Slacker

Oh, hey, I’m coming up on an atmosphere. It’s okay, no big deal. I’ve done this before. No problem, there’s a bump of air when I hit the first layer. I can just skip off that and head back out into space. Coming up... now. I missed it. No big deal. Well, it’s not trivial, but I can handle it. No problem. So, I’ll just evaporate some of my ice in the friction. It’ll lighten me up, and I’ll buoy right out of here. Geez, I’m not getting much burn, am I? Why didn’t I keep my ice arranged for better friction? Darn it, I know better than that! All right, still got some friction, so I’ll just float right out of here. Riiiight out of here.

Okay, no problem. I can still sheer off some of my mass to change my momentum. I’ll drop it and shoot right back into space. Oh, wow. That was more than I meant to drop. Hey, are those cracks spread--

###

--the asteroid has shattered into uncountable pieces, some bigger than Manhattan. The asteroids will soon disrupt our broadcast. To everyone still watching, it has been a pleasure bringing you the news. Good night.

Privacy, Please

CP161 was its designation. Its street name was blackeye. It gave you perspective. It made you feel light and golden and wise. It let you see Death. Governments controlled the substance, but they couldn’t keep it off the streets. Officially, it was for use in hospitals, to watch for patients in danger; and in war, to alert soldiers to imminent threats. To everyone else, it was for rubbernecking. Deadheads took on a new meaning.

Death spent a lot of time around hospitals. At first, only a few would watch him, walking among the staff unnoticed. Whatever He took at the moment someone died was invisible, unknowable, even to the drug’s eyes, but He wasn’t. He walked among the infirm and the ill, and appeared before the unlucky and ill-fated, as He always had. But now He had an audience.

Death was swift. People couldn’t always follow Him. The drug became more popular, and crowds formed wherever Death appeared. When a lucky soul spotted him, word spread like the plague and mobs formed. Soon, Death was never alone.

No one ever asked Death how He felt about having an audience. They assumed He didn’t care.

That was before He quit.

Time to Go

Two old people sat in overstuffed chairs. The cushions held the persons’ shapes, and the wear on the armrests showed exactly where the people left their arms, each time, every time. “Listen,” said the woman, “I’m just about ready to kick it.”

“To kick it?” said the man. Neither looked at the other, just straight ahead.

“The bucket,” she said. “To die.”

“Right,” said he. “So what’s stopping you?”

“You always promised you’d die first.”

“I did?”

“Yes. I expected you to remember.” There was a drop of resentment in her voice, lost within the bucket of resentment in her everyday tone.

“Well. Sorry.” There was no apology in his.

“It’s okay.” She waited. “So?”

“So what?”

“You promised.”

“I’m not ready to go.”

Her fingers drummed on her armrest. “You should get ready, then.”

“I’m in no hurry. Still working on my memoirs. Still like seeing the grandkids. Figure I got a couple years more.”

“But I’m ready to go.”

“Then I’ll miss you.”

“But you promised!”

“What does it matter? You’ll be gone.”

“I’m not going to die knowing you were a liar!”

“Then you’ll just have to wait.”

“Not for long,” she said. “How was your coffee?”

The Men's Room Conundrum

Problem: I was in a public restroom and needed to pee. Three urinals: two standard, one child-height. Three stalls: two standard, one wheelchair-width. Problem: Which to use. Solution: Non-trivial.

Wall-urinal-urinal-small urinal-stall-stall-wide stall. There was a person in the center stall; otherwise, I was alone. I only had to pee. To use a stall just for privacy was inconsiderate; suppose two people entered with colonic emergencies the moment after I locked the stall? Not to mention that in the near stall, anyone who entered could see my feet facing the wrong way. And judge me. And using the far stall was doubly dangerous, should someone enter who could only use that stall. No, it was the urinals for sure.

The low urinal was out, for the same reason as the wide stall. If a kid peed himself because of me, well, I couldn’t handle that. Two choices left. The urinal by the wall? Marks me as homophobic. Afraid of having penises near me. No good. Middle urinal? Then I’m homosexual, pedophilic, or both, trying for as much exposure as possible.

In the end, I peed in the sink like I always do.

Image Problem

“Whaddaya mean, I’m ‘not human,’?” said Ruth. “I’m as human as the next person!” “Clearly not,” said the postal box-sized mass of lime-green slug-stuff, through a speaker embedded in its surface near the top. The voice was mechanical.

“No,” said its partner, twin to the first except for being more of a grass green. “We have observed your transmissions. You are not human.”

“You are not tall enough,” said Lime.

“You have too many freckles,” said Grass.

“Your hair is neither light blond nor rich brown,” said Lime.

“It is also not a flirty red,” said Grass.

“We particularly like flirty red,” said Lime.

Ruth narrowed her eyes. “Just because I’m not the ideal, movie-star woman doesn’t mean I’m not human.”

The things quivered, and Lime said, “We came to meet humans.”

“One man, with dark hair, gruff exterior, emotional insides, and skill at violence,” said Grass.

“And one woman, with small chin, large eyes, a complicated relationship to the man, and bazoongas out to here,” said Lime.

“You’re disgusting,” said Ruth, and she got back in her car.

“Wait,” said Lime, turning up the volume. “Who will protect us from the distrusting and prejudiced public?”

Boardroom

“Gentlemen,” said the CEO, “Thank you for convening to deal with this serious matter.” He looked out across the gathered vice-presidents in the boardroom. “I have fallen in love.” He leaned forward over the polished oak table. “Ideas.”

“Flowers,” said the VP of Operations, spreading his hands wide. “Flowers mean romance.”

“Good,” said the CEO. “What else?”

“A night on the town,” said the VP of Sales, “A night out will--”

The VP of Marketing smacked the table with a palm. “No! A weekend! A weekend in Aruba!”

“Aruba’s for couples,” snarled Sales. “A week in Paris!”

“A cliche,” roared Marketing, “London is worldly!”

“Enough,” shouted the CEO, “We’re all on the same team here!”

The room was quiet for a moment.

“Put a poem in a puzzle and let your love interest, eh... puzzle out your feelings,” said the VP of R&D, leaning back and perhaps almost asleep.

“Huh,” said Operations.

“Ha!” said Sales.

“And what kind of puzzle would you choose?” said Marketing.

“I dunno,” said R&D. “What sort of thing does this person like?”

The entire boardroom stopped.

“Huh?” said Operations.

“Ha!” said Marketing.

“Let’s stay focused, people,” said the CEO. “Let’s talk demographics!”

Last Meal

“Here. Use it and save us the trouble.” The guard tossed something through the bars onto my cot.

It was an old-fashioned fold-out razor. The blade had inched out of the bone handle on landing. Its mirror shine was just as I’d kept it. My fingers twitched toward it. Was it a trap?

I was dead either way: now in staged self defense or as justice later. Why worry? I picked it up and unfolded it. A millimeter from my eye, the edge looked as sharp as I’d left it.

I tested the edge on my thumb, despite my stubble. I’d never dulled the blade on hair. It drew a perfect thin red line with almost no pain. Just a taste.

Execution meant an injection, sleep, and death. I had never been so clean and obedient. Resisting was worse: Bullets would rip the pulse from me and make heroes of the mugs who did it.

So what if I spared them the expense? It was always about me, never about hurting them. Why grant them any pleasure?

The razor knew where to go. I could think of no one else who deserved the honor of taking my life.