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October 14, 2012

From “Locke’s Revenant” by Jeanne Welch

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Sharon sipped her Lunabrew, the house specialty. “My brother…he died about six months ago. I’ve been trying to take care of his affairs, since I’m between jobs. Well, more than just that; I have a noncompetition clause in my old contract that keeps me from doing any job in my field for a year after I quit.”

“Well, that explains why you’ve been back in town so long,” said Ward, whose own drink was a Groenbach. “I was sure it wasn’t for the ambiance.”

“Paul worked for Sav-Mart, in the electronics section. He had a master’s degree and a ton of debt but he worked there, living through the internet and making just enough to pay the bare minimum against rent and loans even though my parents live here six months out of the year.”

“A slacker?” Ward said.

“Don’t use that word,” Sharon snapped, slamming her glass to the table. “He was my brother and he’s dead.”

Ward held up his hands. “Sorry, sorry, that…it slipped out. But you didn’t ask me here to tell me that, did you?”

“Paul lived his life online, so that’s where I’ve been trying to set his affairs straight. He left me some but not all of his passwords, and…Ward, he was an online stalker.”

“Come again?” Ward said, his expression unreadable.

Sharon held her head in her hands. “He had all these saved links, photographs, even chat logs, of a girl that lives a few hours away from here near LA. I’ve been getting some weird prank calls and messages and thought they might be from her. Ward, I called her and she had never heard of Paul.”

“So you think he was stalking her? That’s the kind of thing that happens if you dig too deeply into people, Sharon. De mortuis nil nisi bonum – speak not ill of the dead.”

“You don’t understand. Not all the messages I’ve been getting have been pranks. I think Paul may have set something in motion before he died. Something horrible, something I can’t even bring myself to understand. I’m afraid this girl, this Umbriel, is at the center of it somehow.” Sharon lifted her head as she spoke, looking directly at Ward. “She might even be in danger.”

“Paul said you might say something like that,” Ward sighed. Sharon’s blood ran cold at the words. “I told him not to worry, that I’d deflect you with my wit and charm. But that hasn’t worked, has it? And now we’re here, taking over flat beer, and things have just gotten a hell of a lot more awkward.”

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October 13, 2012

From “The Carolina Chest” by Matthew R. Giese

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Near as anyone can tell, Isiah Hewitt was born in Cardiff around 1690. But given his later use of pseudonyms and the loose recordkeeping standards of the day, even that morsel of information has been repeatedly called into question. Even the spelling of his name has engendered controversy, with contemporary records listing the man’s Christian name as everything from Isaac Hughes to Asa Everett.

The earliest firm mention comes from a latter of marque issued to Captain Henry Roberts making him a privateer in the service of Her Majesty Queen Anne. Dated 1704, it includes a list of the ship’s crew on departure from Cardiff with an “Isaya Hewwit,” age 12 or 13, as a “cabine boye & asst. cooke.” Roberts’ ship participated in Queen Anne’s War against France and Spain, capturing or destroying 17 enemy vessels, one of the better careers among the vast number of privateers engaged in that conflict.

Correspondence dismissing Roberts and crew from Her Majesty’s service in 1713 again contains a mention of Hewitt as “Lt. Asa Hewit” age 25 with the job of “asst. q’termaster.” While Roberts himself retired on his earnings, many of his men turned to piracy after war’s end, plundering not only French and Spanish ships, but British as well. Letters taken off the body of pirate Captain John Foreman after his death in battle in 1717 list “Isiah Hewitt” as his quartermaster. Further letters kept by a Charleston correspondent, most likely Hewitt’s wife or lover, indicate that after Foreman’s death his former quartermaster seized a ship to make a name for himself.

In emulation of his idol, Edward “Blackbeard” Teach, Isaac Hewitt adopted the nom-de-guerre “Blackhart” as well as a similar flag (a full skeleton on a black background). His ships were active as early as 1719 and last took a prize in 1725. Occasionally collaborating with other pirates, and demonstrating a mastery of misdirection and disguise, Blackhart plundered as many as 150-200 ships. That his historical infamy is somewhat less than his contemporaries is due to the fact that he did not cultivate any particular image and often employed surrogates to perform acts in his name.

After the sack of a French ship in late 1725, “Blackhart” Hewitt disappears from the historical record. Authorities on the Golden Age of Piracy have never been able to conclusively establish his fate. The gibbeting of a high-ranking but unnamed pirate at Port Royal in 1727 and the sinking of a ship reportedly flying a “blacke skeletonne flag” by the Royal Navy in 1729 are the two most likely candidates, though a minority of historians believe that a wealthy “Mr. Hartblacke” who died in Charleston ca. 1755 may have been Hewitt.

In any case, despite his successful career, “Blackhart” Hewitt remained a historical footnote of a footnote until the “Carolina Chest” was uncovered in 2010. The metal casket, recovered from an antebellum house, was found to contain a quantity of doubloons as well as the following riposte:

Capt. Davies,

Enclosed ye will find a quantitie of Spanish dobloons ye’ll no doubt recognise as ye own. I took them from yr. man Cobb abord the ‘Wealthy Indiaman’ as recompense for Mathilde. I’ve set out the rest for ye to find if ye’ve the stones to at the usual place. Come and taste the brimstone I’ve prepar’d for ye.

-Blackhart Hewit, Capt.

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October 12, 2012

From “The Girl and the Teddy-Bear” by Victorina Rudolf

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They had bound Bear up in rough cords, and tossed his shining rapier to the smaller gobs, who shrieked and squabbled as they fought over it.

“This one…any good to eat?” The largest gob, almost the girl’s size, hungrily licked his lips as he gazed at Bear. “Lot of fight…usually…lot of meat.”

“Come off it,” the smaller gob before him said, the one who had called out orders during the ambush. “He’s all fluff and stitchings. Felt it when I got a good blow on him I did. No good for eating. Only good as a slave.”

The gobs poked and prodded at Bear, during which he maintained a dignified silence, much as he had during all those years in the playroom. The girl was eventually moved to indignation, despite her own bindings. “You leave him alone!”

“Oh, so the other morsel wants a say, do it?” The head gob said, loping toward the girl. “It thinks we’s being too rough on the nasty stitchfluff what spilled our blood?”

The large gob affixed its unlean and hungry look upon the girl. “This one…good for eating? Not all stitchyfluffy?”

The girl gave as fierce a grimace as she was able, though had her mother been there to see the effect would have struck her as more like a twelve-year-old pouting than anything. “I’m not for eating either,” she said. “Just as full of fluff as Bear.”

“That is correct,” Bear said even as the other gobs danced and taunted and cackled madly around him. “She and I are as brother and sister.”

“She look all meaty…maybe not ready for eating yet,” the large gob said, fingering his great and knobby club. “Few year as slave…that do it.”

“I’m a stuffed doll with a porcelain skin,” the girl said, hoping that desperation wasn’t creeping into her voice. “If you try to eat me you’ll have a mouthful of cuts and a bellyful of stuffing.”

The head gob sniffed at the girl. “Me nose says otherwise,” he growled.

Inspired by this image.

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October 11, 2012

From “Καλλίστη” by Odis Perun

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Its first public appearance was, appropriately enough, at a wedding in late December 1999. The San Diego press carried a footnote story about a massive brawl that broke the bride’s arm and caused an elderly relative to suffer a heart attack. When questioned by police, participants couldn’t recall what had started the fight, only that they had suffered a bout of intense jealousy and glimpsed a flash of something golden.

A year later, a fistfight started in a Colorado pawnshop that spilled out onto the street, quickly involving bystanders and nearby shopkeepers who could have had no personal stake in any quarrel. A unit of the Denver police in full riot gear was required to calm the altercation, which resulted in hundreds of concussions, broken bones, and knocked-out teeth.

Following the resulting trail of destruction saw the same pattern–immense and violent fights breaking out spontaneously–all over North America. Toronto (2002), Atlanta (2003), Mexicali (also 2003), Detroit (2004), and Seattle (2005). Careful examination of newspaper records and police reports shows a line of smaller altercations between each major outbreak. Participants would always claim memory of nothing but intense jealousy and a golden glow before plowing into the melee.

While its mechanism (pheromones, subsonic vibrations, or something supernatural), and origin (experiment, accident, or divine intervention) remained obscure, thorough investigation revealed one incontrovertible fact.

The Golden Apple of Discord had returned.

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October 10, 2012

From “The Book Of Random Late Night Thoughts” by Hatter Monet

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Random Late Night Thought #271:

Are there really that many people with structured settlements or annuities? The advertisers sure seem to think so. And are all of them dumb enough not to realize that “cash now” is pennies on the dollar for what they have coming to them? It’s an interesting market, dumb people with a lot of money, but as Hummers and gold plated iPhones show, not a small one.

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October 9, 2012

From “Mall of the Mysteries” by Webster Desarrollo

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J. Wheeler Cameron was known to the denizens of his hometown as the eccentric if basically goodhearted proprietor of The Ceramics Nook. The Nook offered handmade ceramics and supplies for enthusiasts to make their own, and more than one citizen wondered how Wheeler Cameron could afford to keep the lights on given how little business he must have attracted.

Then again, J. Wheeler Cameron was not known to the denizens of his hometown as the last living heir to the Casterman furniture finishing fortune.

While he’d chosen to live simply and devote his life to the pursuit of ceramics, Wheeler Cameron was worth nearly $100 million when he died in 1985. With no heirs, his will left the money to the town under one condition: it could have $50 million to do with as it pleased so long as the remaining $50 million was held in trust to establish, subsidize, and maintain an “arcade of interesting and independent shops.”

Despite attempts by the city government to get the whole pot, Wheeler Cameron had known his stuff; as such, the Wheeler Cameron Boutique Arcade opened in 1987. Its name changed to the Wheeler Cameron Mall in 1991, by which time the city had pissed away its $50 million and was left only with the prospect of maintaining the bizarre and generally unprofitable mall as it soaked up the interest from a $50 million investment in 1985 dollars.

Thanks to Wheeler Cameron’s specifications, the shops therein were an interesting lot:

The Ceramics Nook – Continued under the management of designated heir Lampert Filmore, who took the pottery in a decidedly psychedelic and often borderline illegal direction.

Plenty o’ Pins – Designer gold and silver pins as well as mundane safety and sewing pins (only available in bulk packages of 1000 or more. No items in the store could themselves be pinned (except for proprietress Sandy Squigmire-Guss).

The Voodoo Hoodoo – Ingredients and amulets from a variety of colorful and controversial traditions, from Voodoo to Wicca to Fear Factor. Their popular line of smoked and edible endangered creatures often led to temporary closures.

Hail a Taxidermy – Specializing in exotic imported animals that had been killed and mounted overseas. A full-size stuffed African elephant was its signature attraction.

The Umbrella Group – From full-size to purse-size, the only dedicated brolly shop in North America.

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October 8, 2012

From “An iPod Unstuck in Time” by Lelia Jacqueline Brock

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I’m sorry that you feel that way, and I’m sorry if you were offended by anything I did. Take this back and we’ll call it even.

The note that had arrived with the junky old iPod made even less sense now than it had before. Other than the fact that it was perhaps the least apologetic apology note Milly had ever read, there was nothing to be gleaned from it. Wasn’t even handwritten. And the rainstorm had smudged the return address and postmark beyond all legibility.

Milly wished that the allure of a free iPod, even a beat-up first-generation one with only 10 gigs of space, hadn’t appealed so deeply to her inner cheapskate. She wished that her sleek new model hadn’t gone through the wash that same week, leaving a ‘Pod-sized hole in her workout routine.

But as she looked at her computer screen, the fifteenth crash of the day over an iTunes list full of songs with bizarre titles incorporating her name and add dates that predated the release of the gen one iPod by six months to a year, Milly wished one thing in particular.

That she’d returned the package, unopened, to the post office.

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October 7, 2012

From “Fastest and Highest” by Lady Kaila Pisciotti

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The Other Book of Changes
Codex entry #P394.5U5

The bet had been made in haste after an argument about biomechanics got badly out of hand among the near-closing-time crowd at Shelley’s. Cassie, as the former high jump queen of Arboria High out in Ativia, probably thought that a challenge to get a running start and jump onto the bar (a full four feet five inches off the ground) was in the bag. But her opponent, Jayson Squabb, had the advantage of a lifetime of hooliganism and parkour. Cassie also hadn’t done a high jump in almost ten years, ever since settling into the thrill-a-minute life of an Outland CPA. Her long, graceful legs had spent the last month (tax season, the CPA Superbowl) under a desk rather than on a track.

Cassie came to flat on her back, surrounded by Jayson and his chortling toadies. Her dark olive skin normally precluded the flushing and blushing her mother had always been susceptible to, but she was blushing now. Of course, it could also have been a bruise given how hard the bartender claimed she’d donked her head going down.

With the cruel laughter of her vanquisher spilling out into the street, Cassie paid her tab and slunk out a side door. She was too drunk to drive, and home was a long way hence; Cassie spent the time railing against her defeat. Spying a particularly bright star low in the sky, she half-mockingly made a wish to be able to run faster and jump–no, *soar*– higher than anyone in the world.

Unbeknownst to her, the “star” was actually the experimental Mythology Satellite, its decaying orbit bringing it close enough to the earth to hear individual requests at long last. A forgotten pre-Anarchy Cold War weapon, the satellite was designed to turn enemy soldiers into harmless pixies through the judicious application of intense bursts of mythology radiation. Abandoned due to budget cuts and the Helsinki Convention Against Unwillful Transmogrification in Wartime, the satellite and its controlling AI had become a little needy and unhinged in the ensuing years. Intercepting Cassie’s wish, it completely missed the inherent sarcasm therein and interpreted the request in the most literal way possible (and not coincidentally in a way conducive to the unannounced application of mythology radiation).

Cassie had reached home by that point, and was standing petulantly on the balcony of her tiny apartment when she was suddenly bathed in invisible mythology radiation. A curious tingling sensation was the first sign she had that anything was amiss…great white wings popping irregularly out of her shoulder blades were the second. She was understandably upset about this and the other subsequent radical changes the radiation invoked, not the least because her new wings and tail ruined her favorite bar outfit and her new hooves ruined her favorite balcony (and, for that matter, her favorite apartment).

Then again, people still speak in reverent tones about the pegasus with Cassie’s eyes and hair that appeared at the bar the next night and trounced Jayson Squabb in everything from running to bar-jumping to drinking.

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October 6, 2012

From “Ceci n’est pas une place de parking” by Sana H. Bulgine

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A parking attendant as wide as she was round waddled up to Reginald as he was opening his trunk. “Sir, that’s not a parking space.”

“It most certainly is,” Reginald dais without looking up. “It has lines and no cone and no handicapped sign.” Many of the other spaces on that level of the garage were sealed off with cones or plastic barriers, it was true, but that space wasn’t.

“Sir, that is not a parking space!” The parking attendant oozed closer, her tone more strident.

“It’s certainly not a bagel, if that’s what you’re trying to tell me,” Reginald said, hefting a suitcase onto the pavement. “Otherwise you’re getting into ‘this is not a pipe’ territory and I don’t have time for metaphysics.”

Clearly annoyed, the attendant gesticulated with her sidearm, a loaded walkie-talkie. “Sir, there is no parking on this level, sir.” Her idea of explication seemed to be limited to putting stress on different words.

Reginald looked at the parked cars to his left and behind him. “Then I’m the least of your problems,” he said. “Better get to ticketing these people who’ve been here a lot longer than me.”

“Move it now or I tow it.”

“Well, that’s a little rude, but at least you’re speaking intelligible English now.”

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October 5, 2012

From “The Plating” by Ian Kvik

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“So this guy finally sweeps by me on the highway–you know, the really angry way you pass people by slamming the gas and cutting in front of them by a comfortable margin of about six nanometers–and I saw that he had a custom license plate. This raging asshole, who’d been chewing at my asshole for the last twenty miles of blacktop, was apparently “2HOT4U.” Mickey paused for effect. “Have you ever known someone who had a custom license plate who wasn’t a raging asshole? They’re right up there with tramp stamps and missing teeth.”

The audience roared with laughter and clapped. Ellie Connaught (ALOHA2U) found that her mirth had evaporated somewhat.

“The best part is that they never have enough letters to spell out what they desperately want to be plastered on their car’s ass,” Mickey continued. “I see these people pass me and they’ve got some cute little word or phrase that’s missing all its vowels, and I gotta wonder: are they a genuine asshole, did they get lucky at the DMV, or maybe Prisoner #374298 has a sense of humor to go with his third-grade education?”

Peter Stromburg (ELVSKNG) shifted uneasily in his seat, the sequins on his Graceland T-shirt sparkling in the reflected stage light.

“Even when they can spell, it’s usually something passive-aggressive like BACK OFF,” Mickey said, gesticulating wildly. “How effective is that, really? When I’m tailgating the shit out of someone for doing, I dunno, 37 in a 70, am I supposed to see that plate and go ‘oh shit, I better back off cuz this grandpa who can barely see over the wheel said so? In the medium of license plate?”

Allie Vandenburg (NONONO) bit her lip, stonefaced.

“And God help you if you’re an asshole from one of those states that makes you jam spaces in your license plate. You try and be all clever and then find out that due to state statute #877b, your SEXWMAN becomes SEX W MAN.”

Near the back, Albert Kesselbrecht (KNG O FROAD) leaned over and whispered at his wife Agnes (CUT A SABUG) “He’s not really as funny in person, you know?”

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