Excerpt

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September 15, 2011

From “The 77 Summer Jobs of Colin Gaines Evans Jr.” by Natascha Kampusch

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“Let’s face it,” Jennie said, “you’ve never been able to hold a job for more than two months.”

“I always have a legitimate grievance,” Colin cried, waving his arms. “It’s not my fault, it’s that the modern workplace is so brutal and depersonalized.”

Jennie cocked an eyebrow. “Oh? What about when you working the fryer at O’Doul’s?”

“That customer said he wanted extra grease,” Colin deadpanned. “Never said where he wanted it to come from.”

“Pizza Mahjong?”

“Hey, they wanted me to dance on the sidewalk holding a lunch special sign when things were slow without even the benefit of a cartoon dragon mask. A guy’s gotta have principles.”

“Oh, of course,” said Jennie, rolling her eyes. “Metromart?”

“It’s their own fault for neglecting to put ‘not for recreational riding’ stickers on pallet jacks. Not to mention the way they stocked the cereal aisle just like a row of competition dominoes.”

 

September 14, 2011

From “A Better Story Than Ours” by Allan T. Basil

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A forest of lit skyscrapers opened up before the window. “I can’t believe your view.”

Austin handed a freshly-poured cocktail to Jay. “My only compensation for long hours in the trenches.

“Just look at it,” Jay said, staring out the window as he absently swirled his drink. “This city…it’s gorgeous. All laid out at night…it’s one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen, but I’ve stopped looking.”

“Like something out of a storybook, huh?” Austin poured himself a scotch.

“It’s not that kind of beauty. It’s a dangerous, sinister, alluring thing…a dozen unhappy stories for every one that turns out right, all under the same skyline.”

Austin cocked an eyebrow. “Your point?”

Jay took a sip from his glass, never breaking his gaze. “It’s a that city cries for a better story than ours to take place within it.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Austin said, setting his glass down with a sharp clink.

“It’s something I’ve been thinking for awhile. In the face of such possibilities, how can we manage to fill the hours with the same rat race people are running everywhere else?”

 

September 13, 2011

From “The 777 Demon Vase” by Carl B. O’Doul

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Sherry’s eyes went wide. “Harry, what have you done?”

“Don’t worry,” Harry said, holding up his hands in the most conciliatory gesture he could muster. “It’s just a broken vase. It’s not the end of the world.”

“Actually, Harry, I’m afraid it is.”

Before Harry could reply, he felt the earth quake. The sky turned blood-red, while the heavens and earth were opened, releasing the wailing spirits of the damned.

“Huh,” Harry said. “I’ll be damned.”

“Pretty much, yeah,” said Sherry.

 

September 12, 2011

From “Fall of the Golden City” by C. G. E. McBain

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“Let me guess. Looking for the Golden City?”

“Yes, yes,” Arn said. “Finally, a man with answers. Can you tell me how to get there?”

“You have already arrived,” the man said, sweeping his arms. “You’re standing amidst it.”

With that horrible proclamation, a veil seemed to tear away from Arn’s sight. He suddenly beheld pieces of stone, long-forgotten walls, and other manmade shapes that had been twisted up in the overgrowth that lined the King’s Road.

“Yes, the city fell close to a thousand years ago, but stories do not always reflect this,” the man sighed. “The road is only kept clear because it is on a direct route from Eversong to Fillkirke.”

“W…why are you here, then?” Arm mumbled.

“I came here long ago, a young man in search of the Golden City. I learned of its history and fall, and in my twilight years I like to give counsel and aid where I can–learning the languages of the seekers that still come, and offering them a roof overhead before their return.”

 

September 11, 2011

From “Flashbulb Memories” by Candace P. Crittenden

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People talk about flashbulb memories, moments frozen like amber in the mind. Cathy had always envied them.

The three examples people were always giving were Pearl Harbor, the JFK assassination, and 9/11. Cathy had missed them all. She hadn’t even been a zygote in 1941, and had been barely four years old in 1964–her mom said she had been asleep most of the day. Cathy had slept through September 11, too, having just come back San Diego and jet-lagged to hell.

Who, then, could have guessed that her first flashbulb memory would come at 11:47am on an otherwise unremarkable Saturday in June?

 

September 10, 2011

From “January 1888-March 2005” by Kevin Beal Carter

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A puff piece, that’s all. “Last person born in the 1880’s still kicking.” Ought to entice a few readers, young turks who could barely comprehend someone born in the 1980’s, let alone 100 years prior.

But Agnes Ethel Wilson, age 116, had other ideas.

“Another newspaperman,” she said.

Rigby was taken aback, as the woman’s eyes were visibly clouded with cataracts, and he was wearing very casual clothes. “How did you know that?” he asked.

“When you been around as long as I have, you learn lots of things. Sound of a newsman’s footsteps ain’t the same as the sound of a milkman’s.”

“I…I suppose…” Rigby murmured, astonished.

“Ha!” Agnes croaked. “I’s just teasing with you, son. Orderly said you was coming.”

 

September 9, 2011

From “Year of the Rabbit” by Annabelle Zhang

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“Ha! Nonsense,” Shelly laughed. “Let me tell you something: I can understand people who were raised on it believing in that Chinese astrology crap, but there’s only one reason anyone without a epicanthus would buy into it. Tell me, Coop, what year were you born in?”

“1984. Year of the Tiger.”

“I thought so,” Shelly said. “People with good animals are always all about Chinese astrology. I was born in 1983, Year of the Pig. Oh, you Tigers and Dragons talk a good game about the pig standing for ‘honesty, passion, intelligence,” but if you were born in the Year of the Rooster you’d be crowing a different tune.”

 

September 7, 2011

From “That Lurking Dissonance” by Leonard S. Jonsen

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The music was still there, the bright jazz issuing forth from Cecil’s coronet.

But he found himself remembering less and less of each performance, though the raw spots on his hands were a testament that they’d happened. Between the dressing room–and all the pills, poweders, syringes, and smokes it contained–and the curtain, everything was, well, a blur.

Not only that, though. The music itself seemed to be different. Cecil had spoken with the audience, and they assured him that his playing was the same or better than ever. But what little he could remember of the performances wasn’t dizzying or joyful. No, something harsh and dissonant, straight out of Leo Ornstein, had crept into Cecil’s music.

And he was the only one who could hear it.

 

September 6, 2011

From “Easy Money” by Cull Featherton

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Easy money.

An artillery shell slammed into one of the adobe buildings across the compound. The defenders within, who had been returning fire with small arms, went out as a fine mist.

Easy money. That’s what Campbell had said.

The first line of skirmishers arrived, disembarking from a BMP. Most of them were killed or wounded, but there was far less, and far less accurate, fire from the rebel positions than there had been moments ago.

Easy money. A tottering autocratic regime, enthusiastic rebels rising up all over the country. Only a few firefights and then cash and poontang from grateful locals.

A second BMP–or, rather, a Chinese-made copy bought and paid for not three weeks ago–disgorged its squad. Bull raked them with heavy machine gun fire, but these weren’t the militia they’d fought earlier. They were disciplined, organized, took cover, laid suppressing fire. Polymer helmets, gas masks, and Chinese kevlar.

Easy money.

 

September 5, 2011

From “Young Adult Typewriting” by Colleen Knut Wisemann

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Shawn tossed the manuscript onto his desk. “I’m gonna be honest with you, Marilyn. It’s good, but it’ll never get picked up.”

Marilyn cocked her head and gave her editor the best ‘you’re-making-no-sense’ stare she could muster. “One doesn’t seem to follow from the other, Shawn. If it’s good, it should be able to be picked up, right?”

“Listen,” Shawn sighed, puffing out his cheeks. “There’s exactly two kinds of young adult literature that sell these days. And this isn’t either one of them.”

“It’s unique!” Marilyn protested.

“The publishers are looking for the next Harry Potter, or at least a knockoff good enough to inspire a major motion picture,” Shawn said. “Kids discovering secret powers and fighting evil, preferably with just enough spice so people with public hair might read it as well.”

“But a more realistic…”

“Right, that’s the other kind,” said Shawn. “Hard-hitting novels about kids coming to terms with things. No kid in the universe will ever read it on their own, but it’ll win awards and get assigned as a course reading and maybe even cook up a little sales-boosting controversy.”

“I think that…”

Shawn tapped the manuscript with a bony finger. “This is too in the middle. Realistic kids, underground killer squids, sibling rivalry, multidimensional travel? It’ll never sell.”

 

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