Independent Thought

Five men. Five guns. Her back against the wall in the dark. She had to talk fast. “You’re well-paid private security professionals. I’m an intruder. But you need to ask yourselves, ‘Are we good guys or bad guys?’ You can’t always tell. You get your paycheck, direct deposit from your company, and take it home. Maybe to your family. You have hobbies. Friends. Ambitions. You’re normal people working a normal job, except with guns and retinal scans to get to work.

“You aren’t bad guys. You’re just guys. Your employers? All you know is they pay too well to be government. So judge based on me. I get a shitty government salary for this. I’ll be filing reports in DC tomorrow. I have two kids, Alan and Gertie, and I have pictures. But those are just words. Judge on this: I’m talking, when a bad guy would be holding a gun to someone’s head. I’m the good guy. Trust me.”

One said, “Can I see the pictures?”

“Sure.” The LED strobe she withdrew blinded them long enough for her to escape.

Rubbing spots from his eyes. “Well, she didn’t hurt anyone. Maybe she’s telling--”

Then he saw the grenade.

Necessary

Hi. I’m a fire hydrant. Life isn’t busy, but it’s not boring. There’s so much to see. People walk by me constantly. And I have a good view of the street, so there are lots of cars to look at, whizzing by or looking for a parking spot and moving on when they see me. Sometimes I hear a siren or see a fire truck, but they never stop nearby.

I’ve never seen a fire. Is it wrong that I want to? I want something near me to catch on fire. Not a small fire. I’ve seen those; people put them out with foam-spraying things. I want one of the big ones, the home-destroying fires that need at minimum 1000 gallons per minute at more than 150 pounds per square inch.

It’s just that I’m here for a reason. I know I am. Cars are made to drive, and I see them zoom by all the time. People are made to talk, and they’re always doing it, walking and talking, alone and in groups. But this pressure I feel inside me never gets let out.

I just want a fire so I can be who I really am.

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.”