May 4, 2014

From “Dangerously Dangerous Lee” by Roland Guyse

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Harold Lee, thrived 1919-1939, was nothing if not an inveterate self-promoter. To that end, he seized on a newspaper misprint covering his unsanctioned field reporting on the Mexican Civil War and referred to himself as “Dangerous” Lee. His further adventures across the globe in search of fame, fortune, and glory can be summed up thusly:

Reporting form the front lines of civil wars? Living Dangerous Lee.

Carrying on a string of torrid affairs with married women? Loving Dangerous Lee.

Exaggerating, fabricating, and altering his reports to make them sensational? Writing Dangerous Lee.

Chartering and flying a plane over the undiscovered wilds of New Guinea? Flying Dangerous Lee.

Being devoured by cannibals after crashing? Eating Dangerous Lee.

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May 3, 2014

From “The Pencil of Truth” by Hane Piacitelli

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The city owned property abutting on Quinn Logistics LLC and had used it to erect a faux park with a few picnic benches for the benefit of the cyclists and hikers who went by on the nearby trail, the one which had once carried trains. QL employees often went there to eat lunch during the nicer days of spring and fall, and occasionally they would pick up detritus that had been left behind by the well-heeled health nuts that were the trail’s most prolific users.

Alan Daugherty, senior procurement clerk at QL, went out to the picnic tables one afternoon to try and spice up his usual ham sandwich and yogurt. He had a notion that he might replicate the most spectacular find anyone at QL had made, the iPod that some college brat had left and Jones in Shipping had claimed as her own. Instead, the tables were very clean save for one item: a pencil.

It was much nicer than the pencils that QL bought for its employees, admittedly, with a fine heavy weight. It was also unsharpened, but curiously the eraser seemed to have seen some use (or perhaps someone had been gnashing nervously on it); the pencil was undecorated except for embossed script that read ΑΛΗΘΕΙΑ. Surreptitiously, at his work computer, Daugherty worked out the glyphs’ meaning: Greek for “truth.”

Not long afterwards, Daugherty believed that he had made an error in adding together two handwritten expense reports. He took ΑΛΗΘΕΙΑ and attempted to erase his scribbles, only to find that the figures simply would not erase. They yielded easily to another desktop eraser, but were indelible to ΑΛΗΘΕΙΑ. Changing the figures by one digit, though, meant that they easily disappeared. After checking his arithmetic, Daugherty came to a remarkable conclusion: his math had been correct, and ΑΛΗΘΕΙΑ had refused to erase correct figures.

Sharpening ΑΛΗΘΕΙΑ, Daugherty made another discovery: the pencil would refuse to write incorrect figures, or, in fact, any statement which had a verifiable truth value (it appeared to demur on questions of philosophy, writing them in very light strokes but also erasing them easily). The usefulness of ΑΛΗΘΕΙΑ was quickly apparent: QL LLC was in the business of dealing with suppliers and middlemen, making and taking bids. If a piece of business was filtered through ΑΛΗΘΕΙΑ, it would quickly reveal the truths or falsehoods involved.

Six months later, Alan Daugherty was Vice President and Acting Manager at QL LLC, with an unbroken streak of success in dealing with notoriously slippery and elusive customers. His career seemed to be in the middle of a meteoric ascent that would soon take him to the presidency of QL and beyond. But every so often, his gaze would settle uneasily on ΑΛΗΘΕΙΑ, now barely larger than a golf pencil with an eraser nearly worn down to a nub.

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May 2, 2014

From “The Homeopathic Vengeance of Madam Ionescu” by Adam Muscineo

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Madam Ionescu, leaving the Five-N-Dime Discount Grocery on 27th St with two bags of fresh produce, returned to her car in the parking lot. Shoved under the windshield wiper of her faded Dacia 1300 four-door sedan. It was an immense annoyance to her, wrestling the groceries into the back hatchback and then having to pry up the wiper with her arthritic hands and hold the paper at the right angle and distance to determine that it wasn’t a parking ticket.

“Work from home,” she read. “Up to $1500/hr selling HomeopaThing products. No experience required.”

Looking up, her red and clouded eyes angry, Madam Ionescu groused at no one in particular: “I already work from home, and my crystal ball and cards do not need to be diluted 30,000 times to not work.”

This was unforgivable, far worse than the Thai menu that had appeared on the knob of her home a month ago. That person, at least, had no way of knowing that Thai food was far too spicy for Madam Ionescu’s IBS and that she preferred to cook for herself (as there were far, far fewer turnips than she thought proper in most American foods). But to prey on an old woman in a shabby car, hoping that her naivete would lead to involvement in a pyramid scheme that could reduce her mostly fixed income?

Unforgvable.

With one hand on the brochure and the other on the thaumaturgic preserved monkey’s paw she wore as a broach, Madam Ionescu pronounced a curse in the Old Tongue: “Aceasta este o traducere fals. Vă mulțumim pentru verificarea-l oricum!”

Ten blocks away, in the midst of pulling up a wiper to set down a flier, an ex-car-salesman suddenly felt a burning itch.

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May 1, 2014

From “The New Frontier Bag” by Antwone Firberg

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“I think it’s clearly a forgery,” said the counsel. “This woman is clearly after money or publicity, and is attempting to defame the good name of my country and its labor system–to say nothing of our many business partners–to grind a personal axe.” He promised swift legal action, a libel suit, and a gag order, though at press time those motions were still working their way through the docket.

Ms. Franks, for her part, has refused to speak to the press directly since the press conference where the news of her discovery broke. “My client is extremely upset at this response and these completely unfounded allegations,” said her attorney. “It was her intention to do the right thing, not to cause a media circus.” An anonymous source close to the Franks family has noted that the cost of retaining legal counsel has so far been “ruinous,” with few donors willing to incur the ire of the powerful interests Ms. Franks has suddenly found herself at loggerheads with.

And what of the object that started the imbroglio? Law enforcement has so far refused to comment, confirming only the details that were released earlier. A handwritten note, in English, was reportedly discovered sewn into the lining of a handbag Franks bought. The author claimed that he was being held against his will in a forced labor camp in Xinjiang.

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April 30, 2014

From “The Zombie Games” by Gomez Embais

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GARRULOUS: So tell us, what will your starting loadout be? Keeping in mind, of course, that the points you earn from your kills can be exchanged for additional supplies, ammunition, and other items.

MAXIMUS: Well, Garrulous, I am taking three weapons with me into the Zone. As my long arm, a long-barrel Ithaca 37 shotgun with an extended magazine tube and a mix of 00-buck and 12-gauge slugs. My sidearm is a post-1962 Browning Hi-Power in 9mm Parabellum with an external extractor. As a backup, a Walther PPK/S in .32 ACP and a bolo machete from Las Ventosas in Manila.

GARRULOUS: Unpack that for our viewers at home a little bit. Why that specific loadout? I note that none of those weapons was made after 1962.

MAXIMUS: It’s all a matter of simplicity, ease of use, ease of repair, and ease of resupply, Garrulous. The Ithaca 37 is a tried and tested design, simple and easy to repair. It can be used ambidextrously with that lovely combination loading/ejection port on the bottom, helping to keep it clean. I carry a mix of ammunition for varied situations, of course, and it’s highly likely that my competitors will carry the same gauge, meaning that scavenging is very, very practical.

GARRULOUS: And the Hi-Power? Most of our competitors, as you know, prefer the .45 M1911A1 or a more modern 9mm Glock.

MAXIMUS: For me, Garrulous, the Hi-Power is the best of both worlds. It has many of the same design features as the 1911, making it very reliable and repairable, while it can chamber the 9mm ammunition that I will find on my competitors’ corpses. The 9mm Parabellum lacks the stopping power of the .45, true, but with nearly twice as many rounds I find it offers me more tactical choices.

GARRULOUS: And, again, we find many of your competitors preferring a revolver for their reserve firearm. Why the PPK/S?

MAXIMUS: If I am in a tight spot and I have to draw my reserve, Garrulous, I want to be able to put as many rounds as I can into the target. The PPK/S is easier to reload under fire, even if it fires a weaker round, and it also gives me the flexibility of having a cartridge that is not likely to be carried by my competitors. In a situation where I need to loan out a weapon, I prefer to strictly control how much ammunition is available.

GARRULOUS: And the Bolo?

MAXIMUS: Best, most lethal cutting tool around, Garrulous. Simple as that.

GARRULOUS: There you have it, ladies and gentlemen. Maximus Carnage, two-time Zombie Games champion, spilling his darkest secrets! Anything to add for us, Maximus?

MAXIMUS: Don’t read too much into what I say and what I do out there. This is a means of entertainment making use of our large, if contained, surplus zombie population. It’s not a metaphor for anything, and the populace that is cowed into obedience watching me brain the brainless must be very dumb or very cowardly.

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April 29, 2014

From “The Tutelage of Cyclones” by Lucca Steeley Gofton

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The great old ones, wise but fierce, may live as long as a month. But the young ones, the small ones, the angry ones, they live only minutes or hours. And some are even more ephemeral, a life of seconds in an alleyway or a minute in the dust of a rutted plain.

They speak to each other, using the language of the air, of the spheres, and the resonance of the matter with which they interact. Few can hear these messages; fewer still can understand them. and, it must be said, what they speak of, what the great old ones leave lingering in the molecules of the air for their younger successors, is often dire for those of our kind.

Their primary concern is to leave a mark on the world: to part waves, to move clouds, to scour hillsides, to uproot trees. The more of a mark one makes, relative to its lifespan and abilities, the more its peers consider it a success. And, much as we cannot understand them, they cannot understand us. They see no distinction between a forest and a town, no line between a felled tree and a human life extinguished. To them, matter is matter and its rearrangement is the only sign they can leave of their brief existences.

Scant comfort that must be, though, to those who find themselves in the path of their destructive song.

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April 28, 2014

From “Last Days Adrift” by Lydia Stadt-Fars

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The old ocean liner had been bound for the breaker’s yard when the tow line had parted in a gale, casting it adrift in international waters. Fearing for their ship, the tug crew abandoned their work–an action that would have gotten them hauled up before a maritime board if they hadn’t been registered with a fly-by-night, see-no-evil outfit in Liberia.

It was a heavy, nasty old thing, that ship. Started life on the wrong side of the Iron Curtain before being halfheartedly Westernized. The country that built it didn’t exist anymore, the breakers would barely make back their investment in scrapping it, and the return on a Lloyd’s Open Form would be so low that no commercial tug was interested in a tow.

But there was still money to be had. A savvy crew, hired on the cheap, could strip the floating hulk of copper wire, easily removable bits of steel and iron, and anything else not required to keep the ship afloat. That was our plan, at least. Little risk, substantial reward.

A pity it didn’t work out that way.

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April 27, 2014

From “The Wonderful Net” by Fulton Wender

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“This is Sqeeeck-Chirp, a Common Dolphin and the greatest mind of his generation. Of dolphins.” Professor Ettinger gestured to a harness about the creature’s blowhole. “We use that device to translate Sqeeeck-Chirp’s thoughts and vocalizations into speech understandable to us and vice-versa.

“What observations have you to share, Sqeeeck-Chirp?” asked Brigadier Curnow.

The dolphin received the question as a series of underwater clicks, and responded in kind. A moment later, a synthetic human voice translated his words in an even monotone. “The tuna is a true fish dwelling in salt water, which is a member of the mackerel, or Scrombridae, family–specifically the Thunnini tribe. Its nearest living relatives are the aforementioned mackerels, Spanish mackerels, and bonitos.”

Brigadier Curnow nodded. “Very impressive, Squeeck-Chirp. I see you know your stuff. What about the strategic situation?”

“The tuna is able to maintain the temperature of its body above that of the surrounding seawater, a process known as endothermy,” Squeeck-Chirp continued gravely. “The bluefin tuna has been known to hold a core body temperature of 75–90 degrees Fahrenheit even in waters as chilled as 40 degrees Fahrenheit, though unlike most typical animals capable of endothermy, like myself, the tuna does not and cannot maintain its core body temperature within a narrow range.”

Curnow looked at Professor Ettinger, confused. “What’s he on about?”

“Oh, God, not this again,” the professor muttered.

Unfazed by the reaction to his elucidation, Squeeck-Chirp continued to expound. “The tuna is able to display such endothermy by using a structure called the rete mirabile, the ‘wonderful net,’ which is an interwoven network of veins and arteries in the tuna’s extremities. This allows the tuna to warm the colder arterial blood with heat from the warmer venous blood, which helps to conserve the tuna’s metabolic heat even in a chilled environment.”

“What do you mean, ‘not again?'” demanded Curnow.

“As a result of its endothermy, the tuna is able to heat its aerobic muscle tissues,” Squeeck-Chirp said. “In addition to faster speeds and increased energy efficiency, this leads the tuna’s lean and delicious flesh to have a reddish-pink hue quite distinct from the pale white flesh of most true fish. This is one of several factors that has led tuna to be considered a delicacy amongst many peoples and cultures despite the relative difficulty of catching one without a trawling net.”

“Well, I had hoped to avoid this, but dolphins like Squeeck-Chirp represent a bit of a tradeoff,” said Ettinger. “On the one hand, they possess a vast and keen intellect that is capable of approaching problems in ways that we humans are simply not wired to. On the other, it is extremely difficult to get them to shut up about tuna and other finfish, since that has been, for centuries, the sole topic upon which their vast intellects have ruminated.”

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April 26, 2014

From “The Buzzing Bush” by Hugh Zinz Stubbe

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Exodus had the Burning Bush. Us? We had the Buzzing Bush.

For two weeks every semester, the bush between the parking lot and out building would burst into full bloom. It was on the ugly side of campus, the part built during the 60s when bricking over green spaces and making everything look like a bloated concrete slab was de rigueur, so it was likely the only flowering thing for 500-1000 feet in any direction.

Which, naturally, meant it was the target of every hornet, wasp, honeybee, and bumblebee within approximately that same radius.

The bush buzzed alarmingly during its time in bloom, and anyone who stopped to smell the flowers would quickly find themselves pursued by multiple species of stingy thingy. We all wisely decided to give the thing a wide berth if we could during that time, but there were moments, especially when there was heavy foot traffic, when we found ourselves pushed uncomfortably close to the Buzzing Bush.

It was nothing but an annoyance, with an occasional squawk as someone was divebombed by a hymenoptera, but no stings that anyone could remember. At least until that day in April when we heard a cry that was much more than a surprised yelp.

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April 25, 2014

From “Erroi Crows” by Brys-Hych Cohran

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Erroi squawked loudly in the usual manner of crows. In response, the owl hooted softly.

“What did he say?” I asked.

“He told me that he passed a particularly large and firm pellet not long ago, one that would make his father proud and potential mates swoon,” said Erroi with evident distaste.

The owl hooted again. “What about that?”

“He is sharing the details of other owls in his partliament, in particular the pellets they have been hawking up,” said Erroi. “Really, do I have to keep listening to this fool prattle on? I told you before, owls only seem wise if you don’t speak their language.”

A songbird on a nearby bough chirped in, withdrawing quickly before the owl could swivel about to fix its gaze. Erroi cocked his head. “Let me guess,” I said, “chirping about how big his mate’s eggs are?”

“No,” said Erroi quietly. “He’s seen what you’re after, but won’t speak in the presence of a bird of prey.”

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