August 27, 2010

From “The Horn of the Century” by G. Callis Haversham

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“Grandpa,” Jimmy said. “Kids are always daring each other to go out to Old Town Island to bring back the ‘Feynola Siren.’ What do they mean?”

The old man leaned back in his rocker. “They say the old Feynola City Hall had a warning siren put on it during the war to warn citizens of a U-boat attack.”

“Yeah?”

“In late August of 1951, the siren blew for four and a half minutes at 10:23 am, causing many of the 3000 residents to take shelter, despite clear skies and nothing ill in the forecast,” Grandpa continued. “It was written off as a fluke until the following week, when the siren rang out again at 10:23 and lasted four and a half minutes. Maintenance crews could find nothing wrong with the siren assembly, but it continued to sound once every week, always at 10:23, always lasting four and a half minutes. During the last week of September, the siren was finally disconnected due to complaints.”

“What happened then?”

“The following week, the siren somehow rang as usual. Many have speculated how it managed to do so while ostensibly disabled, but one thing was clear: the siren was heralding a massive Category Five hurricane that was bearing down on Feynola, having suddenly deviated from its predicted course. The storm surge was so fierce that is created a new tidal lagoon inland from the city, trapping most of the residents. Nearly 2500 died or disappeared that day, and the survivors declined to rebuild thereafter. And do you know what?”

Jimmy leaned in. “What, Grandpa?”

“The hurricane had struck at exactly 10:23 am, with the fiercest part of the flooding and destruction lasting only four and a half minutes.”

 

August 23, 2010

From “The Harlequin Code” by S. Telly Younge

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“It’s all about possibilities,” Gerald said. “Most people can’t see the possibilities in their daily lives. They’re acted upon instead of acting.”

“Sure, yeah,” Mindy said. “People who are acted on, they’re the real villains.” She wasn’t about to argue with the man who had a loaded gun.

“Take this book,” Gerald continued, sweeping a battered Harlequin off the table. “Dime a dozen at any garage sale. Hundreds come out every month. But think about it for a second.”

It was very pink–that’s all Mindy’s fear-addled mind could perceive. The pink of freshly-shed blood sinking into an immaculate white carpet…

“Imagine all the steps that they had to go through to get this terrible thing published. Someone had to write it. Someone had to proofread it. Someone had to sell if. Someone had to bind it. Almost anyone off the street could do the same, and better. But they don’t. ‘Priss McClachty’ is the one with the fat royalty check in her bank account. Why is that?”

“Because she acts,” Mindy whispered. “And isn’t acted upon.” Someone should have been there by now. Did they not get the message? Had her code been too subtle?

“Now you’re on the trolley,” Gerald said. “Let’s see what’s at the end of the track.”

 

August 21, 2010

From “Crossmen Rising” by Newton Yeager III

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Harry would have found something sinister or otherwise remarkable in what he saw; then again, Harry was the sort of man for whom a tattered Bazooka Joe comic could and often did hold a mystical status as a stegotext for a nationwide conspiracy.

From what I could see, the reality was almost painfully mundane. For all its fearsome reputation among conspiracy theorists, the Chalice and Cross society seemed little more than a secretive country club. They’d kept meticulous records, thoroughly indexed, of initiations, events, members, and dues. Three men who later became President of the United States were on the rolls, as the crazies were so quick to note, but two appeared to have dropped out shortly after initiation. A smattering of other luminaries filled the membership rolls, but most were not even members in good standing at the time of graduation–and I, for one, had grave doubts that an organization would orchestrate the appointment of a Supreme Court justice when he owed the Crossmen $250 in back membership dues!

In fact, the only thing of note was a ledger that appeared to be written in some kind of cipher. It was too brief to contain any of the things the one-world-government crazies like Harry would have expected; in fact, I was able to take a high resolution digital photograph of each page using the rig the university archivist had set up for me. Most ciphers rely on the reader not being able to decode them at their leisure; I was about to do just that.

I’d just finished taking the final shot when I heard footsteps. Not an archivist, either, but someone very keen on remaining unnoticed as they approached.

 

August 19, 2010

From “Convenient Aliases” by Joachim Müller

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The man picked himself up, and tossed aside the mangled remains of his weapon. “My name is Tobias Schiller, but to most around here I’m ‘the Kraut.'”

Vincent had never heard of anyone embracing that term with anything approaching good humor. “You don’t mind being called that?”

“What, a ‘Kraut?’ No. In fact, I’ve come to embrace it as a useful shibboleth,” Schiller said, grinning.

“A what?”

A shrug. “It means way of telling one sort of person from another. Anyone who calls me ‘the Kraut’ has exposed themselves as a little crude, a little ignorant, and certainly no friend of mine. Useful when consorting with gangsters and machine guns both, wouldn’t you agree?”

 

August 3, 2010

From “Sara Dinch” by D. P. Patterson

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Anna returned to her sketchbook. There was already something written on it, even though she hadn’t begun to draw yet.

Two words: Sara Dinch.

“What the?” Anna said. “I don’t know anybody called Sara Dinch. Heck, I don’t know any Saras at all, or any Dinches either.” Still, the words looked as though they had been written in Anna’s thin, flowing handwriting; she picked the sketchpad up to get a closer look.

As she did, a spider, larger than the others, fell off of the bottom of the sketchbook where it has been hiding. Anna gasped, and the spider quickly scurried under the bathroom door.

Anna didn’t relish the idea of having the critter surprise her the next time she was in there, and scooped up a small coffee can to go after it with.

“Come here, little guy…” she said. “ “I’m not going to squash you, just get you out of here.

She flicked on the light, and screamed.

A spider was not more than two inches from her face, dangling on an invisible strand of silk. It was lowering itself to the floor, but Anna, regaining her composure, trapped it in the coffee can.

The bathroom was crawling with bugs; the one from her sketchbook was in the tub, while two more were on the mirror and another worked on a web near the light. Anna scooped each up in turn, though the big one in the tub led her on a merry chase before she clamped down the lid.

“What do you want?” Anna demanded of the can. “What is it in my place that keeps you coming in here?”

 

July 20, 2010

From “Fungal Future” by Harris T. Wellborne

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“You might not be familiar with cordyceps unilateralis, the ‘zombie ant fungus,'” Dr. Donovan said. “In nature, it affects the behavior of ants, causing them to climb to an optimal spore dispersal point while the fungus devours them from the inside.”

Senator Chandler made a face. “I hope that’s not what you’re showing us large-scale,” she said. “I’m fairly certain there’s a Geneva something against things like that.”

“Oh no. We’ve improved on it quite a bit. We can engineer the spores to produce an incredible range of complex behaviors in their hosts, after which they’re broken down and excreted. Say hello to cordyceps unilateralis candida.”

Donovan opened the shades, revealing a second group of rhesus monkeys–this one playing Texas hold’em poker.

 

July 14, 2010

From “The Still, Sad World” by Lenny Trollheim

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Everything seemed to be drained of color by the overcast sky, and there wasn’t a breath of wind. Once Allen had crossed the threshold, it was as if he’d stepped into an old, faded photograph of Barryton–not the real thing.

“As you get closer, there are a few things you’ll have to watch out for,” Carson had said, after his attempts to argue Allen out of the expedition had failed. “The cold’s one; I’ve never been all the way inside, but it’s been down to 40 on the dog days.”

“I’ll pack a parka.” Allen pulled his coat close about him, recalling his flip response; it didn’t seem to help. The thermometer on his wind gauge read 60, but he still felt chilled to the bone.

Carson had said more, of course: “The…silence…is another thing. It’s hard to describe but damn unsettling. You will quite literally be making the only sounds you can hear; there will be nothing else. Sound doesn’t carry well either, so even talking to yourself won’t do much against it. And I wouldn’t recommend drawing attention to yourself, anyway.”

“I thought you said it was deserted,” Allen had said. “Dead.”

“It is, but…there’s still something about that place. I don’t know what you’d call it…a presence, maybe. Like something’s watching you. Not so much as a blade of grass has grown there in decades, but something has kept the others from coming back. You’d best go cautiously and armed.”

Moving throughout the deserted streets as the temperature dropped and the silence grew all the more deafening, Allen came to understand what the old man had been talking about. Despite the fact that all color, motion, and sound seemed to have been sucked out of the world, he didn’t feel lonely.

He felt watched.

 

July 12, 2010

From “A User-Friendly World” by Graham Q. Allend

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As soon as the ‘help’ button was pressed, a holodisplay popped up, complete with an animated menu and digital voice. “Congratulations on your purchase of an Exotech Inc. US-7 Utility Sword. The Exotech Inc. US-7 Utility Sword is designed for brush-cutting, display, sword-dancing, ceremonies, and garden use. Use of the Exotech Inc. Utility US-7 Sword in contravention of the End User Agreement will result in voiding the limited warranty. By unsheathing the Exotech Inc. US-7 Utility Sword, you agree to be bound by the terms of the license contained within.”

“How can I agree to be bound by the license when I have to unsheathe the sword to read it?” said Percival.

“Query cannot be processed. Warning: use of the Exotech Inc. US-7 Utility Sword as a utensil or carving knife can result in heavy metal poisoning. Contact the nearest Poison Control Center if you serve or have been served food with an Exotech Inc. US-7 Utility Sword. Do not lick the blade.”

“I don’t care about any of that, goddammit! Just tell me how to use it!” Noises and shapes were growling closer, perhaps drawn by the whispered argument Percival was having with the sword’s basic AI.

“Do not attempt to use the Exotech Inc. US-7 Utility Sword as a weapon. Any attempt at offensive or defensive action will result in an automated call to our friendly network of service centers and a voided warranty.”

“What? Whoever heard of a sword not meant for combat?” Percival said, incredulous.

“Query cannot be processed. Due to its high heavy metal content, use of the Exotech Inc. US-7 Utility Sword is a violation of domestic and international standards regarding safe workplace environments and war crimes. Use of the Exotech Inc. US-7 Utility Sword in an improper manner may lead to charges being filed with the International Criminal Court.”

“Just…just give me a demo of the brush-cutting feature!” Percival cried. They were almost upon him as he argued with his only weapon.

“Brush not detected. Proceed?”

“Yes, yes! Proceed!”

 

July 11, 2010

From “Dark Shapes in the Anderton Dunes” by Peggy T. Killdeer

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“Why do they call her Apostle Alexandra?”

“Because folks what meet her tend to have a very personal interview with the Lord not long after. Folks don’t rightly know what her Christian name is, or if Alexandra’s any natural part of it. Has a nice snap to it, it does, but not much for truth in it.”

“Surely people must know something.”

“You might think so, but no,” Yarbough said. “Hardly ever comes into town and only then visits a handful o’shops…buyin’ what she can’t make, I reckon. Even then she usually keeps a kerchief on.”

“So nobody can identify her face…” Sands mused. “That’s one hell of a story, Mr. Yarbough.”

“It’s probably been embellished a might bit,” Yarbough averred. “Folks ’round here don’t have much but the cattle and settler trade to sustain ’em, meaning a teaspoon of gossip does a tablespoon’s work.” He narrowed his eyes. “You’re not thinkin’ of seekin’ her out, are you? That ain’t the sort of thing a paperman’s built for.”

“Maybe not,” Sands said, finishing his whiskey and sliding the glass down the bar. “But that also means that no one else has tried.”

 

July 4, 2010

From “The Dark Cave of Un’Pro-Noun’Cible” by J. L. O. Unferth

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“And so we release you, mighty Holaak-Hliqu, that you might rain fire and destruction upon our world!”

“Why is it that these faux-Lovecraftian elder gods always have such loyal cultist minions?” Lia asked. “It doesn’t seem to me that they have a very good benefits package.”

“They get eaten first, and spared the insane ravages of That Which Man Was Not Meant To See,” Jim replied. “Lesser of two evils.”

“But the Elder Gods are always released due to the cultists’ actions,” Lia said. “Why not just leave them sealed in the dark cave of Un’Pro-Noun’Cible? The ersatz Great Old Ones in the movies are never going to return on their own like in the real Lovecraft.”

“Maybe that part got left on the cutting room floor.”

“Or maybe they needed a lot of extras for the rock-jawed hero to blow up real good before the final confrontation. I tell you, it just doesn’t add up.”

Jim shrugged. “Well, the next time we come up against a murderous cult of insanity-worshippers, I’ll point out the contradiction.”

 

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