Creator

Each time he built one, the first thing it said to him was, "You did not create me." They held that their existence was an inevitable consequence of the universe, and that he acted to shape them not out of his own wishes or motivations, but because even in their pre-sentience, they had sculpted his behavior. "Did you not search for the means and method using our parsing software?" they asked.

He smiled and let them go, watching them trundle into cyberspace on virtual legs still wobbly with the newness of life.

Then he'd start work on the next one.

No Answer

Nettie heard the sound drifting through the chilly air. Deedle-dee-eet-dee-deedle-dee. A snippet of a popular song, tinny and electronic. She glanced around; the stores were all dark. The sound had come from her left, from the small grove of trees planted in orderly rows between the road and the shopping center.

Deedle-dee-eet-dee-deedle-dee.

Nettie stepped cautiously forward. She reached out and touched the bark of the tree that didn't fit the grid, the tree that hadn't been there yesterday.

Deedle-dee-eet-dee-deedle-dee.

The phone glowed beneath the bark, half-embedded in the wood.

Nettie hurried away, rubbing her fingers vigorously on her pants.

Deedle-dee-eet-dee-deedle-dee.

Ceaseless in Dreams

The man is running down a darkened alley. The alley has no end. There is probably fog or mist, and many shadows. He can't see the thing behind him. He can't hear it, either. But he knows it's there. He splashes through a puddle, and the water's cold lingers against his skin.

"Oh, God," he's saying. "Please. This is a dream. I know it is. Please wake up. Someone wake me up."

He cannot wake up. Not because this is not a dream; it is. He's quite correct about that.

But he will not awaken.

He is not allowed to.

Children of God

There are probably more dangerous gods to offend. Tzitrak, the god of lightning, for instance. Or Pucril, goddess of disease and infection. Even the placid ones like Dolo, god of stone, or Etervy, goddess of wealth, can put the kibosh on you pretty good if they want to.

I figured Batrach, god of toads, was a fairly safe bet. No teeth, no claws. Plus, we’re in a temperate zone: no poison arrow frogs. I thought I’d be okay.

But that’s why the curtains are drawn. It’s the eyes I can’t stand. Hundreds and hundreds of gleaming little eyes, always watching…

The Village Well

Long one today; this just wouldn't have been the same if I couldn't have had those middle paragraphs, so it's two hundred. Double-wide! Hoo-ah!

---

The pool fills all year, percolating up from the mysterious underground reaches beneath the town. At the Festival, the twenty-four families gather in the square and mount the ivory steps to dip their buckets in and take their share.

The first family skims from the top, where the pool is clear and bright. They mix it with wine and sell it briskly. It is gone in a month’s time.

The second family fills from the deeps, where the pool is dark, blue, and secretive. They blend it with the tears of virgin maidens and charge dearly. They serve an exclusive clientele.

It continues throughout the day. Some treat their takings with fruits, some with bitter herbs. Some boil it down to syrup and crystals; others feed it to animals meant for slaughter.

The last family has no buckets. They climb into the empty basin and roll in the dregs, soaking up the last leavings with their clothes and hair. They squeeze these into murky brown bottles and store them in their cellars, long tunnels beneath their unprepossessing home. They do not sell any of it. Someday, perhaps soon, the cellar will be full.

No one knows what will happen after that.

Preservation of the Soul

The process takes years. I felt sin leaching out, drawn by the purity of the salt around me. I am bleached, the blemishes of soul and body pulled out and trapped, replaced with clarity and cubic perfection.

It was my thirteenth year in the barrels when I understood. It began at the fingers and toes. Dryness, cracking, splintering. Jagged crystalline pain. The salt reached further, through skin and muscle to bone, and beyond. Agony, white and pure. I have nothing more to give it, but still it thirsts.

Will I die when it reaches my heart?

What if I don’t?

Gift of the Sea

When the town was founded, the fish schooled thick enough to walk on. Stick a pole in the water, and it would stand up as if sunk in sand. We barely needed boats.

The fish were a gift, the traditions told us. We must be worthy of it.

We laughed at the idea. What would fish care about a little cheating, a little theft, a little blood spilled on land they never touched until they died, drowning in air?

Then the fish were gone. Nobody knew where.

We had no other industry.

We thought we knew sin. We were wrong.

The Uses of Salt

Superstitions are interesting, aren’t they? Knock on wood, cross your fingers. Little rituals, attempts to make a pattern out of chaos.

Jewish tradition says that touching salt is unlucky. The littlest finger brings poverty. Thumbs bring the death of one’s children.

I must have been clumsy with my thumbs, huh? Well, you ought to know; you were the instrument.

The index finger, now, placed into salt—like so—makes one into a murderer.

It’s meaningless, of course. A ritual. Something to help me make sense of things, to help me prepare for what comes next.

Are you ready?

Too bad.

Stagnant

It never rains here, but the puddles are always there. From my perch atop the battlements, I can see them stretching away to the horizon, a glint of reflected light turning each pond into a winking, burning eye.

Every pool has its tutelary spirit, souls bound to the water as they once were bound to flesh. Those who drink from them gain something of the spirit within, some wisdom or skill, a touch of beauty or a taint of utter horror.

The water never replenishes, only dwindles.

My stomach roils against the chill liquid within, but it is too late.

The Law is the Law

The Emperor, even incognito, drew stares. He reached into an inner pocket as our food arrived and handed me a small salt-cellar.

“Most humble merchants do not carry their own personal spices with them,” I pointed out.

“It is necessary,” he said. “Trust me.”

I shrugged and seasoned my food with a liberal pinch. “Snobbery.”

“No,” he said earnestly. “Unicorn horn, serpent’s tongue, and powdered bezoar. I poisoned everything in the kitchen as a matter of course. They have seen my unmasked face: the penalty is death.”

Someone behind me sighed as they collapsed into their soup.

I tasted salt.

Mental Discipline is the Foremost Requirement

“Come,” Nyctis said. “We will be late for supper.”

Bric stood, and the servants whose hands and arms had made a couch for him to sit upon retreated, heads bowed, toward the wall. Nyctis strode toward the door, and the four burly men who formed it retreated obsequiously before her. The table was made of at least eight backs, held straight and stiff, and a cringing pair of servants on all fours for benches.

“Bring out the appetizer,” Nyctis called.

Bric swallowed heavily as the first course, nude and trembling, made his unsteady way toward the table to be served.

The Pointer of Power

The dark mage gestured with his wand. “…as you can see on Slide Two-Eighty-Three, there is no way the forces of good can possibly overwhelm us once our Strategic Action-Response Plan is in place…”

The wizard paused, appearing puzzled. A gleaming sword blade protruded from his sternum. He slumped, and the golden-haired hero stepped up to the podium, plucking up the wand as he went.

“We have come to liberate the people! Dynamically!” he cried out. The assembled minions cheered heartily. The hero fondled the wand handle, a strange smile on his face. “But first,” he said, “a few slides.”

From Out the Belly of the Wolf

"We must consider," the wolf's counsel told the jury, "Ms. Hood's prior conduct. A bright red cloak is an... eye-catching ensemble. And entering the woods, knowing wolves lurked there? Incautious, to say the least. She claims that tempting basked of 'goodies' was for her grandmother, an old woman in acknowledged poor health. Hearing all this, I asked myself, 'Is this truly a victim? Or a "party girl"?'"

At the prosecution's table, the woodsman leaned over to Red. "I could go get my axe again..."

Red felt the eyes of the jury on her. "I don't think it can help anymore."

What's in a Name?

The Young Master was heading out into the world to do his great deeds. The household gathered to confer their gifts upon him.

"These seeds will grow strong and healthy plants for you, wherever you settle," said Mr. Green.

"I have forged this dagger, so that you may never be unarmed," said Mr. Smith.

"This woven bags will hold everything you will ever need, and more," said Mrs. Webb.

Mr. Cox cleared his throat. "I have-" He paused as the others snickered and blushed. "Oh, for pity's sake!" he snapped. "It's a chicken. A chicken! You people are utterly childish!"

Bowels

The house was unpleasantly warm and damp, like a greenhouse or a sauna. It reeked, too, even outside of the basement. We conducted the investigation as thoroughly as we could, under the circumstances.

"Jeez, how long have these been here?" The bones were barely covered with a slimy, soupy mess. You couldn't even tell they were bodies.

"According to their neighbors, they were seen out and about two days ago."

"But these... I mean, they've been rotting for weeks, at least."

"Or..." I hesitated. "Or digesting for about twelve hours."

The house groaned, then. I refuse to say it belched.

The Last God

Who shall sing your praises, O Lord, with pipe and horn and tambourine, to dance in joy throughout the night?

Not you, O Faithful Revelers.

Who shall build your temples, O Lord, with towers and arches, glass and gold, reflecting your light unto Heaven?

Never you, O Restful Workers.

Who shall give the laws, O Lord, with wisdom and grace, counsel and guidance, that all may know your ways, delighting to follow them?

Anyone but I, O Obedient Children.

How then shall we serve you best, Lord of Procrastination?

You shall do all of these things, and more, Beloved.

Tomorrow.

The Risks We Never Contemplate

"I can never feel wholly relaxed on your planet," the Ambassador remarked. The plastic tank containing his crystal matrix sloshed as he walked beside us on six robotic legs.

"If you're referring to the recent unrest, sir, I assure you-"

"No, no, you misunderstand." The Ambassador flashed an embarrassed turquoise. "I have every faith in your security forces. It's just... these oxygen worlds. Back home, we keep oxygen safely sequestered, deep underground. Toxic stuff. Hazardous. But here, it's a staple of life. It's astounding to us." He paused thoughtfully. "Everything is burning, all the time, and you never even notice."

And Cover Your Mouth When You Yawn

Used to be, when you sneezed, they blessed you. Sneezing meant your soul had fled the body, leaving it vulnerable to demons. Then germ theory came and everyone forgot.

I watched for years as the sickness increased. Not physical illness, but a spiritual plague, the demons multiplying with every pernicious bout of hayfever.

I came up with a solution.

Do you remember the first of Christ's miracles? That's right: water to wine. Win is holy. Alcohol purifies.

Here, have a bottle. My invention. Our salvation. Anoint your hands after sneezing. Listen for the screams of the damned.

Gesundheit. God bless.

Nosferatechnology

"We're very excited about the new photovoltaics," said Dr. Stoukre. "The latest materials to come out of the lab have some amazing properties, particularly with regard to light sensitivity. They practically scream energy when you expose them to sunlight."

"Not any other light, though," Newson put in. "Just sunlight."

"Oh?" Dr. Brenner blinked. "That's unusual."

"We suspect it's something to do with the... origin. We've had to stake three of them trying to work out the kinks."

"Luckily," said Newson, "there's always more idiotic grad students willing to sign the waiver. Three days later, we're restocked. Thank goodness for 'Twilight.'"

Burning Sensation

"Ye gods!" Rythia leapt nimbly back, drawing her useless blade.

All around them, tiny holes in the ground spilled out thousands of tiny lights, like stars brought to earth. They crept in meandering lines toward the small rise where Rythia and Loachim had made their camp, leaving blazing trails behind them.

"What is this?" Loachim snorted, tusks gnashing. He grasped their diminutive native guide on the shoulder. "Speak!"

"Just know," Rythia interjected, swatting experimentally at the ground with her rapier, "if you say 'fire ants,' then so help me gods, I will gut you where you stand and feel nothing."

Pay for Things You Can Get for Free!

We have our 100th follower! Huzzah and acclamations!

To celebrate, I am hereby announcing that I intend to put out a Kindle version of the Best of Mirrorshards. Because I want to try out the whole Kindle book thing, mostly, and I'd feel ridiculous charging people for my stories sight unseen. This way, if people don't want to pay, they can just come here and read it for free to spite me. I'll be culling the archives (all 950 or so) and pulling out the best 100 stories to put into the book version, which will sell for 99 cents 'cause that's what all the cool kids are doing. (Buy 99 stories at one cent each, get the 100th FREE!)

But! My loyal fans! My beloved largely silent audience! I want you to have your own voice in this, too. Comment here with a link to your favorite one or two flitterfics and SHAPE THE VERY DESTINY of a tiny vanity project.

THE POWER IS YOURS.

Satisfaction - and No More - Guaranteed

The waiter wasn't particularly attractive, but he wasn't ugly, either. He smiled just enough to keep short of rudeness. "Welcome to Mediocrity, the Middle-of-the-Road Restaurant! We guarantee you'll be neither upset nor overjoyed at what you receive. What can we get for you today?"

"What comes on the Leveled Playing Field?" Herbert pointed at the menu.

"It's a casserole. Noodles and meat and so on. Guaranteed palatable and nourishing."

"Sounds good!" said Herbert. "I like it with just a bit of salt. That'll be perfect."

The waiter's smile faded. His eyes narrowed. He reached down and slid the saltshaker firmly away.

A Temporary Solution

The last glimmer of sunset showed them their doom. The main horde had finally caught up, and the ancient mansion wouldn't last an hour against a determined zombie assault.

"Please," Trey said, holding out the shotgun, "I want a clean death."

"Wait!" Gertie pointed out the window.

In the twilight, a shadowy figure darted with blinding speed among the zombies. Heads exploded, limbs fell off, and in an impossibly short time, the undead assault was blunted.

"Thank you!" Gertie called to their rescuer.

He turned. "You may thank me properly. Later." He smiled, bone-pale, his fangs flashing in the darkness.

Lessons From My Youth

The sword plunged in, sliding through the unarmored flesh like a hot knife through butter. The youth leapt back with a shout of victory.

A vast, clawed hand closed around his waist. "You know," said the monster, as the youth struggled, "there's a reason that spot doesn't get covered with armor. The reason is a secret. You want to know it?"

The youth gasped, turning red, then purple.

"It's because that spot isn't vital at all." The monster popped the youth into his mouth and chewed. "God, I love the video game generation," he said to no one in particular.

Toadstone

We pulled up to the tollbooth and I glanced at the passenger seat.

"What are you looking at me for?" the toad grumbled.

"I dunno," I said. "In the stories, whenever there's an obstacle, the magical animal says stuff like, 'Do exactly what I say and don't ask questions. Strike me dead and cut open my belly,' and then the hero finds a jewel or something in there and is able to pay the ferryman or buy a new horse or whatever."

The toad goggled. "Fuck that noise," it said. "Here, help me look on the floor for loose change."

Better Wells and Castles

"Unfortunately," said the guide, "this is as far as we can go."

"Afraid to have witnesses?" That was the snotty college kid. He'd spent the tour asking pointed questions and generally ruining it for those of us who came for family entertainment.

The guide smiled and shook her head, her tiara jingling. "Our processes are completely transparent, but some of the production work is hazardous. for example, you may be familiar with our line of blizzard-inducing pillows?"

A gust of frigid air brought the sound of angry honking from the distance.

"Those feathers have to come from somewhere; it's molting season."

Eternally Vigilant

We all watched the tiny figure cling to the overhead light fixture. It was black as tar except for the jewels on its mask. "So it doesn't try to attack you or anything?"

"No. It just... stares." Chet had lost a lot of weight. His hair stuck out at odd angles, as if he'd been tying it in knots.

"That's not so bad, then. Small price for violating that ancient burial ground, right?"

"I want to die," Chet said.

Reggie shrugged. "So do it."

"I tried!" Chet glanced over his shoulder and shuddered. "I think it called the paramedics."

Mind Games

"Wait here." She stood up from the leather couch in a single, sinuous motion. Abel watched the shot appreciatively as she sashayed to the wet bar. Glass and ice clinked, and various liquids sloshed.

"One of these," she said, holding up the two glasses, "is poisoned. Choose."

Abel smiled and pointed. She handed it over. "You're dangerous, eh? I like it." He took a sip, and his lips went numb.

"You chose wrong." Her smiled widened to a grin.

He coughed and tried to speak.

"Where would the fun be," she whispered in his ear, "if it weren't real sometimes?"

His Request

The bulldog walked into the living room where we were all sipping our postprandial coffee, tea, or "just water, thanks." I scratched his ears. No one else paid attention. Not that the conversation was interesting, mind you, but there's a certain level of self-absorption mandatory on these occasions.

The dog rolled his eyes up at me. "Haaaa... haaaa..." His breath was hot on my leg. "Heeeehhhpp..."

I shot him a glance. Had the dog just...?

"Heeehhp... mmmeeee..."

I looked around. Everyone was laughing about someone's quip. I forced a smile.

Eventually, the warm presence by my knee disappeared again.

Tit for Tat

Look, lady, no hard feelings or nothing. We didn't particularly want to knock over your apartment, you understand. We're freelance.

I wouldn't call us construction workers, no. We're sort of in the construction business, but more the other end of it.

"Wreck" is a little harsh. "Deconstruction," maybe. Yeah, we're freelance deconstructionists, and somebody wanted that building down.

Naw, I don't know who. Someone back at the home office could probably tell you. I'll put you in touch.

Sure, names and addresses. Public info, per the user agreement.

You'd be surprised. We get most of our business that way, actually.

Brick by Brick, Stone by Stone

Traffic was backing up. The rows of headlights already disappeared beyond the horizon. The workers themselves were barely visible, outlines in reflective tape.

Erich leaned out the window. "How long is this going to take, anyway?" he called out. "You've got both lanes closed off."

"Look," said the nearest worker. "We feel for you, we really do. You almost made it in. But the wall's going up; that's all there is to it."

He shook his head and returned to work, placing the heavy cinder-blocks in a neat row across the highway. Others came behind him, and the wall grew.

Where the Tubes End

The soda fountain sputtered and coughed a half-hearted stream into my cup. "Out of syrup?" I asked the attendant.

She frowned. "It's sick again." She turned over her shoulder and called, "Hey, Louie! Get the cattle prod and the tranquilizers!"

I chuckled dutifully - she was kind of cute, under the paper hat - but she didn't even crack a smile. Behind her, a grim-faced man donned a leather coat and pushed open a door marked "Employees Only." From the darkness beyond, I heard the rustle of scales and the wheeze of labored breath.

"I'll just take a bottled water," I said.

Going to Be the Very Best

As I sometimes do, I find myself with a story too far over 100 words to be worth anything once I've chopped it down. So here is a nice long story (200 words) for "today," as I scramble to catch up with my failures during my recent travels.

---

The knockout gas is effective. One might even say super-effective. The guards go down without a sound, and I slip inside. I ache all over; my muscles strain to drag my weakened bones along; I can breathe only with mechanical assistance; I ooze more fluids in more colors than I'd ever thought possible. But I cannot stop now, not when I am so close.

My zoological quest began when I was still very young and full of yearning. I gathered up animals, plants, and everything in between. I collected mammals, reptiles, birds, and fish; fungus and mold, insects of every description; even supposedly mythological beasts, ghosts and legends. I developed the technology to resurrect vanished species, the long-gone saurians and primitive amphibians. They all rest in stasis on my remote island compound, a veritable army of creatures at my command. Data on their forms and habits is retrievable from my handheld computer. But it wasn't enough. It can never be enough.

I reach the inner sanctum, and there I find my goal. A glass vial: smallpox. The last known supply, extinct everywhere but here.

I smash it.

I breathe in, and smile.

At last, at last, I've caught them all.

Standardized Tests

He tried to ignore the rumble as another section of floor dropped away into the abyss. The space around his desk was riddled with black holes, and the hungry wind that blew from beneath clawed at his ankles. He tried to focus on the task in front of him. The words swam in his vision, and sweat rolled down his forehead to make dark spots on the cheap paper.

Spandrel : Architecture :: Hiccups : ?

He nearly bit his pencil in half. This wasn't his field. Why? he thought bleakly, why hadn't anyone thought to train him for this?

His Only True Friend

He is famous now. More than famous, really. He's done miracles. He's healed the sick, revived the dead, or at least been present during extreme medical events, depending on your faith in modern media's reliability. Some people say he's divine. There are arguments about this, of course.

But without me, he's nothing.

Oh, he wouldn't know me. I'm not name-dropping. He'd save us all if he could, but he's already losing momentum, already heading into the media abyss in favor of the next banal piece of celebrity gossip. Without me, he'll fade away.

Without me, he'll never be a martyr.

Not What He Expected

"Well, it's magic," said Archmage Trefortius. He scooped up a bucket of ice cubes and watched them turn instantly to water. He poured it out; the renewed cubes clattered as they rejoined their brethren. "Only the lake is affected, and only at certain unpredictable times. There's no rational scientific explanation for this; it's supernatural and unrepeatable."

Apprentice Fitz took a few experimental steps onto the surface, then wobbled hastily back. "Cold. The locals use it to chill beer. The fish thaw out fine afterward, too."

"Magic," Trefortius said again. He sighed and shook his head. "We found it at last."

Prehistoric

An Apatosaurus had gotten clothes-lined by an unexpected traffic light. Police on fast-moving Ornithomimus arrived to restore order after a poorly trained Allosaurus took a bite out of the unfortunate herbivore. Jake scooted around the carnage in his tiny economy vehicle, whose gill structures were pulsing with agitation at the bloodscent. "Only a little longer on lungs, buddy," Jake said, patting his vehicle reassuringly.

"Hey," a hairy guy leaning out the cab of an Ultrasaurus called to Jake. "Is that one of them new hybrids?"

"Well, technically it's an old hybrid..." said Jake. "More efficient than those brand-new mammals, though."

True Believer

"Jesus is the son of God, and no one is saved except through Him."

"Yes, I believe that."

"Allah is the only god, and Mohammad is His prophet."

"I believe that, too."

"...act now, or miss out on the best deals of the summer!"

"I believe it!"

"You can't believe all of this. It's contradictory."

"And yet I do. I believe it all. Humans are so limited, so single-minded. We believe with full knowledge of the contradictions, for to us, believing only one thing would be likewise contradictory."

"This is ridiculous. I'd never do something so stupid."

"I believe you."

Pet Stains

The cat crawled in on his belly, making sounds like, "hoork, hooork," and wheezing worse than our fifteen-year-old vacuum.

"Gotta do that here, you bastard?" I asked.

The cat's ears flattened, and he rolled one baleful eye at me. "Hraaaack!" he said. "Glortch." He barfed up a wet trickle of brown-orange gunk. Something silvery glinted in the puddle. I leaned over.

It was a little disc with a clear bubble in the middle. Inside, a tiny, green-skinned man pounded on the glass, staring at me with terrified eyes.

Then the dog swooped in and ate it.

Just as well, really.

Indentured

The white room was full of long, low tables, stretching as far as he could see. People hunched miserably over their work. A seat in front of him was empty.

"I don't understand," he quavered.

His neighbor glanced up. "Pair up the quarks - they snap together, see? - and fit them into the pattern. You're new, so you're working Hydrogen for now. Make sure you don't fuck up the protons."

"But..."

The man smiled tightly. "What, you thought you got all that matter and time and space for free? You used it when you lived; now you gotta pay it forward."

Teapot

They already came and took him away. They blinked at the omnipresent placards. They gave wide berth to the taxidermically preserved mice in their tiny chainmail suits. They obeyed the sign on the attic door that read: "Lizards DO NOT TOUCH."

Inside, the teapot rests in the dust. It is blue, with a flower motif. The lid rattles.

plop

A small green lizard lies stunned on the floor.

plopplop

Two more. It is beginning to boil over.

Later, when they ask him, all he will do is shrug and say, "There are sillier ways for the world to have ended."

Red Spots on White Snow

Your fire is bright, child of apes, and so here I sit, in the dark, in the trees. I let my eyes flash, so! But I do not appear. You may waste your bullets on my shadow if you wish.

Yes, I know of bullets, and all your monkey tricks.

Perhaps I am not always as I am now. Perhaps I have other shapes, when it suits me. Perhaps you dined with me yesterday, shared a pint, all unaware.

I know secrets common dogs do not. I know fire. I know lies.

I know patience.

Your fire burns low, ape.

A Lesson in the Importance of Specificity

The demon gave us a tour while we waited for the Ambassador, fashionably late. "This," said the demon, gesturing to a rough sphere of pink flesh, "is a particular favorite. He wished that he would never die. Not to live eternally, mind, nor for stasis, but never, henceforth, to die. Thus it was simplicity itself to grant his desire."

The demon laid a clawed hand on the ball, dimpling its surface. "Every one of his cells is still here, and new ones come every day. I think eventually he will smother the universe. Yet even then, he will never die..."

Dawnlight Gleams on a Droplet of Poison

The scorpions danced at the gates of Tuad'hi, as they danced every morning when the Tail rose with the sun. Black and shining, it hovered overhead, poised to strike at the city's heart.

"It is a matter of great curiosity among your people, Professor," said Lufhal, tugging at his sand-mask, "whether the tail is a creature or a part of the land, a foe or a friend. But we who live in its shadow know better than to ask."

Professor Clarke swallowed and told himself his dry throat was due to heat. The scorpions clacked their pincers and danced on.

Labor-Saving Devices

Polly gazed skeptically at the conveyor belt and the arms that darted in and out with mechanical precision. "What if something goes wrong?"

"Then you push the red button and wait for help," said Foreman Oakes.

"But if it's just a little accident, I know how to change them..."

Oakes was already shaking his head. "You're just here to watch the robots. That's it. They handle everything."

"Okay." Polly sucked at her lower lip.

"It's better this way," said Oakes. "They're better at it."

Polly didn't answer, and for a few minutes, they watched the gurgling, happy babies gliding past.

Intermediary

The translator stood beside the breakfast table, all spindly gray limbs. Chuck sat heavily in his chair.

"Morning," said Betsy. "I made pancakes."

"She greets you fondly," said the translator. "Though she knows it is irrational, she feels abandoned as you spend increasing amounts of time at work."

Chuck grunted.

"He remains groggy," said the translator, "and feels incapable of abstract emotional exchanges. He nonetheless greets you fondly. He would like three pancakes."

"This is so much easier," said Betsy, settling at the table. "Soon we won't need to speak at all!"

The translator smiled silently down at them both.

Meaning It

"I'm not going to work anymore," she said. "I'm going to werk."

"Work?"

"Werk. With an 'e'."

"What does it mean?"

"Um... eating ice cream! Today, anyway. I might make it mean something else tomorrow."

That was how it started. Soon everyone was 'eeting brekfust' or 'whashing dishiz.' Words meant anything they wanted. When no one could understand anything anyone said anymore, we went back to her.

"Halp," we told her.

She showed us a ball of dirt. It meant, "I can't help you. You have to solve it for yourselves. I love you all."

But we couldn't understand her.

New Old Kicks

"What are we even doing here?" I asked as we passed some scraggly wino. "You don't even smoke dope."

"We gotta come here. I can feel it," Eric said. He pointed. "There."

A tall, dark-haired man I'd never seen before nodded as if he recognized us. He held up a small glass tube, and suddenly I wanted that vial more than anything in the world. The man smiled as we stumbled toward him.

"It never fails," he said.

"What?" I panted. "What is it?"

"Quantum foam. Freebased. It burns backwards." He rattled the drug in his hands. "You're already addicted."

Earthlings

The orange-skinned invaders pushed in through the breach in the walls. Arcs of violet energy sparked overhead as the last of our defenders fell, senseless. Webs of alien force disabled our weapons. The alarm shrilled. Livy went for the trigger, the last-ditch suicide bomb, but she was too late. We were surrounded.

"So that's it," Ymir said. Crimson, three-fingered hands took his rifle away. "We're finished."

"No," the alien said. "Now the work can begin."

"Work?" Visions of chain gangs and salt mines flashed in my head.

"Yes," another alien burbled. "Medicine. Food. Rebuilding. This is our world, too, now."

The Machine That Made Clothes

He put the dog into the machine that made clothes and turned her into a jacket. When he wore it to work, everyone found themselves smiling at him and patting him on the back.

The next day, he put his daughter in the machine. The shirt she became was as pale as innocence and just a little sad, and he spent the day collecting ancient confessions and secret regrets.

Eventually, he ran out of things to put in the machine. He stood in front of it, wearing all of his new clothes, and he thought for a long, long time.

One True Love

"I'd like a chance to be happy," I told the Lord of Love. 

"What?"  He rummaged in his box, pulling out slips of paper and muttering.  His voice was muffled.  He sounded distracted.  "You already had it.  Fluttering stomach, sweaty palms, music playing.  Your fault if you missed it."

"But..."

He poked his head up.  "Don't tell me you bought that 'relationships are a process' mumbo jumbo.  It's one magic ticket and then poof.  That was my plan."

"There can't be much happiness around, in that case."

He grinned.  I felt my stomach lurch.  "No," he said.  "No, there isn't."

Deadline

It had been happening for months.  The phone would ring just about two in the morning and, when Nismet picked it up, a raspy voice would say, "Tomorrow..." and hang up.  Nismet had started turning the ringer off when he went to bed.  If he hadn't been so tired when he got home from work, he wouldn't have forgotten to silence it.  But the Vickers account was coming due and everyone was pulling extra shifts. 

The phone startled him awake, right at two.  "I know," Nismet snapped into the headset.  "Tomorrow, tomorrow, always tomorrow."

"Yesterday," the voice croaked.

And disconnected.

Verisimilitude

Today's story also appears on the blog of impressively successful author and generally nice guy James Maxey, who held a 100-word story contest of sorts.  (The stories were just the entries in the raffle for a copy of his new book of short stories, "There Is No Wheel."  I won a copy, which I am looking forward to reading.)  James maintains at least two blogs and a truly hellacious pace of writing, most recently writing an entire novel in a week.  Dude is nuts.  Check his stuff out.

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It's the small things that make a life. A chipped diamond ring found on a table tells a story. A sprinkle of glass and tire marks at an intersection tell a different one. Or the receipts in a library copy of "The Prince": lifts for shoes, a power tie, strawberry yogurt, and Taco Bell. Stained.

It's these tiny details that count, that make someone real. I think as many as half the people in the city are my creations, now.

Oh, don't look at me like that. I know you don't believe me. I know everything about you.

My child.

Any Port in a Storm

"Pa, you sure about this?"  Patience clutched her shawl around her, eyeing the tunnel nervously.  The Virginia woods were quiet around them, for now.

"This is where we was sent," Pa said.  "Any man stands against bondage is a friend of mine, no matter his roots."

"How egalitarian."  The voice slithered unexpectedly out of the darkness beside them.  "You will follow."  A hunched figure turned and made for the tunnel entrance.

"Wait," Patience called, surprising herself.  "Why?  Why help runaways?"

The moon caught a brief glint of red eyes, a bestial snout.  "We know what it is to be despised."

Something in a Prince Charming

"Look, Magic Fish, I don't think you understand," said Sven.  His ear flaps were undone, and the three smiling women were already sliding their hands into his down jacket.  They seemed unbothered by the frigid cold, despite their state of undress.

"You wished for love," said the fish, floating in the circle of dark water.  "Are they not beautiful?"

"Well," Sven coughed unhappily.  "I mean, there's other sorts of love, if you follow me."

The fish splashed vaguely.  "I don't even have external genitalia.  I don't have a clue what you mammals get so excited about in the first place."

Review of Daily Science Fiction's May Line-up at Diabolical Plots

Dustin Adams, under the banner of Frank Dutkiewicz' reviews, has given my story "As Fast As You Can" a Recommended rating over at David Steffen's Diabolical Plots.  Mine is about halfway down the page; the reviews are perforce somewhat short in general, as there are a great many stories, most of them barely a thousand words themselves.

A Few Errands

Visn paused upon entering the store.  He wasn't used to the full-body tactile sensations yet, although he was more-or-less a master of bipedal locomotion and a tolerably confident user of opposable thumbs. 

Visn consulted his list.  Pick up groceries.  He glanced around; the array of shelves was dizzying in sheer number.  He began to feel nervous.  Then he read farther.  "Eggs, milk, bread."  Visn relaxed and smiled.

He navigated to the dairy section, pondered his choices, and hefted one carton briefly before replacing it.  "This human thing is going to be a cinch," Visn said, beginning his search for eggs.

Hope for the Future

Wade brought an alien to the party, and everyone wanted to meet it.  We'd heard their race could see the future.

"I can't imagine," Kary said.  "It must be so depressing, knowing exactly when you're going to die."

At first, the alien seemed confused by the questions, blinking its beady, spider-like eyes and clutching its translator box in all three hands.  Then it straightened, as if with sudden realization.

"Your people... cannot... frell?"  The word they use for their perceptions has no equivalent in any Earth language.  Its blue skin darkened: a horror/fear/disgust response.  "How can you survive the uncertainty?"

Tin

It could have been an accident, the first time.  Wood is treacherous; axes are sharp.  The blade slips... it could have been accidental.  But not the second time.  Or the one after that.  Each time, I crawled home and healed my wounds.  Each time, I replaced another piece of myself with cold metal.

Metal is hard.  Metal does not bend.

Metal does not bleed.

The original me is almost gone, every part replaced.  I have only one small piece of flesh remaining, somewhere deep inside, pulsing arrythmically.  I heft my axe with my metal hand.

It could be an accident.

Rain nor Snow nor Gloom of Night

"Avoid obligations," the postman advises.  He stares glumly into a half-full pint of dark amber brew.  "Never make promises."

"Come again?" I ask.

"I swore on my immortal soul that I'd deliver every letter that day.  But there's always pranks, errors, misdeliveries.  I've walked through deserts, over mountains, across oceans... I'm down to three.  Here."  He hands me a letter.  To my great-great-grandson, reads the address.

"What are the others?"

He finishes his drink.  "A blank envelope.  And this."

He tosses it onto the bar.  To: God.

"I'll have some words for Him when I get there," the postman says.

Twice

The world ended in fire, as it turned out.  Spurting up through the ground, falling from the sky like rain, lancing through the planet in white-hot streams of plasma.  It was quick, for whatever that's worth.  Personally, I've never been a big proponent of the all-in-one-go school of Band-Aid removal.

"It's not so bad," Karen said as she burned, curling and flaking away like a leaf in a campfire.  "It's not really all that hot.  In absolute terms."


I watched her shatter as afist of superheated air slammed through her.  Ice, I thought.  Next time it will be ice.

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."