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.

Time to Go

Two old people sat in overstuffed chairs. The cushions held the persons’ shapes, and the wear on the armrests showed exactly where the people left their arms, each time, every time. “Listen,” said the woman, “I’m just about ready to kick it.”

“To kick it?” said the man. Neither looked at the other, just straight ahead.

“The bucket,” she said. “To die.”

“Right,” said he. “So what’s stopping you?”

“You always promised you’d die first.”

“I did?”

“Yes. I expected you to remember.” There was a drop of resentment in her voice, lost within the bucket of resentment in her everyday tone.

“Well. Sorry.” There was no apology in his.

“It’s okay.” She waited. “So?”

“So what?”

“You promised.”

“I’m not ready to go.”

Her fingers drummed on her armrest. “You should get ready, then.”

“I’m in no hurry. Still working on my memoirs. Still like seeing the grandkids. Figure I got a couple years more.”

“But I’m ready to go.”

“Then I’ll miss you.”

“But you promised!”

“What does it matter? You’ll be gone.”

“I’m not going to die knowing you were a liar!”

“Then you’ll just have to wait.”

“Not for long,” she said. “How was your coffee?”

Something Special: A Wedding Poem

...though "poem" might be a bit generous. I wrote this for my cousin's wedding on September 1st of this year, assisted by a hurricane-like brainstorming session from the mother of the groom and assorted cousins, uncles, aunts, and friends. And so, to celebrate the marriage of Mimi Choi and Brenden Schaefer (hence Choifer), I present to you my aunt's speech at the reception.

Once a good fellow named Brenden

Got engaged and took that to its endin'.

Since she never fled

They finally got wed

Creating a true Choifer blendin'.

Dear Mimi, to put off your fears

Some advice to get through the years

When you get a doggy

It might get too soggy

If Brenden can suck on its ears.

And be careful, 'cause he can be vain.

He's got so many clothes it's a pain.

He even, it seems,

Wears under-eye creams.

These habits might drive you insane.

He tried for professional bass,

Or a chef at a higher-class place.

He had a brief flirt

With bison yogurt

And now is a marketing ace.

As a brother, he was sometime a shit.

He covered Nicole's face with spit.

He called her Ben Gay

Every damn day

And tortured her with evil wit.

But you're marrying him. You know why?

He's generous, kind, and won't lie.

When he says you're his love,

It's really no bluff.

Brenden's a fantastic guy.