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December 25, 2010

From “Kimchi October” by M. Francis Bradford

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Part of the yearly ritual at work revolved around finding ways to celebrate the holidays that didn’t run afoul of the almighty PC Brigade. In the distant past, remembered only by a select few, there’d been an office Christmas party. That met its end for obvious reasons, even though Carl Lowenstein had long participated in its planning, even good-naturedly supplying his wife’s latkes to the potluck.

Next was the Christmahanukwanzaakah party, which was functionally similar but replaced the Christmas decorations with a melange of colorful symbols both old and post-1966. After Abdus Rahman joined the company, all religious trappings were stripped from the event, allegedly because the PC Brigate couldn’t locate any reasonably-priced Bangladeshi religious symbols. Abdus was happy to go along with a party as long as there was food, but he did get a bit testy when he learned that the proposed decorations to convert Christmahanukwanzaakah to Ramachristmahanukwanzaakahdon were manufactured in Pakistan.

Narinder Singh was the next wrinkle. He participated in the rechristened Holiday Party with gusto, but it same to the attention of the PC Brigade that he wasn’t throwing a holiday of his own under the banner–no Sikh holiday fell within December for that matter. So having any sort of December celebration was therefore taboo. It got to the point that we had a diffuse Autumn Celebration, with volunteers bringing dishes to pass every other weekend from September 21 thru December 31.

And that was how the office wound up stinking of Jeehun Choi’s kimchi around Halloween.

 

December 24, 2010

From “Uturry She” by Hank L. Erickson

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Chateau Uturry had fallen on hard times since the beginning of the century, with the dissolute Monsieur Uturry (fils) abandoning his family with most of his fortune in 1902. Monsieur Uturry (pere) was unable to bear the shame of his son’s desertion, and took his own life. The various members of the family drifted away until only three remained of the seventeen Uturry family members who had once lived there: the wife of Monsieur Uturry (fils) and two of his daughters. Though the youngest, Thérèse, had been a notable beauty and had made quite a splash in fin de siècle Paris, her parents had always brought her up as a caretaker of her mother and invalid sister, and she had been recalled to the chateau for that purpose in 1903.

When the war started, the battle lines snaked directly through the chateau’s grounds. All three inhabitants refused evacuation and were caught in the crossfire as Chateau Uturry became a landmark in no-man’s-land. At first their sector was relatively quiet, and with a well and the provisions laid in by Monsieur Uturry (pere) there was no immidiate danger despite being cut off from the world. But as the offensives of 1916 began, Chateau Uturry found itself in two sets of crosshairs.

And Thérèse found herself once more ready to make a splash.

 

December 23, 2010

From “Gets Mas Than” by Darius Cantu

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Jorge’s note, written in an angry hand and a combination of his native Spanish and English, accused Emile of stealing their parents’ affections, possessions, and just about everything else it was possible for one sibling to steal from another. Jorge insisted that his status as an adoptee, compared to Emile being natural born, was the dark secret behind why the younger brother always “gets mas than” the elder.

Emile wrote a rebuttal in a fine flowing hand, but it was returned unopened–whether because Jorge had refused to accept it or because he no longer lived at that address was never clear. Emile displayed the letter in his home, so that Jorge would see it if he ever deigned to return. Whether the letter–which was magnanimous and understanding to the point of being syrupy–was the actual one that had been mailed or a later invention no one who saw it could say.

When Jorge returned, though, it was through the rear window.

 

December 22, 2010

From “Huyclask, IL” by S. H. Poundiere

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Nobody’s quite sure how Huyclask got its name. One of the old matrons had a mind to figure out a few years back, and she did some real research but it all came up smoke in the end as these things often do.

Seems that the town founder, Earl Smitham, had bought the land that first became a farm and later a trading post from one Mr. Clavius DeWitt. But even then it was know as Huyclask Hold, and Smitham had written to his family back east that his inquiry about the name was met by a simple reply: “it was named that when I bought it.” DeWitt himself claimed to have bought the land from a man named Richat.

In the course of her research, that town matron was unable to find any record of a man named Clavius DeWitt or anyone with the surname of Richat. Those misty days being somewhat fast and loose with the letter of the law, there was nothing sinister in the oversight; most likely both DeWitt and Richat had been itinerants or otherwise rootless. The researcher was forced to accept the same conclusion as Earl Smitham: “it was named that when I bought it.”

That explanation stood until the day Sandy Huyclask arrived at the old five and dime downtown.

 

December 21, 2010

From “The Team” by Van Bullock

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“This is Vasily Albanov, a Russian as you might expect and the best forger in the city,” said Sedena. “He once crafted me a visa that let me cut through North Korea and Iran on the same trip.”

“To be fair, the Iranian border guard’s eyesight wasn’t so good,” laughed Albanov.

“And this is Constantine Retewo, our scrounger,” continued Sedena. “He’s a Lesbian and a veteran of just about every Middle Eastern conflict you can imagine. Scrounged for Hezbollah and the IDF in the same conflict.”

“I’m sorry…what did you just say?” Peter said delicately. “He’s a …lesbian?”

“Yes,” Retewo growled. “I was born on the isle of Lesbos. Do you have a problem with that?”

“I…well, it’s just that…it seemed…”

“Oh, I know,” said Retewo. “I know just what you thought. Those goddamn girly-girlies have stolen the good name of my island, and I have to hear the same damn jokes every time I am introduced! It is a good Orthodox island and a good Orthodox name!”

Peter drew back, startled.

“I love it when he does that,” Sedena said to Peter with a low-key smile. “Why do you think I don’t introduce him as a Greek?”

 

December 20, 2010

From “The Ricitill Always Knocks Softly” by Keenan T. Roewes

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“The Ricitill knocks politely at the door,” said Sean.

“What the hell, man?” Jerry cried, his eyes–inflamed by passion and pizza–visible over Sean’s dungeon master screen. “Since when does a monster knock? And even given the remote possibility it does knock, what are the chances it does so politely?”

“And what kind of name is ‘Ricitill?'” Frank said from the left, waving his pewter token. “It sounds like they were trying to make it all menacing with flavors of ‘rictus’ and ‘kill’ but it sounds like a ‘sit down and shut the hell up’ prescription medicine to me!”

“Guys, guys,” Sean said, making the ‘cool it’ gesture they’d agreed upon before the game started. “It’s a real monster, from the ‘Chitin and Claws’ sourcebook. You want me to get it out?”

“Better do it,” sighed Matt, on the right. “Otherwise we’ll be arguing in the inn all night.”

Sean produced the book, opened to a two-page spread beginning on p. 65. “See? Monster always knocks politely since it can’t attack with its acid claws until properly invited inside.”

“Stupid,” Frank said. “All the monsters in the book and you pick that mishmash? It’s like they took half the entry on vampires and half the entry on rust monsters and pasted them together to pad the thing out!”

About to respond–whether through logical and cogent argument or smacking Frank with the rolled-up manual, he hadn’t decided–Sean was interrupted by a soft knock at the basement door.

“W-who is it?”

 

December 19, 2010

From “The Dentch Expediency” by Carl C. Claytone

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“We need to resort to the Dentch expediency,” Sawyer said grimly.

He was met by blank stares.

“We draw a line over yonder,” he continued after a moment. “And make the run. Whoever the five slowest runners are get a double-tap because they’re either succumbing to infection or because they’d just bog us down.”

“Saywer, have a seat while I tell you all the things that are terribly wrong with that idea,” said Cunningham, “starting with the fact that there are exactly five of us.”

“I didn’t say it was going to be easy. But the zombies aren’t going to go easy on us either.”

 

December 18, 2010

From “A Crumpet Stand” by Lloyd C. Trenton

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Reginald spat a mouthful of crumpet to the ground. “Horrid!” he cried. “No spring, no texture, no taste! These Yanks call this a crumpet?” The point was driven home by a swift kick to the end table that held the tray, scattering baked goods all over the poolside.

“Why, exactly, did you feel compelled to do that?” said Nigel, looking at the carnage over the top of his newspaper.

“Those were not fit to eat,” Reginald groused. “Not by man or by beast. The management will hear about this immediately.”

Nigel folded his Times of London across his lap. “So you’re taking a stand,” he said.

“Yes,” Nigel replied.

“You’re taking a stand against this,” Nigel said, indicating the spilled and spat crumpets with his paper. “All the injustice and violence and man’s inhumanity to man in this world of ours makes no nevermind to you, but you”re taking a stand against this.”

“Correct. A crumpet stand.”

Nigel sighed and reopened the paper. “Just making sure we’re on the same page.”

 

December 16, 2010

From “Templar’s Doom” by Mason G. Effingham

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“What’s taking so long?” Strasser barked. Her knuckles were white around the pickaxe in her hands.

“Can you do this?” Donnor snapped back. “Do you know how to read Old High German? Spelling was fast and loose back then, and handwriting wasn’t exactly high on the legibility scale either!”

“Read it as you decipher it, then,” said Strasser, her tone unmollified. “What have you got so far?”

A band of knights on crusade did this way come, separated from their fellows in a strange and hostile land.

They were set upon by enemies until only half the party remained. They took refuge in this cave, where their enemies dared not pursue.

Soon it was learned why, as one by one dark forces took ahold of the once-pious knights and drove them into a frenzy of helpless bloodlust, attacking their fellows until they were slain.

Their leader fell victim, trying to slaughter his men even as he cried at them to beware.

He begged the Templar knight Gelanier to end his life.

Gelanier obliged.

 

December 15, 2010

From “Pre-Med Goerdt” by P. G. Delendik

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Maybe it wasn’t the best idea to put Paul Goerdt into the Infectious Diseases course.

Everybody knows that pre-meds are apt to take home a new disease every week–mistaking hunger pangs for the onset of amyotrophic lateral sclerosis and nonsense like that. But if anyone in the provost’s office had read over Goerdt’s psych profile (which he helpfully included in his application) in addition to his grades, they might have suggested something a bit more appropriate, like lab research on rats. But no.

Goerdt, as anyone who knew him could testify, had a way of internalizing everything to the nth degree coupled with periods of extreme mania (though without any depression). Coupled with his pessimism, extreme intelligence, and decided lack of respect for the niceties of civilized life, incidents were bound to occur.

So when his fellow classmates were using an electric thermometer to make sure they hadn’t contracted this or that, Goerdt was running on a rec center treadmill to try and pass the (imaginary) toxins out of his body faster. When asked by the campus DPS why that entailed jogging with no clothes, they were assured that it was to guard against the threat of reabsorbtion and to make sure that every endocrine gland was fully employed.

 

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