August 4, 2010

From “The Gemstone in Blue” by Alice F. Torvald

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Dan circled around the periphery of the group that had sprung up about Sandy. They were discussing her outfit for the evening–specifically the large, blue stone danging from a silver chain encircling her neck.

“It’s just so unique!” An onlooker said, ogling the jewel. “Is it a blue diamond?”

“It’s not just about uniqueness, but also value and perception,” Sandy said airily. “The price of diamonds has been kept artificially high for almost a century by the great southern African cartels. That, combined with a PR campaign worthy of any great commodity, has served to make them the Wal-Mart of gemstones: commercialized, callous, overpriced, even ruinous to some.”

The questioner, who sparked with several diamonds of her own, faded into the crowd. Dan tried to line himself up for a good, casual snapshot as Sandy moved under a good light source.

“This is benitoite, one of the rarest gemstones in the world,” Sandy said. “It’s only found in one place, and most of it is used for research. Only a tiny amount is gemstone quality; few are cut, and fewer still sold.”

She was lined up perfectly; what’s more, the stone glowed with an almost unholy light. Its blue overpowered the red tones in Sandy’s skin, giving her an elegant, icy quality through the viewfinder.

“This may just be the only gem-quality benitoite being worn anywhere right now,” Sandy said. “That’s what attracted me.” Dan’s camera snapped as she spoke, fixing the moment in amber. He should have been thinking about his editor, or the freelancer contacts he still had from the old days, and how much the snap could sell for.

Instead, he was entranced by the stone and its wearer, such that he all but joined the crowd of hollow worshippers thronging around her.

 

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 24, 2010

From “Strange and Hostile Streets” by Caanan Milton

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Suddenly there were armed men all around, machine pistols emerging from nondescript coats and from beneath rain slickers.

A van pulled up and the door slid open. “Get in!” one of the men said, leveling the business end of his heater at May. “Now!”

She glanced at me; my saucer-like eyes and blank expression probably weren’t all that reassuring. A moment later, I was being shoved out of the way as she was bundled into the waiting van.

Seeing her in that situation, I felt my hands close into fists. I’d been talking about making a change, becoming more assertive, taking risks. Hell, I’d been thinking about jumping off a bridge or at least threatening to do it.

Here was my chance to do both at once.

I leapt into the van and took a seat next to her. “Hey, asshole, we don’t want you!” the person in the passenger seat said. “Get out!”

“Make me,” I growled.

Suddenly a jet-black Glock was pressed to my forehead. “I said out!”

I folded my arms.

“If he wants to come, let him come!” the driver shouted. “All the same to me. Just get that door closed!”

The door slammed shut. Acceleration forced everyone back in their seats, and the passenger pulled off his ski mask. It was Austin, the man from the embassy. “No room for sightseers on this trip, buddy. Now that you’re playing, you’re playing for keeps.

I could feel May’s hand tighten around my wrist. Whatever horrible fate was in store for her, at least she wouldn’t have to go alone.

 

July 17, 2010

From “The Amarna Heresy” by K. G. T. Monroe

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“You understand, the translation will have to be approximate,” Smiths said. “A lot of heiroglyphs is context and inferential.”

“Just read it.” The revolver was argument enough.

“The Aten had no form, no voice, only will. Arising from the darkness of all which exists outside the Maat, the divine order of the cosmos, it first manifested as a weak and guttering spark. Only by associating itself with the bright disc of the sun was the Aten able to attract the notice of mortals, who came to view it as an aspect of their sun god, Ra. In this way, the Aten was first able to whisper into the ears of the chief priest, the Pharaoh. Over a generation, the whispers grew strong enough for the Pharaoh, and by extension his people, to allot the Aten a place in their great pantheon of deities. And when an aged and infirm ruler gave way to a young and impressionable one, the whispers grew ever louder.”

“Keep going.”

“In those days, the Aten was possessed of a great love for those whose belief had allowed it to escape from the darkness of the Duat, the underworld, but also a terrible jealousy. Through the Pharaoh, it insisted that the old gods were to be swept away–the whispers so insistent that the young ruler soon came to be preoccupied with his new religion alone, to the ruin of the nation. The Divinity, which existed in the guise of the many local gods at that time, reacted by withdrawing itself from the land. The Aten was unable to cope with the subsequent widespread famine, plagues, political upheaval, and general chaos, great though its powers had become. With the death of the Pharaoh from illness, the Aten was cast down from its lofty perch, and the light which represented it faded once more as successive rulers ought to erase it from their history.”

Smiths paused. “S-shall I keep going?”

The gun again, flashing in the torchlight. “Please do.”

“Cast once again into darkness, the Aten grew bitter at its fate, and came to resent the mortals on whom it had depended and whom it had once tried to love. It gathered its strength once more, slowly, and resolved to complete what the long-ago Pharaoh had once begun – the sweeping away of the old world for a new. Rather than co-opting, it would create anew. But although its strength returned, the Aten could not set its plan in motion.”

“For it yet needed mankind: its beliefs and its aid.” The words came from the darkness before Smiths could translate them.

 

July 16, 2010

From “War Comes to Nisteria” by Jane Holloway

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Sovenal was rushing toward the ministerial platform when he brushed roughly up against a burly man hurrying in the opposite direction. They might have muttered something–maybe a curse, maybe an apology–but the martial music outside was too loud to make anything out for sure. Abruptly, Sovenal’s pace slowed as he neared his destination, and he couldn’t suppress a ragged cough.

Among the crowd below, Gelnika strained to see what was happening on and around the balcony of the People’s Palace. He could see Tavis, the smug bastard, standing beside the Minister, but there was no sign of Sovenal or any of his men. When the minister stepped froward to speak, there was no mention of Secretary Tavis’ treachery or the last-minute appeal from Ambassador Ijke. Instead, he heaped a fiery call to arms on the populace and troops below, calling for a swift attack by bayonet and shock on enemies of the state. Not only that, but the troops assembled for the National Day celebration were to march directly to the front.

“What the hell happened?” Gelnika hissed into his radio. “Sovenal!”

No reply but static.

Once the square had cleared out, with the troops off to their slaughter and the populace off to their celebration, Gelnika slid through a gap in the Palace fence and began scouring the grounds for any trace of Sovenal. He found the Undersecretary lying on the floor a few dozen yards from the ministerial balcony.

Sovenal had bled out through a carefully aimed small-caliber shot to his femoral artery.

 

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 6, 2010

From “A Clockwork Armageddon” by Jamie Grutherson

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In those days, clockwork automata like the Mechanical Turk were all the rage. And while many, like the Turk itself, were elaborate hoaxes, many automata were quite real and capable of a range of action and motion astounding to many in the modern day (who consider our forebears to be stupid and backward to a man).

It’s said that the finest of the Renaissance automata came from the Vienna workshop of one Conrad Hutzdorf. Hutzdorf created elaborate machines capable of simulated motion when wound, figures with an internal asbestos bellows which would “smoke” before delighted patrons, and even–based on a request from the Emperor himself–a mechanical nightingale like the one in the stories, whose chirps were produced by panpipes concealed in its base.

Hutzdorf maintained no apprentices as befit expect a craftsman of his station; those few who worked with him made only specific parts to order. Many speculated on the reasoning for this, but Hutzdorf maintained that he preferred to do the work himself, and his patrons did not seem to mind the 6-8 months needed to create each piece.

The craftsman disappeared around 1779-1780 when his workshop was gutted by fire. No body was ever discovered, nor was a cause for the blaze determined, which gave rise to wild speculation in alehouses and parlors throughout town. The most prevalent of them had a patron brashly breaking into Hutzdorf’s workshop after having a commission refused, only to find the craftsman with his chest opened and making adjustments to his own clockwork mechanism! Enraged, the clockwork Hutzdorf reputedly set the fire that wiped him from history and fled elsewhere.

Stuff and nonsense, of course, but an interesting piece of historical background for the Hutzdorf piece that was to appear at our auction house in Philadelphia.

 

July 1, 2010

From “Dark Secrets of the Clark Building” by Patricia Ellersby

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Let’s face it, you’re still scared of the dark. It’s hard-coded by our species’ relative lack of night vision, and reinforced by a thousand hours of pop culture.

As you wander through the darkened hallways, catching a glimpse of the city lit up at night, you reflect on how many films have shown someone in the same situation meeting a grisly death at the hands of mass murderers, monsters, and other fun chaps. The emergency lights give the place an eerie sheen like the best Hollywood mood lighting, and the fact that, in your mind’s eye, the place bustles with attentive life makes its still, cold silence all the more difficult to bear.

Even with the weight of years upon your brow, you can’t help but believe in some heart of hearts that Murgmagh the Eyeball Plucker is lurking out there, and that unless you turn back now, he will have his meal.

 

June 28, 2010

From “Strange Days in the Dennis Fields” by Joy Marie Kleinbeck

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Dr. Stryver paged through the manusccript. “The Edoans worshiped a variety of deities, the most prominent of which was Eonar, god of summer. He was said to wander the countryside in the guise of a friendly old gardener, well-rounded by plentiful food and deeply tanned. Passersby would find him working their garden or fields, after which the harvest would be unusually bountiful.”

“Does the book say anything about his eye color?” Harry asked. “Or some kind of necklace or talisman? Maybe a weapon?”

“Hmm, let’s see…usually dressed as a laborer…known to indulge heartily in wine…ah! Yes, it says that those he visited sometimes knew him by his unworldly violet eyes. And…yes! There’s mention of a sickle or scythe-shaped charm, a gift from his son Edoyar, god of he harvest.”

Harry and Kim looked at each other meaningfully.

“As for a weapon…all it mentions is that Eonar was a renowned archer.”

“There’s no doubt, then,” said Kim. “That’s he man we saw in the Dennis Fields.”

 

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