August 24, 2010

From “High-Caliber Children” by Van Bullock

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“It’s nice to have a drink like this and talk shop,” Sedena said. “Even at Littleton & Associates, with all the paperwork, there isn’t much time for watercooler talk.”

“Our business is built on the mantra of ‘nothing personal, just business’ after all,” replied Katalya. “Why not kick a few back? It’s ‘nothing personal’ not ‘nothing personable.’ So go on. Tell me about the rig you use.”

“Well…”

“Most ladies our age would be showing pictures of their children or talking about them,” Katalya said. “Is this so different?”

Sedena nodded. “One might say my child is active in a variety of extracirricular activities, from track to wrestling. I prefer an M21 SWS with a pistol grip and fiberglass stock. Leatherwood 3–9x adjustable ranging telescopic sight, National Match glass bedded barrel, and the selector switch from a stock M14. Very versatile; I can group shots within an inch from two city blocks away and resort to full automatic fire if trapped.”

“At the cost of destroying the finer parts of the system,” Katalya scoffed. “I can see how a rookie might want an all-in-one system, but the M21 is a jack of all trades and master of none.”

“I’ve enough completed contract forms to settle exactly what kind of jack my baby is,” said Sedena, sipping her brandy. “I suppose you think you have something better?”

“My child’s an honor student: Norinco SKS-M with McMillan composite stock, a Bausch & Lomb 10x tactical scope, and a quick-change release so I can swap out chromed and unchromed barrels on the fly. It’s rugged, can be disassembled without tools, and accepts factory AKM magazines for when I need to scrounge–try finding 7.62mm NATO rounds on the fly! And for close encounters, a Glock 18 in 9x19mm parabellum.”

 

August 22, 2010

From “Long-Distance Grammar” by Tom J. Esteban

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I didn’t know his–or her–real name, but they were one of my favorite online correspondents–not least because they, like me, tried to maintain capitalization and punctuation even in the anything-goes milieu of the ‘net. Most of our conversations tended to revolve around spelling, pronunciation, and other lexical matters, come to think of it. Any other conversation tended to arrive at that point rather quickly.

daleksex89: I must admit I was impressed you got my username’s reference back in the dark days when so few Americans had seen the programme.

tiberiusjk01: “Programme?” I can’t get over seeing it spelled that way. All those unnecessary letters at the end. Couldn’t you spell it my way and save yourself two keystrokes?

daleksex89: Couldn’t you spell it the proper way at the cost of two necessary keystrokes? You make the effort for capitals and full stops, so why not spell properly while you’re about it?

tiberiusjk01: What’s incorrect about American spelling? It’s much more concise.

daleksex89: Oh, I think American spelling is adorable. So earnestly phonetic, like a child’s letters on an icebox door, with no regard given etymology and history.

tiberiusjk01: And I think British spellings are like an old bottle of snake oil patent medicine, all old-fashioned and hoity-toity just for the sake of appearances. It’s…what’s the word…quaint. Or should that be “kwaynt?”

 

August 16, 2010

From “Red and Green” by Rebecca M. Shielding

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Marian Fisher, dressed in black and sporting a lace choker as always, had a booth at the seventeenth annual Mason County High School Fun Fair.

The cheerleaders were selling kisses, the marching band had a ring toss game, and the football team operated a dunk tank. Even the chess club had a booth, challenging all comers to last just five moves against “The King of Pawns.” Marian’s booth was different; she was associated with no club and had built the stand in her spare time. The sign simply read “Free Milk and Cookies,” with no conditions or prices.

Keith Nost, who knew Marian from weekly D&D games, was the first one to stop by.

“Would you like some lactateous secretions or miniature cakes baked just short of carbonization?” she asked in her usual monotone.

“What are you doing here?” Keith said. “What is all this?”

“I’m amazed you can keep a character sheet without being able to read. It’s a stand for free milk and cookies, and I just offered you some.”

“I know, but…putting yourself out here like this? You’re just gonna get made fun of. Publicly. Lord knows I would. I don’t wanna see that happen to you.”

“Why would anyone take the time to browbeat a humble cookie vendor?” Marian asked. “Don’t worry your bezitted little head about me, dear.”

“And since when can you cook? I’ve seen your fridge at home. Expired milk, eggs making like their forefathers and going south…”

 

August 12, 2010

From “Of Hospital Assassins” by Rachel P. Crete

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Travis picked at his bandages. “I’m not afraid of dying.” He was squeezing the nurse’s call button, hoping Fiona couldn’t see.

Fiona stepped closer, pressing the muzzle of her pistol to Travis’s chest. “Good. That’ll make this easier.”

“I’m afraid of not knowing why. I’m nobody special, yet you already threw me out a window.”

“Is that all?” Fiona leaned in, whispered in Travis’s ear.

Comprehension dawned on his face. “Thank you,” he grinned. “You can hit her now.”

“Wha-” Fiona was cut off as a fire extinguisher, in the hands of a night shift nurse, clipped her from behind.

 

August 7, 2010

From “幸运签饼” by Susan Li Garrison-Smith

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“Yeah, I guess,” Mary said. She opened her own cookie and silently read the inscription.

“Well, what’s it say?”

“To doubt is human, but to believe is even more so.”

“See? See? What’d I tell you?” Emily said. “You doubted it, and the cookie knew it. Somehow, it knew it.”

Mary was quiet for a moment. “I’d like a second helping,” she said to Li, when he returned. “And bring us more cookies.

Li walked back into the kitchen and said a few words to the cook. Then he turned a corner and came upon his grandfather, seated on a small, low bed in front of a TV. The old man was looking through a peephole into the restaurant proper, and listening at a small speaker.

“The customers would like more cookies,” the younger Li said in Cantonese.

Grandfather Li dipped his hand into a bag of Wal-Mart brand fortune cookies—the treats were an American invention after all, not a Chinese one, something Li found endlessly amusing. He selected a cookie and deftly plucked the manufactured slogan out of it with a pair of steel tweezers.

Li wound a thin slice of rice paper into a typewriter that his grandson had modified. Delicately, he typed out a new message using only his pinkies: “One who expects miraculous things inevitably finds them.” He chuckled, remembering how his grandson would often add the phrase “in bed” to the end of cookie sayings when reading them aloud. The new message was tucked into the empty cookie, and added to the tray, which the younger Li took and served.

 

August 6, 2010

From “The Shameless Beggars of SMU” by Kelly Clarke O’Donnell

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“This is the Southern Michigan University Alumni Association calling for Geraldine Thompson. May I speak with her?” Kelly ran through her spiel by rote, flipping through the list of people still to be panhandled.

One name in the J’s popped out immediately: Gregory Johansen.

“Shit!” Kelly said, forgetting that her headset was most definitely not muted.

“I beg your pardon?” Geraldine Thompson huffed. She’d been in the midst of a long-winded denial that Kelly had tuned out.

Eyes wide, Kelly killed the call. “Damn you Johansen…not just content to ruin your own call, are you?

Johansen’d had a rough time at the university, attending as he did from 1966-70 for undergrad and 70-72 for his MBA. SMU had been a minor center of the counterwar and counterculture during that time, leading to violent protests and the suspension of most facets of campus life. There’d been no homecoming in ’67, ’68, or ’69, no football games in ’68 or ’70, and the graduation ceremonies in ’68 and ’72 had been canceled due to bomb threats.

As a result, Johansen bore a heavy grudge against SMU as an institution and against his fellow students, past and present, in particular. His wide-ranging diatribes to SMU Alumni Association solicitors to the effect that they could have his money when he got his stolen pomp and circumstance back were legendary for their ferocity. But he was an alumni nevertheless, and loaded to boot, and so remained on the list. For all his venom, Johansen’s number was openly listed; Kelly was of the opinion that he relished the opportunity to bring the “hippie students” soliciting funds down a peg or two.

 

August 5, 2010

From “Archetypes in the Writing Workshop” by A. P. Sonnet

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Dave had gone forth invigorated, ready to transform the young writers of today into the crusading postmodern figures his old professors lauded. That phase of his career had lasted two weeks. Two years later, Dave counted himself lucky if his students wrote in readable English, and his tongue was red and swollen from biting back the urge to tear into the kids and rip their work to shreds.

This is not to say that Dave thought there were no good writers, that the young generation lacked artists of the caliber needed to belt out fine prose in the tradition of Faulkner or Hemingway. It’s just that those people did not take writing courses. Over the years, Dave had found that most of his students conformed to a few archetypes, all of which were represented in his current group.

For example, some see the writing workshop for what it really is: a captive audience. These are the kinds of people whose friends and loved ones have long since developed defense mechanisms to deflect or escape, things like faking death of feigning illiteracy. Lucy fell squarely in this category: in every way except her considerable girth she looked like a refugee from a Tim Burton drawing, and she loved nothing more than inflicting bad emo poetry on her classmates (this despite the fact that it was explicitly a prose class).

“My piece is called Better Off Dead,” Lucy said. “It’s a commentary on the crushing despair that infests every hollow moment of modern life.”

“Wonderful,” Dave said. The idea that Lucy might need professional help had occurred to him more than once, until he had seen the folder the girl used for her writings–a Lisa Frank piece featuring a pastel unicorn flying through space with a pod of smiling dolphins.

 

August 1, 2010

From “The Rise of Metromart #832” by Altos Wexan

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“And, rounding out our regular Metromart shoppers, we have Sgt. Pepper,” said Peter, gesturing to a gaunt man with a black ponytail.

“And, pray tell, why’s he called Sgt. Pepper?” Eric asked. “He doesn’t look anything like Paul McCartney.”

“Go over there and try to sell him one of the CD’s he’s looking at, and you’ll see,” Peter said. “Oh yes, you’ll see.”

Eric tugged on his Metromart vest and slipped out of the register alcove. “Sgt. Pepper” was in the rock section, examining a Meat Loaf CD with an utterly serious expression and pursed lips, as if it were a matter of the gravest import.

“Hello, sir. Can I…” Eric began.

“Yes?”

He couldn’t continue. Just as he’d approached the man, Eric had been overwhelmed by the smell of pepper, which seemed to billow off the customer in waves. It was as if Sgt. Pepper had bathed in mace or accosted a marathon’s worth of joggers. What in the world could possibly have given the man such an odor other than showering under a pepper mill?

“Ah…that is…did you need…any…” Eric sputtered.

“No, I’m doing just fine, thanks,” said Sgt. Pepper. Eric, relieved, beat a hasty retreat.

“I’ll get you for that, he growled at Peter, though his face was lit by a grin.

Peter laughed. “What else could we call him but Sgt. Pepper with a stench like that? Well, Dr. Pepper was tossed around, but he doesn’t really look like a doctor, you know?”

“Doesn’t look like a sergeant either,” said Eric. “But there is something I’d like to know.”

“What?”

“If you twist his ponytail,” Eric giggled, “does pepper come out his ass?”

 

July 29, 2010

From “War and Peas” by Danielle T. Johnston

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“I call them ‘Foods from the Public Domain.'” Percy said. “We can trade on terms with excellent market penetration without having to pay royalties of any kind!”

With a flourish, he unveiled the placards at the head of the board room.

“Don Quixote’s Darn Quick Oaties: Nourishing microwavable whole oat cereal for the all-day energy to take on any windmill!”

“Daniel Dafoe’s Robinson Croutons: A fresh Caribbean island paradise salad, good for every day of the week, not just Friday!”

“Leo Tolstoy’s War and Peas: Heart-healthy legumes with a generous helping of spice to ward off the bite of General Winter!”

 

July 28, 2010

From “Knocked Senseless” by Karen U. Verdun

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Katya’s idea was to craft an epic tale around characters who had each mastered one of the six senses: sight, smell, hearing, touch, taste, and the psychic sixth sense. In addition to giving the tale a Kurasawa-esque scope, juggling a narrative between so many characters and viewpoints virtually guaranteed something to scribble about; goodbye, writer’s block!

Most of the characters practically created themselves. Sight would have to be an eagle-eyed, reticent marksman, a crack shot with bow or rifle (Katya hadn’t decided between a high fantasy or steampunk setting yet), and most likely the member of an ancient oft-oppressed group that would have to be invented. Tall, dark, and handsome, of course.

Mr. Smell would be a werewolf, or perhaps only raised by wolves since Katya was always very concerned about accusations of trendy bandwagon-jumping. Regardless of his precise origins, he’d be savage and animalistic, eschewing weapons for tooth and nail yet concealing a deep and soulful well of feeling. He would be cleaned up, erect, and in a pressed and starched garment by adventure’s end, no doubt.

The Hero of Hearing would be blind, either a Zatoichi-type veteran warrior or an up and coming young prodigy but definitely blinded by a tragedy. The Hearo would be the understanding type, never judgmental but always supportive and humorous.

Touch was a bit hard to wrap her head around, but Katya conceived of him as an ascetic monk who could set up deadly vibrations in opponents simply by touching them. The Touch of Death would be too difficult to control, leaving him unable to touch another human being for fear of accidentally turning them to jelly in what Katya thought was a deliciously original and complex twist.

Psychics were easy; Katya’s would be a wisecracker, always interrupting people to tell them what they’d been about to say, very superior but at the same time concealing a tortured yet generous heart. There was no final decision of the cause of his condition; alien abduction, genetic mutation, and an ancient Amun-Ra curse were all viable candidates.

Despite all that, she simply could not wrap her head around the last Sensible Hero, taste. How did a sense of taste, superhuman or no, translate into a hunky and conflicted warrior? He couldn’t very well go around licking things, and a Beefeater made for a poor quest-hero even when she allowed for the possibility of carnivorous ravens at beck and call.

 

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