SF Drabble #486: “Abduction By Permit Only”

The agent asked, gently, “Can you describe the room?”

“There were bright lights above me. Blinding, I had to squint the whole time. So I couldn’t really see the room. But the table was metal.”

“Metal table, ok. And were there any sounds? Noise? Anything that sounded like talking?

“There was… it sounded like slurping. And definitely rustling. Like, newspapers.”

“Okay. Excuse us for a minute, please.”

The agents stepped out into the hall, closed the door behind them.

“Slurping and rustling—”

“Definitely the Pyorwheen.”

“This is, what, the third time they’ve grabbed somebody out-of-season?”

“The fine’s gonna be astronomical.”

Hostile Takeover

Thank you, thank you. Thanks. First, I’d like to thank the outgoing Chairperson, Amanda Unvers, she’s been great, really fantastic last six quarters, Amanda. Let’s hear it for her.

So I know a leadership transition can be difficult for any well-established company, and I know there’s some trepidation in middle and even upper management about downsizing and other changes, and I’m here to tell you: there’s gonna be some downsizing and other changes, but we’re gonna get through ‘em together. Well, some of you aren’t: some of you will be torn to shreds and fed to the hellhounds we now have chained in the basement. Starting with Amanda here. But some of you are going to come through just fine.

Now, if you’re worried that you’re part of the torn-to-shreds group, you probably are. But there’s good news: you can get out of this group, there’s totally a way, and here’s how: inform on people who deserve to get torn to shreds more than you. I mean, ultimately, we’ll be the judge, Asmodeus, and Mammon and I, but some good dirt on your coworkers will go a long way towards swaying us.

Anyway, that’s all, and enjoy your casual Friday.

Artifact

Brraaaang. Brraaaang. A sound he hadn’t heard in years, and only then because nostalgic types would make it their smartphone’s ringtone. He dug the old bakelite relic out of the chest, set it on the dusty attic table, picked up the receiver and held it to his ear. “…Hello?”

The distant, tinny voice on the other end said, “You’re braver than most people.”

“Sorry?”

“The phone isn’t plugged in. Even if it were plugged in, and you paid for landline service, phones like this won’t work with the new system. So when this phone rings, any reasonable person would be given pause. Wouldn’t you say?”

“I suppose.”

“But you answered nonetheless.”

“I suppose I did. Was there something you wanted?”

There was a pause. “Well, as I said, it usually doesn’t get this far. I’m afraid you’ve rather thrown me off.”

“Sorry about that.” He switched the receiver to the other ear, held it in place with his shoulder while he straightened his tie. “Would it help if I admitted to being mildly disturbed?”

The voice sighed. “It’ll have to do for now. Hopefully the flickering lights will have more success.”

“Come again?”

“Nothing.” A click, then only dial tone.

Faustian Return Policy

“Listen, this isn’t working out.”

It hadn’t been that long; I remembered his raspy voice. I picked up another crate and put it onto the stack. It hadn’t even been a year; he was early. “Not sure what you mean.”

“Most people, they ask for things for themselves. When you…” he trailed off, shrugged. “I guess I thought I just didn’t get your angle. But there wasn’t an angle. Was there?”

“Still not sure—”

“You’re just helping people. Selflessly. This hasn’t ever happened before.” He nervously stuck a cigarette in his mouth, flipped open a jet-black zippo and lit it. He took a long drag, holding in the smoke, savoring it, before speaking again. “It’s a problem, Ernest. Conceptually.”

“You gave me what I asked for, I’m prepared to give you what you asked for. When it’s time. It’s not time yet.” I hoisted another crate onto the pallet, and reached for the hand jack.

“You don’t get it. The deal is supposed to bring out corruption that’s already there. You make the deal, it means you deserve it. But this is… I can’t have your soul down there.” He flicked his cigarette at the ground. “Stinking up the place.”

SF Drabble #471 “Take Me To Your Leader”

“The coffee?”

“Yes sir.”

“Is sapient? The coffee.”

“Yes sir, I’m sorry, sir, the boys down in Lab 12 really had a corker of a weekend and—”

“And it’s communicating with them?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And it’s angry?”

“Well, as you can imagine, the boys down in Lab 12 had drunk quite a lot of the coffee before they realized it was self-aware. Not really sure how they figured it out, actually, but they are geniuses, after all—”

“Bob.”

“Sorry, sir. At any rate, the coffee was quite unhappy about having been half-consumed and had declared, well, sort of… war.”

“Unbelievable.”

Pushover

“She’s done it again.”

“What?”

“Go look in the sun room. Just you look.”

He poked his head through the doors, froze. Eventually he managed to say, “Who’s a good boy? Who’s a good boy?”

“John.”

“What?”

“Go talk to her. Right now. I’ve had enough. It has to stop.”

He trudged up the stairs, knocked softly on the door with the red ribbons on the knob and the pencil-marks measuring height on the molding. “Honey?”

A worried oval of a face appeared as the door opened a crack. “…Yes?”

“Remember when we talked about summoning?”

“Yes, daddy.”

“And how you shouldn’t do it unless Mommy or I was around?”

“Yes, Daddy. I’m sorry. I won’t do it again.”

“Okay, sweetie. Have a nice afternoon.”

“Thank you Daddy.” The door closed.

He trudged back downstairs to find Martha, arms folded. She began, “John…”

“Well, at least it’s not a tiger.”

Bun Lyfe

It’s been three years, and I’ve finally come to terms with the fact that there’s no undoing what we did that night; that I’ll never look in the mirror and see my old human face again.

That book — the Lagomorphicon — not a day goes by that I don’t wish I’d never opened it, never joked about ‘doin’ it bunny-style’, never blithely read those Latin words aloud. But what’s done is done.

Some people accepted me, and the ones who didn’t… well, they’re not part of my life anymore. I have a new job. It’s not teaching, but Principal Ward was right: the kids never would have taken me seriously. Just last week, some neighborhood teenagers yelled, “Hey, Watership Down! Think fast!” and threw carrots at me as they passed.

I stood my ground, but they just walked on. I wish I had been strong enough not to eat the carrots.

Ava

I only took one.

They said take half. Cut it with a paring knife, a sharp one, so that you don’t lose bits, put half under your tongue, put half in a baggie. I didn’t have a paring knife, who has a fucking paring knife? Your mom has a paring knife. I took it whole.

I didn’t want to deal with everybody else’s freakouts and bullshit revelations and unfortunate nudity. I took a walk. There was a path that goes along the fence and then down through the seawall to the beach. The evening sand was kind to my bare feet and the waves were politely hushed as they loitered near the shoreline.

I thought, I’ll watch the sunset. It’ll be pretty. That’ll be a good trip. But then the gulls were all over the beach, and then in my hair, and then in my head.

Just do half, motherfuckers.

In Cloudkey Town I Met A Girl

“I am a Princess.” She stared at him in shocked incredulity, as if his failure to recognize her station and act accordingly was entirely without precedent. “My father is your King.”

“I have no King. Down below…” He turned, gestured to the ascent balloon tethered at the edge of the floating city. “Down there we choose our rulers from amongst ourselves by a vote.”

“Barbaric.” She shook her head as if to dislodge an unwelcome thought from her mind; then she paused, regarding him, and continued with a more welcoming if haughty tone. “But you may approach.”

He grinned. “Gladly.”

Cribs: Serial Killers Edition

“..and this is Helen. Helen was a nurse, she lived alone. She had a shrill voice, very grating. I put ‘Die Meistersinger’ on the record player and turned it up as loud as it would go and then I cut her throat in the kitchen. Very nice tile in the kitchen. Sort of a Persian blue.

“Bill here came to the house selling Electrolux vacuums. Nothing spectacular about Bill. I asked him in for a demo and then strangled him with the vacuum power cord. Not sure why they never came looking for him.

“Next is Dr. Garcia. I went to him for my eye twitch and he told me I needed more potassium. Bananas. Worked like a charm. I locked him in the basement and then piped exhaust fumes from the Packard down there.

“Let’s see, who’s next? Oh, yes: my Miranda. Lovely Miranda. Miranda’s where the magic happens.”

FDIC Insured

She’s the kind of professional thief you hire to break into your place to see if it’s possible to break into your place. She’s trustworthy to exactly the extent that she keeps her promises to the letter, and no further. She comes highly recommended by all the right people.

“I paid a lot of money for this vault. I’m told it’s impregnable.”

She smiled. “Anything that can be entered legitimately can be entered criminally.”

“How?”

“You have my quote in front of you.”

We paid. She smiled, walked out, and we never saw her again. A week went by, and we started making phone calls: where is she, why no contact, how can we get our money back?

It wasn’t until I opened my personal lockbox — virtually a vault-within-a-vault — and found the note she’d left, that I realized she’d been and gone.

Needs work, it said. There weren’t any details.

The Kitchen Scene

"So who's this guy, now?"

"Not sure, some Rabbi from out of town."

"They're really losing it over him. It's embarrassing."

"Right? And all this food… you know they won't eat half of it, and will we get the leftovers? We will not."

"Of course not. She'll tell you to toss it to the dogs out back and she'll watch to make sure you do it, too, you just wait."

"Oh, I know she will. I know she will."

"Oh, hey, draw a pitcher of water and take it in."

"Just water? Not wine?"

"Just water. For some magic trick."

Pica And Sensibility

Oh, do come in.

It's such an honor, and we are delighted to make your acquaintance, of course. Were your travels easy? Have you come from Calais? Is it beautiful this time of year? Is absolutely everyone there? Are all the ladies festooned with the latest fashions from Paris? Are all the gentlemen dapper and smart? We would have been in attendance but for Father's gout…

But I do go on. Have a sherry, and some cakes. Perhaps we'll walk the garden later, or I can play you something pretty on the piano. You will stay the week, won't you?

Three Line Thursday: "Standing Over The Body"

I don't get it. I don't understand why this happened.
You've seen the movies, you know how this stuff works.
You never open the creepy murder clown box. Not ever.

Underworld

Okay. Annabelle awoke, stretched her arms, looked around her studio apartment and… Wait, no, that's too cliché, can't start with her waking up. No decent literary agent would let that pass.

Annabelle stepped out of the front door of her apartment building, her Manolos flashing red against the… Ugh, too 90's. What is this, Sex in the City? No. How about:

Annabelle raised her arm to flag down a cab as if she was a wizard  bending the city to her will. Ooh, I like that… Hey, maybe this could be Urban Fantasy! I bet that stuff sells great… Okay.

Annabelle felt the power coursing through her fingers as she commanded a cab driver to… Should her name still be Annabelle if it's Urban Fantasy? What about 'Lorelei'? Or maybe something like 'Rielle'? Rieeeeeelle. Love it. Okay.

Rielle slid into the cab and the ensorcelled driver pulled away from the curb without a word from her… Where's she going though? Maybe a nightclub full of demons and sorcerers? OOh I could call the club 'Underworld'!

Underworld was a seething mass of power and sex and thumping house music. Rielle snaked through the crowd until she saw him… Okay, what should the guy's name be? 'Cray'? Maybe 'Tanner'? 'Tanner' works. I like a 'Tanner'.

As soon as Rielle approached, a predatory smile spread across Tanner's face. What does he say? Something alpha-male, gotta be a little rapey, but in a hot way.

"Welcome back, pet." Yeah, that'll really draw 'em in.

Semiotics

"Why is she turned away from the camera?"

"There's no camera, it's a painting."

"You know what I mean. Why is she… why can't we see her face? Why would he paint her like that?"

"Who knows? Maybe they were alienated. Maybe she loved the flowers more than him. Maybe the flowers are a symbol of something, maybe beauty, I don't know. Maybe she left him for a more beautiful man. And with the fallen petals he's saying that her new love will fade and die like their old love, like any living thing."

"Jesus, you're a real downer."

"Sorry."

Three Line Thursday: "Overly Cautious"

"It could taste good, but still kill you," he said.
My grandfather: a font of worldly wisdom for the ages.
Haven't picked a berry since I was seven years old.

Interpretation

"I don't like this one."

"What?" It was three girls in identical bathing caps, wrapped in identical towels, going into a nondescript changing enclosure. "Why?"

"They're not happy."

"What makes you think they're not happy?"

"Well, look at them." Exasperation crept into her voice. "Look at the expression on the youngest one's face. She's not happy. And there's no door on the changing room. People will see."

"I don't think—"

"And where's the ocean? They're supposed to be at the beach but you can't see it. What if there's no beach, and no ocean? What if that's why they're mad?"

Boots, With The Fur

"So what are yours doing?"

From around the corner, with disinterest: "What does it matter?"

"Mine are watching television. Something with people arguing. I think it's a reality show, but one of those ones that's mostly fake, you know? Where the producers set them up in situations and basically tell them what to say?"

"Listen, I'm trying to sit in the sun here. And it's already four, so there's only so much sun left. Sooo…"

"They feed you yet? Mine haven't. I smell food though. That yours? I can't see from here."

With a sigh: "I'm going to sleep now."

Five Sentence Fiction: "The Confounding Case Of The Cropped Colonel"

I have assembled you here in this, the dining car, because I am now ready to reveal the identity of Colonel Rumsworthy's killer.

It was not — as many, including Detective Sergeant Mewler here, have suggested — the beautiful Penelope Jule, star of stage and screen: she was otherwise occupied in the Bundermans' compartment seducing Mr. Bunderman… and his wife. Nor could it have been the Rector as he is left-handed and therefore completely incompetent. Even the locomotive's coalman has been ruled out, as he would have left a far greater, sootier mess.

It was I. I am the killer.