Question and Answer

First thing she said was, "I'm here to kill you." That's how I knew I was in trouble. Not the death threat — that's hardly rare — but the way she said it. Most folks'd say something like, "I'm gonna kill you." But elves can't lie. Not ever. So they also can't make predictions, just in case they won't come true. So this woman, in a blue jacket, blue jeans, and a baseball cap, was probably an elf here to kill me, and that scared me.

Either way, I figure the death threat justified emptying my gun at her. The couple rounds I know hit her didn't slow her down, proof enough of my fears. Then she threw me against the wall of my office. It smashed my framed newspaper mention to pieces, and after it took me three years to frame it in the first place.

"Wait!" I said. "Answer me one question before you kill me!"

"Fine," she said, standing over me. "One question."

"Thanks." I sat up. "Might take a while to think of one. Sixty, seventy years, maybe."

That got me an angry glare. But she didn't kill me, so I counted that as a win.

Knocking on the Boulders

The girl smoothed out her dress and knelt in front of the boulder. Reaching out one small fist, she closed her eyes and knocked. "Come out, Mr. Elf," she called. "It's Gerta, and I want to play with you." She waited. When nothing happened, she took a crumpled piece of paper out her dress pocket and opened it. "I brought you some gifts," she said. She set them out before the boulder. "I brought you a flower, one of Mom's honey cakes that I only ate some of, a stone that looks like an eye, and Papa's dried fish that I only ate some of." She arranged them on the ground, and looked up at the boulder and waited.

When nothing happened, the girl stood and brushed off her dress. "I can see that you are busy." She collected her things. "I will come another time." She walked down the hill back to her house.

Several minutes later, the boulder opened and a small man in a cloth robe stepped out. Seeing no one, he went back in saying "Nagtha tek a dasaispo f askrova krah." Which, of course, means "Why do they always knock when I'm in the bath?"

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."