A Commercial

A massive vault door. Beep. Beep. Beep, beep, beepbeepbeep. The door explodes outward and a black-clad man runs out, a steel case under his arm.

He runs down a brushed-steel hallway, klaxons blaring and emergency doors sliding closed, an elevator at the far end. Halfway there, the elevator opens to reveal black-helmeted guards. They raise futuristic rifles, and lasers miss him by inches as he dives through a door as it seals shut.

Behind him, the guards start cutting through the door with their lasers. They don't notice the small device on the floor, beeping faster and faster.

The thunder of the explosion mingles with the shattering of glass as he dives through the 60th-story window. Outside, his black suit sprouts a glider, and he flies away from a building that resembles a sleek, soulless vending machine.

Cut to a dingy room, serious-looking men looking grim over troop dispositions. The black-clad man interrupts, slamming the steel case on the table, then opens it. A dry-ice mist parts, revealing a Coca-Cola. Everyone looks hopeful, and he takes a swig.

Realistic Consequences Epilogue: Rebellion Command reprimands Corporal Harkness for his reckless actions. He is prohibited from field duty. His Coke was confiscated.

The Heartlands

It was too overcast to see the sky, too dark to even see what obscured the sky. Probably nothing so normal as clouds, Jane figured, given she was surrounded by stalks of pink flesh taller than her head, with heart-like muscles dotting each stalk, bleeding scarlet and pulsing in some rhythm.

"Welcome to the heartland," the creepy farmer man had said. He’d given her a pitchfork, which for some reason she’d so far hung onto. Then she’d gone on and ended up here.

She noticed a pattern in the heartbeats around her. Like it was a wave, flowing out from someplace. Lacking any other direction, she walked toward the source.

Some time later (how much? did the sun even move here?) she stood before a car-sized heart on a vine, like a fleshy mockery of a prize-winning pumpkin. Its heartbeats shook the ground and rippled away through the heartstalks.

"Now what?" she yelled. "If I destroy this, do I go home?" She still had the creepy man’s pitchfork. "Is this a metaphor?" she screamed. "Am I having a heart attack? Are these my bottled up emotions?"

She stood under the strange-darkened sky and contemplated the heart, pitchfork in her hand.

Spoken from the Heart

fum. fum. fum. I closed my eyes and tried to ignore it. Such a frustrating contradiction. I feel comfortable sleeping on my back, head on my pillow, turned to the right; my body wants to do it. But as soon as my right ear presses against the pillow… fum. fum. fum. I hear my heartbeat pulsing in my ear.

I lie down and relax into that most comfortable position, and fum. fum. fum. I hear it, and I try, I try, I try to ignore it, and it keeps me up. I have to switch to another position before I can sleep.

And sometimes no other position will do. Tonight is like that. My body wants only this position; my ears want anything but. And no matter how studiously I ignore it, there is my fum fum fum, boring its way into my brain. I’ve heard how sounds you hear over and over tend to disappear, but it’s never worked for this.

Dammit. I’ve spent so long trying to ignore it, maybe listening to it will help. Like meditating by listening to breathing, maybe. Here goes.

fum. fum. fum.

fummm. fummm. fummm.

fum. fum. fum.

Wait. Is that Morse code?

A+

“His gaze transfixed her. Though she still held the knife behind her back, she knew she could never use it so long as he looked at her like that. No, not even if his hands made good on the promises his eyes were making…”

Ms. W looked up at the author, sitting across the desk from her, then back down at the paper, then back up. The author was her student. The assignment had been to write something that inspires you. The class was second grade.

“Did your mother write this?” asked Ms. W.

“No,” said the boy. “She told me not to turn it in.”

“Did she say why?”

“She said it wasn’t appropriate for school.

“She’s right. Why did you write something like this for the assignment?”

“You said to write what we really wanted to write.” His voice was rising, his face looked  headed toward tears.

“It’s okay, Michael. It’s very good.” He relaxed. “It’s just, in the future, you should probably write on a different subject.” He nodded. “And…”

He waited.

She leaned forward, one hand unconsciously on the paper as though she could touch the characters described there.

“Can you tell me what happens next?”

Hammet and the Walnut

Hammet left his village with only his clothes, a lantern, a bag of walnuts, and an uncanny ability to crack open a walnut with his bare hand. Hammet left to seek his fortune, for he had four older brothers and sisters, and there was nothing left for Hammet.

Hammet came upon a small forest beside a small kingdom. The king had promised his daughter’s hand to any who could chop the whole forest in one night. Hammet dropped his lantern as he passed in the night. In the morning the king saw his forest burned to the ground and was dismayed; the princess was secretly pleased.

Hammet discovered a rabbit that claimed it was a mighty general, who had been cursed by the wizard king she served. She asked Hammet to pierce her ears with a golden needle to free her. He ate well on stew that night.

Sleeping one night in a cave, Hammet awoke surrounded by gold. Taking all he could carry, Hammet left for home, but the devil confronted him. In exchange for the gold, Hammet’s soul, unless Hammet could best the devil at a wager.

“I bet I can open this walnut with my bare hand.”

Equal Time

“So, I thought that was strange until the Centauri ambassador took me aside and said—”

“Erin, ask me how I’m doing.” The image on the other end of the telecall stopped dead.

“What?”

“It’s just, look. I love that you call. I know it’s expensive from across the galaxy. But it’s great that we stay in touch. And you really do have great stories. I love telling my friends about my sister, interstellar diplomat to the Galactic Council. But you never, ever ask about me. About my latest year of med school—”

“You’re in med school?”

“See! This is exactly what I’m talking about. I’ve been in med school for three years, now, and yes, it’s great, I’m thinking about burns as a specialty.”

“Well—”

“But you’d never know, because when we talk, it’s all about your glorious job, and the fantastic aliens you’ve met, and on and on and on.” A moment of silence.

“I’m sorry. Look, let me just finish the sentence, okay? Then it’s all about you, okay?”

“Okay.”

“The ambassador said that the Ursans are declaring war on us. We don’t have a chance in hell.”

Silence again.

“So,” said Erin. “What’ve you been up to?”

The Dragon is Dead

She basks in the crowd’s adulation. But at the banquet honoring her, she feels a twinge of disdain for them, followed by guilt at the unfamiliar emotion.

Her shield caught in the dragon’s maw, she twisted its head and plunged her sword through its crop into its brain.

She keeps only the customary tenth of the dragon’s horde, the rest going to Queen and country; even so, she is wealthy. No one charges the dragonslayer for anything. Gratitude wars with condemnation for people so eager to pay a tribute for their protection, their weakness.

Her scream echoed through the ruined palace as scalding blood streamed down her arm.

She secludes herself in a manor with a view of the palace. Servants gossip about her: her demands for obeisance, her mockery for those who earn their coin rather than winning it, her diet of raw meat that her infirmity makes difficult to eat, and her growing cruelty.

Her arm curled reflexively to her chest, even as the skin blackened and crisped.

She rakes the blackened flesh with her fingers until it peels away, and she stretches her new scaled limb and flexes her talons. She sets her eyes on the palace.