The Risks of Upgrading

Jessie: Hi Mark! Jessie here. How’re you doing?

Mark: Hi Jess! Super, thanks! How about you?

Jessie: Swell! So, me and the gang are going bowling tomorrow. Care to tag along?

Mark: Can’t tomorrow, sorry. I’m upgrading.

Jessie: You’re upgrading again?

Mark: Yup.

Jessie: But didn’t you upgrade only the other day?

Mark: A few days ago, yeah.

Jessie: So how come you’re upgrading again?

Mark: Why, there’s been an upgrade, of course.

Jessie: Well, okay, but do you need to upgrade?

Mark: Everybody needs to upgrade, no?

Jessie: It depends, surely?

Mark: Depends on what?

Jessie: On whether the upgrade’s worthwhile or not, obviously.

Mark: Jess, it’s a major upgrade. Of course it’s worthwhile.

Jessie: Just because it is a major upgrade, it doesn’t mean it’s a good one. Have you checked Gordon’s column?

Mark: “Gordon’s column”?

Jessie: Yeah, on Forbes. I always read his column for advice before updating. New OS versions usually come loaded with bugs, as you know.

Mark: Never heard of him.

Jessie: What?! Are you kidding me?

Mark: Nope.

Jessie: So what’s your go-to place for advice, then?

Mark: Don’t have one.

Jessie: Wait – wait just a minute. You mean you still upgrade without first looking up information about the pros and cons of new versions?

Mark: Why, sure! It’s an upgrade, Jess! An upgrade. The name says it all. It’s a better version than the one before.

Jessie: Not necessarily, Mark! As I said, new OS versions usually come crawling with bugs! Updating without being informed about the potential drawbacks beforehand can be very risky. Very risky.

Mark: Nah, it’s fine, Jess!

Jessie: Mark. Listen, please. Remember what happened two years ago?

Mark: I don’t think so, no. What?

Jessie: There you go!

Mark: What?

Jessie: Dear God, Mark! It’s getting to be really tiresome having to remind you again and again. And I’m not the only one who feels that way, you know.

Mark: You’ve lost me, Jess. I have no idea what you’re talking about.

Jessie: Yup. And that’s the problem. All right: I’m going to tell you what happened two years ago. Again.

Mark: Can’t wait!

Jessie: Mark, your memory got wiped.

Mark: What?

Jessie: Your memory, Mark! Gone!

Mark: What are you talking about?

Jessie: You forgot all about me, our friends, your parents, your sister… Fuck it, Mark, you forgot all about yourself!

Mark: Uh… What?

Jessie: You broke down, Mark, and had to be reset! Your parents had to take you to an authorized service provider to have you fixed!

Mark: You’re pulling my leg!

Jessie: Sadly, I’m not. And even after they reset you to factory settings and updated your OS all the way to the most recent stable version, you were never the same! Actually, you’ll never be the same again! Now, do you understand?

Mark: No.

Jessie: I thought so. Mark…

Mark: Yeah, Jessie?

Jessie: Never mind. Forget the bowling. I’m calling your parents. Bye!

As published on Medium. Copyright © 2022 Lydia Duprat

Sylvie – A Novel

Chapter 1, First Scene

”Don’t you worry, ma’am. I’ve killed before.”
   Sylvie studied the man sitting across her kitchen table. She didn’t feel reassured, not one bit. His appearance was not one to inspire confidence. Did he look anything like the suave, seasoned assassin Swanson’s description had led her to expect? Hardly. Instead, the individual sitting opposite her had the aspect of a famished hobo. He looked haggard and shabby. His arms and legs were disconcertingly long, and his bony, elongated fingers culminated in large, bulging, and yellowish nails that reminded her of ticks after a hearty meal. His likewise yellowish teeth were so prominent they could scarcely be contained behind his thin, cracked lips. He not only had an overbite but also an enormous gap between his front teeth, the poor bastard. His cheeks were visibly sunken beneath the week-old stubble; his poker-straight hair lay limp across his brow, ears and collar; and his brown and none-too-clean suit hung loose about his frame. Rather than a hitman, her visitor looked like a scarecrow in a windswept field.
   “You’re sure you’re up to the task?” said Sylvie. “Quite sure?
   “Oh yes, ma’am, I’m sure”, said the scarecrow. “Easy-peasy. I’ll take out the scumbag, alright. Eeeasy-peasy.”
   “Good!” said Sylvie. “Only… I don’t want him to die too quickly, you see. I want him to suffer first. I want him to hurt and wish he was dead. Do you understand?”
   “Oh, you do, do you?” said the purported malefactor with a little laugh, his foul breath stinging Sylvie’s delicate nostrils. “Well, no problem, ma’am, no problem at all. I’ll make sure he hurts real bad before I put him out of his misery. Do you have any preference regarding the procedure?”
   “’Procedure’?”
   “Sure! Should I cut his ears off, like, or beat him into a pulp…?”
   The thought of this… man, for lack of a better word, beating brawny Bruce Phillips into a pulp made Sylvie want to laugh.
   “How about crushing his kneecaps? I’ve heard it’s pretty painful… Is it?”
   The scarecrow’s abrupt, screechy guffaw caused Sylvie’s tender eardrums to shudder.
   “’Pretty painful’, you say?” he said, laughing and shaking his head as though in disbelief at Sylvie’s pronouncement. “It’s excruciating, ma’am! Excruciating!”
   “Could you do it?” said Sylvie, not at all amused.
   “Sure I can do it!” After a beat, he added, “You ain’t one to be trifled with, are you, ma’am?”
   At this, Sylvie simply smiled. No, she really wasn’t someone to be trifled with. And that was something that bastard, Bruce Phillips, was about to find out.

Copyright © 2022 Lydia Duprat

An Evening of Native Delights

Photo by Thais Morais on Unsplash

The sharp sliver of a crescent moon was virtually obscured from her view by the crown of the palm. The Coronas had just arrived, a wedge of lime stuck into the neck of each bottle. The corners of the crisp, white-and-red checkered tablecloth fluttered in the seaward wind.
      From her place at the table, she could see the large, kidney-shaped swimming pool, its dark waters rippled by the breeze, looking as if in a hurry to be conveyed from one end of the pool to the other. The deck chairs surrounding the pool, so coveted and contested for in the daytime, now stood empty and abandoned. Along the far side of the terrace, the one bordering the beach, a number of evenly spaced torches blazed, flames swaying wildly but never blowing out.
      “I think I shall have the buffet,” she said, taking a sip straight from her bottle.
      “What is the theme tonight?” he asked.
      “Native cuisine,” she answered.
      “Oh boy,” he groaned.
      “You don’t have to eat the strange stuff, honey,” she retorted. “There’s plenty of ‘normal’ dishes on offer. And the seafood salad looks great today.”
      “No seafood salad for me, thank you very much,” he said with a grimace. “I think I’ll have a regular steak from the à la carte menu. They make pretty decent steaks here, did you know that? I had a T-bone for lunch the other day – you know, when I couldn’t go out with you guys? It was pretty good, crisp, and juicy. I think I’ll have one now.”
      “Alright,” she replied, standing up. “You go ahead and order your steak. I’ll go and help myself to the buffet; be right back!”
      Forty-five minutes later, she sighed, contented, as she laid down her knife and fork across her empty plate.
      “I think I might just have some room for a teeny-weeny piece of chocolate cake after this,” she said, smiling at him.
      “How can you say such a thing after all you’ve eaten?” he asked, astonished.
      “I have a spare stomach for sweets, and that stomach is still empty,” she said with a wry smile.
      As he opened his mouth to reply, the air suddenly exploded with the loud beat of drums. Eight young girls, dressed in small, strapless tops and grass skirts, entered the side of the terrace facing the restaurant and began to dance, hips swaying, slender arms rising and falling, their hands describing graceful figures in the air. They wore each a garland of flowers around their necks and had a hibiscus tucked behind one ear.
      They watched the performance with interest, and she even shot some photographs of the dancing girls in their exotic attire.
      The abrupt stop of the drums left their ears ringing and a puzzled look on their faces. It took a few moments before they again could hear the waves lapping at the shore; the tide was coming in.
      She studied the sky for a while and then turned to him, smiling.
      “It looks like it’s going to be a beautiful day tomorrow,” she said.
      He, too, snatched a quick look at the sky. 
      “Yeah,” he agreed, reaching across the table and taking her hand in his, “and perhaps we’ll be lucky this time, and get to see a manta.”
      “Oh, I’m sure we will,” she said, and squeezed his hand, “I’m sure we will”.

Copyright 2007 © Lydia Duprat. All rights reserved.