November 12, 2011

From “Fairchild Coffee Location #2” by Annie C. Kirkhoppe

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“The thing is, people expect the kind of efficiency they get at Stubb’s Coffee here,” Maria said. Nevermind that we have a quarter of the staff and none of their fancy custom gizmos.”

“So, how do we compete exactly?” Bob said, suddenly fearful for his nascent job. “There’s a Stubb’s right down the street and two on the SMU campus.”

“There are enough people who make it a point to ‘buy local’ that we have a little bit of an edge,” Maria said. “We also have nicer furniture which Steve–the boss–was able to pick up for a song when Southern Michigan renovated their law school.”

“Oh, okay.”

“It is your job to maintain this image. Do not under any circumstances let the customers find out that we buy from the same suppliers as Stubb’s. Always offer to sell them fair trade coffee, which costs three times as much. And if someone comes in here asking to hang a flier, you hang it unless it’s advertising a personal appearance by the Grand Wizard of the triple-K. You got me?”

 

October 25, 2011

From “Unrequited Eliason” by Jaenna-Stacie White

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“I’d recommend against it,” Harp said between mouthfuls of potato salad. “That’s Annette Eliason.”

“Who?” said Harry.

“Annette Eliason.” Harp looked across the table. “Not ringing a bell?”

“Not really, no.”

“Needy Annie? Annette Eliastalker? The Clingy Queen of Bowling Green?”

Harry remained stonefaced.

Harp set aside his plate. “For crap’s sake, Harry. Annette’s only a sophomore and she already has a reputation for being the creepiest, clingiest, co-dependingest girl in a very competitive weight class!”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

 

October 21, 2011

From “Wahshi-san’s Negligee” by Koji Umebayashi

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The courier, bruised, bloodied, and limping, knocked on Wahshi-san’s hotel room door. He bowed politely when the great old man opened the door–or at least an attempt at bowing was made.

“Your package, Wahshi-san,” the courier said. “I apologize for my tardiness.”

Wahshi-san glanced at his watch: 2:02pm. “Your apology is accepted,” he said, stonefaced. He took the package from the courier and unwrapped it, revealing a leopard-spotted negligee, size 44, custom-made.

Wahshi-san’s expression did not change. He pressed a cashier’s check into the courier’s hand and closed the door, leaving the poor roughed-up man looking at the featureless wood of the door in astonishment.

 

October 11, 2011

From “Lockless” by Cathy Bette Terrell

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“They’re coming!” Jan shouted, panicked. “Hurry!” She’d gotten the storm shutters down over most of the windows.

“I can’t!” Chrissy cried from the front. The first undead was at the edge of the parking lot, with hundreds behind.

“Why not?”

Chrissy turned around, her eyes bloodshot from terror and tears. “It’s a Danny’s restaurant! Open 24/7! They didn’t put any locks on the doors!”

Jan armed herself with a fillet knife from the grill. “Sweet mother of mercy.”

 

September 27, 2011

From “A Series of Surreal Mammals” by Levi Paris Schroeder

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Quantum Marmoset
Mustempus peregrinationis

This relative of the common marmoset lives its life in a nonlinear fashion. To the observer they appear to fade in and out at random intervals during their 8-10 year lifespan, but from the perspective of the marmoset it is living its life in a straight line with surroundings that randomly jump about. Exceedingly rare, as the likelihood of any two marmosets of breeding age in the same area at the same time is vanishingly small.

“Natives in Brazil’s Rio Grande do Norte state will try and lasso a quantum marmoset when they find one. If done correctly, they will be taken with during the next nonlinear tree swing. Tradition holds that if the passenger goes back in time and prevents themselves from lassoing the marmoset, the universe will cease to exist.” – Dr. Phineas Phable

Hammer’s Space Wallaby
Malleuspatium desultor

Named after Hammer’s Space, the ranch where it was discovered in Australia’s Northern Territories, the Hammer’s Space wallaby differs from ordinary wallabies in that its pouch has infinite capacity through a link to an interdimensional space. The wallaby will often store items that strike its fancy in its infinite pouch, and will throw them at pursuers or competing wallabies. Joeys enter the pouch from the interdimensional space; the exact method by which the wallabies reproduce is unknown but of extreme interest to particle physicists.

“The pouch is too small to fit a human, but settlers have been known to go ‘wallaby fishing’ by catching a Hammer’s Space wallaby and pulling items from its pouch; occasionally valuable items like gold and jewels are found. One witness describes a Hammer’s Space wallaby evading pursuers by throwing a wooden mallet, an airplane propeller, the left wheel of a 1930 Holden sedan, and a human tibia at them.” – Dr. Phineas Phable

Sigh Bat
Vespertilio suspiransugere

The sigh bat is related to the vampire bat, but unlike its more famous relative it subsists on the sighs of the brokenhearted rather than blood. It has evolved a number of abilities that allow it to generate brokenhearted sighs in generally happy times, from mimicking human voices and penmanship to excreting a compound that resembles lipstick that they smear on collars and napkins.

“If for all your indiscretions
a sigh bat ye’ve blamed
Beware that thru ye inhibitions
a sigh bat ye’ve not gain’d.” – Traditional

 

September 26, 2011

From “The Loading Dock Detective” by Aimee Courtniee Everett

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The easy chumminess of the Web 2.0 social media Millenial me generation world had utterly spoiled Blake. She was used to learning the bare minimum of personal information about someone, looking them up online, and learning everything from their taste in music to their relationship status to shoe size.

That’s why Renny (or was it Rennie?) in the loading dock was such a pain.

Blake saw him every few days when they brought in a new shipment. They chatted, though it was mostly Blake talking and trying not to get caught admiring the finer parts of Renny (René?)’s anatomy. Lad was chiseled.

His first name and the fact that he was a student at SMU should have been enough, but to Blake’s frustration Renny (Ranie?) seemed to be the only person in the world without a Facebook profile, a Twitter feed, or even a MySpace. No iteration of his name came up with any (male) hits in the campus directory, and Blake was too shy (or was that intimidated? God, those abs) to ask him directly. She even tried pumping the accounts receivable manager for information only to have the thing blow up in her face.

 

September 15, 2011

From “The 77 Summer Jobs of Colin Gaines Evans Jr.” by Natascha Kampusch

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“Let’s face it,” Jennie said, “you’ve never been able to hold a job for more than two months.”

“I always have a legitimate grievance,” Colin cried, waving his arms. “It’s not my fault, it’s that the modern workplace is so brutal and depersonalized.”

Jennie cocked an eyebrow. “Oh? What about when you working the fryer at O’Doul’s?”

“That customer said he wanted extra grease,” Colin deadpanned. “Never said where he wanted it to come from.”

“Pizza Mahjong?”

“Hey, they wanted me to dance on the sidewalk holding a lunch special sign when things were slow without even the benefit of a cartoon dragon mask. A guy’s gotta have principles.”

“Oh, of course,” said Jennie, rolling her eyes. “Metromart?”

“It’s their own fault for neglecting to put ‘not for recreational riding’ stickers on pallet jacks. Not to mention the way they stocked the cereal aisle just like a row of competition dominoes.”

 

September 13, 2011

From “The 777 Demon Vase” by Carl B. O’Doul

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Sherry’s eyes went wide. “Harry, what have you done?”

“Don’t worry,” Harry said, holding up his hands in the most conciliatory gesture he could muster. “It’s just a broken vase. It’s not the end of the world.”

“Actually, Harry, I’m afraid it is.”

Before Harry could reply, he felt the earth quake. The sky turned blood-red, while the heavens and earth were opened, releasing the wailing spirits of the damned.

“Huh,” Harry said. “I’ll be damned.”

“Pretty much, yeah,” said Sherry.

 

September 3, 2011

From “Pizzazz the Parakeet Needs a Smoke Break” by Vernon L. Traverse

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Doug had his best ‘manager face’ on. “There aren’t enough orders in the middle of the day to keep everyone busy.”

“I know that.”

“You can’t work nights because of your class schedule this semester. So I need you to do something to pick up the slack.” Doug held out the Pizzazz the Parakeet costume and a sign advertising 6 pizzas for under $6! Pick-up only!

“Look, I appreciate the thought, Doug,” I said gingerly, “but I’d rather be fired than wear that thing in 100-degree heat waving at cars.” It was like being the ultimate pariah–cars virtually swerved into the other lane to avoid having to look at someone in a costume, and people on the sidewalk were about as polite with Pizzazz the Parakeet as they’d be with Hermann Goering.

Worst of all, the bird’s mouth was open, clearly revealing my face to all who cared to look.

“Fine, then, you’re fired,” Doug said. “Clean out your cubby.”

I tried calling his bluff by walking away, hoping to hear his voice from behind me like in the movies.

I made it about five steps.

“All right,” I said, snatching the costume. “I’ll do it.” The specter of unpaid loans, evictions, and–worse–moving back in with my parents were too horrific to ignore.

 

August 29, 2011

From “The Editor’s Lament” by Carson O. Dolarmuth

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It had been a good idea.

The city had produced more than its fair share of writers, thanks to the local college’s endowment from an old benefactor, and many of them were still alive, still active. Asking each for an original essay or story about their hometown seemed like a stroke of genius, to say nothing of a ticket to easy street for the savvy editor.

That was before Peter had seen the submissions.

Of the eight authors that had agreed to participate, three had submitted nothing despite repeated promises to the contrary. One had turned in a typewritten manuscript in a manilla envelope, one so jumbled and muddled with pen and liquid paper corrections as to be nigh unreadable. Another had annotated a grocery list with a list of organs that the various items reminded them of.

And then there was Auguste Jones, who had apparently dropped his given name “Kevin” to appear more literary. His submission had been an index card with a citation for a 1948 edition of Goethe’s Faust, a cassette tape with the repeated phrase “chickpeas are angry” in a female voice interspersed with heavy breathing, and an embalmed hummingbird wrapped in plastic with the letter “Y” painted on its back with red nail polish.

 

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