Sproing

Time is a rubber band, stretched taut.  Or at least, it was.  It was released, obviously, and that’s why it moves.

That means it’s not an illusion: time is moving faster as you get older.  It’s been accelerating from its first unmarked period of frozen tension.  A day used to last what we’d call years, or even longer back at the beginning.  Everything’s relative; your children and grandchildren will think of themselves as living long, full lives, though to you and me they’ll seen to whiz past.

What you need to worry about is Whose eye we’re about to hit...

Magnet Town

It was the end of the day.  I lay down on the carpet and opened my ribcage.  That doesn’t hurt as much as you might think.  I considered the interior with a certain amount of difficulty.  My veins I set as highways.  I built suburbs from intestines and gleaming white skyscrapers from the delicate bones hand and ankle, with radii cranes to tend them.  I set my neurons to guide the traffic.  City Hall stood upon the thick, ropy muscle of my heart.

But no one came, and the city stood empty.

I’ve waited for a long, long time.

The Magic Eraser

“The Magic Pencil is broken!” crowed Garbletongue, rattling his bag of stolen words.  “Now there will be no words but those I permit, no meaning save what I ordain.  The world is mine!”

Bau-Bau wailed into his furry paws.  Jacqueline snapped her gum carelessly.

“You think?” she said.

Garbletongue hesitated, clutching his half of the Pencil.  “How can you fight my Non-Sensories now?”

Jacqueline shrugged, then pursed her lips and blew sharply.  BANG.  Garbletongue staggered back, chest bleeding.

“How?” he gasped.

Jacqueline displayed the chewing gum wrapper.  The last line of the M was gone.  “You only got the sharp end.”

Fashion Report

Men used to put on their hate as a matter of course whenever they went outside.  Everyone wore hates all the time, and no one thought it was odd.

Nowadays, a hate is not fashionable.  If you have a hate, people will probably comment on it and ask you not to bring it inside or to the table.  Though hates are unpopular, a well-made one remains attractive.

People do still wear them in winter, along with scares.  Loves get in the way of our phones, so those are out, but nothing keeps you warm like a scare and a hate.

When the Door is Ajar?

“Ironically, it’s not the big, impressive predators that have the most suitable impulses,” said Doctor Geisteskrank, adjusting the input electrodes.  “They know they’re at the top.  They don’t know how to destroy; they just eat until they’re full.  No, you want something low on the food chain, something that knows fear.  And hatred.”

Bartleby eased in with the tea tray.

“Ah, you’re just in time!” Doctor Geisteskrank cried.  “I’ve a riddle for you.  When is a chicken not a chicken?”

He pushed the initiator button.

From outside, a rumble, as of the first experimental scratch of a terrible, robotic claw.

The Necessary Steps

I watched her walk away, and I watched myself do nothing to stop her.  I could see myself sinking into a deepening rut at work, knuckling under to the bosses and giving up on life.

God, I hated myself.

So I killed me.  It wasn’t hard.  Just snuck up behind myself and jabbed a screwdriver in my ear.  I didn’t struggle much; I think I knew I had it coming.

I’ve got that promotion, now, a bigger apartment, and a hotter girlfriend.  But I can’t quite shake the fear.  I don’t give warnings.  What won’t I like about myself tomorrow?

Slaying the Dragon

The bell rang: end of shift.  Dawson hefted his battleaxe for one more blow, but Alvin smacked his hardhat.

"Don't give Harris any more excuses to file grievances on you," he said.  "No unauthorized overtime.  Shift's over; it's someone else's problem."

Dawson sighed.  "I know.  I just feel... responsible.  We're already two weeks behind target.  If we don't get at least through the mandibular ligaments by the holiday break..."

"Look," Alvin said, "you can't take it personal.  It's a big job, but none of us has to do it alone.  Trust the other guys.  C'mon, I''ll buy you a beer."

Unidentified Funny Objects

My story, "The Alchemist's Children," appears in Alex Shvartsman's anthology UFO: Unidentified Funny Objects, alongside such hilariously mismatched compatriots as Mike Resnick and Lavie Tidhar.  I'm one of the no-name filler people who occupy other pages (although Lois Tilton liked my story).  

The book is available for sale in paperback (well, not quite yet) and Kindle.  I can vouch for the high quality of almost all of the stories.  ("Of Mat and Math" is a particular favorite.)

The Opposite of Truth

"I have long wondered," Taku said to the Wisest Stone, "about lies.  If I falsely claimed to be a child, what would be the opposite of my lies?  For I once was a child; one day I will be old, and later still I will not be.  Truth, then, is not the opposite.  If I say that I never was a child, that is opposite, but still a lie."

The Wisest Stone said nothing at all. 

After a time, Taku nodded.  "I see," he said.  "The opposite of falsehood is silence."

"Oh, were you talking?" said the Wisest Stone.