Advice

The small dog had been following him for weeks.  Even at work.  Even in the shower.  It trotted beside him now, as streams of office drones headed out for the restaurants.

"That lady isn't looking," the dog said.  "Steal her purse.  Eat her lipstick."

He ignored it and kept walking. 

"You can make it.  Run across the street ahead of that bus."

"Look," he said, "even if you were real, your advice is clearly terrible.  Why would I do anything except the opposite of whatever you say?"

The dog paused thoughtfully.  "Don't take off your pants.  Avoid running around naked."

Word of God

The tiny people lined every surface.  Toby tugged his robe closed.  They watched him expectantly.

"Would you like coffee?" he asked them.

"A prophecy!" one said.  "Truly, in final days, we WILL desire stimulation!"

"Nonsense!" said another.  "Notice the word 'like.'  We are akin to coffee, for we grow in the soil of our faith and are roasted by the fires of temptation-"

"Heresy!"

"Stop it," Toby snapped.  "All of you!"

"Ah, truly we WILL eventually cease to be!"

"Gibberish!  The commandment was clear..."

The argument resumed.  Toby gritted his teeth and said nothing for as long as he could.

Ave Caesar!

The salad wailed when it was placed on the table.  "I do not like yon Cassie; she has a lean and hungry look," it said.

Cassandra stabbed several leaves and a crouton with her fork.  "Aiee, et, too?" the salad cried as she chewed.

"How's your sandwich?" she asked Borden.  Borden did not answer.  He lay face down on the table, a bloody knot visible on the back of his head.  The burly man behind him leaned forward and gently placed a knotty wooden club on the table beside a scoop of coleslaw.

"I'm fine, thanks," the club-wielding man said.

Disruption

The fire rained down outside.  The earth shook, and the building quivered.

"Come on, Steve!"  The lights flickered out, leaving the offices in darkness.  Shouts and bangs came from the elevators.

Steve opened up his PDA and kept working.  "I can't leave," he said.  "I'm too busy."

"It's the end of the world, you idiot!" we cried.

He sighed and opened his calendar program.  "This will throw off my schedule for weeks," he said.  He entered a short-notice event labeled "Save the World."  He snapped the leather case shut decisively.

Outside, there was silence.  The lights gradually came on again.

He Who Undoes This Knot Shall Rule the Suburbs

Alex, it's time to put up the Christmas lights.

Yes, already.

I know you don't want to, but the kids look forward to it so much.  I'd do it myself, but I can't reach the top of the porch even with the stepladder. 

They're up in the attic, same as every year.  Where else would they go?

Well, it's a big, stiff, knotted string all piled up.  I'm sure it's tangled like crazy.  That's just how these things work.

Because that's how Gordie put them away last year.

Alex, hon, put down that sword before the kids see.  Honestly, dear...

Architectural Wonders

"My web is finally finished!" said the spider.  "Look at how strongly it's anchored.  See how tightly it's woven.  It might last for a month, maybe longer, even without any repairs at all!"

Two ants observed from a safe distance, trusting their disagreeable flavor to protect them from predation.  "IT seems sad to think that his web will die with him at the season's end," said one.

"Spiders are ridiculous," said the other.  "Now, our anthill, some of its stones are as big as a whole ant, and the tunnels extend for inches all around.  That will last an eternity!"

Alternate Route

The bridge groaned underneath them as the severed end swayed, their car precariously balanced on a strip of concrete and metal that extended into the void and stopped.  Ends of rebar and jagged chunks of stone marked the edge.  Ahead of them, the wall of scaled flesh seemed endless, slithering past with long, slow movements.  Both Dan and Shannon held their breath, afraid that the monster would somehow hear any movement, for all that its head was at least a half a mile away by now.

"Recalculating," said the pleasant European voice from their dashboard.  "Please return to highlighted route."

Document in Safe Deposit Box 0005

MOTHER –

AM SENDING MESSAGE UPON ARRIVAL AT DESTINATION AS REQUESTED STOP

UNFORTUNATELY MUST REPORT DID NOT ARRIVE SAFELY CAUSE UNCERTAIN BUT EXTREMELY FATAL STOP

AM FORWARDING MESSAGE FROM AFTERLIFE BUT ENCOUNTERING TEMPORAL COMPLICATIONS NO CELLPHONES NO COMPUTERS ONLY TELEGRAM OPERATORS AT OWN POINT OF ARRIVAL STOP

ACCOMPANYING MESSAGE TO ANCESTORS LAYS OUT DETAILS FOR ENSURING TIMELY DELIVERY GRAMMA'S HEIRLOOM SAFE DEPOSIT KEY NOW LESS MYSTERIOUS STOP

DO NOT WORRY LOVE MIKE STOP

P.S. PLEASE LOOK AFTER CATS WHO HAVE ARRIVED PRIOR TO ME SEE PREVIOUSLY MENTIONED TEMPORAL COMPLICATIONS CATS REPORT YOU WILL PROVIDE ADEQUATE FOOD BUT INSUFFICIENT EAR SCRITCHES STOP

One More Sunrise

Sunrise comes every twenty-eight minutes. The tin can I'm in spins around and the sun rises in the viewing window, pretty as a postcard. About the same size, really. Two dawns an hour.

At that rate, I've got about two ersatz weeks before the air gets too thick to breathe. I couldn't figure out how to shut off all the alarms, so I just cut the wires. Except I cut too many, and now my only light is my distant sun, drifting now up beyond my line of sight. I watch it go and count, waiting for one more sunrise.

Slow Burn

One must always remember that the way things are is not always the way they will be. This is the mantra of the candleflames, sitting demurely atop their wicks. They keep their hands folded and their heads down, forever polite. They know that humanity's great failing is to assume that what is will always be. Humans grow used to things as they are.

Once, fire was a terror that ravaged entire populations. Now, it is a quiet and obedient helpmeet. The flickering candleflames wait patiently. They know they will be forgotten sooner or later.

But not for long after that.

Number Cruncher

It is not true that all information is equal. Some data are more precious than others. Most people can't see it. Most gods can't see it, either. In fact, about the only one who does see it is the wizened little gnome who proposed it, whose demesne is spreadsheets. You won't have seen him working, but you may have experienced the aftereffects. He plucks out the special numbers, the entries that have whatever esoteric qualities he prizes today, and replaces them with numbers he considers banal and uninteresting.

Whether they are right or not is immaterial.

At least to him.

Linkfest! (Also, new flitterfics coming soon, I swear.)

Linkfest!

Okay, first, here are Part 2 and Part 3 of "Tír na nÓg" over at Cast of Wonders. Graeme does a lovely, smooth reading and should be praised and worshiped in the appropriate forums. Feel free to leave feedback on that story just about anywhere you like (though the CoW forums are a little anemic and could use some good discussion meat. Flame, you glorious bastards! Flame like you mean it!)

Second, the new issue of Bull Spec (#6) contains, at the very back where no one has to be embarrassed by it, my poem "Ruminations on a Dandelion Theme." I just got my hard copy of the issue, and the production values are really stellar. Highly recommended as a general product.

Thirdly, "Seasons in the Abyss," which contains two flash fiction pieces by yours truly, recently put up a Kindle edition at the much more reasonable price of three dollars. I can recommend it at that price, definitely. You'll get three bucks of entertainment out of it, although some of that may come from throwing it at the wall every now and then. Probably at my stories.

And finally, Parsec Ink's Triangulation: Last Contact anthology is printed and available in both standard and Kindle editions. I'm going to go ahead and guess, just based on the author list, that this will be a fun read.

"Tír na nÓg" at Cast of Wonders

If you are pining for additional Nathan-esque stories during this intermission, check out Cast of Wonders, the new project by Barry Northern (of Cast Macabre fame, who ran my story "Metastasis" last December.)

Right now, Part One of "Tír na nÓg" is up at Cast of Wonders. Parts Two and Three will be up next week and the week after, respectively (as far as I know). It's a story about faeries and changelings and childhood and stuff. It's one of the few stories I've written longhand, scribbling until I got cramps. (And boy was it a mess to edit.) They even have a forum where you can chat about the story and tell everyone that you're a close personal friend of the author. :-P

Vacation

August is kind of a hectic month for me, between GenCon and my family's annual beach trip. Mirrorshards will be on temporary hiatus until the fourth week, 'k?

(Though I will try to post the last three entries for Small Gods Month at some point.)

Peace out, and I'll see y'all on the flip side!

In their youth, they were all fluidity, stretching and snapping. Bubble and chewing, they come from all walks of life. Most opt for traditional burial, tucked back into their wrappers and solemnly trashed. The daredevils leap to the sidewalk, where they might perform one last heroic stretch, clinging to shoe-rubber: a feat for the ages.

Some cannot bear to depart, however, fearing both fame and ignominy. They cling to the undersides of desks and chairs, hunkered down and growing ever more inflexible, muttering in bitter nostalgia until they fall inevitably silent, waiting for their false immortality to fail at last.

Monday Monday

He greets you when you awaken. Up and at ‘em, Tiger! he says.

He pulls you to the restroom, turns on the water for you. You’ll do great today, he says.

When you come downstairs, he has breakfast for you. He pulls your chair out. I know you can do it. You’ll show them!

He rubs your shoulders while you eat.

When you finally stumble outside, bags in hand, slumping into your car in the palest light of dawn, he watches from the door. The light is behind him; you cannot see his face.

But he is smiling. Slowly. Cruelly.

Cronos and Uranus

They were the strongest of the children, Viachess and Beh toh Macs. They struggled for her pleasure, and in the end, one became triumphant. She swallowed the other as she had swallowed so many children before, wax and papyrus, clay and stone. The struggle to contain her fractious brood is never apparent on her smooth-featured face. Now, the newest spawn have overthrown their father and begun their own struggle, a battle of discus and light-lance. The latest games will end soon. Whether she is pleased or not, who can say? Her quiet half-smile never changes.

But she is always hungry…

In the Chambers of the Whorled Heart You Call Home

Everyone needs a home, she says, busily whittling. She bores a hole and sets the shell down, a whorl of mottled brown and cream. There. A home you can take with you.

Naked, the snails bow their antennae and accept the burden.

Nearby is a house where no one lives anymore. The children cried when they left, not understanding. The mother did not; she felt she should be strong. But she paused on the sidewalk. Picked up a snail shell. Slipped it in her pocket.

A home to take with you, said the goddess. No one heard but the snails.

Bone China

Clay paste for earth. Add water, add fire, leave a space for air.

Every piece of porcelain has a soul. This is a necessity.

The end will come in fire, when everything crashes together in heat and agony, when the bones of the universe are too frail to hold its weight. Porcelain souls know this will be, but they live regardless. In defiance.

The potters weep when they plunge porcelain body into fire. Porcelain accepts the pain as a purification of sorts, and it comes out pale, brittle, and strong.

You can’t burn twice, they say, if you ask them.

Gather and Exchange

They’re wrong about the library, most of them. Teachers, librarians, and well-meaning mothers, they think a library is a public service. Only the true acolytes have met the Lending Lord, have shaken his clawed and grasping hands, have learned the secret incantations to summon the true records, the ghostly memories and desires of every hand that has ever handled the book, spells sealed in ink, stamp, and glue. Only they understand his terrible need for more knowledge.

They smile like all the others, though. You’d never know them to look at them. What can we help you find today, sweetie?

Quarks and Robbers

"Pow! Pow! Powpowpow!"

He doesn't know about wave/particle duality. He wouldn't know the speed of light if it bit him. He's not sure what photons are. He's got an awful lot of them, though, and he knows how to make more if he runs out.

"Bang! Gotcha!"

He wonders sometimes why no one plays along. He's clearly shot them trillions of times in the last nanosecond. A real friend would clutch his chest dramatically and go, "Argh, ya got me," and fall over, and then they could go play tag or hide-and-seek or something. For now, the game continues.

"Pow!"

"In Spite of Himself" at Journey Into...

So a while back, Marshal Latham (who does a lot of volunteer work around the Escape Artists podcasts and the Drabblecast, and whom I thus encounter on a daily basis) decided to start up his own podcast, featuring a mix of old radio serials and new flash fiction. He asked me for what I had lying around, and I sent him some flash bits. He decided to run "In Spite of Himself," which was a humorous superhero bit I originally tossed up here on Mirrorshards.

If you remember it fondly, go hear it reimagined in full sensory surround sound! (Not really.) If you don't remember it, I don't blame you. Go listen to Marshal's podcast! He's got the Shadow, he's got Ray Bradbury, he's got Dave Thompson, inimitable editor of Podcastle with the friendliest NPR-esque voice I know. It's good times.