May 13, 2012

From “rnmetrics” by Olson D. Carolina-Gordon

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In addition to his qualifications as an engineer and a theorist, Ryov Nechayev was also an amateur historian. As such, he especially delighted in old, obsolete, or obscure units of measurement and often used them in his research. Graduate students and international collaborators quickly began passing around informal sheets of “rnmetric units” that were essential in any dealings with Dr. Nechayev:

Horse: 2.4 meters (for measuring distances to be covered)
Bus: 8.4 meters (for measuring things that were large enough to display advertising)
Smoot: 1.7 meters (for measuring things in Boston)
Barn: 10^−28 square meters (for sub-atomic use)
Grave: 1 kilogram (for important measurements)
Dog year: 52 days (for medium scale timeframes)
Tael: 31.25 grams (for meauring thing precious or Chinese)

 

May 8, 2012

From “Following John” by Ella Minerva McKinney

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The first turn brought then from paved blacktop to gravel.

“What the hell?” groused Sunny. “How far out in the goddamn boondocks is this thing?”

“John knows the way,” said Elain from the passenger seat, indicating the taillights of the Celica ahead of them. “Just keep following him.”

The next turn tore away the gravel and left them on a hardpacked dirt road, a little squishy from the recent rain.

“Are you kidding? I just washed this thing.” Sunny glared at the moist earth ahead of them. “It’s going to look like we went out ‘muddin” like a bunch of hillbillies.”

Elain sighed. “More following John, less comment from the peanut gallery.”

A moment later, John’s Celica turned onto an even narrower dirt road, wide enough only for a single car and decidedly squashier than the last. Sunny tightened her hands around the wheel until her knuckles whitened.

“John knows where he’s going. He’ll get us there, you’ll see.” Elain kept her eyes riveted on the distant taillights.

The narrow road abruptly widened into a field that was laced with deep, furrowed tire tracks and pools of stagnant water. A squirrel lapping at one of the tiretrack ponds narrowly escapes a good waffling at the hands of Sunny’s left front tire, and Sunny herself squealed as streams of mud began to shoot up out of the wheel wells and splatter against the side of her car. It fishtaled slightly as it waddled across the field-they really were muddin’ now.

“My car-” Sunny shrieked.

“Just follow John.” Elain said through clenched teeth.

“My paint-”

“Just follow John.”

“My tires-”

“Just follow John!” Elain screamed it this time.

The muddy field abruptly ended at a lakeshore–probably the Sidras Reservoir. John’s Celica didn’t even slow down as it moved through the mire, leaving a deep and furrowed trail that rapidly pooled with cocoa-brown water.

It drove straight to the shore, into the water, and out of sight.

Sunny slammed on the brakes and her car oozed to a stop on the shore, just as a single bubble rose to the surface and popped where John’s Celica had gone in.

“Want me to keep following him?” she asked Elain.

 

May 7, 2012

From “Odessa Mullen Slips Back Into the Zombieworld” by Petra Natalia Langley

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This post is part of the May 2012 Blog Chain at Absolute Write. This month’s prompt is “zompocalypse now”.

“I’m not crazy.” There was nothing, not even high-pitched screaming street corner gibberish, that sounded crazier than that statement, Dessie decided the moment she heard it.

“We don’t like to assign terms to things here,” the psychologist said. “Just tell me about these ‘reality shifts’ you’ve been seeing.”

“Well, everybody knows that I’m into macabre stuff like zombies in a big way,” said Dessie, excitedly. “I mean, my last birthday cake was green and it had little plastic body parts sticking out of it. I’ve got a full set of George Romero films, and a complete (signed!) first edition run of Zomcomix. That goes for like a hundred bucks on eBay, unsigned!”

“Uh-huh.” The psychologist’s old-fashioned fountain pen made an unpleasant scratching sound as it worked over his notebook. “Go on.”

“The other day I started seeing some zombies for real. I knew they were real because if anyone would know them by sight it would be me and because the Zombie Walk isn’t until next month. I’ve already got my costume, it squirts real fake blood and everything.” Dessie took a deep breath. “They chase me just like the do in the movies and I see a few people that I recognize only they’ve been zombified and now they’re trying to get me too.”

It sounded even crazier when she put it that way; Dessie was sure the psychologist was scratching something about hallucinations and paranoid delusions. “So you’re seeing them in your everyday life, then?” the psychologist said, sounding bored.

“No, not like they’re popping up in the normal world, no. It’s like the whole world goes 100% Dawn of the Dead 28 Days Later with the burnt-out buildings and the wrecked cars and even a few survivors with big guns on rooftops. It’s like I’m, I dunno, in a world where the long prophesied (and some people say, for me, long awaited but I don’t really think like that and want everybody to die or anything) zombie apocalypse happened a month or two ago. A total shift in my reality.”

“And this reality shifting happens…often?” The painful scratching of pen on expensive paper continued.

“At first there was a good long gap between them, so much so that I thought the first one might just have been a hallucination or an episode maybe caused by stress or overwork (it’s finals time) but then it happened again and I think but I’m not sure that the time between them is getting shorter.” Dessie took another deep breath. “So I’m not crazy, I’m just slipping into a zombie world and spending more and more time there.”

More pen scratching, but no further word from the psychologist.

“Well, what do you think? You’re writing that I’m crazy on that thing, aren’t you? Aren’t you? I just told you in plain English that I’m not crazy (even though I know how crazy that sounds) and I set out what’s been happening very plainly (even though I know that sounds even crazier than me saying I’m not crazy), so the least you could do is say something reassuring along the lines of ‘I’m not crazy.'”

The scratchings were particularly violent now, as if the psychologist were jamming his pen into the paper in a frenzy of analysis.

“Well?” Dessie said. She sat up on the diagnosis couch and looked over at the psychologist. “It’s very rude of you to sit there and write while there’s an ever-present chance I might-”

Looking up, the psychologist revealed a dead and chalk-grey face, scratching and chewing at what appeared to be his secretary’s arm, still clutching a little bit of pink memo. The office was a wreck, with peeling wallpaper and a hole in the ceiling, while the diagnosis couch was red not from velvet but from blood.

“-slip into the zombieworld again.”

Check out this month’s other bloggers, all of whom have posted or will post their own responses:
dclary
randi.lee
Ralph Pines
kimberlycreates
writingismypassion
dclary (again)
Penelope
SinisterCola
PragmaticPimp
magicmint
Diana_Rajchel
SuzanneSeese
AFord
J.W.Alden
Nissie
MonkeyQueen
areteus
pyrosama

 

May 1, 2012

From “Godwin’s Cookbook” by M. S. Maximian

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After the disheartening failure of her first vegetarian cookbook, released into a crowded marketplace full of competing big names and slick presentations, Melody decided to try another strategy. As a former history undergraduate before turning to anthropology, it was one that she was well-suited for.

Melody conducted deep and thorough historical research, corresponding with foreign scholars, reviving scans of faded and brittle documents from overseas archives, and reading through book after book after book. Her patience was rewarded with a bevy of official pamphlets, menus, and recipes detailing the vegetarian dishes served at the behest of a major world leader. From there it was a simple matter to devise cooking schemes, guess ingredient lists, and prepare substitution tables for vegan and diabetic readers.

The major world leader? Adolf Hitler, der Fuhrer himself.

The press moaned and swooned over Melody’s The Hitler Vegetarian Cookbook . People chatted about it on national TV, threatened boycotts, publicly and loudly wondered why a card-carrying member of the Green Party would produce such a fascist product.

The cookbook stayed on the bestseller lists nationwide for six months. If Melody had learned any lesson from anthropology, it was that infamy would sell as well as fame in a pinch.

 

April 25, 2012

From “Legacy of the Red Baron” by Jarrett Glenn Cooke

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Werner Voss found Manfred von Richthofen standing next to his Fokker triplane, watching Australian soldiers remove his still-warm body from the cockpit.

“I thought they might send you for me,” Richthofen said, barely glancing in the direction of his friend and rival who had been dead for over a year. “Hell of a thing. I was about to down a clumsy little Canadian when one of his buddies forced me to dive right into some ground fire.”

“I see you were able to land safely,” observed Voss politely.

“And a lot of good it did me. They’re already picking the Fokker apart for souvenirs.” Richthofen sighed. “I bet they give that Canuck wichser credit for the kill too.”

“Would you rather credit went to some Aussie digger?” asked Voss. “In any case, it’s time to go. Unless you’d prefer to spend your eternity haunting what’s left of your plane.”

They turned away from the wreckage and Voss led Richthofen to a spot of blinding light that beggared description. “What’s it like?” the Baron asked.

“Oh, it’s quite nice, actually,” said Voss “You become one with the cosmos and the font of all things and gain total knowledge of the past, present, and future. Even if you were reduced to mincemeat like I was.”

“Total knowledge?” Richthofen cast a sidelong glance at his plane. “So tell me, Werner, what do the people of the future think of me, if they even remember?”

“Oh, they certainly remember,” Voss said, clapping a hand on the Baron’s back. “You’re the best-known fighter pilot from any country for the next thousand years or so! Even the smallest children will know your name.”

“Because of my exploits in securing ultimate victory for the Empire?”

“Ah…no,” Voss said hesitantly. “They’ll remember you from that cartoon, and from the lid of an American pizza box.”

“A cartoon? What’s that got to do with anything, Werner?” Richthofen fussed.

“Yes, there’s an American cartoon dog that pretends to dogfight you. On top of his doghouse. You always win, if it’s any consolation.”

“And the Italian food?”

Voss shrugged. “I think it’s a metaphor for the red of the sausage and sauce and how ruthlessly inexpensive it is? Anyhow, the picture on the lid is very unrealistic. It has a mustache.”

The Baron hesitated at the edge of the light.

“Oh, don’t be like that. Go on in and see for yourself.”

 

April 19, 2012

From “Odessa Mullen Slips Into the Zombieworld” by Petra Natalia Langley

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When Odessa Mullen rounded a corner downtown and came face to face with a pack of the ravenous undead, the first thing she felt wasn’t fear–it was exhilaration.

Dessie Mullen had been preparing her entire life for this.

Granted, she began to feel a little frightened as she turned and ran with abominations in hot pursuit. But her room back home was lined with George Romero films, splatterpunk zom-coms, and a complete signed first edition run of the rare Zomcomix graphic novel. If anyone knew how to handle those horrors, it was her.

It was almost too easy, really. Dessie ran a serpentine pattern before ducking into an alleyway she knew well and doubling back, causing the zombies to lose sight and scent of her. Then she scaled the old fire escape to the low roof of Hannigan’s Hardware to survey the situation.

“Wow, those guys at the CDC weren’t kidding,” she said, whistling. “Zombies really will lead to the collapse of civilization pretty damn quick.”

Everything had been normal that morning, but now looking out over town Dessie saw that the place was destroyed–burnt-out buildings, wrecked cars, and roving packs of the undead visible here or there.

She cocked her head. Something wasn’t right. There were no fires burning, nobody fighting back or trying to escape. If the zompocalypse that she’d long awaited had actually happened, it couldn’t have gotten so far in two hours.

Her thought process was interrupted by a shout from the street. “Hey! What are you doing up there?” It was Kim Woodard, one of Dessie’s friends who worked at a downtown deli. “The cops will give you a ticket if they see you up there! Remember Halloween ’89?”

“Kim!” Dessie cried. “Come up here, quick! It’s the zombie apocalypse, but I’ve got a plan.”

“Very funny,” Kim said. “Now get down from there. I’m not bailing you out again and my smoke break is almost over.”

“Does this look like a joke?” said Dessie. She had intended to encompass the curiously advanced devastation with e a sweep of her arm…but there was no devastation to encompass.

The town was its normal un-apocalypsed self. Pedestrians, cars, intact storefronts, and roving groups of teenagers rather than zombies.

Dessie could only move her mouth, speechlessly, half relieved and half aghast, as Kim continued to give her a withering stare.

That was Dessie’s first slip into the zombieworld. And it wouldn’t be her last.

 

April 18, 2012

From “The Next Big Thing in Teen Paranormal Romance” by Louise V. G. Bailey

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“So,” said Ulgathk the Ever-Living, tenting his skeletal fingers on the desktop, “what makes you qualified to lead the charge in the reputational rehabilitation of liches, wights, and ghouls?”

Alistair grinned his most confident smile. “Well, I have ten years as a ghostwriter with Giraudoux & Strauss. In that capacity, I wrote autobiographies, stories, and screenplays. Ever hear of the ‘novel’ that Paris Ritchie wrote? That was me.”

“You did that?” croaked Gothmir the Depraved. “I remember that one. Pulpy but convincing. I was surprised she could even read, much less write.”

“Indeed, that is impressive,” said Ulgathk, the searing lights in his empty eye sockets dancing. “But we need more than impressive ghostwriting. We need a narrative for you, a come-from nowhere story.”

“I assure you, sir, my writing speaks for itself,” Alistair retorted. A bead of sweat made its way visibly down one cheek. “I brought samples if you doubt me.”

“That’s not the point,” hissed the third member of the panel, Nthaeit, Archduke of Wights. “We are attempting to counter a very concerted propaganda effort by our mortal enemies in undeath, who in the space of a mere decade have been able to reinvent themselves from horrors to be shunned to sex idols to be worshiped. A large part of that is the author’s story–they need to come from nowhere, they shouldn’t be slick, they should appear genuine.”

Gothmir the Depraved bobbed his grotesquely distended head, splattering unspeakable juices on his three-piece suit. “The authors enthralled by our enemies in undeath are hack screenwriters, sexually repressed housewives, and emo lolichan girls in black lipstick. We have to know that you can compete with that.”

Ulgathk the Ever-Living tapped where his nose should have been in assent. “So what’s your story, Alistair Chamberlain? Where are you now, where have you come from, and where are you going?”

Alistair never dropped his smile. “Well, I went to Berkley and majored in 18th-century French Romantic poetry, and then worked a stint at a coffee house in Chelsea. I-”

The Elder Lich raised a hand. “I’m going to stop you right there,” Ulgathk said. “That’s not really what we’re looking for.”

“Lacks the common touch,” agreed the Archduke of Wights.

“Too ivory tower, too hipster,” said Gothmir. “People don’t take to that narrative no matter how good the writing is.”

“But-” Alistair began.

“Sorry,” said Ulgathk. His upraised hand glowed as it sucked the lifeforce from Alastair’s body. “But thanks for your time.”

Nthaeit took up his broadsword Hatscarnot, Slayer of Kings, and poked the interviewee’s dessicated remains, crumbling them to dust. “Next!”

 

April 2, 2012

From “Rabbits of the Dead” by Veronika Trowel

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This post is part of the April 2012 Blog Chain at Absolute Write. This month’s prompt is “dead bunnies” (!).

NEWSCASTER: And what do you have to say about the allegations that have been made recently that your firm was deliberately selling diseased rabbits as laboratory animals or pets, and that your grade-school dissection specimens were similarly unsafe?

DR. PIKE: I’d like to take this opportunity to assure you and the viewing public at home that these rumors are completely baseless. At Lapine Industries, we hold ourselves to the highest standards of genetic engineering, breeding, and overall cleanliness.

NEWSCASTER: And the reports of Lapine Industries rabbits, both live and cadaver, attacking customers and schoolchildren?

DR. PIKE: As I said, completely baseless.

NEWSCASTER: We have some footage here acquired through our affiliate WRBT in Cascadia, Michigan.

[grainy image of a elementary school science classroom]

SCHOOLCHILD: What’s wrong with Mr. Fluffy?

TEACHER: Get back, children!

[a blur of white streaked with crimson flashes in front of the camera followed by a scream]

TEACHER: My God, it got Jeannie!

[sound of a 12-gauge round being chambered]

TEACHER: Chew on this!

[gunshot; dark fluid coats camera, obscuring visuals]

TEACHER, CHILDREN: [indistinct screaming]

[recording ends]

NEWSCASTER: Dr. Pike?

DR. PIKE: Those could be anyone’s rabbits.

NEWSCASTER: Looks like we’ve got our first caller. Hello, you’re on Soft Copy 360.

CALLER: [frantic and out of breath] We heard that there might be a problem, so we buried our dissection rabbits meant for seventh-grade biology.

DR. PIKE: Now, I can assure you that was an unnecessary-

CALLER: [interrupting] They came back! Do you hear me? THEY CAME BACK! They’re at the barricades right now…I don’t know how long we can hold them off! I think they infected some of the local rabbits too-

NEWSCASTER: Caller, can you speak up? We’re having trouble hearing you.

[indistinct screaming, growling, gunshots audible]

CALLER: Oh God, they’re everywhere! Drooling green slime, faster than we can track them or shoot…please, send help! Call the National Guard! We’re about to be overrun with killer zombie rabbits from hell!

DR. PIKE: Now, I don’t think that’s a fair characterization of a Lapine Industries product. We have rigorous safety procedures in place and offer 24/7 online customer support. Have you tried reading the storage and care instructions that came with your rabbit cadavers, and are you sure that they were sourced from Lapine Industries?

CALLER: [panicking] No, no, aim for the head!

[more growling, screaming; line abruptly goes dead]

NEWSCASTER: Dr. Pike, any comment?

DR. PIKE: Clearly an isolated incident, probably caused by improper handling.

Check out this month’s other bloggers, all of whom have posted or will post their own responses:
KatieJ
Ralph Pines
kiwiviktor81
Nissie
SuzanneSeese
pyrosama
Bogna
dclary
randi.lee
julzperri
Penelope
AFord
Araenvo
areteus
magicmint
Joliedupre

 

March 29, 2012

From “Three Dempenii Walk Into A Wine-Seller’s” by Sam Lev Tohav

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Three Dempenii walk into a wine-seller’s stall and ask to sample the wares, so the merchant gives them each a sip of his best vintage.

“It’s too sour,” said the first of the Dempenii. “I feel like I’m sucking on a mouthful of Median apples.”

“It’s too sweet,” said the second of the Dempenii. “I feel like someone’s jamming handfuls of candied berries down my throat.”

“It’s perfect,” said the third of the Dempenii, who didn’t even taste it. “If two Dempenii aver agree on anything, you know if must be a bad idea.”

-From a Linear B inscription pieced together from pottery fragments in an offal heap near Knossos on Crete. Written ca. 1300BC, it represents one of the earliest appearances of this particular form of joke. Scholars have tentatively declared it the source for all known ethnic humor in use today.

 

March 16, 2012

From “The Doompie” by Lucy Seiter Raffertee

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While she was out of work and in between applications, Emmalee found herself with a lot of time to kill. She gradually became obsessed with the pumpkin pie contest held at the Tri-County Fair every fall and the ticket to recipe publication (and residuals) with Bibliophile Digest it represented.

So the hunt was on for the perfect pie recipe, and Emmalee’s kitchen became her laboratory. She had plenty of ingredients saved up in the pantry after the last big hurricane scare, and was soon making two or more pies a day. Though she didn’t like to flaunt the fact–conflicting with some peoples’ notion of the Modern Independent Woman as it did–Emmalee was an excellent cook and even he rejects were eagerly snapped up.

At first, anyway.

As the job hunt wound into the summer and Emmalee remained in the kitchen, her friends and relatives began to tire of her constant barrage of pumpkin pies. They weren’t doing any of her sewing circle friends any favors during swimsuit season, and at least one of her diabetic friends nearly landed himself in the hospital after a particularly delectable (and sugary) pie had found its way across his desk.

Committed as they were to sparing Emmalee’s feelings and supporting her in a time of need, her friends did the only thing they could: they broke into her house and hid the pumpkin pie ingredients, one at a time (inasmuch as using Uncle Harold’s key counted as breaking in, anyway). At first, Emmalee simply tried to make do without, leading to an unfortunate succession of pies with no sugar or crusts made from whole wheat bread crumbs. Eventually, though, even the basic ingredients vanished (along with the contents of her pumpkin patch).

It’s anyone’s guess whether what came next was revenge or simply resourcefulness on the part of someone who couldn’t afford to buy more raw pie fixings. But no one who tasted the spaghetti squash and bell pepper pie sweetened with cinnamon and carrot cake mix on a take n’ bake pizza crust that came next ever forgot it.

Emmalee found her missing ingredients on the porch one day later.

 

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