replaced the muzzle at Jawan's neck and said, "Claim a goddamn party!"

"¡Soy independiente!"

Wacco sucked his teeth and sighed, "Mark-ass moderados."

Tiny flipped the rifle and thrust the butt plate into Jawan's solar plexus. As he did this he mocked, "¡Soy independiente!" He then knelt near Jawan, who now stood doubled over, and said, "Fuck you think you is? Americano? You think you a 'stizo or some'n? You a yamp-ass 'yate! An independent nigga is a dead nigga. Align yourself or resign yourself, home!"

Jawan didn't rush to catch his wind. He felt like his body was laughing at a joke he didn't get, leaving him painfully confused. He did understand that this sidewalk on St. Andrews was not the place to figure it out, though. When the air came back, he huffed, "What if I want to bang Trays?"

"This es democracia," Tiny shrugged, "Be a Tramp all you want. Just don't come on this side of Manchester 'cause it's Tray-K e'yday."

"Fuck that," Jawan said, knowing all other options would mean relocation as well, "I'll roll with Rollin'."

It wasn't clear if Tiny and Wacco approved or disapproved of this choice, but they allowed it.

"Hang it from the left side," Wacco said, handing a blue flag over to Jawan, "'Cause it's West Side, fuck the rest side."

There was no more ceremony beyond that. Wacco raised the computer to Jawan's face for a video signature. Seeing himself in the tablet's mirror-mode, unable to decide on an expression between his raised brow, flared nostrils, and twitching mouth made Jawan feel like even more of a buster. He composed his mug and gave his verbal consent.

With that the voter registrars extended the thumb, index, and middle fingers from their right fists, to signify N-Hood affiliation, then remounted the bike. Tiny said, "You still need to be initiated, so we'll swoop you in a few days. Until then, remember: Neighbors don't need favors."

Wacco chimed in, "And N's don't need friends."

The Deegan Pt. II

by Monk, New York City, NY, USA

A standard paingun is about the size and shape of an old billy club. Non-lethal, barring occasional heart attacks from the sudden, intense sensation of full-body burning caused by a 94GHz millimeter wave. It is the standard peacetime sidearm of the NYPD, powered by a fuel cell that nominally offers up to five days' juice, 2,356 yard range, and a networked targeting system plugged into the old ATHENA surveillance satellite for around-the-corner shooting and nighttime auto-targeting. It's a beast of a weapon, ruggedized for melee as well, with an enforced ceramic frame, integral shock baton function, and retractable bayonette.

Unfortunately for Detective Anton Choudry, those little beauties are tagged and tracked every time they're checked out of the 50th Precinct's weapon locker. So, for his purposes, he relies on the fallback: a twenty-four year old version with cracked plastic casing held together with duct tape. Thing's got the form factor of an old assault rifle and uses disposable batteries that have to be replaced every time it's fired, like a shotgun. It's also about as conspicuous as a samurai sword. He'd use the less obvious slugthrower he keeps as a throwaway piece, but he's saving it for an unspecified special occasion. Ballistic weapons are even harder to come by these days than disposable weapon batteries.

From the undercover police van, he spots his guy coming out of the Deegan Motel, dressed in dirty white kaftan, bright red Rocketeer™ boots, and one of those animated dragon belts everyone under 30 seems to be wearing. Bailey Avenue hasn't had more than three street lights since the mid-1990s, so the broad four-lane street is sort of ideal for an ambush, lined on the west side by a century of carbon monoxide-poisoned trees and the Henry Hudson Parkway, on the east by burnt-out old warehouses, a few trucks, and the two-story Deegan. Choudry's target tugs his robes a little bit to get them across his widening gut. He's gotten all the right body modifications, marking himself with blood red skin and goat horns jutting from his forehead. Very recognizable, Les Diables Nordiques, but not necessarily the smartest gang. All bodymods have drawbacks. Grafting external bone, for instance, increases sensitivity around the modified area, like a new piercing.

So when Choudry hits him with the paingun, it's like pouring lemon juice and saltwater onto fresh third-degree burns.

Guy doesn't even scream, just makes a gurgling sound before hitting the cracked pavement, clawing at his face until skin comes off. Choudry jogs across the street, kicks the guy in the face a few times to stop his thrashing, throws him over his shoulder, and takes him back to the police van. Loads a stimulant into the handcuffs, checks that the remote works, then snaps it onto the guy's wrist, looping the other hand to the van's back door.

Choudry sits back for a second, staring at his prisoner. 'This is the guy who killed you, Pete,' he thinks, reaching absently for the soundbox in his pocket, musing what blackout, the final mystery high, feels like. Consoled that he hasn't tried it yet, absently wondering if it's the last line to cross before he's beyond salvage.

"Okay," he croaks, fumbling at the tiny black remote, jolting the guy with a stimulant through his handcuffs. "Wake up, dickbag. We've got some talking to do."

When the guy rouses, his worldview has narrowed to the barrel of a gun. Choudry knows he's got his attention. "Remember me?"

"Oui."

"Then you remember my partner," Choudry smirks.

The guy nods. "Nous n'avons pas voulu dire pour n'importe quoi mauvais de se produire—"

"We're well past good intentions, jackoff. Pete's dead, you pulled the trigger, and you and I both know that as of right now, you're never going to see the inside of a courtroom. Your boss is lubricated like the fucking space elevator," Choudry says. His voice shakes. He's more surprised by that than anything. The guy gets very quiet, stares at the paingun. Choudry continues. "So here's how it's going to go. All Pete's accounts are mine now, you understand? Whatever you were paying him to keep out of your little thing in Melrose, you pay me now. Double. Once for me, once for my partner."

"Ce qui?" the guy spits. "Merde! Ce n'est pas juste!"

Choudry kicks him in the face. The guy spits teeth onto the van floor.

"Double, you understand me? Or I kick that fucking door open with you cuffed to it and go for a little drive," Choudry says. The guy nods mournfully, and Choudry smiles. Not for Peter Singh, who was a liar and a douche. But for the upgrade he's planning on the soundbox singing to him quietly from his pocket.

Ma’Marie

by Nichole Perkins, Los Angeles, CA, USA

“They wanted more boys, you see,” Marie began, cradling her steaming cup of green tea like the treasure it had become. It was one of the bribes I had to use to get her to talk to me today.

“The war in Iraq, the Little Big One, all of it took so many of our boys, our men, and then the water became infected. Men started dying. Women began having…” she looked around, even though we were the only ones in her studio. “Women began having periods for months on end.” Her forehead folded on itself, the wrinkles hiding the ruins of her former identification number.

“I was 20, maybe 21. Had really started enjoying sex the way it should be, you know, and then I got my period and the shit just lasted and lasted. The third month, I cried myself sick for a week. They’d started rationing tampons!” She looked up at me, and for a moment, I saw panic in her wide eyes before she remembered the now. She lowered her untouched tea and reached out for the basket of peaches—another convincing gift—with her left hand, a hand with four tallies sliced onto its back.

She noticed my glance and tucked it beneath the table.

“Four miscarriages,” she confirmed flatly and turned her head to the window.
I waited, unwilling to speak. Her eyes chased dust motes dancing before the glass pane. I jumped when she abruptly pushed her chair away from the table and approached the window with a salt shaker from the makeshift lazy susan. She layered the grains against the windowsill before returning to her seat.

“The witches—they have to count the grains of salt before they can come in to steal your babies,” she advised, a tilt to her head.

I kept my face neutral. She sipped her tea.

“The bleeding stopped during the fifth month. They came for me during the sixth. My room was very nice, very comfortable. I yielded three, but there were four who knew the best way. They’d give us a month to recover when we lost one. Everybody lost one. So many girls killed themselves that they shortened it to two weeks, but then we’d die from bleeding. So they gave us a month again.”

Marie traced the final notch carved into her hand.

“I ran away after I lost Bliss. One of them—he liked me. I had to kill him, but I think I liked him, too. I made it to Refuge, in former Watts. It took three weeks. There were a lot of Sisters with eraser burns across their foreheads. I was home.”

She picked up her tea, and I knew the interview was over. It was as much as she was willing to give and more than I thought I’d get.

As I climbed onto my bike, I looked back and found her sprinkling the doorstep with salt.

W. 228th Street, between Kingsbridge Avenue + Broadway

by Monk, New York City, NY, USA

With a kind of smoldering magnesium heat, Tiny Schwarzbaum is reminded once again why he hates pairing. It's not Big Bug he hates, pumping data from the TacWomb in the precinct basement. Tiny's never met his partner. As far as he knows, Big Bug is just some crippled shlub floating in a saline tub with nutrient feed in one arm, catheter up his putz, and sensor machines from the NYPD's Unified Tactical Platform where his face and shoulders should be. The poor bastard's whole world is a network of unmanned aerial drones, broad-spectrum scanners strapped to stationary balloons, and a time-share with the Port Authority for the antique Anti-Terror Hazard & Espionage Net Assessment satellite in geosynchronous orbit above the city. Somewhere in the maze of bacterially-grown circuits and artificial neurons that make up his prosthetic upper body, is the pairing mechanism that let's poor Big Bug communicate with Schwarzbaum. So how can he hate? Big Bug is just a messenger.

What six-foot-seven Schwarzbaum hates is the crawling sensation every time his partner squirts strategic goo through the ether: feeling of ticks and fleas at the back of his skull. For instance, Schwarzbaum feels fairly John Wayne-ish standing over his eighth kill of the afternoon, the middle of this big old abandoned mattress factory on W. 228th Street. Then Big Bug shoots him an overhead infra-red scan indicating the guy he actually came for is huddled behind an nearby aluminum door, with a heat source Big Bug announces as a Magnetic Accelerator Cannon. All of Schwarzbaum's three-hundred and eighty-four pounds of swagger evaporates into the creepy crawlies. Roughly then, the hate starts pumping, and his brain starts shutting down in segments, starting with Patience, then Self-Control.

"Such a way to make a living," he mutters, flexing the segmented metal of his prostheses around the the aluminum door's hinges.

By then, Big Bug drops a kind of siren alert that the MAC is powering up, and while he may mean well, it goes off like an instant migraine. Schwarzbaum, kraken of the fighting 50th Precinct's (nearly) vestigial Vice Squad, quite literally staggers. The segmented chrome tentacles where his arms should be writhe like garden snakes. Pairing doesn't give him eloquence to express himself meaningfully to Big Bug. Instead, he remembers what it was like to have hands, envisions callused hairy mitts clearly, and has them fold neatly into two great 'fuck yous', which he sends tumbling down the pipeline. Big Bug responds with something like bruise-colored lights. Schwarzbaum tightens his shiny tentacles around the door, and pulls.

And there is Mitty Baptiste, narcotics chief of Jesus Christ's Ecstatic Army of Truth, foxholed behind a desk that looks like some kind of military surplus salvage, the MAC's tripod planted neatly at its center. Schwarzbaum is stupid with hate at this point, and doesn't waste time with peaceable parlay. Baptiste's JCEAoT has run enough rainbow-colored powders through the Bronx's under-12 demographic to fuel a continuous hallucination through the next millennium. His addled minions have torched the Bronx's oldest masjid, three Mormon temples, a Sikh community center, and the regal old Catholic Church up by Castle Hill. The more mature members of his militia (which is to say, the ones who have survived Baptiste's unique cocktail of religious frenzy and low-grade chemical run-off) have turned to running numbers, hacking Federal data trunks, identity invasion, prostitution, organ-theft, and racketeering. The Organized Crime Task Force has tagged Baptiste as the kind of virulent human plague New York City can no longer tolerate.

But worse, he hasn't split his profits with the proper authorities at the 50th Precinct.

Meaning whatever gripes Tiny Schwarzbaum has about pairing will have to wait until he's got Mitty Baptiste by the throat.

And squeezes.

178th Street and Grand Concourse

by Monk, New York City, NY, USA

Steps over nodding vagrants in the stairwell and makes her way up to the client, cursing the Bronx with every step. The building's a century old, sandwiched between a rusting megamall half-finished twenty years ago, and an abandoned brownstone that leans ominously to one side, propped by an aching wooden brace. The stairs creak, rusted gaps between floors. Litter. Smell of fermented piss and liquor. Cannabis, tobacco, burnt plastic. Yellow police webbing on some doors, animated black text rolling across its surface, gentle voice repeating, 'This is an active crime scene. Trespassers will be violated. Please move along.' By the time she reaches Sanghita Choudry's apartment, she's very comfortable with the idea of running back to her native village in Estonia. Screaming.

She knocks a few times at the old aluminum door, caked with chipped paint and silver graffiti, kicks a rat off her foot, and is finally answered by the sound of locks and chains unbinding themselves. The door wheezes open and there is the dowager Choudry, shrunken turnip woman in faded red sari, thick spectacles, beaten sandals, and a bindi that looks almost exactly like a bullet wound, halo'd by smog-colored hair. She asks if her visitor is from the city's Senior Services.

"I am."

Mrs Choudry ushers her into the generous foyer, walls stained with curious brown stains and familiar pock marks. Adjacent is a living room saved from total darkness by numerous candles. Small table in the corner with framed prints of family, most of them tinted sepia from the huge, moldy hole in the ceiling, rotting beams and pipes exposed. Beaten couch in opposite corner, upholstered in surplus bedding, bulge of bare springs beneath. Smell of curry and cooking oil.

"Oh, thank goodness you came," Mrs Choudry says sweetly. "My telephone has not worked for days—I was afraid you had forgotten about me!"

"No, ma'am," she replies coolly, her accent a series of clipped vowels and rolling Rs. "But it is a big city. We get backed up from time to time. You say your phone is not working? Because another social worker from the city was supposed to be here last week."

"I can't get the battery to charge. My son keeps saying he will come by with a new phone, but he is a policeman for the city, and he is so busy..."

"I see," the social worker says, producing an orange plastic kit from her knapsack. "In here, you will find a number of emergency items for cases like this. A wind-up net receiver for emergency broadcasts, several high-density vitamin bars—"

"Oh, I can't eat those," Mrs Choudry blushes, "they give me the winds."

The social worker's teeth grate. "...a flashlight, pepperspray, and here, a spare phone with up to four programmable contact numbers."

Mrs Choudry takes the phone, inspects it. "This is paper."

"It is disposable, yes."

"But what if I get it wet?"

"It is teflon-coated, Mrs Choudry. Waterproof."

"But what if the battery goes flat? How will I call my son?"

"It runs off your body electricity, Mrs Choudry. If it isn't getting reception, there are instructions in the kit to—"

"Oh, I can't read English."

The social worker curses the luck that landed her on American shores. She wanted Buenos Aires. Paris of the South. Warm weather. Tropical drinks. Mercifully few senior citizen. And only a single national language. "The booklet is in Urdu, as well, Mrs Choudry. Page seventy-three."

"Oh."

"Would you like to show me around, Mrs Choudry?"

"Oh! I'm being so rude! I would offer you tea, but I've been so short on money..."

"I've come with a packet of green stamps for you, Mrs Choudry, and can escort you to the local ration station if you need me to."

"Oh my! They sent a police officer?"

"Ah, no."

"You're armed?"

"I understand your concern, Mrs Choudry, but green stamps aren't really money. I shouldn't need a gun to escort you."

"Oh, child, you are so sweet, but the welfare office on Burnside is much too dangerous for you, then!"

She looks at her surroundings, accepts Mrs Choudry's wisdom. The elderly woman shows her the barren kitchen with its empty pantry, broken appliances, and modest crank-powered hotplate. She dutifully records it all on her phone, time-stamps everything, and returns to the foyer, where she begins assembling the forms and fetishes of proof that New York City has not been delinquent caring for their elderly.

"Your phone," Mrs Choudry asks sweetly, pointing to the social worker's purse, "was it expensive?"

"Not very," she responds, producing a black plastic pad. "I need you to place your thumb here to sign off on my appointment, Mrs Choudry."

"But the phone is new?"

"What? I bought it last week."

"Ah," the old woman says thoughtfully. "And how are you getting home, dear? It's getting so late."

"I suppose I'll take a cab."

"They only take cash up here, I'm afraid, child."

The social worker sighs impatiently. "I have cash, Mrs Choudry. Now, your fingerprint, please?"

Mrs Choudry smiles, blinking owlishly behind her thick spectacles. The social worker stares back, oblivious to the old woman's right hand, which has somehow produced a chrome and wood thing from the innards of her sari.

"It is getting late, dear," Mrs Choudry says sweetly, plucking the thumbprint verifier from her social worker's hand. "But as you said, those green stamps aren't really money. So if you could kindly leave your cash, that lovely new phone, and that pretty gold cross you're wearing on the table, that would be delightful. Quickly, my child. This is a very old pistol, and between my shaky old hands and its hair trigger, I can't promise it won't just go off and splatter your pretty little face all over my wall. Thank you, dear. It's so nice knowing the city cares enough to send you people to visit an old woman from time to time."

Dying From Too Much

by James Peach, Nashville, TN, USA

I've got 12 hours to live. I've managed to do things in the last 24 that most people spend their whole lives fantasizing about. Some of them I did so that when I do die, people will say, "Herman was a good guy in the end." Other things I did because most people spend their whole lives fearing the consequences. Most of the things I did because I just don't give a fuck now. Why should I?

I've stolen.

I've killed.

I've hurt myself.

I've eaten until I threw up. Four times.

I've given homeless people thousands of dollars. That was gonna be for a new game system.

I told my moms that I love them. Susan didn't care. Nokia didn't understand why I did it. She didn't think about it very long, though, before her soundbox finished charging and she went right back to what she does best, which is getting high.

I haven't done any drugs, because if there's nothing there after you die, it just isn't smart to waste the time I have left as a high retard. Besides, I can't think of any I haven't already done.

It's not fair, but there's really no time to cry about it. Not my fault, anyways, and I can't change it. The only person that may be able to fix me wants more money than I can get in time without doing things to myself that would completely negate my will to live anyways. If it weren't my own life that was ending, I might be amused that our very own local kingpin is also the most capable doctor in the country. I admire his drive, though. I had three jobs, but this guy…….Ah fuck that. Fuck Doctor Edgar.

People are telling me that there was a time when people in the poorest parts of the world died before they hit my age because they didn't have enough. I'm dying because we have too much.

All of a sudden, dying a high retard is sounding really good.

Later on, I'll go sit at Riverfront Park to watch the fireworks. Most people in Nashville don't remember why we have fireworks this time of year. I do, but I think it's stupid. Nobody throws a parade when a beaten child grows up to beat his kids, so why shoot fireworks on the fourth?

I hope hell isn't as bad as that dramatic reenactment they did on the news last week.

The realization of the stupidity of all of the things I wanted to be when I grew up is just now hitting me. If I weren't dying, I'd go back to school. I could've had my masters by now. I don't regret the way I did things, I'm just saying.

Well, it's about time to wrap it up, I guess. I'm gonna stick this note…….Shit, I dunno where. I want someone to miss me. Maybe as my last good deed, I'll go to the hospital and die there, so I can save people the struggle of schlepping my ninety-pound body to the crematorium. Hopefully, they'll see me and say, "Thanks, man. That was considerate."

I won't even see puberty. Goddammit.