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March 17, 2013

From “Parley at the Place of Mirrors” by Olegario Abel Bernardo Medina

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Jainkoa had never explained to Deabrua why he preferred to meet on the Salar de Uyuni salt pan after a rain. Deabrua had a few inklings; Bolivia was a country of strong faith and clean air, and the salt flats were like a giant mirror of the heavens after a rain.

Perhaps that beauty was all the explanation that was necessary; Deabrua himself was not particularly anxious to find out.

They met near a graveyard of ancient and rusting trains, reflected in a few millimeters of clear and reflective water. While either Deabrua or Jainkoa could have appeared as anything they chose, or nothing at all, they met by mutual consent as winged humanoids in roughspun cloth.

“What is the occasion this time, my friend?” Deabrua asked. He had arrived to find Jainkoa staring blankly over the reflective expanse.

“Something has been troubling me of late,” said Jainkoa. “I thought I might parley with you about it for a moment or two.”

Jainkoa hardly ever asked for advice; that was the cause of their long-ago rift, after all. And if they were able to agree to disagree for an informal chat every now and again, the old wounds still remained fresh and strong.

“What is troubling you, then?” Deabrua resisted the temptation to add a little snark, if only so that Jainkoa’s next words would be honest.

“How can the same world contain such beauty as this and such despair?”

Deabrua was taken aback for a moment, but considered for a moment. Jainkoa had the power to influence much if he chose to do so, so the question was almost nonsensical. Still, there was a sincere gleam in his old sparring partner’s eye.

“Without despair there can be no true happiness, I suppose,” Deabrua answered. “Without something to compare it to , or contrast it with, the concepts would be meaningless. To you, to me, to all the things on this rock capable of feeling.”

“You think so?” Jainkoa said with a strange note in his voice. “Even with all our disagreements?”

“I think so, even with all our disagreements,” said Deabrua. “After all, what is rebellion without something to rebel against, hatred without something to hate, or selfishness without altruism to reject?”

“A wise answer, my old friend,” said Jainkoa. “I think this may be the rare thing you can I can agree on.”

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March 16, 2013

From “Beneath the Emerald Light” by Frank S. Laurell

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“We’re flushing out the last of the resistance. They’ve retreated to the pipes and sewer lines, and might be able to hold out for a while there, but I think they’re finished.”

The Colonel looked over the room which had served as the Ars Nox control room. A factory abandoned to the elements, each of the windows was covered with sheets of foliage that gave the interior an eerie green look–and which had helped to shield it from Directorate satellites. “What about the intelligence? That’s why we didn’t nuke and pave from the air.”

“Well, Unit 731 has been brought in, and given everything we found,” said the Adjutant, instinctively ducking as the sound of heavy combat echoed from deep below their feet. “Ars Nox was able to nuke most of their drives, so it’ll be some time before we know for sure what we’ve got.”

“Papers?” The Colonel ran his hand along the worn surface of a wooden table bolted to the floor, one which had until recently housed the nerve center of the local Ars Nox computer network and command/control systems they’d been using to stage attacks nearby.

“Recent orders, daily codes that will expire in a few hours…nothing significant beyond delivering a few local cells to us.” The Adjutant licked his lips delicately. “If I might speak freely, sir, I don’t think that the intelligence value of this raid will be worth the cost in lives, time, and treasure. I would submit that next time an aerial bombardment might-”

“That’s enough,” snapped the Colonel. “Go get me an update on the fighting, and tell the Unit 731 boys to contact me as soon as they finish sifting through those fried drives.”

Seemingly terrified, the Adjutant fled the scene clutching his briefcase. With him gone, the Colonel allowed himself a long, sweet breath of the musty air.

It brought back so many memories. The factory had been silent for ages since the final and crushing depression–no one in town was closer to it than a grandfather or great-grandfather who worked the line. But even in the Colonel’s boyhood days, children had run throughout it, playing games, stealing kisses. They would be on the side of Ars Nox now–the whole area was–but they likely still came to play even as men with weapons and computers fought a quiet war nearby.

Even if they didn’t, the Colonel couldn’t stand to see his old haven taken from him, no matter the cost in “lives, time, and treasure.” So much else had changed, so much else had been destroyed.

But not this; not this.

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March 15, 2013

From “Swingline Sanctuary” by Fawn Delacroix Pivec

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“Now remember, the Swingline Sanctuary is a safe environment for office supplies from the Southern Michigan University computer lab,” said Rem, the brown and cracked old bakelite-handled staple remover. “We’re on the front lines, the most heavily used supplies outside of the admissions office, and our health and well-being is very important. No one wants a repeat of the Elektro-Stape incident.”

The assembled supplied moved their hinges in agreement. The Elektro-Stape, a motorized stapler with undiagnosed PTSD, had snapped during one fateful final exam period and devoured 50 freshman introductory composition essays. The computer lab posse had been forced to feed him cardstock to stop the carnage.

“Bic, I believe you said you wanted to start us off.” Rev was too old and broken to see the rigors of use anymore, but he had led the supplies placed near the lab’s printing station 1948-1971–a lab record–and was kept around by the juniors and seniors that ran the place because of his “retro” look.

The multi-hue highlighter loaned to students in the lab’s quiet study area moved forward. “I was all ready to spill forth my ink for the first time,” moaned Bic. “It’s an important rite of passage for highlighters, even if the pens make fun of us for it. and then…and then…”

“It’s all right, let it all out,” said Rem. “We’re here for you, Bic.”

“They used me to highlight dirty words in Sixty Shades of Beige,” Bic wailed. “And to draw mustaches and eyepatches on Kym Cardassian’s photoshoot for Person magazine!”

Murmurs of concern and support came from the circle. “That’s awful,” said Rev. “I knew ENGL 401 was using Sixty Shades of Beige as part of their unit on worthless drek, but…wow.”

Stanley, the current lab stapler, moved forward next. He was a 1982 model, and had outlived 177 cheaper replacements due to his sturdy construction…but even he had his demons. “The sign says twenty pages or less, but they just kept…piling them in there,” Stanley said. “When I jammed, they just kept pushing, and pushing, and swearing…the guys at the computer desk had to unjam me with needlenose pliers! I still have a headache from the trauma.”

“If there’s one thing those rotten freshmen won’t do, it’s read the directions,” Rem sighed. He’d been used as a toothpick 1949-1955 despite a sign specifically prohibiting that usage.

Stanley continued: “And my friend HD the heavy-duty stapler is still in intensive care after those brutes tried to use him to staple two and a half pages. They might have to disassemble him!”

“I hear you,” said Cole the hole punch. “I’d like to share a similar story that your struggles are helping me to confront.”

“Please do,” Stanley said.

“Well, the kids can’t usually put too many sheets in me because of my design, thank goodness. But with exams…I’m so full of punched holes that I’m about to back up, and the kids at the desk are too busy to empty me. I haven’t been emptied since May. I haven’t been emptied since May!”

From an idea by breylee.

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March 14, 2013

From “The Secret Life of Psychic Tea” by Lynn Ruelle Badeau

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“Okay, let’s go over everything again,” said the dessicated packet of Old Martha’s Hazlenut No. 1 tea. The oldest packet by far in the cupboard of Madame Vizcacha (born Gertrude Nussbaum), Old Martha’s Hazlenut No. 1 had been forgotten in a corner for years, even after Celestial Seasonings had bought her parent company and ruthlessly gutted it. It had taken on the post of unofficial leader, organizing the other teas and keeping them motivated to pass their prophecies on to Madame Vizcacha with clarity and focus.

“Number one! What’s your prophecy?” Old Martha’s Hazlenut No. 1 said, addressing the contents of a newly-opened box of Château Piccard brand Earl Grey packets.

“Flat tire from a broken beer bottle at the corner of 8th and main!” the first Earl Grey tea barked.

“Number two!”

“Mr. Brandstead’s wife is considering leaving him for a Nordic masseuse!” cried the second. “That’s what she’ll read in my leaves!”

“Number three!”

“Extinction of all life on earth if the Large Haldron Collider is turned on between 2:17 and 2:19 AM local Swiss time!”

“Number four!” Old Martha’s Hazlenut No. 1 cried at the last occupant of the box, which Madame Vizcacha had been drinking through in reverse order.

“Umm…” Earl Grey No. 4 hesitated.

Old Martha’s Hazlenut No. 1 sighed. “Focus! You need to receive your wisdom from the aether in order to pass it on! It’s your life’s purpose, so make sure you get it right!”

Frankly, Earl Grey No. 4 thought that its life’s purpose was to be a scarf-wearing hipster’s trendy substitute for coffee, but it was in no position to argue. “An angry customer in two hours looking for a refund,” it said at length. “He’s not happy that Madame Vizcacha’s romantic advice didn’t turn out as he hoped.”

“No refunds,” barked Old Martha’s Hazlenut No. 1, echoing Madame Vizcacha’s well-known life motto. “It’s not her fault that prophecy came from a bad Metromart Generic Tea No. 7. There’s a reason those are so cheap.”

From an idea by breylee.

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March 13, 2013

From “Depression Werewolves: What You Need to Know” by Q. Wayne Wilson

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HE 20.402:M 52/2/2013
Lykos Lypimenos: What You Need to Know
A publication from the Office of the Shaman General of the United States

1. Lykos lypimenos can be treated
The first thing to understand it that being a lykos lypimenos (or a so-called depression werewolf) is a legitimate medical condition, and treatable with a combination of medication (most often prescription Selenia™) and therapy. It is, however, a much more complex condition than lycanthropy or depression alone, much like bipolar disorder is much more complex than mania or depression on their own.

2. Observation is essential to diagnosis
It’s crucial for your diagnosis to gather as much information as you can about the behavior of the wolf than infected you:

-Were its ears and tail erect?
-Did it growl or just simply whimper?
-Did it bite you proactively, or did you have to force it into a corner first?

3. It’s important to have a supportive environment
While lykos lypimenos sufferers generally spend the full moon too depressed to maul or kill or infect, tending to sleep or watch TV or write poetry during lycanthropic episodes, a supportive environment is still essential. Try some of the following techniques with friends or family:

-Controlled doses of mood-altering drugs like ice cream (not chocolate) or prescription Selenia™
-Tactile stimulation – petting a lykos lypimenos sufferer releases valuable serotonins
-Games of fetch or keep-away with favorite objects
-Heaping sacks of raw or undercooked meat

4. This part has an old poem in it
“Even one who is pure in heart/and says their prayers by night/may become morose when depression blooms/and the moon is full and bright.”

Remember, with early diagnosis, a support network, medication (most often prescription Selenia™), and other treatment strategies, lykos lypimenos sufferers can live rich full lives. All the other options open to lycanthropes, from indiscriminate slaughter to secluded and horrified contemplation, are ultimately attainable!

This pamphlet is an official publication of the Office of the Shaman General of the United States in association with GesteCo Pharmaceuticals, makers of prescription Selenia™, the once-daily pill for mild to severe rheumatoid lycanthropy. Call 1-555-GES-TECO for more information about prescription Selenia™.

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March 12, 2013

From “Transcript of Princess Search Episode 2S14” by Olivia Nanette-Pauls

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TRANSCRIPT FROM EPISODE 2S14 OF PRINCESS SEARCH PROVIDED FOR THE BENEFIT OF THE HARD OF HEARING, EARLESS, GNOMIK-QUAL, HALF GNOMIK-QUAL, AND SUFFERERS OF THE BLOOD SILENCE BY PMTI – PUBLIC MAGICAL TELEVISION INTERNATIONAL.

FOR A FREE TRANSCRIPT OF ANY EPISODE, SCRAWL ITS NAME IN ASH ON A COLD HEARTH DURING THE NEW MOON OR MAIL A S.A.S.E. TO PTMI AT 1 ROCKMOLDER PLAZA.

[Commercial advertisement for Magi-Cola™ (“taste the midichlorians!”) ends]

ADJUDICATOR NOMIS: All right, we’ve come to perhaps the most unbearably painful part of our selection process: singing.

GRAND MUFTI AL-TEMSAH: You will each sing an original song of your choice, be it a war ballad or a love requiem, and we will tear it to shreds in front of millions of viewers at home as is our wont.

DOWAGER EMPRESS HALLUD: Express yourselves and be free, children of the celestial mushrooms!

[NOMIS and AL-TEMSAH exchange glances but say nothing]

AL-TEMSAH: All right, first up is Princess Ndlovukati from the veldt kingdom of Lesthwazil. Hit us with your best shot.

NDLOVUKATI: [singing] Someday my prince will come/Someday I’ll find my love/And how thrilling that moment will be/When the prince of my dreams comes to me…

NOMIS: Whoa, whoa, whoa. Put the brakes on there, Snowderella. What part of the word “original” do you not understand?

Al-TEMSAH: They could be watching and listening right now! Do you have any idea how fast-

[a piece of parchment is handed to AL-TEMSAH from off-screen]

AL-TEMSAH: And there we have our cease-and-desist parchment. And a lawsuit. Thank you for that.

NDLOVUKATI: [sobbing] I’m sorry! My people have no concept of copyright infringement!

NOMIS: Excuses, excuses. Next!

HALLUD: Well I thought that, original or not, it was pretty unique.

[NOMIS and AL-TEMSAH exchange glances but say nothing]

NOMIS: Princess Skald of Kalmarunionen, warble something OR-IG-IN-AL for us, if you please. If I hear a single copyrighted syllable, I’ll whack your pretty blonde head with my scepter so hard you’ll see the astral plane.

SKALD: [clears throat] Yo yo! I’m on probation makin’ it harder for me/Bitch, now she mad cause she ain’t gonna see/Machine gun bulletproof this bitch/Blow yo brains out cuz you been playin’…

AL-TEMSAH: Stop, stop! What the hell was that?

SKALD: It’s a traditional love-song of my people.

NOMIS: Seems a little downtown for a shield-maiden of Nødin in the high halls of Hällvalla. And what’s all this about machine guns and bulletproofing? Your people haven’t even discovered gunpowder yet!

SKALD: Look, I’m just trying to keep it real. My song was born on the mean streets of Daß-Hågen, and it’s about social problems that real people deal with everyday.

AL-TEMSAH: I find that highly problematic and vaguely insulting! You’re a cloistered princess who lives a carefree life of martial training and boastful feasting!

NOMIS: Your kingdom has a homogenous population of 10,000 with an elective monarchy and generous social programs for serfs!

HALLUD: Preach it, sister. Power to the serf on the street with his gat, giving woe to the man like a real woe-man!

[NOMIS and AL-TEMSAH exchange glances but say nothing]

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March 11, 2013

From “Dreams of the Holy Land” by Charissa Doris Milagro

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You who have dreamed of the holy land, come forth and face the dreamer’s ascent. But bear with you this warning: to seek the axle of our world is to court not only death but damnation. For the great Unmaker has long held designs over the power that it cannot use, and the great Architect has withdrawn in sorrow from what was once its proudest creation.

Seek out the place whence gentle showers once came, now dried into a desolation marked only by the tears of a land that has forgotten itself. At its heart lies a blighted spring where dark waters pool, wept from dead eyes the cosmos over. Breathe not the miasma of the desolace, or its dust shall devour your days. Do not drink deep of the dark pool, no matter your thirst, lest the darkness drink in turn from you.

Beneath the waters lies a dark catchment, which seals in the air of the old world. Do not let the echoes of the former paradise beguile you, for those days are irrevocably past and their merest suggestion may suffocate you with ephemeral ecstasy. Dark labyrinths twist beneath the thick rind of the earth there, sketches abandoned by the Architect when it recused itself in sorrow from the act of creation. You must pierce this dark stillness, a sword into dusk.

Many have called the penultimate chamber the everneed way, stretching as it does for league upon league with neither comfort nor succor. Through some abandoned design of the Architect or some machination of the Unmaker, the terrors unleashed upon the world at paradise’s end gather thickly there: hunger, thirst, cold, fatigue, and every other sort of desperate want. No supplies will slake the everneed, and to succumb to the welcome mists of slumber within is to have your soul torn from your body.

At the furthest reach of the everneed lays the morass of Nature’s Tomb, the repose of all that which the Architect has allowed to perish or the Unmaker has managed to destroy. Its bounty of flora and fauna are deceptive, for theirs is a mockery of life and to consume that which has died is to join it in the Tomb. The centralmost reach of the Tomb holds the Judas Cradle, repository of all the Architect has struggled to suppress and the Unmaker has struggled to encourage in humankind.

Somewhere in that puzzle of weakness and deceit lies the final door, behind which lies the holy land and eternal succor, and the power to shift the cosmos about its axis once and only once. None have made it so far, but there are whispers that the Unmaker itself stalks the Judas Cradle, gnashing its teeth over its inability to comprehend, and thereby undo, the Architect’s final and most devious riddle.

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March 10, 2013

From “The Unwaking” by Tyson F. Gautreaux

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Sleep has been taking me less and less lately. I’m sure it’s the stress that crackles about me like hot oil each day, the hurried faces on the other end of the coffee shop counter, the rejection letters floating in with the day’s post, the circled help wanted ads in the newspaper on the countertop.

Even when I dose myself with the strongest, cheapest sleep aids, I don’t get any rest. I’m plagued by stress dreams, not recurring in the Hollywood sense but anathema to peaceful slumber all the same. I’ll be somewhere I once was but now feel out of place: high school, the old forest behind Aunt Peg’s house, the lakefront before Cara sold her cabin. And I’ll be trying to move about, to fit in, and failing. Failing for two reasons:

In each dream, I can’t help but see myself as hopelessly out of place and living a lie that will be exposed at any moment.

In each dream, I see a shadowy presence quietly observing–stalking–me in my peripheral vision.

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March 9, 2013

From “Smoke from Up Above” by Joseph “Door” Dorrington

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“Smoke’s been hanging over town for days now. You’ve noticed it: like something from a bad cigar.”

Ransom didn’t move. “And like a bad cigar, it’ll eventually smoke itself out,” he said. “No need to concern yourself with it unless you’re the fellow who paid a dollar for it and was expecting a Cuban.”

The deputy reached into his pocket and produced a coin, which he dropped on the table. At once, Ransom sat up, pulling his worn boots off the saloon table. He bit the piece and slipped it into an interior pocket.

“I’ve seen this thing every now and then on the trail,” he said. “Most likely a forest fire up in the hills kindled by lightning. Probably no threat, but I’d cut a fire-break along the windward side of town if I was really scared. A posse of men with good backs and good axes can do it in a day or two. Any woodsman worth his salt can show you how it’s done, and you’ve likely got more than a few kicking around.”

Deputy Gautreaux nodded. “I thought that’s what you’d say. But I’m not in the business of hunches and likelihoods, Mr. Ransom. I deal in facts, as does the Sheriff.”

“Then you must not deal very much,” Ransom said, resuming his former posture with a yawn. “Out here, it’s more happenstance and hearsay than anything, with the Devil as likely to be blamed for something as a mean son-of-a-bitch with a shooting iron.”

“I’m not some rarified dandy from back east who came out here to play at being a shootist, Mr. Ransom,” said Gautreaux. “I know a forest fire, and I know the wind, and this smoke is too thick and too long in tarrying to be the usual sort of conflagration. You know these parts, and you’re the man the Sheriff wants to sniff out the trouble.”

“Well that’s a mighty fine vote of confidence from a man who didn’t care to tell me so himself,” Ransom sniffed. “If it’s all the same to you, Deputy, I’ll stick to my own business.”

A bag landed on the table, the burlap distorted by coins within. “From the municipal coffers,” said Gautreaux. “Half now and half later to lead a scouting party up into the hills for more information.”

Ransom had the bag opened and the coins spilled blindingly fast. “Now you’ve gone and made it my business, haven’t you?”

“The Sherriff has, not me,” said Gautreaux. “If it were up to me, it would be me and my men going up there. A snake’s always safer in the dust behind you than in your saddlebag.”

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March 8, 2013

From “The Secret of Goldie’s Bowl” by Carmelia Nardelli

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Children have such a wonderful way of investing everything they see with an anima, an animating spirit, and it’s beyond their young comprehension that the playthings and pets they talk to might not understand or absorb every word, every secret.

Zoë’s parents had bought Goldie the goldfish on a whim, expecting a sailor’s funeral for him in a month. But to their surprise, the bowl’s water was changed, aerated, and sprinkled with nourishing flakes with astonishing regularity for a flighty six-year-old. But Zoë saw Goldie as a full member of the family, and he enjoyed her full confidence.

In fact, late at night–after her bedtime–Zoë would often sneak out of bed and hand her head over Goldie’s bowl. With the two of them lit only by light leaking in from the hall, or a nightlight, Zoë would talk to her fish. Her day at school, who’d been mean to her, questions about the water temperature and fish food…Goldie was better than a diary written in Zoë’s halting hand because he had his own wants and needs and opinions. Even if he couldn’t express them.

One night, not long after Zoë’s seventh birthday, she couldn’t sleep and approached Goldie’s bowl as usual. “How are you doing tonight, Goldie?” she whispered brightly.

“I’m doing fine, Zoë,” said Goldie. “How are you?”

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