The Hangin' Tree

“Hold up, Ted. The tree’s too low for a hangin’.” Ted caught up with Abe out of the mist. “When’d it bend over like that? Dint you hang Iverson here last week?”

“He did,” said Ben, joining them, hauling a hogtied Brekhus behind him. And Sam hanged Loberg day after that.”

“Huh,” said Ted. “I missed that one.” He turned back to the tree. “Well, we can’t hang ‘im on this. Something happen when Loberg hanged?”

“Nope,” said Abe. “Anyone get hanged after last Tuesday?”

“Don’t think so,” said Ted.

“No way,” said Ben.

“Then what we gonna do?” said Ted.

“You could let me go,” said Brekhus.

“Shu’up,” said Ben. Without looking away from the tree, he kicked at Brekhus but barely tapped the man. “We voted, an’ yer t’ be hanged.”

“It ain’t fair,” said Brekhus.

“Course it’s fair,” said Ted, “It’s democracy. Everone gets t’ vote, and we voted for hangin’. Majority won by a show o’ hands.”

“So what’s wrong with th’ hangin’ tree?” said Abe.

“Is it sick?” said Ben.

“’S not right to kill a man just ‘cause of a vote.”

“Don’t think it’s sick. Don’t know a bug that’ll bend a tree over like that in a week,” said Abe.

“’S th’ will o’ th’ people, Brekhus,” said Ted. “It’s fer th’ greater good, and if you felt diff’rnt you shoulda got more folks t’ vote yer way.”

“Look fer marks,” Abe gestured Ben at the branches. “Maybe somebody hitched it up and pulled fer some reason. I’ll look at the roots.”

“Ain’t enough of us t’ vote my way,” said Brekhus. “Y’all outnumber us three t’ two or so. An’ it’ll be two t’ one soon if you keep hangin’ us.”

“Looks fine here,” said Ben.

“Maybe y’all should go somewhere you ain’t outnumbered, then,” said Ted.

“Nothing bad at the roots, either,” said Abe.

“Don’t matter, I guess,” said Ben. “Let’s find another tree.”

“Izzat it?” said Brekhus, “Yer just tryin’ t’ get ridda us. Why not vote fer us t’ move, then?”

“Hey,” said Abe.

“Can’t make a man keep walkin’,” said Ted. “But y’ can stop him from walkin’.”

“Hey, guys,” said Abe.

“What?” Ted turned away from Brekhus.

“Lookit this tree.”

It was about ten feet away, the next closest volunteer to hold a rope.

“Why?” said Ben. “Can’t hang a man from that one either.”

“Was it bent like that when we came by?” said Abe.

“Whaddaya mean?” said Ted.

“I mean, I don’t think that tree was bent over when we came by this way.”

“I dunno,” said Ted. “It’s hard t’ see in this fog.”

“A tree don’t just bow over like that,” said Ben.

“I know that,” said Abe. “I just tol’ ya there ain’t no way to bend a tree in a week, and now you’re telling me it don’t happen in five minutes. I know that.”

“Okay, Jesus,” said Ben.

“So was it?” said Abe.

They stared for a few heartbeats.

“Probably,” said Ted.

“Probably?” said Abe.

“Well, I think so.”

“Me too,” said Ben.

Abe whuffed. “Maybe. Maybe it was. Well, fine,” he turned to the others. “There!”

They turned and looked.

“That tree was not bent over like that. We were all lookin’ at this tree here, no way we’d miss that one bein’ all bent up.”

“You’re right, Abe,” said Ted.

“Yeah, that’s weird,” said Ben.

“I think,” said Brekhus, “that y’all are missin’ somethin’.”

Ted turned to say something, but his jaw dropped open as he saw the many bent trees, looming out of the mist behind Brekhus. Ben and Abe muttered muttered curses as they saw the same, and more: trees all around them had bent double sometime when no one was looking. Hangman’s knots hung from several branches almost to the ground, remnants of previous hangings.

“Are they... are they closer than before?” said Ben.

“...No?” said Abe.

“Yeah,” said Ted.

“What’s goin’ on?” said Ben.

The hangin’ tree rustled, and the men that could jump jumped. Then all the other trees rustled.

“It’s... a breeze,” said Ted.

“Course,” said Ben.

“That went out from the middle?” said Abe. “That--”

More rustling cut him off, this time from a tree off to the side. And then trees rustled all around them. And then the hangin’ tree rustled again, all by itself.

“This ain’t possible,” said Ben.

Just a bit more than half the trees straightened to full height. Every tree trailing a rope straightened, lifting the nooses to hang a dozen feet in the air.

“What th’ hell,” said Abe, and then he froze as a tree bent over him and a noose settled around his neck. Abe and Ben were in the same spot.

“Did they just... take a vote?” said Ted.

All the trees were bowed over again, and the hangin’ tree rustled alone.

Brekhus said, “Maybe they did,” and his voice was high with fright, “and I think they’re about to take another.” He gulped. “By a show of hands.”

The trees straightened.

A Human Mistake

Monday, the bank manager received a note: We have your wife. 2 million dollars. No police. 5th and Wilson, 7pm, or she dies. But he wasn’t married.

Tuesday’s note read: You’re hurting her. Tonight.

It scared him.

Wednesday brought a package. It contained a finger that wasn't rubber with a red that wasn't ketchup.

He called his partner and said he would be late.

***

The kidnappers politely tasered him and took the money.

 ***

"Why did you do it?" asked the woman.

"Your husband didn't know. I had to try for him."

"You’re crazy," she said.

"Why did you do it?" asked the bank.

"I believed them about the police."

"You're fired," it said.

"Why did you do it?" asked the police.

"She's as human as my partner. I couldn't do less for her than I would for him."

"You're an idiot," they said.

"Hon, why'd you do it?" asked his partner.

"Because for somebody else out there, she's you. I had to try to make that come out all right."

"You're unbelievable," said his partner.

“Why did I do it?” asked the bank manager.

“Because I had to believe that I would,” he said.

“I must be crazy,” he said.

The Ladder

His sister's death burned away the his last shred of hope. All that remained of his soul were smoke and ashes. The Shadow Lord’s Army seemed perfect for matching the world to his soul.

#

He did not expect his lieutenant's death, nor did it surprise him. He simply drove his sword into the lieutenant's murderer and accepted his promotion.

#

After he described what he expected out of life to a captive, the prisoner joined the suicide squad. Promotion to captain followed.

#

A general assigned him to the heart of the conquered lands out of spite. Out of general odium, he fomented conspiracy among the general's local supporters and slew them for disloyalty. He returned to the front lines a colonel.

#

He put a city to fire rather than accept surrender. To the Shadow Lord he said, "Their example is worth more than their service."

To himself he said, "They had hope where there should be none."

#

A general, he ended the war for the Shadow Lord. At the ceremony in his honor, he drove his sword into the Shadow Lord’s neck and broke the empire’s throne. The empire descended into bloody chaos.

“Peace was never my goal,” said the brother.

Surreal Entertainment

“Welcome to Surreal Entertainment, sir. How can we betray your expectations today?” The greeter’s curled grey hair bounced with her cheerful hello, and a tinge in its hue almost matched the blue of her vest. “Um,” I said, and that was all I had planned. I forged on. “Well, I have this, um.” No, I didn’t. I looked around in my pockets until I found it. “I have this coupon for a free trial. Um.” I didn’t know what to do with it.

“And you don’t know what to do with it?” Her smile seemed fixed on her face. I don’t know how she was talking. “Let me show you some of what we offer and we’ll find what interests you.” She took me by the elbow and led me down the aisle.

“Don’t you need to, um,” I looked over my shoulder. An old person in a blue vest was waiting smilingly for the next customer. “I guess you don’t.”

She didn’t seem to notice. “Over here you see Aisle Nine in the Grocery Store,” she gestured to a cluttered grocery aisle, “Dry Breakfasts and Cereals. You want the pancake batter, but someone has spilled the O-shaped cereal, two children are fighting over the toaster pastries while another has vomited, and their mother is lonely and wants to make a connection.” I stared. “No? This way please.”

I looked at the screaming children and the grocery store employee cleaning. “You pay all these people just in case someone wants to go there?”

“No, sir, these are all clients. And down these stairs we have Suburban Meth Lab.” I bent over and peered down some stairs. “Join a group of hard-luck miscreants in making illegal drugs and wrestling with the conflict of their posturing and insecurities.” Maybe she saw the look on my face. “Or you can wait a half-hour and join the police raid, but I’m afraid the only position we have left is idealist rookie who probably gets shot by corrupt cops.” She didn’t have to ask. “Moving on,” she said.

My smiling guide gestured at a corridor of high-school lockers off to the left. “The Venom Club, where high-school girls torment each other viciously for perceived faults, such as being a slut, dressing like a slut, not being slutty enough, and acting like they aren’t a slut.”

“They’re almost all guys, though.”

“Some are not,” she said through her grill-toothed smile, “but many are.”

“How come there aren’t real teenage girls there?” I said. “The grocery aisle had everyone look right.”

“Clients choose their own entertainments. Would you like to stop here?”

I watched a business executive insinuate that another guy would never get a boyfriend dressed like that, and then a 40-something housewife slapped a college kid and screamed, “Whore!”

“No,” I said.

“This way, please.” This way was toward a faux-forest scene, plastic trees and shrubs and astroturf. It took up an entire corner of the concourse, and upwards of twenty people of all kinds ran around the space. Among many others, two were wrestling, one wore a toga and stood wobbily on a foam rock and lectured, and some guy in a grey cloak ran around stabbing people in the back with a foam knife. Everyone ignored him. “The Tower of Babel. Do whatever you want here, but you can never be sure anyone will engage with you. There’s a costume and prop room in back.” She kept walking, to my satisfaction.

“We’re running short on introductory offers,” said the greeter, still wearing her plastic smile. “Does either the Bone Cathedral or Tiny’s Taco Hut interest you?”

I had no idea. “Uh, I really, uh,” I said.

“In Tiny’s Taco Hut you are a food court service worker striving to fill an uncontrollable glutton with your brand of undernourishing, overcaloried food in competition with other food court service workers. Or you can wait and be the glutton, but there is a substantial wait.”

“I guess… not. Not really.”

She paused. Maybe it took some effort to keep that smile painted on her face after all. “Then let me show you the Bone Cathedral. It’s really quite popular. Many people find it truly rewarding.” She led me down to a small alcove with just enough room for one overstuffed chair that dwarfed the bean-thin woman sitting in it. Everything about her screamed despondent: the slump to her shoulders, her thin frame, her downcast and indirect gaze. A couple dozen people sat in a crescent around the alcove.

We stood without moving for a minute. The despondent woman spoke. “I think I was eleven the first time I was betrayed.” Her voice was small and thin, just like her. “Mom never liked the attention that Dad gave me.” Anywhere from thirty seconds to a couple minutes separated each sentence. “She was jealous.”

I whispered, “Does it just go on like this?”

“Each person exalts misery in a different way.” She led me a few steps away from the alcove. “What entertainment would you like? After your introductory experience, we have many more entertainments for you.”

“Um. Well. I’m not sure. Maybe, could I see the first one again?”

Her smile quivered. Maybe she wasn’t upset and her muscles were finally giving out? I waited. “Of course, sir,” she said. She started walking in that direction, but a young woman in a blue vest strode up and put her hand on my guide’s shoulder. “Anita, your time is up.”

The smile vanished. “Already? But I, oh, damn. This client took up all my time! I only got to greet one person!”

“Sorry, Anita, you know the rules. Sign your gear back in with Terry, will you?” Anita slumped off. Once Anita was out of sight, the young woman said, “Your time as a frustrating client is also up, sir.”

“Yeah, I figured,” I said. “Thanks, Carrie. I’ll see you next week for the Human Chessboard Revolution?”

A Wolf Without Teeth

Don laughed with his granddaughter as she tried to walk across the lawn. She toppled and Don jumped to catch her. He was a full five feet short. She giggled. Don wept.

#

At his retirement, Don slowly shook hands with the president. He carefully kept his sleeve over the scars on his forearm.

#

Don's interviewers were understanding of his disability, and the government subsidized hiring veterans. The job was his.

#

"We're sorry, Specialist, but the nerve damage and scarring are too extensive."

#

Don screamed as they cut his flesh and tore the sheath of extra skin off his arm. For weeks rage drove him to swing at his captors. Every swing fell short.

#

He was a wolf among rabbits. His claw turned enemies to meat. But enough rabbits can bear even a wolf to the ground.

#

The mass of coiled muscle and sharp-edged chitin grafted to Don's wrist made him the terror of intra-platoon volleyball. Soon, it would make him a terror to the enemy.

#

"The claw will be your new hand, your strongest, fastest, most flexible hand, for the rest of your miserable life! You will rely upon it, and it will reward you!"

Don was thrilled.

Inspiration

The teacher droned on about geography. The boy didn’t listen. An itch on his head was testing him, and that was more important. It was on the top of his head, waiting to be scratched. The boy could be aware of nothing else, but he refused to scratch it. It could be a test.

It was about genius. Whence genius? Inspiration. Whence inspiration? He was no sort of believer, but what if inspiration were a gift? For heaven to bestow genius on the worthy would require some test of worthiness. Perhaps a cosmic ray, cast from above, to strike the skin and cause an itch that, if resisted by an iron will, would indicate strength of character. After, an idea would take root, from which genius would blossom.

You can’t ignore genius. Brilliance does not go unnoticed. He wanted to believe. He felt the itch worm into his scalp. Was his effort unnecessary? The teacher droned on. He only wanted to manage this. Students murmured. No one saw his struggle.

He scratched his head. It was over before he realized what he was doing.

It was just an itch, thought the boy. But he knew it was also a test.

Tax Days

When the government revealed its Computer Time for Tax Credit program on April 16th, the public was confused. Few understood at first glance the intent: Install a small piece of software on your computer, and in its idle periods, it processes government data on the government’s behalf. Every hour grants the computer owner ten cents of tax credit, to a maximum of $80 per person or $160 per family, not to be carried over into any subsequent year. The first year, the government lost $76 million in tax revenues and saved $23 million in computing costs. The following year $436 million in revenues disappeared, replaced with $326 million in unspent computing costs and $155 million in energy costs. The program continued to pay for itself.

Hackers spread worms that collected and shared the processed data, striving to decrypt and reassemble the jigsawed information into something informative. Many failed. DrawPantsCollective claimed success four years after the program’s inception. Torrents spread across the net, mostly records of lots and lots of context-free math. Amateur and professional scientists the world over ventured guesses at what the various calculations indicated: satellite movements, railgun simulations, phone tap analysis.

They didn’t have to be right.