December 15, 2013

From “Maze” by Loni J. Keleher-Poinson

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“Everything is always the same in the maze. It doesn’t. I think maybe it can’t.” The words came out shaky, starting and stopping, speeding up and slowing down, as their utterer rocked back and forth. It was almost as if the art and craft of language had been all but forgotten after long disuse.

“That can’t be true,” I said. “We’re talking, aren’t we?”

“That’s just it…the maze can’t change. Chip off a corner, make a mark on the floor, leave something behind, it goes away. The next time you look away, even to blink, it’s back to normal. I’ve tried. Oh, I’ve tried. Stare at the wall for an hour. Stare at the floor ’til the eyes water. It doesn’t matter. But we’re not the maze.”

“I beg your pardon?” I said, the ugly prickle of revelation beginning to grow in my gut.

“We’re not the maze, we’re not the maze. Out there, things can’t change. In here?” A tap on the forehead. “Things can change. Break. Heal. Breathing is fine, since whatever we spit out goes right back to being what it was. Never hungry, because I was full when I got here, I think. I think, I think, I think.”

“So why, then, did you smash the door?” I cried. “The one thing it looks like the maze won’t regenerate?”

“Don’t you see?” The cry was plaintive. “It’s been so long, so long. So unchanging, so unchanging. It’s all broken, up here, all broken. I needed someone to fix it, since I can’t do that myself. So I couldn’t. I couldn’t let you leave.”

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December 14, 2013

From “Examination of Examinations” by Lydia-Alicia Poskitt

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In the Outland Empire, as in the Eastern Empire, and the Old Empire that once united them both, the Civil Service Examination was the key to securing a lucrative bureaucratic position for life. Reflecting its origins as a presidential democracy, the Outland Empire Civil Service Examination was open (in theory) to all, and not just the patrician families of Senators. Since the positions opened up very rarely, and few new ones were added to the creaky and deeply ossified structure of the Empire, competition was fierce.

Hence, people tended to cheat on the exam. A lot.

“Exam takers, stand for inspection. No outside paper. No outside pencils. Be prepared to submit to a full body cavity search.” The orders were barked by a member of the Popularis Guard, serving double duty as a testing proctor. The Popularis Party had merged its own armed forces with that of the Empire long ago, and their penchant for sudden, savage, but ideologically acceptable violence made them the first line of defense against cheaters.

Sine followed their directions, stripping down to his skivvies. He had worn the regulation white undergarments, specifically designed to show writing on the inside as well as bulges where contraband might be smuggled in (with the side effect of being immensely unflattering). He was therefore spared the indignity of an impromptu strip-search, unlike many of the less-prepared candidates. Sine’s personal belongings–skivvies aside–were tossed in a barrel alongside those of the hundred-or-so other test-takers. A receipt was thrust at him, but Sine knew that his belongings would be divvied up among the Popularis Guard and had therefore worn old clothes of no value and carried nothing but his ID card and bus fare. The applicants who had worn their Sunday best wished they’d done the same, to judge from the expressions on their faces.

“No cell phones, no satellite phones, no external communications of any kind! Get caught with any of them and it’s the blacklist, so throw them away now!”

There was a jammer, adapted from one once used for Peace-Sajadas overseas, but it was old technology and could not content with some of the newest spectrum-hopping equipment. Successfully getting a jammerbusting phone in could mean a near-perfect score…but the blacklist meant being forbidden from ever taking the test again, at least not without a hefty bribe. Sine didn’t even own such a phone–they were far too expensive–so there was no chance of him violating the edict.

In poring through the hundreds and hundreds of books available at the local Outland Imperial Library branch, cross-checking facts and garnering tips to be themselves cross-checked against those who had taken a recent exam. For the Civil Service Examination was his best and only hope for a better life and an escape from the squalor in which Sine found himself.

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December 13, 2013

From “The Dark, Dry Secret of Earth-Brand Hand Dryers” by

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Two uniformed security guards, their drab uniforms bearing the logos of Earth Dryer Corporation, thrust Chaucey into a darkened room. He stood in a pool of light, the guards’ iron grips cutting off the circulation to his arms, while shadowy figures confronted him from the inky blackness.

“You were captured sneaking around an Earth Dryer Corporation automatic hand dryer manufacturing plant,” said a voice. Its intonation and pitch were strange and unplacable.

“I was just taking the factory tour!” said Chaucey, pleading ignorance.

“Lies!” cried a second, equally strange voice. “The tour groups are instructed to follow the tour guide at all times! You did not, and therefore you are a spy or an interloper!”

They had seen through the ruse quickly; Chaucey decided to hit them with the truth. “I’m with the local chapter of Humans for Ethical Animal Treatment. We’re investigating the fact that your plants are spewing out ten times the amount of greenhouse gasses that they should be!”

Expecting a lie or a half-truth or a flat denial, Chaucey was surprised when the voices–and many others like them–cackled in unison. “Yes, of course. Brilliant, isn’t it? People have no idea that our hand dryers have a larger carbon footprint than the largest of sport utility vehicles. All we needed to do was say they were environmentally friendly and no one bothered to check!”

“And the factories are little more than a shell to cover a dirty two-stroke engine of incredible size, to say nothing of the way both suck mosture from the air!”

“But…why?” said Chaucey, confused.

“Because we want to turn the world into a giant desert, of course! And Earth Dryers are, literally, our way to dry out the earth!”

“Again: but why?” Chaucey said.

“Perhaps this will answer your question.” The lights went on, and the dim shapes resolved themselves: kangaroo rats, desert beetles, addax antelope, and others crowded around a circular table. All of them xerocoles, desert animals, all of them capable of making metabolic water from their diets and never drinking a single drop in their life.

“Oh no,” said Chaucey.

“Oh yes,” said one of the kangaroo rats. “Once Earth Dryers dries out the earth, we will inherit it!”

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December 12, 2013

From “That Rotten Stench” by Goose McGaughy

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“Doctor, I keep smelling this awful smell wherever I go. I can’t describe it…it’s like the scent of burning hair mixed in with methane from a sewage treatment plant with rotten fish added to taste.”

“I see.”

“And I smell it everywhere. The house, the beach, the flower shop. The most powerful potpourri is helpless against it, it laughs at Febreeze, and scented candles are just balls of wax to it.”

“Well, we’ve run some tests, and-”

“Don’t tell me it’s something wrong with my nose, doctor. I’ve been to the best nose specialists in the country. The top nosemen have said that my nasal cavity is perfectly fine. So don’t patronize me, condescend, or insult my intelligence with any such talk.”

“Oh, I wasn’t about to. No, we’ve found the source of the odor, and I can assure you your nose has nothing to do with it, then.”

“So it’s an elaborate prank? I thought as much. I’ll have to double security, and-”

“No, your nose is just fine. It’s the scent-sensing lobe of your brain that’s the problem. We have uncovered a nasty tumor there, a real bugger.”

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December 11, 2013

From “The Adventures of Super Chin and Mouse-Boy” by Cass T. Mottown

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“Teeming teaming terrors, it’s the Grinpire, the smiling vampire!” cried Mouse-Boy, the most uniquely rodentlike sidekick in the International Brotherhood of Sidekicks Local 420. “And Simpltron, the killer robot who reduces everything to binary opposites!”

“I see them, Mouse-Boy.” Super Chin, the world’s only chinchilla-themed detective superhero, narrowed his eyes.

“That’s right, you fuzzy freakazoids,” chortled the Grinpire, his chalky-white skin leering above his gleefully dancing fangs. “And with our powers of anarchy and logic combined, to say nothing of our shared immortality and immorality, it’s curtains for you!”

“01110100 01110010 01110101 01100101!” zotzed Simpletron.

“You suck, Grinpire!” riposted Mouse-Boy in return.

“No, now, Mouse-boy,” scolded Super Chin, his thick and luxuriant hair swaying with every shake of his head. “While it may be technically true, the implication is that of a childlike insult, and heroes are neither childish nor insulting. Unless they’re Child-Man or Insulterine, naturally.”

“What are you going to do to stop us, Super Chimp?” the Grinpire laughed hysterically. “Scold us to death?”

“01100110 01100001 01101100 01110011 01100101!” computed Simpletron. “01100110 01100001 01101100 01110011 01100101!” It began to whir and smoke and glow, and the ambient temperature nearby skyrocketed.

“Holy horrible heatstroke, Super Chin!” Mouse-Boy gasped. “Your one weakness, aside from diabetes from too many sweet raisins or other dried fruits!”

“That’s right, Mouse-Boy,” Super Chin agreed through gritted teeth. “Temperatures in excess of 80°F (25°C).”

“And when you collapse with heatstroke, the Grinpire will be here to move in for the suck!” added the undead crime kingpin. “What do you say to that, Stupor Chin?”

“01100100 01101001 01100101! 01100100 01101001 01100101! 01100100 01101001 01100101!” chanted Simpletron with its Chant Simulator 98 software package.

“There is only one recourse,” said the visibly uncomfortable rodent detective superhero.

“No!” squeaked Mouse-Boy. “Surely you can’t mean…!”

“I have no choice,” said Super Chin. “I must…take a dust bath.”

Based on characters created by and courtesy of Scott M. Watson.

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December 10, 2013

From “Every Friggin’ Year” by Anonymous

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STUDENT: If you think about it, I pay your salary. You’d better raise my grade.

INSTRUCTOR: I think you sorely overestimate how little they pay me, and underestimate how many students are at this university, if you think dropping out will affect my bottom line. With the way the money goes, you’d probably have a bigger effect on the football team.

STUDENT:…I’ll be good.

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December 9, 2013

From “Deeper Into Mossfallow Wood” by Loomis “Wolf” Stanwood

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This post is part of the December 2013 Blog Chain at Absolute Write. This month’s prompt is “250-Word Story Chain, or, The Blog-O-Phone.”

Cal, Alan, and Beth regarded each other coolly, the former two dripping with red dye that formed a rosette around the coveted tree. They all wanted the standoff to end, but none was willing to let their guard down.

It was a Mexican standoff, in the snow.

An unexpected sound broke the treehunters’ focus. A shadow on the branches, a wheezing intake of breath, and who should appear shuffling through the snow but Old Man Wiggins himself, clutching a gas can after finding out the hard way his fuel gauge was kaput.

“Holy mother of dog!” he cried.

“It’s not how it looks!” cried Cal, who with hefted axe looked like he was about to chop Alan down like a cedar.

“It’s not how it looks!” screamed Alan, whose own axe seemed poised for a counterblow.

“It’s exactly how it looks!” added Beth, hoping that in her perch she could be mistaken for the voice of Dog imparting divine wisdom.

“Murder! Treason! Trespass!” Wiggins didn’t have his shotgun with him, but he charged the tree anyway, gas can a-swingin’, determined to interrupt the murder in progress before having the perpetrators hauled off to prison and the prison hospital respectively.

Alan and Cal dashed off in the same direction. But a leering snowman, built by the Wiggins grandchildren, soon appeared to block their path.

Beth, secure in the tree, was sure her moment had come…until the branch she was perched on began to give way as Wiggins passed beneath in pursuit.

Check out this month’s other bloggers, all of whom have posted or will post their own responses:

Ralph Pines
ishtar’sgate
Angyl78
MsLaylaCakes
pyrosama
BBBurke
sweetwheat

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December 8, 2013

From “A Highly Localized E-Scam” by Cedric Dart

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The StopShort gas station on the corner of 3rd and East first noticed something amiss when they ran due diligence on their transactions and noticed that only gas and snacks bought with cash had been paid for. At first, they suspected an employee of theft, but the shortfalls from credit and debit purchases cut across all their workers. Worse, 8 out of the 10 StopShort locations in Tecumseh County were affected–too many for even a large conspiracy of workers. What’s more, the transactions were supposed to be secure, with cashiers having little input at all into the process.

Baffled, the StopShort approached the local authorities. It soon came out that over a hundred gas stations and retail outlets in the tri-county area had been affected, with losses in the millions. No rhyme or reason could be found–the credit companies insisted that they had never gotten any information from the transactions, and banks with debit cards reported the same. But customers’ bills displayed the charges, albeit under the strangely generic descriptor “point of sale payment.”

It wasn’t until an investigator noticed a key detail that there was a break in the case: all of the credit machines were made by the same company.

Aftermarket models designed for small businesses, the machines used the existing high-speed internet architecture to send information with a proprietary encryption. In theory, the encryption was impossible to break without the key, but the thief had hit upon a much more elegant solution. The company that made the readers, a local outfit called ScanSmart Technologies, had gone out of business in 2008, amid the global recession. That made little difference to their customers–in fact, it broadened their base considerably when the market was flooded with liquidated machines, which could be had for as little as $1 each (provided at least 500 were ordered, naturally).

Someone had bought hundreds of the machines, and rewritten the internal software to redirect the money to their own shell account. Then, posing as a service technician, they had replaced the machines and let the money roll in.

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December 7, 2013

From “Henry Roaster and the Goblet of Java” by Joline Rangnow

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“You’re a Javamancer, Henry. Come to Earl Grey’s School of Brewing and Baristery to join the struggle against the Bean Eaters, masters of the dark roast. And then obsess over the school’s Competitive Brewing team to the exclusion of world-shattering threats and let your friends or luck do most of the heavy lifting.”

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December 6, 2013

From “Mesage in a Chronobottle” by Roger Crighton

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You find the message in your inbox, just like any other:

Greetings,

This is a message from Chronological Communication Systems LLC. Your reply to this message will be sent, by email or appropriate messaging services, to yourself at a past date and time specified in the first line. The message is capped at 250 words, and cannot be re-sent. There is a lifetime limit of one message per customer. You have 24 hours from the time of receipt to respond; at the end of this period, your slot will be re-assigned. You will receive a bill upon successful transmission proportionate to message length, complexity, and distance in time.

Sincerely Yours,
The Chronological Communication Systems LLC. Team

You sit and stare at the screen, silent and wracked with doubt. The message will be sent, that much is certain–it is worth almost any price, and others have reported success.

But what message to send?

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