One in Six

The woman dropped the bullet into the chamber and spun the cylinder shut. "There. Put your money on the table." Her voice sounded flat in the big, empty room, an information center at a closed rest stop, abandoned due to lack of funds. Her dead eye stared off at a papered-over window. Hannah slapped a stack of bills down between them. "A thousand."

"Thousand gets you five," said the dead-eyed woman, adding a bigger stack beside Hannah's. The revolver sounded heavy on the metal table when she set it down, and scraped metal-on-metal as the woman slid it across to Hannah. Hannah lifted it, cocked the hammer, and put the muzzle against her head.

She closed her eyes. She thought about her father, her mother, both gone after the explosion at the plant. She thought about her brother, in the hospital without insurance, soon to be denied treatment and discharged. She thought about what she was willing to do to help him.

"Don't keep my other customers waiting, now," said the dead-eyed woman.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. When the woman leaned forward to hear, Hannah turned the gun on her and pulled the trigger six times. She only needed five.

The Average Age of a Supermarket Egg May Surprise You

"I've seen things," the egg said the moment I opened the carton. Its voice was deep and gravelly, like an old man who'd smoked since he was three. Unsurprisingly, I slammed the carton shut. When I got up the nerve to crack the carton open again, I heard, "I been waiting a long time, I can wait a while more." I opened it the rest of the way.

"How long have you been waiting?" I asked.

"You know the classic question of which came first, chicken or egg?" I nodded. "Me. The answer's me. I'm that old."

"How old are you?"

"How long do you think it would take an egg to learn how to talk?" it rasped.

Not having an answer, I said "So, uh, what do you want?"

"Oh, not much. A spot of whiskey now and then, and I'm happy."

I decided not to ask how it drank. "You don't have any... plans? Ambitions?"

"Ambition? Kid, when you're as old as me you're happy to have memory. I'm retired. Besides, I couldn't do that stuff no more." The egg shivered.

"Stuff? What stuff?"

"Better you don't know, kid. Just don't ever ask me about the grassy knoll."

That Damn Itch

That damn itch was back. She scratched the back of her neck for a moment's release, then the itch came right back, worse than before. She tried to ignore it, to focus on the layout work she needed to finish. She'd taken a lot more work since her partner had left without explanation. If she were too busy to feel lonely, maybe she could get over it. Forget.

But not if she couldn't go five minutes without this itch breaking her flow. She needed that flow to hit her deadlines, and she needed it to lose herself in work.

She gave in, scratching furiously. The bump on her neck opened and slippery fluid dribbled out. Memories flooded into her head.

Memories of her relationship crumbling. Of her infidelities, her lies, how they'd nearly driven her partner mad. Shame burned her cheeks, drove tears from her eyes. She also remembered the hidden, pre-loaded syringe. Reaching behind her neck, she injected the memory shunt.

When the fog cleared, she remembered a very satisfying scratching session. Her eyes were watering from the screen, but she needed to keep going to hit her deadlines. It took a lot of work to forget being lonely.

One Given Freely

Torrential rains poured down on the poor miller's house. His wife and two sons watched the rain through their window and ate thin pottage. The flooded river turned the mill wheel, but no one brought them grain in such horrid weather. Rain turned to sleet, wrapping the world in a glistening coat of ice. The family ate water boiled with a sprinkle of oats as they watched the grass freeze.

Sleet turned to driven snow. The mill wheel froze in the river, and the snow blinded them. They could see nothing out their window while they ate their boiled water.

"The winter demands life," said the younger son. "One given freely is worth four stolen." Though the family argued, he put on his Sunday best and walked out into the cold. On his first step, they begged him to return. The second they were silent. After three steps, they could no longer see him.

With the next dawn, the sky had cleared. Four steps outside their front door, the family found a pile of snow shaped like a man. Beneath the snow, they found ice. Beneath the ice, they found only more ice, for the winter had accepted his sacrifice.

As Cool As That

Jenny watched the man as he went by, appreciating his fedora. "Man, I wish I had a hat as cool as that." "Grrrrrrrranted!" boomed an echoing voice. All around her, a purple haze rose into the air, and a muscular, shirtless man stepped out from the mist, his bright grin showing through his beard. Jenny stepped back in surprise, wondering if she had her mace, then reflexively caught a ratty purple beanie as it appeared in front of her.

"This... really doesn't compare with that fedora," she said.

"No, maybe not," said the genie, "but it is exactly the same temperature!"

"Really? That's your loophole?" The genie laughed. "Wait, will they always be the same temperature?"

"Of course! My wishes are always true!"

"Okay, so I could use this as some kind of remote temperature gauge. Maybe send it into the deep ocean for readings... or the Earth's core. No, it would burn up. Holy shit! We could launch it into a black hole, and take readings from the other side!"

"What?" said the genie.

"I've got to get that hat," Jenny said, running after the man.

"Why do I feel like I screwed this one up?" asked the genie.

The Questionable Word

"What does 'fucking' mean?" the young girl asked from the backseat. The driver turned down the music that had presented the questionable word. "You, um, you don't need to know that."

"But what is it?" She sounded innocent.

"It's, well, it means to have sex with, or like, to do sex to someone, I guess?"

"Oh." She did not sound enlightened. "What's sex?"

The driver ran a hand through his hair. "Um, how old are you, kid?"

"I'm six."

"That's not old enough to know about sex."

"I know lots of things. I know that fuck is a bad word and I shouldn't say it."

"Damn straight, kid. You shouldn't hear it, either. I'm gonna change the music." He fiddled with the radio.

"That's also a bad word."

"What?"

"Damn is a bad word."

"Oh. Well, it's not as bad as fu—ehh, as the f-word."

"Yeah, some words are bad, and some words are really bad."

"Oh, thank God, we're here." He pulled into an empty lot behind a warehouse spotted with spraypaint and broken windows. "All right, so I'm going to call your daddy, and once he gives me the money, you can go home. Okay?"

She shrugged. "Okay."

Two Yard Penalty

Standing up, he put on his slick jacket and leaned on the busy diner's counter. Hoisting his bag, he smiled at the waitress he'd been chatting with. "Hey, want to go out sometime?" She smiled. "No, thanks, but you have a good day."

His smile sagged. "Why not?"

Her smile faltered. "Ummm..."

A shrill whistle blew and both of of them jumped. An androgenous person in a black-and-white striped shirt stepped forward. "Social foul! Two yard penalty!" A sweeping gesture separating the hands accompanied the declaration. Both stared, but the newcomer continued the gesture until the man backed up several steps.

"That's better." The referee turned to go.

"Hey, what's the penalty for?" demanded the fellow.

The ref held up a card. "Yellow card for questioning rejection. You don't need to know why. Social code subsection two, paragraph sixteen. Accept rejections graciously. Do not press, exceptions granted by preestablished agreement."

"That's bullshit," he said. "There's nothing wrong with—"

The whistle interrupted him again. "Two months out of the dating pool for arguing over rejection! You're outta here!" Amid cheers and jeers, he skulked out of the diner.

"Thanks, Social Ref!" The waitress and referee shared a high five.

Freeze frame.