Unreasonable Demands

“No,” he said. “I won’t!” He took a deep breath. “And you can’t make me!” His mouth worked like he was chewing something unpleasant before he found more words. “It’s ludicrous to think that after all this time--no, after all we’ve been through, that I can--I can just say goodbye. You--you owe me--you owe me way more than that!” He panted. “No, but--no, it’s true--I know that I, I owe you--yes, I know! But after all--after all this time--”

He was shouting at his beard in the mirror.

It was a strong beard. Thick, not bushy and fading to wisps but instead compact, and still big. He had grown it in over a very long time, and tended it carefully. He protected it from shears and razors, and it protected him, too. It kept his face hidden. It kept him safe. It had also made him kind of crazy.

“Please,” he said,” Please stop--no, just stop saying that. You can’t--” He looked his beard in the face. The beard said nothing.

“Fine,” he said, tears dripping into his beard. “I’ll do it.” He lifted the razor, and hair began to fall.

She Said What?

Hush swept over the twenty people at the table. 38 eyes turned toward one pair, which flicked around the table, finding no friends. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Sorry.” Her chair squealed against the floor as she pushed it back, and she walked out the back door. It closed on silence and light behind her, leaving her in silence and darkness.

She squatted on the stoop. Her fingers wished for a cigarette, and tears threatened from behind her eyes. Rocking back and forth comforted her a little. A little.

These people would never invite her back. That was good. Best, even. She didn’t want to see them again. Not when they’d remember this. Some of them knew her other friends. If she could wipe the house from the map, and everyone in it, with a tiny nuclear device maybe, she would. As it was, the word would spread like a disease. She was fucked. And she’d done it to herself.

She stood up. Her nervous hand flicked its imaginary cigarette over her shoulder toward the house. “Fuck it,” she said, and she walked into the night. Behind her, imaginary cinders lit imaginary gasoline, starting an imaginary inferno to light her way.

Wax Job

“So,” he said, “How long before my hair grows back?” “Three weeks,” said the woman. “Maybe four.” She started applying the hot wax to his cheek.

“Woaw, dass hot,” he mumbled.

“Stay still,” she said. She applied a cloth strip and let it sit as she spread wax under his chin. Then she counted to three but ripped the first strip away on two.

All he could do was pant, and he choked on that when she ripped off the next strip.

When he could breathe again, she said, “Okay, are you ready for the... um, the...”

“Yeah, let’s get the rest of it.” He exposed his neck, then noticed a stillness. “What’s up?”

“Does your face... feel all right?”

“Well, it stings, but--”

“Sir,” her voice caught. “Um.” Without taking her eyes from his face, she fumbled for a hand mirror, then lifted it to his face. A greenish, textured surface has replaced the skin and hair on his his left cheek. Scales? It was the same under his chin.

“Sir, are you okay? What is it?”

“I have no clue,” he said. “But I want to find out.” He settled his head back on the table. “Keep going.”

Tragedy of the Fucking Commons

Sure, I suck ideas right out of the heads of those who conceive ‘em, but it’s no crime. I mean, these ideas are just going to waste in their original heads. They ain’t going to do anything with the ideas. Most of the time, they don’t even remember ‘em! A lot of ‘em are bits of new song ideas, movie concepts, story outlines, and startups. Now, 90% of everything is crap, so I wind up with a lot of half-baked ideas and have to sort ‘em out? Takes all fucking day!

Most people, they get one or two good ideas, period. But once in a while, you luck into a goldmine, y’know? This one guy, he’s a machine. Two or three ideas a day, easy. Not every one lightning in a bottle, but way above average. Problem is, I suck him too dry, he gets depressed; he gets depressed, he has less ideas, but I can’t take any less. I got overhead, y’know? Keep it up, and the poor bastard winds up feeling useless. I should leave him some to keep him happy, but I gotta keep in the red.

That’s the tragedy of the fucking commons, that is.

Bogeyman

“If you don’t do your homework, the bogeyman will come.” Anna’s homework lay undone on her desk, math book open but unread, pencil laying unsharpened on an unfilled ditto. Anna lay in her bed.

From the hallway came a thump-draaaag, thump-draaaag, until it was outside the bedroom. Something metallic scratched along the window, caught on the sill, and yanked free. Air moved in the room, stirred by a deep inhalation, and tainted with the smell of rotted meat on the too-long exhalation.

The closet opened, and a scarecrow-thin figure ducked out. Standing, its floppy hat brushed the ceiling. Anna’s bed had been recently moved across the room from the closet, and one slow, limping step took it halfway across the room toward Anna’s bed, dragging rusty-nail fingers over the new rug behind it.

Another deep breath before its next step, and then it was upside down, tangled in the new rug. Anna flipped on the lights and hopped out of bed. The tangle shook, struggled, but couldn’t escape.

Peering under the hat, she said, “You don’t like that, do you?” Malevolent red eyes glared back at her. “Well, let’s discuss the terms of your release.”

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.