For Being Beautiful

Just as I had always hoped but never dared dream, the ethereons have transformed me. The ugly, awkward teenage body of Tubby Tim-Tom is gone. In its place, a statuesque beauty of superhuman strength and speed: I am Timothy Thomasson, ethereon! Gorgeous, powerful, desired, loved! Despite becoming a target for jealousy and fear from the small-minded, I return to school to say farewell and forgive my tormentors. In my new form, I see their petty squabbles clear. Now that I have risen above, it is plain to my superior senses in a way I could never have seen while among them.

I see Darren Calniuk, handsome (for a human), charming, cheer captain. Making my way to him, I put my shapely hand on his shoulder and say, "I forgive you," with great sympathy.

"Uh, hi? Who are you?" His friends shake their heads.

I straighten up. "I am Timothy Thomasson." He looks blank. "The one you called Tim-Tom." My voice drips with venom.

"Ohhhhh." He and his friends nod. "Didn't recognize you at all, man. You like the change?" I hesitate, then nod. "Hey, man, good for you." Then they walk on.

Why won't they hate me for being beautiful?

The Messiah's Father

He had the sinking feeling that his child was the Messiah. Mostly, it was the indescribable air of the divine around her, but there were corroborating circumstances as well. The choir of heavenly voices that played upon her birth. Strangers showing up at the hospital with weird gifts. That sort of thing. The idea made him entirely uncomfortable. He wasn't at all sure he wanted to be the father of the Messiah. Then again, was he? His wife wasn't a virgin or anything, but isn't the Messiah God's child, not his? Or something, he'd never paid much attention in Sunday school.

He considered the fate of life as the Messiah's father. Blessed, he supposed, but marginalized. Didn't sound appealing. Then again, being the father who abandoned a major religious figure didn't seem all that smart either.

Televangelism crossed his mind. He thought of calling a megachurch to ask how they did it, but he didn't think they'd want to help. Besides, that seemed like a shortcut to becoming an object lesson of corruption in a new gospel.

Then again, he thought, who am I to decide what will be a sin in this new world? He picked up the phone.

Make Me a Legend

C'mon, walk under me. Just walk, no, more to the lef— ahhr! Why won't anyone walk under me? I've been hanging here for so long, two ENTIRE days, and I'm the biggest icicle on the eaves. Not that there are many of us around anymore. We're drip-drip-dripping away. Now there's just me, Chillos, and Snowy over there, and Snowy's looking preeeeeetty small.

But ever since I froze, I've been hearing stories about the last cold season, when one daring icicle managed to fall on those nevermelts that walk around beneath us. This legendary icicle was called Icikull, or Icykill, or something like that. No one knows for sure, but everyone agrees it was amazing. A blow for our kind, teaching those freaks about the pecking order around here.

Now's the perfect time, too. Maybe the only time. Dripping and getting thinner like this, it would be easy to fall. But if I don't drop soon, I might melt away.... Please, if Arctichrist is real, make me a legend!

Here comes another one! Okay, it's small, but that just makes it a harder target. More prestige if I... okay, come this wa— no, not that way! Okay, it's coming back... and...

An Absolute Knack

Miss Elsie Jefferson had an absolute knack for assembling IKEA furniture. Everything she assembled turned out wrong. When she bought a bed and put it together in her room, it somehow ended up taller than it was long and sloping at a rather uncomfortable angle. She bought a large bookcase, but when she was finished she had managed to put together three CD racks.

Even though the furniture never worked out, the prices were right, so she always came back. She purchased a set of kitchen drawers and wound up with a birdhouse, a mailbox, and a matryoshka doll of increasingly small Swedes. All with a simple Allen wrench.

The simpler the construction, the wilder her results. When she brought home a coathook, by the time she was finished screwing it into the wall it was a television. She bought a simple chair — just four screws! — and assembled it in the driveway, hoping for a car. She wound up with a chrome engine, pumping out energy with no discernible fuel.

The Department of Defense came and took it away. Then they came back and took Elsie away. A week later, the DoD placed a standing order with IKEA.

X-Files 2035

"Scully!" Mulder pounded on her door. "Scully! Scuuuulllll—" "What?" Scully yanked the door open in her bathrobe. "What's so important it can't wait for morning?"

"A conspiracy," Mulder whispered.

"It's always a conspiracy." Scully closed the door, but Mulder jammed it with his walker.

"But the truth. It's out there. Or, it's in here. Downstairs. In the kitchen."

She rolled her eyes. "Fine. I'll meet you down there."

"You're not coming with me?" He turned his walker toward the elevator.

"Stairs are good for my osteoporosis," she said.

Downstairs, Mulder pointed at a low cabinet. "The truth is in there." Scully looked at him. "When have I been wrong?"

"An answer would take all night." She bent down and opened the cabinet. "Mixing bowls, Mulder."

"Look deeper!"

"And a bag of... caramels?"

"Give 'em here!" She passed them up. "Skinner's been hiding them from me. Knows I can't bend these knees anymore. The truth is also in there." Mulder pointed at the fridge. "Krycek hid your pastrami."

"That bastard!" She ransacked the fridge and came out with meat. "Time for one more midnight autopsy." She got a knife from the drawer.

"It's good to be back," said Mulder, getting bread.

A Decent Lowlife

"Memchip, gimme." D-point-six held out an open palm. "Aw, man, c'mon. You don't need that shit, you know my rep, man." Detective Raoul Ramos knew his memchip was loaded with memories that would mark him a decent lowlife, memories borrowed from chips held in evidence for authenticity. He also knew that not whining about it would harm his cover as Papa Rox, petty dealer and part-time murderer.

"Fuck your rep," D.6 said. Rayza, D.6's right-hand girl, put her gun up to his head.

"Yeah, man, fine, whatever." He reached up to his temple and released the chip. As it unplugged, his port sealed up to prevent infection. "Here." He slapped it into D.6's hand.

D.6 put it in his own temple port and started accessing the stored memories. "Yeah." He nodded. "This is good stuff. This is real. Ooh," he flinched, grinning, "that shit's nasty. You're nasty." He laughed.

D.6 gave the memchip back and said, "Ain't no cop done these things. Know how I know?" He leaned in close as Raoul reinstalled the chip. "'Cause I done some of 'em."

The memories flooded into Raoul's brain with crystal clarity, followed closely by a bullet.

Like a Clipped Coin

"Go then," the king had said. "Gather your armies and carry our message to the Witch-Queen Malumbra. We shall resist her to our dying breaths!" At the head of her armies, the general marched on the Witch-Queen's horde. She used every tactic and trick, but the onslaught of ghouls, damned spirits, and twisted ogres overwhelmed her armies. Harsh months of campaigning left her with a single bloodied company, limping back to the castle to recommend capitulation.

No one challenged her at the city wall. No one greeted her at the castle gate. The throne room was vacant, its great fireplaces cold. She found the city abandoned, and found a notice declaring evacuation, dated after her departure.

She sent her soldiers on and waited in the castle. When Malumbra's monsters reached the city, they bore Malumbra by palanquin to the throne room. "Will you surrender?" asked the Witch-Queen.

"No." The general sounded tired. "My king spent me like a clipped coin. My people have mourned me. But I will never be yours."

"I'll rip your soul from the lands of the dead and enthrall you to my will," said Malumbra.

The general raised her sword. "Only if you can kill me."