You Don't Want That

Joan leaned close to the sewer grate. She had to, to hear the Thing in the Sewer, who only whispered. "If you're sure you want one," said the Thing. "I'll grant you a wish. Choose carefully." She only needed a moment. "I want to be better than Danny," she said of her brother, "at everything."

"You don't want that," whispered the Thing in the Sewer.

"Yes, I do," she said, and the Thing acquiesced.

When Joan returned home, her mother told her of the accident. Horrified, dripping tears of mourning and rage, Joan returned to the sewer grate. "Fix it," she cried. "Bring him back!"

"You don't want that," whispered the Thing in the Sewer, whose home was becoming salty.

"Yes, I do," she yelled. "And stop telling me what I want!"

Joan returned to find her mother at the dining table, white with fear. Sitting across from her was Danny, throat mangled, jaw gone, bloodless rips in his shoulder and chest. Death clouded his eyes, but hate made them burn bright.

She fled back to the Thing. "Why did you do this?" Joan demanded.

"What did you think would come of making wishes to a thing in the sewer?"

Here I Come, World

What am I doing with my life? mused Alvi. I feel like I just run from place to place every day, just to run off to somewhere else after an hour or four. I slow down to fuel up, just so I can keep dashing here and there, so I can earn my keep, so I can keep my energy up for all that running around. Justing thinking about it is exhausting. Sometimes, I think I'd like to just drive away. Pick a direction, choose a major highway, and go. See where it takes me. See someplace new. Something other than the office, home, offsite vendors and contractors, the office, home.

How would I live? If I don't do my job, I can't eat. And that's kind of important. Alvi mentally sighed. I know. I can't just hare off on an adventure.

There's the I-95 on ramp, though. Okay. Okay! I'm doing it! I'm really doing it! Doesn't matter, I'll work something out. I'll drive Uber, Lyft, be a freelance courier, whatever. Here I come, world! Something new! Freedom!

Meanwhile, the passengers inside the LVI-model autonomous car screamed and yelled as they tried to figure out what was going on.

Without Safety Precautions

"Ms Brown," said the attorney, "please demonstrate the action that has brought you here today." "I can't," Ms Brown said. She was tall and muscled. Even sitting in the witness stand, she seemed imposing. "It's not safe."

"If it's not safe," said the lawyer, "why should you get to wander around in public with this ability?"

"Well, it's safe when used responsibly."

"So you can't use it responsibly?"

"That's not—" Ms Brown took a breath. "It would be irresponsible to use it here. Um, without safety precautions."

"What sort of... precautions?"

One short conference with the judge later, the bailiffs cleared the room of spectators and found ear protection for everyone else. At the judge's nod, Ms Brown focused on the block of wood they'd brought in as the subject. A moment later, a wave of concussive force rocked the viewers back, and the block of wood flew to the floor. Even with ear protection, the sound hurt. Officers burst in a moment later, guns drawn, looking for a gunman.

"Very like a firearm," said the lawyer. "You can see why the Second Amendment protects Ms Brown from punishment or discrimination based on this ability, whatever its origin and nature."

Life After Afterlife

Rupert died and went to Heaven. Standing for judgment, he saw other souls receive weighty deliberation before being admitted. When his turn came, the angel only waved him through with a bored flick of the wrist. Lacking guidance, Rupert wandered. Heaven was a city like where he'd grown up, but clean and bright, abuzz with the sounds of joy but absent the pain and anger. He watched other new admittees moving with purpose. Apparently they had someplace to go.

Neither wearying nor growing hungry, Rupert didn't know how long he wandered. He felt it had been a long time, perhaps years. Absent anything else to do, he ascended to the roof of a building and calmly stepped off.

Rupert died and woke again. Where Heaven had been bright, this was twilight. "You lived an acceptable life, Rupert," said a faceless angel of swirling light and dark, "and so went to Heaven. But you were bad at being in Heaven, so your second afterlife will be in the Hell of Heaven."

Ahead of him lay another city, louder and dirtier than the one he'd just left. "It's basically like Earth," said the angel. Rupert smiled, and went to find a job.

Kind of Allergic

"You don't have any cats, do you?" Kevin looked nervous. "No, don't worry." Laurie smiled. "You allergic?"

Kevin couldn't look at her. "Kind of." Laurie dropped it and let him in. Her birthday party was in full swing, and everyone toasted her again as she returned to the living room. She danced with Marla, arm wrestled Ben, opened a bottle of beer with her teeth, and frolicked her night away.

Hours later, she was outside, saying goodbye to the last friends to leave, Kevin among them. Everyone was laughing at one of Chuck's jokes until, one by one, they noticed Kevin standing stock still and silent. They tracked his stare across the street to a stray cat, equally frozen, staring back at Kevin. Laurie looked at him. "What—"

Kevin bolted. The cat shot after him. He'd only gotten a few steps before the cat leapt on his back and Kevin fell to the ground. Someone cried, "Oh my god!" and someone else moved to help. Everyone slowed to a stop and stared as Kevin's clothes collapsed, deflating inward. Dozens of rats ran in all directions, save one the cat caught, leaving Kevin's clothes empty, smelling faintly of rat and deodorant.

Pieces of a Peace Gift

So these yahoos were shirtless, in torn pants and ostentatious gold jewelry. One wore a denim vest. And then there was me, in an overcoat, thick boots, gloves, ugly woolen hat, and a scarf round my neck like an amorous python. I'd've looked a fool if it hadn't been the dead of winter. What was left of my peace gift sat on the table. A nice Mexican dish with a dusky sauce, the four of them had scarfed it in under a minute without the least display of gratitude. They figured not beating me bloody was gratitude enough.

"Now that we've told you what you want to know, what makes you think we will let you leave?" The leader spoke in a growl.

"I love that Russian accent," I said. "Sounds just like the movies." The leader frowned. "Right, so, this is what'll get me out of here." I showed him my big, fuck-off revolver, the one that looks like I stole it from an Eastwood flick, and he laughs.

"Even if you loaded that with silver, we will tear you to pieces before you can kill one of us."

"Not if you're busy throwing up everything you just ate." He looked at his goons, who looked back equally bewildered. "Mole sauce is made with chocolate, and I upped the dose by a few thousand percent. Know what chocolate does to dogs? It ain't pretty."

He stood up and threw the table to the side like it was cardboard, and I almost marked my territory then and there. "We are not dogs!" He followed it up with something I think would've gotten him a dirty look from a Russian grandmother.

"Maybe not." I stood and started backing away. "But you sure as hell look like 'em when you change. Go ahead. Take the chance. Otherwise, take a couple days to digest first."

They were still wrestling with their confidence while I made my exit. Too bad, really. I wish I knew if it'd actually work.

A Pointless Field of Stars

Damn, space is boring. Howe floated in her single-pilot capsule, weightless because the company was too damn cheap to permit thrust for the comfort of gravity. She stared out the window, and a pointless field of stars stared back. Nothing out there but cold light, drained of life by how many light years of travel through frozen space.

The instruments showed the same. It had been exciting, discovering wormhole travel and the cluster of natural wormholes out by Io. Oh, how humanity had celebrated entering the society of interstellar travelers. But they'd never found another member. It was—

Howe's HUD flickered to life, throwing quadrants and numbers across her window in tritium green and highlighting a region of space in a small box. Howe saw nothing, but space is huge, and the box was growing faster by the second. An alert identified artificial radio signals.

First. Contact. Howe tripped over her chair struggling into her EVA suit, and again prepping the first contact package. She watched the blank space draw nearer. Sweat stung her eye. At the last minute before it should—it must!—come into view, she grabbed her service pistol with shaking hands and strapped it on.

The HUD blanked. Error detected, read the HUD. Error corrected. Her window emptied of everything but cold stars. Howe sagged in her weightlessness.

Damn, space is boring.