Esprit de la Mort

So there I was, in a narrow back alley, brick buildings crowding me, silver saber in hand, duelling with an elf lord while elf-things of various shapes and sizes hung from the fire escapes cheering him on. He could outfence me the way I could outfence an ottoman. I was still alive only because we were fencing to first blood, and Lord Alberich wanted that first blood to also be my last blood.

He let me get close a few times, just enough to let me think I might get lucky, but then he was done playing. He feinted, kicked me to the ground, and trapped my sword under his boot. Sword at my throat, he paused, probably seeking the esprit de la mort.

That was long enough. I threw a bag in his face and shouted, "Eat cold iron!" He parried, of course, and the metallic dust burst into his face. He screamed. The crowd hushed, and I yanked my sword out from under him and cut his arm.

Using iron in an elf duel is against every law, punishable by death. Lying isn't. Which is why I actually threw aluminum filings. I doubted Alberich would thank me later.

What Brings You

"So, what brings you here today?" asked the doctor as she sat down next to her patient in the small exam room. "What brings you here today?" the patient asked in return, looking at her doctor with happy curiosity on her face.

"I came by car," the doctor said, looking down at the paperwork she had on the patient. "Though really, these days, it's the paycheck." She sighed. "It's not as much as people think, you know?" She looked in her patient's eyes for support. "Everyone thinks doctors are making tons of money, but I work for a living just like anyone else.

"It's weird." The doctor looked down. "I went to med school because, I dunno, just like everyone else, I had this sense of, oh, helping people. Or maybe I just thought everyone else had it, too, because ever since rotations it's been all about money and budgets. I mean, this clinic is. It's all bottom line and nothing else."

She turned her pained eyes to her patient. "I really don't know what brings me here anymore." She left the room, shoulders slumped in defeat.

The patient waited, then went to look for someone to discuss her nosebleeds.

Glad Hands

Well groomed and wearing a casual dress shirt and nice slacks, the man sauntered between the restaurant tables and stopped at Alan and Ben's. They looked up from their crushed herb salmon and chicken fettuccini alfredo, respectively. He clasped his hands together. "I'm Joey. How're we doing here tonight? Everything to your liking?" "Oh, it's great," Ben said. Alan nodded, his mouth full of salmon. "Thanks," Ben said.

The man gave them a brilliant smile, a good tooth shining in the restaurant's muted lighting. "That's wonderful. Anything else we can get for you?"

Alan and Ben looked at each other, then slowly shook their heads. "No, thanks," Ben said.

"My pleasure to see people having a good time here." Joey clapped each of them on the shoulder. "Tell you what," he said, "let me get each of you a drink on the house. I'll tell your server, you just order it next time he comes by." They thanked him, and with another bright smile, he wandered on.

When the bill came, Ben called over their server. "Joey stopped by," he said, "and put our last couple drinks on the house. He said he'd tell you."

"Who's Joey?" asked the server.

Nosebleed

"What do you mean, 'His nose won't stop bleeding?'" "Just what I said. Won't stop."

"Well, it'll stop when he dies."

"Sure, except he doesn't seem to be suffering from blood loss. He's doing fine, except the blood keeps coming."

"You have him on fluids and iron, then?"

"Nothing. We're feeding him, sure, but the blood doesn't stop, and we're not seeing any of the health effects we'd expect."

"So, this guy just has an unlimited supply of blood? Pull the other one."

"Also no. We tried taking some from a vein, and he showed typical effects of blood loss after a pint and a half. But we've collected more than twenty pints from his nose since we started observation. It's like his nose just creates blood. It's starting to strain our capacity for medical waste disposal."

"Isn't there something else we can do with it?"

"We've looked into blood donation, but it's not uncontaminated enough. We're looking into options for decontamination. Someone suggested use in food, but it'd never make it past inspectors."

"Crazy. So, now what?"

"We were hoping you'd tell us."

"I have no idea."

"Damn."

"I'm kidding. This guy solves the energy crisis. Build a reservoir for the blood, mix in anticoagulants, and let it run a turbine."

"You're kidding."

"Nope. Let the physics wonks tell us why this can't break the Laws of Thermodynamics. Until then, try it. Build a prototype. Measure all energy used to feed him and compare it to everything derived from his nose-generator."

"What about his personal freedoms? At some point, he'll figure this isn't on his behalf any more."

"He can't very well go about his daily life with blood pouring out his nose. Give him a sexy paycheck and all the amenities he can take advantage of. Bring some ladies in here--"

"Why does everyone assume the sticking point will be ladies?"

"Because it always is. Or guys, whatever. But keep him happy, and this man's nose will get us off foreign oil."

Entangled

Hours each day, he toiled in the yard. He pulled weeds, trimmed trees, but more than anything he warred with the blackberries. Their brambles advanced through every fence, despite protests to the neighbors. They crept through the ground and burst skyward in the middle of his flower beds. Begonias and petunias were casualties when he dug for blackberry roots and ripped them out.

As he slept, he dreamed that the blackberry vines had planted inside him. In his sleep he scratched at the cuts where thorns had tasted his blood.

The  next day, still fatigued, he sat beside the latest incursion through the fence. He looked up at the blackberry vines arching overhead and wondered for a moment what it would be like if he surrendered, if he accepted them into his yard and his life.

He found he couldn't stand. Roots had crept out from the ground and held him to the soil, or perhaps root had grown out from him and burrowed into the ground. He could feel them in his flesh. He reached for his clippers and held them to his throat.

He threw them over the fence. It was time to cultivate a different sort of yard.

"And if you go into the backyard of Old Mr. Gransom's house," Billy stared up at the bramble-entangled home, "in the middle of a giant blackberry bush is a great big root shaped like the old man himself. Sometimes, he still groans."

Magic is Real

"Magic is real." This wasn't what I expected when the older boys invited me to join them under the bleachers after school. I thought they'd offer me a smoke or a drink, to see if I was cool, or it'd all be a trick and they'd beat me up and put my underwear in a girl's locker or something.

"What?" I said.

"It's real," Joe said again. "But you have to earn it. Do you want to earn it, Sam?" I looked around the boys' faces. Joe was intent on my decision. Allen and Dan watched me. Dennis looked from me to Joe and back. Ben looked disinterestedly off to the side.

"Told you letting him in was a mistake," said Ben.

"No, no, I'll do it. Earn it, I mean." I looked at everyone. Most of them smiled. Ben rolled his eyes.

"Okay," said Joe. "What you gotta do, the first trial, is to hold your breath as long as you can. You'll know it's long enough when you start to float. Try it."

I held my breath as long as I could, then gasped for air. Ben snorted. Joe said, "You'll have to do better than that if you want to earn it, Sam."

"Told you he couldn't," Ben said. "Let's get out of here."

"No," I said, "I can do it." Before they could speak, I took a deep breath and held it. I stared into Joe's eyes as I did. Every time I thought I had to gasp, I exhaled a little instead. The world became fuzzy around the edges. I thought I heard someone say, "Shit, he's going to..." That's right, I thought, I'm going to do it. I felt myself start to float.

I woke up with my underwear missing.

The Royal Prerogative

"Pooping is such a relieving activity," said the Queen. "It is so pleasant that I wish to have more of it." She summoned her councillors and scribes and drafted a new law, a tariff that granted the Queen a small part of each citizen's pooping. "This is truly wonderful," she declared during one of her several daily visits to the toilet. "If only everyone could be so blessed!" She shared out her wealth of pooping with her favorites in court, but they made little use of it. The palace hired more chambermaids.

"More pooping," roared the Queen after one particularly satisfying session on her throne. "I must have all the poop!" She raised her tariffs and taxed her subjects into pooping paucity.

They petitioned her. "We needs our shits, y'Majesty," they cried, but the Queen threw them in prison for interfering in affairs of state.

There in the bowels of the castle formed the rebellion that would topple the Queen, known only as the Movement.