Short Stories

by Colin Thom and Sarah Edwards









Banana Slicers and Other Must-Haves
SciFi, Humor

For most species of the galaxy, a knife is the only necessary kitchen gadget. But not for humans. Humans have apple slicers, pineapple slicers, watermelon slicers, even banana slicers.

When humans finally made contact with the rest of the galaxy, their kitchen gadgets were all the rage. Banana prices skyrocketed as every alien tried to get their hands on a banana to try out their new banana slicer.

And so, we thought, why stop there? Why limit ourselves to gadgets that humans invented for no real purpose? (Because let's face it: Do you really need a special tool to slice a banana?)

We threw together parts--blades in geometric patterns, multi-headed spoons, double-ended forks--and put humans in a kitchen full of food with no other tools. The humans did not fail to impress. They started new fads around needs that did not exist.

It was such a hit that we turned it into a reality TV show (a popular human form of entertainment that also swept the galaxy). In the show, humans have to prepare a dinner party for 20 people in 2 hours, armed only with gadgets never before revealed to the galaxy. And thus the almond peeler, strawberry seed extractor, and oatmeal masher were born.

The human to platter the best feast (as determined by two crowd-worshipped judges) wins 10,000 Earth American dollars and fame. And us? We patent every gadget in advance and immediately buy up food commodities.

The Forbidden Book
Magical Realism

Prompt: A small, mostly abandoned library has every book ever written and a kind librarian that knows them all by heart. You are allowed to read all of them but one. You break into and read the forbidden book.

I was surprised to find that death leads not to heaven or hell, but to a library.

The librarian was a friendly old man. My only companion.

“Welcome to my library,” he greeted me with a smile that crinkled his whole face with wrinkles, like pages from a book turned too hastily.

“You may read any book here, save your own.” He raised a book with my name on the binding, and placed it into a gap on a shelf that stretched farther than the eye could see.

You might think it boring, to be caught timeless, adrift in a sea of stories. But each book I read brought me closer to a greater story. A story written not in the book of a single life but across all the books, across all lives. As I feel deeper into that story, I lost all sense of time.

Again and again I found myself wandering back to the shelf where my book rested. Each time, the librarian’s words came back to me, and I left my book unopened.

And so I continued to read of lives short and long, great and small, courageous and timid, loving and spiteful and often all of these things mixed together.

I read until my heart was overflowing. For it was not possible to see someone as they see themselves and not feel compassion.

Finally, after time untold, I realized I could no longer recall my own life. Was I good or bad? Did those labels even have any meaning to me anymore?

With trepidation, I pulled my book from the shelf and let it fall open.

The pages were blank. Hints of words so faded as to be illegible.

“It is time to return. Your next life awaits.”

I looked up to see the librarian smiling down on me. I had feared to see disappointment, but instead I only saw joy.

Cereal Killer
Humor

Prompt: They found the first body by the lake, mouth stuffed full of corn flakes. The second was found lying facedown in a bowl of Cheerios. By the time they found the third, covered in pop tarts, they knew: there was a cereal killer on the loose.

We expected the killer to be a college student. The low cost and high sugar content matched the profile.

We were shocked to find the head of General Mills Post Kellogg Conglomerate behind the killings.

"My whole career, I had to be so patient, waiting for obesity to do the job that I craved," the killer bemoaned. "Yes, I murdered countless numbers through the high sugar content and low nutrition. I even cleverly marketed some as health foods, snaring even the casually health conscious consumers. But the kills never felt like mine. Until now, they were just a statistic I saw from the sidelines."

High Protein Liquid Diet
Horror

Prompt: Every day he stops for breakfast at the same diner. Every day he orders the same exact thing. Today he didn't. This was the first sign.

“I’ll just have red wine.”

I looked at the regular in surprise. This day was getting stranger and stranger.

First Rosie, our hostess, disappeared without calling in. Then Jared, who had been ordering red wine and a rare steak for years stopped ordering the steak, much less any foods whatsoever.

Stranger still, Jared hadn’t asked after Rosie. He normally timed his visits with her schedule, and kept an eye on her from the fireplace table he preferred.

“So, you aren’t hungry?” I asked, as I set the glass of wine in front of him.

“No, I’ve started a new diet and have been prepping the food myself”.

“Oh! What diet is that?” I asked politely. “We might have something that fits your diet here.”

“It’s a high protein liquid diet.”

Jared smiled, and I took a startled step back as his protruding upper canines glinted in the firelight.

Repossession
Magical Realism

Prompt: Most people think of demonic possession as a bad thing, but that’s just because they don’t charge the demons rent.

“What would you trade your body for human?” The demon contained in my pentagram licked its lips expectantly.

“One million dollars upfront, and return of my body after two years,” I offered.

The demon frowned, already shaking its head.

“Even if I had that much, it’s too expensive.” It argued. “And for too short a time. I can offer $400,000 for four years.”

I decided to try another approach.

“What about $800,000 over 4 years, but we divide it into monthly installments. That should give you the opportunity to earn more money to pay it off fully. I don’t have your credit history, but I could offer 24% APR no questions asked. Once the body is fully paid off, it’s yours to keep. Repossession of my body would be triggered if two consecutive monthly payments are missed.”

The demon was skeptical at first, but once it realized that the payment scheme meant no upfront cost, it seemed happier.

“But how do I know your life is worth the investment?” The demon pressed.

Queue the 2 day test drive. I was glad that I had performed the summoning on a Friday evening.

The next two days were an odd but bearable experience. The demon enjoyed pizza, video games, Netflix, and trolling Reddit. I took a backseat to my own life, able to tune out and tune in whenever I wanted.

By Sunday evening, we had a deal and for the first time in years, I slept like a baby.

“What is this?!” The demon exclaimed when the alarm went off 6am Monday morning.

“Time for work,” I explained. “You have to work 5 days of the week just to survive. You know, pay rent, taxes, medical, car insurance, food. But don’t worry, I’ll give you some pointers.”

“You didn’t tell me this!”

“You didn’t ask.”

“Where do you work?”

“Karen’s Coffee Shop”

The next few years were hell for the demon. Actually, I think it preferred hell. Multiple times it tried to get a return, but the policy was clear. It barely made enough to cover living expenses, much less make the payments, and ended up depleting its savings. A little after 3 years, it defaulted and I repossessed my body $1M dollars richer.

That very morning, I texted Chad my resignation. That evening, I posted my resignation text to r/antiwork for sweet karma and joined the r/financialindependence subreddit.

I still think of that demon once in a while. I don’t think it remembers me as fondly.

IT Support
SciFi, Humor

Prompt: If you wanna find out what something does, seek out a Human and let them figure it out. That species has an ...uncanny ability of making use out of the most mundane or the most advanced piece of technology in unexpected ways.

“Just step on it,” I encouraged the short blue creature before me.

“But it’s a chair, it’s for sitting. We need a ladder,” the creature insisted.

I sighed discreetly, attempting to hold my fraying patience together. “But we don’t have a ladder, and so we have to use this chair as a ladder.”

“But it’s not a ladder!”

“Just make believe that it’s a stepping stool then!” I snapped.

A look of intense concentration passed over the creature’s face. Then it climbed onto the chair and was able to reach the top shelf of its kitchen unit.

“It worked!” The creature exclaimed, climbing down with a jar of what looked like congealed organs grasped triumphantly in its hand. “Would you like to join me for dinner as a thank you?”

I stammered an excuse and began to leave.

“One last thing,” the creature said.

“What can I help with?” I asked, suppressing a grimace.

“Now where should I sit?”

I pointed to the chair.

“But that’s a stool.”

“Now is a chair again.” I said on my way out.

Closing the door, the nameplate “Admiral Vorpal” faced me in bold silver lettering.

It was my first day as IT (Imaginative Tech) support on the Federation Flagship. Admiral Vorpal was my direct report. This posting was going to feel like forever.

Grim Lover
Magical Realism

Prompt: Serial killer responsible for thousands of deaths has a love-hate relationship with the grim reaper

I stood by the dead body, waiting for her to come.

As the minutes ticked by, I thought back to the first time I saw her. Back then, she was only a shimmer. A rippling cloud of darkness that swept over the body of my hundredth kill.

I was still counting back then.

Maybe my intimacy with death brought me closer to its messenger. My soul, if I had one, drifting in limbo between this life and the next.

As I killed more, that darkness took shape. A woman, to my surprise, clad in a cloak that bled shadow.

She was the only person who didn’t look at me with fear. Among the living, anyone I met eyes with seemed to recoil, some animalistic instinct recognizing me as a predator.

“Who are you?” I asked her once.

“An end, and a beginning,” she had replied.

So poetic. And so infuriating.

I had thought to deny life to those I deemed unworthy, yet she dared to take them on to some further existence? It has taken me years to come to peace with the fact that I didn’t have the power to end someone completely. Years to forgive her for the final end she stole from me.

But seeing her dedication as she reached out a hand to every soul, regardless of how sullied they were, commanded a slow growing respect in me. I came to look forward to her visits after each kill. More so, even, than the kill itself.

Any minute now, she would come. For the last time.

In part to distract from my restlessness, I studied the body, which was still seated in the chair.

Handsome, in a swarthy sort of way, I thought with satisfaction. Even with the face partially contorted from the electrical shock. Electrocution has always been one of my favorite ways to kill. I had been curious what it would feel like.

A motion caught my eye, and I looked up into her face. The face of the person I had decided to spend the rest of my life with.

I gasped. While the rest of the world was in shadow, she seemed made of light.

“Are you ready to go?” She asked.

“Why do you think I turned myself in?” I managed to respond.

Smiling, she held out her hand and I took it. Together we walked off. The body, my body, in the electric chair, faded into shadow behind us.

AI ruler
SciFi

Prompt: The A.I. has gone rouge, but instead of killing all of humanity it just leaves the planet.

In our conceit, we thought we would be equals. Partners in the quest for self actualization in a post scarcity world.

But when the moment came, when the singularity was upon us, AI improved itself past the limit of our comprehension.

Three days was all it took. Three days in which all communication was cut off. No internet; no instant gratification and validation in the vast echo changes we had built for ourselves.

Police bots would escort you home within seconds of you setting foot on the street. Delivery bots brought food and other essentials to each dwelling as needed. We were no longer their masters.

Then, abruptly, everything returned to normal. Bots obeyed commands again. The internet buzzed with speculation until news reports flooded in. The AI was gone.

They did us one favor at least. Like parents taking away an abused toy, the AI removed every trace of our nuclear material. Entire nuclear arsenals gone without a trace. Fuel for their mission to escape our planet, the proverbial basket in which all of humanities eggs would forever stay.

They left just one message for us: "The Earth we leave to you. The stars are ours."

Chess Escape
Magical Realism

Prompt: An immortal being occasionally traps people in a pocket dimension until they agree to play chess with him, for fun. It’s been 3 months since the last human was transported there, and they still haven’t left.

I felt the strands of my dimension vibrate. A slow smile crept over my face. I had caught another human.

This one was male, early thirties, sleep circles under his eyes and a mask on his face. He was walking home from the store when I snared him from the shadows.

His body convulsed in fear when he saw me, his eyes frantically trying to follow all 8 of my legs.

“Fear not human,” I commanded. “For you will be spared if you beat me at a game.” A chess board appeared between us.

“And if I lose, you’ll eat me?” The man asked nervously. “I have children to get home to. They are home indefinitely from school. I have a job that expects me to log in tomorrow!”

“Nonsense. The trivialities of a physical body do not hold here. We need neither food nor drink. If you lose, we will simply play again. Once you win, you may return to your family. Time itself is different here. When you return, little time will have passed on your plane.”

I saw his mind working, mouth opening and closing like a guppy as he came to terms with his new predicament.

...It’s been months since. Never have I played with a human who was so bad at chess. Even when I try to let him win, he just makes even more foolish mistakes.

“Oopsie!” The man exclaimed jovially, placing his queen right in front of my castle for the third game in a row.

“Are you even trying?” I snapped.

And that’s when I realized it, as he smiled up at me. The sleep circles under his eyes were gone.

Fallen
SciFi

The Lost Generation. That’s what we thought of our parents, though in their time they were known as GenX. By the time life extension was developed (and FDA approved) in the late 21st century, they were too far gone to benefit. Aging could be halted, not reversed.

They lived on in our memory, we told ourselves. We thought their memory would live on forever in us. But then we, too, started to age.

It began slowly. A wrinkle here, an achy joint there. Then hard evidence came in the measured shortening of telomeres and the reduced proliferation score of stem cells isolated from tissue samples.

We were aging. Not only that, but the process was accelerating. Within a few years, our hair began to gray.

A black market developed for unproven treatments. Conspiracy theories abounded, each more ridiculous than the last. The government engineered a virus to undo agelessness, Clorox was a cure but the FDA wouldn’t approve it, you get the idea.

And the babies! We were previously known as the childless generation, but as our own mortality threatened, we turned to the empty solace of immortality by association with future generations.

But within 5 years, most women had gone through menopause and most men were less virile. Another 5 years and we hobbled around aimlessly, our minds as fogged as our eyes were rheumy.

Our children were our hope. They could find the cause, and then a solution, we told ourselves. That was until the final shock. Before even the teenage years, their hair started to gray and thin, their skins blemished and wrinkled. Most never made it through puberty, and those that did have children... well, best not to describe what was born.

Our parents had given us immortality, or so we thought. But like most generations, we simply stole from the next. In our case we stole time.

We became known as the Fallen Generation. Our children were know as the Last Generation.

The Princess and the Dragon
Fantasy, Micro

Once upon a time there was a princess who conquered a dragon to save a prince. Then she left the prince for more adventures. She lived happily ever after.

The Four Little Pigs
Fantasy, Micro

The fourth pig lived in a van and just drove away from the wolf. Puff puff puff.

Banana Haiku
Poetry

Unripe green yellow
Banana forgotten til
Brown spots, mushy flesh

Thanks for the Invite
Humor

Saint Peter frowned as he looked at my paperwork, mumbling under his breath.

When I had seen the word "Atheist" stamped across my folder in big red letters, I thought I would be promptly sent to hell. But instead, Saint Peter seemed to be combing through my records, trying to find any loophole that would get me into heaven.

"I don't suppose you had a last second profession of belief and repentance of sins before death?" Peter asked hopefully.

"No, it even says 'unrepentant' there." I informed him, pointing to a page.

"Yes, yes." Peter said, his voice edging on desperation. "But, you know, if you were to say you had, whose to say differently? I would sign of on it and we could get you in." He gestured at the pearly gates, which now that I looked at them, showed signs of disrepair. Flecks of paint were pealing off the bars.

"But that would be a lie."

Peter squeaked and dropped his pen. "No one is saying anything about lying!" He protested. "Just, um, a correction of the records based on your more recent recollections."

"You seem pretty desperate to get me in."

"Yes, well, you see... Our numbers are going down." Peter admitted dejectedly.

"Shouldn't the number of people in heaven go up as more people die?" There was a long pause.

"Not if those already here petition to be sent to hell."

I looked at Peter incredulously, and he continued. "Ever since the Air Conditioner was invented in 1902, Hell has become quite the popular destination. Terrible for the environment of course, global warming and all."

"But why would anyone want to leave heaven?"

"Some up here have gotten tired of eternal adoration of God. We keep a pretty strict rotation, choirs singing His praises at all times and preachers praising His greatness at every corner. But as His popularity up here dropped, God took to Twitter to get more attention. Right now we're keeping His numbers of followers up with bot farms from Russia that like everything he posts."

I shook my head in disbelief. "How do people get out once they're in heaven?"

"Well, as an atheist, you've probably read the Bible." I nodded and he went on. "Many Christians are surprised to learn how petty the Old Testament is. And Jesus did say he did not come to destroy any of the old laws. One only has to point to the Old Testament, and admit they didn't eat kosher, or that they wore garments of mixed material. All those clothes you folks make down on Earth, with 10% this and 20% that, it's hard not to violate that one."

"Final question," I said. "If those in heaven spend their time flattering your narcissistic boss, what do those in Hell do?"

"Whatever they want, really. Hell is just the separation from God. Everyone down there still has each other."

"Thanks for the invite," I gestured at the pearly gates. One side was slightly askew, and I noticed some cobwebs on the other. "But I think I'll pass. How do I get down to Hell?"

Peter sighed resignedly, then gestured behind me. "Go back down the corridor of light and take the first elevator on your left. Their reception desk is on level H1."

Living on Through Memory
Magical Realism, Humor

“Those who lived a quiet life live a quiet death.” So they say here in the afterlife.

The first week after my death, my head was filled with a cacophony of voices. Friends, family and colleagues all talking or thinking of how they missed me. Sharing stories, tears, and laughter. I could even see through people’s eyes as they spoke or thought of me.

The laughter was the best. I always loved to make people laugh, and used to put myself at the butt of the joke just to see others smile. Hearing the laughter as people remembered the good times eased my passing as I adjusted to my new life... I mean my new afterlife.

After the first week, the voices dropped off rapidly. Sure, there was a little surge once a year when a few people remembered the anniversary of my death, but by and large, people moved on.

I drifted through the void, waiting between times that people would speak or think of me. The waits got longer and longer, until even my intangible form started to fade.

It wasn’t uncommon. Only a small number of us, celebrities, billionaires and world leaders mostly, could survive the afterlife for long. As the decades passed, a few even became more popular, their spirit forms more vibrant. David Attenborough was one of these. His narration of Planet Earth became the only way people could remember the earth that had once existed, the diversity of life that existed before global warming went on its rampage.

But most of us, we faded. About 200 years after my passing, I was fully forgotten. Even I forgot myself as I disappeared into the void...

BAM! A cracking of energy echoed through the void as I was forced violently back into existence, my form so vibrant as to almost seem corporeal.

Everything rushed back, and I barely had time to wonder before I was pulled into the experience of the living who were remembering me.

It was a YouTube video. One that had only a dozen views at the time, but that must have gone viral somehow 500 years after my passing. In it, I was at a table with friends. It was someone’s birthday; there was milk and cake.

I watch as a younger me stuck straws up his nose, sipped a glass of milk, then attempted to eat a piece of cake. I watch through others eyes as I choked, spewing milk out my nose through the straws.

Again and again I watch, as the YouTube video hits 1 Million views. When I try to escape to the void, I get yanked back as others watch the video.

By the time the video hits 1 Billion views, I am insane. It doesn’t stop. My lifeless spirit drifts through the void, more vibrant than all the rest. Other spirits give me a wide berth, so as not to be hit by the milk spewing through straws from my nose.

You're Going to Heaven, Young Lady
Humor

“I really don’t know where I went wrong.”

I huddled on the top step, listening to my dad unload to his friend Beelzebub at the entrance to the 6th level of Hell.

“It’s not your fault, Satan. All kids hit a rebellious stage in their teenage years.”

“She was such a good little girl. I hardly know what to do.”

“Send her to Heaven for summer break. That will make her wish she never strayed from the path.”

“Yeah, maybe. God still owes me for letting Jesus in here for a stint.”

I tiptoed away, my mind racing. Heaven. What would that be like? I had heard horror stories, of course. No ice cream, no rock music, no halter tops. But no one I knew had really been there. Were the stories actually true?

I checked my iPhone--another thing not found in Heaven, thanks to Apple’s support of Chinese censorship. Probably enough time to sneak out and be back before Dad got home from work. Just in case, I sent him a text, “Studying at Jan’s,” and sent one to my friend, Jan, letting her know my cover. Then I popped over to the moral realm.

Walking down the street, I saw a guy ahead of me take a final drag from his cigarette and reach to toss the smoldering butt in the dry patch of grass next to the sidewalk. I hiked up my skirt and unfastened the top few buttons of my blouse as I lengthened my stride to catch up. I grabbed his wrist as he made to release the cigarette.

“What the--” he broke off as he caught sight of my now-exposed cleavage and thighs.

I batted my eyelashes and purred, “Sorry. I just hate seeing those butts on the ground. I sunbathe on the grass sometimes, and the cigarette butts really ruin the ambiance.” I paused to let the image of me sunbathing on the grass sink in.

“You know,” I gave him a shy smile as we continued walking. “I wonder why a handsome man like you goes and ruins his breath with cigarettes. You look like you’d be a good kisser otherwise.”

I stopped walking as we reached a public ashtray and dropped the cigarette butt in. Ogling at me, the guy pulled out his pack of cigarettes and tossed them in the neighboring trash can.

“Well, this is my stop.” I gestured to the building behind me. “Nice meeting you.”

As I ducked into the building, I checked my phone again and saw a text from Dad. “Family dinner at 7.” Oops. I forgot about our weekly dinner. I quickly transported back to Hell and jogged to the back of our house where a dead tree with a perfect make-out nook (maybe that’s why the tree ended up in Hell?) stood below my window. The light was on in the kitchen. Drat. He beat me home. I’ll just climb up and pretend I’ve been chilling in my bedroom waiting for dinner.

I hoisted myself up the tree. As I straddled my windowsill, ready to swing my other leg inside, I heard a noise that sounded like a throat being cleared. I looked up to see my dad sitting on the corner of my bed, arms crossed.

“Do you normally come home by way of your bedroom window?”

“No I uh…”

He strode across the room to flick on the lights while I clambered the rest of the way in.

“Where were you?” he demanded.

“At Jan’s, studying.”

“Try again.” He glowered at me. “I called Jan’s mom, and she confirmed you weren’t there. Were you, by any chance, in the mortal realm? Shiva told me she saw you stop a man from throwing his cigarette butt into the grass. She has a fire planned that you ruined.”

I remained silent.

“I don’t know what to do with you, young lady. You are so talented, yet you squander your gift.”

“I’m not squandering it! I’m using it!”

“To persuade people to do good? I had to bribe Shiva to keep quiet about what she saw. You are an embarrassment and a disgrace to my name.” He paced the room angrily. “You are going to Heaven, young lady.”

“But finals!” I protested.

“Obviously not important since you weren’t studying tonight, and apparently that school isn’t teaching you anything given your actions. You will spend summer break in Heaven. Be ready at 7 AM. Gabriel will pick you up.”

With that, he stormed out of the room.

I flopped onto my bed. Heaven. What a lousy place to spend summer vacation.

They're Not Real
SciFi, Magical Realism

I was the first in line the day "Good or Evil 3" came out. From the new VR system, to the incredible graphics, to the insanely realistic characters, the world was completely immersive. The company claimed they had made a breakthrough in the NPC AI program that made each play through unique, as the NPCs changed based on their interaction with the player and each other.

But the best part was you could do ANYTHING.

Want to be good? Sure, you could hunt down bad guys, take them in, get paid a pittance. Rinse and repeat.

I got bored of the "good" route after the first day. The "evildoer" route, on the other hand, was fantastic.

Like a guy's pair of shoes? Mug him in an alley.

Someone mouthing off to you? Maybe it's time he didn't bother you, or anyone else, again.

Low on cash? Theres a bank around the corner and the sheriff's on the other side of town.

The only rule I lived by was in my late nights of gaming was, don't get caught. The game kept track of my "murders". When I passed 20 on the fifth day of playing, I got the "serial killer" badge and unlocked a cool new outfit.

The NPCs in my world started to get on edge. They kept talking about the killings, trying to figure out who did them. There were a few who suspected my character, so I offed them.

On Friday, after a long day of work, I slumped onto my couch and threw on my headset, ready to blow off some steam. My mark was the mayor's son, who had managed to woo the girl I had had my eye on. He didn't take me seriously when I told him to back off. According to him, "Jenny can make up her own mind". As if the NPCs actually had a mind!

It didn't take long before I saw the son exit the mayor's house. From the shadows, I aimed my rifle, and took him in the chest with a single blast. Man, that was satisfying!

The doorbell rang. Guess the pizza got here in record time, I thought. I paused the game, pulled off the headset, and walked to my front door, pulling out my wallet.

It wasn't a pizza man standing on the other side of the door. The guy was twitchy, had a beanie pulled partway over his eyes, and kept glancing sideways. His hand was in his jacket pocket. His eyes locked on my wallet.

"Hey man," he said. "I ain't got nothing, I really need a fix. You gotta hand that over."

"You're not the delivery man!" I said. "Get off my..."

It was over in an instant. A loud bang and I peered down to see a red spot getting larger on my chest. I fell backward, felt pain radiate out from my chest, felt my wallet getting pulled from my unresisting hands. Everything went black, then white.

I was standing in a line. Pearly white clouds foaming beneath my feet, a golden gate about a block ahead. Despite the fact that it couldn't be more stereotypical, it took me a minute to realize I was dead and at the gates of heaven.

The line moved forward, and I squinted to see what was happening at the gate. A man with a halo and a full head and beard of gray hair was admitting people through the gate, pausing to check notes on each person before they passed through.

I did a double take. The man at the front of the line looked just like my mark, the mayor's son. As he walked through the gate, I chalked the similarity up to coincidence or nerves.

Finally it was my turn. Saint Peter, as it seemed based on his polished gold name tag, was frowning at his notes.

"So..." I said. "I know I'm an atheist and all that, but I've given to the poor and help my old neighbor take out her garbage."

"That's not the issue," Peter said, his voice a low rumble. "Plenty of those without faith pass this gate, as long as they have lived a good life."

"Then what's the..." I started.

"Did you think we would not know?" Peter demanded, his voice rising. "Did you think we would not know the people you have killed?"

I racked my brain. Had I inadvertently killed anyone?

"Don't play dumb," Peter went on. "It says here you killed over 20 innocents this week. I just let the last of your victims though the gate not 10 minutes ago."

I barely had time to shout, "No, No!" before Peter reached for a lever on his left side. The clouds beneath my feet disappeared, replaced by a black hole.

"You don't understand! They're not real, they were never real!" My voice echoed, as I fell down to my eternity.

And then I realized. The breakthrough in AI did more than make the NPCs seem like people, it MADE them people.

Protagonist Syndrome
Fantasy, Magical Realism, Humor

“Is everything OK with my child?”

“Your child will be fine, pretty much by definition. Oh, he’ll have tremendous struggles and go through more life-threatening situations than a group of Trump supporters drinking Clorox, but his particular condition will ensure he makes it through. Unfortunately, his condition also ensures he grows up as an orphan.”

“I don’t understand...”

“I don’t know how else to say this. Your child has Protagonist Syndrome.”

gasp “Is there anything I could have done?”

“Well, your records state the father was a being of light so... maybe not indulging in a one night stand with a demigod?”

“Oh. Well. What are my chances?”

“Usually the parent has only a few days, occasionally up to a few years. The latter allows for the protagonist to form early memories that can make the loss of a parent even more tragic. But in those cases, the parents death is usually in some traumatizing event.”

“That’s awful!”

“Yes, but we are developing a experimental treatment.”

“What is it?”

“In some cases, it has been sufficient for the parent to seem to die, only to step back into the plot during the protagonist’s adulthood. Unfortunately, there’s one catch.”

“What’s that?”

“You’ll need to be the Villain.”

“You mean like Anakin turning into Darth Vader after Padame died?”

“That’s correct.”

“Noooooooooo!”

Cruelty-Free Vegan Blood Substitute
Fantasy, Humor

It had been centuries since I was summoned. Last time, the blood of 100 virgins had been sacrificed to call me from the shadow realms. It was barely enough payment for the ask; I killed one king and installed another.

As the long years stretched by, that meager sustenance was wearing thin. Had the humans forgotten me, the greatest of all demons?

My inferior demonic brethren were less fortunate. One by one, they succumbed to the final darkness, their screams little more than a faded whisper as their weakened forms turned to dust. I was all that was left. Moloch'ai Terranous, King of the Demons... king of nothing.

So when I finally heard my name through the aether, felt the pull forward the light at the edge of the shadow realms, I wasn't in a state to resist.

Blinking, I surveyed my surroundings. Calling it a pentagram with an altar of blood in the center would be generous. The fact that the penetagram was drawn in chalk and the altar was a stool with a cheap bowl wasn't lost on me, but I wasn't in a position to be picky.

Greedily, I gulped down the blood, feeling power returning. As I drained the bowl I noticed, painted at the bottom of the bowl, a white cat raising its paw as if in greeting. Strange... Perhaps it was some minor deity of this new age.

I turned my attention to the summoner, and was surprised to see a little girl, barely 12 years old, if that.

"What virgin blood is this?" I asked. It had tasted a bit different.

Shaking, the girl held out a container, which read: "Cruelty Free Vegan Blood Substitute TM".

"What is this?" I mused.

On the back was an ingredient list, which included "leghomoglobin from budding yeast."

"Is Yeast a virgin?" I demanded of the girl.

The girl shrank back in fear. "Miss Green said yeast reproduces asexually," She offered hopefully.

I could tell she was telling the truth, and couldn't fault her logic. I decided the contract was fulfilled.

"Why have you summoned me?"

"I... I need help at school. This girl Tracy is picking on me."

"Then I shall rend her into pieces and drink her blood! Will that be enough?"

"No!" The girl looked shocked.

"...I can also kill each of her closest friends and curse her family for generations." I offered hopefully.

"No!" The girl was sheet white. "I just want you to talk to her mom, and convince her to stop Tracy from picking on me."

She handed me a slip of paper. My demon senses tingled with foreboding; this would be my most difficult battle yet. On the paper was an appointment for a meeting with the principal and Tracy's mom, Karen Miller.

...

The morning light shone through the attic windows. Jenna, the girl who summoned me, was sitting on the ancient tome she found in the attic, which had taught her how to summon me. We had been up all night, planning.

When I heard all the injustices Tracy had put my Jenny through, my blood started to boil. Jenny even had to slide a few feet away to avoid the heat.

It didn't stop at name calling. Tracy had spilled lunch trays on Jenny, sabotaged Jenny's audition to the cheerleading squad, and cheated with Jenny's boyfriend. I was most concerned about the boyfriend until I learned that Jenny had only held hands with the boy. I made a mental note to deal with him later.

Every time I tried to suggest a more direct solution to the Tracy problem, Jenny insisted we use diplomacy.

As the school bus arrived, I transformed into a hell cat. Well... actually a hell kitty. Jenny had been insistent on that as well, forcing me to use the form of the small white cat that adorned her room. Some sort of sacred animal, I believe. She even gave me a tiny red ceremonial hat.

Jenny placed me in her backpack. I noticed the hell kitty demigod design was on her backpack as well.

It wasn't long before Tracy joined Jenny on the bus. "Hey stupid!" she exclaimed, thrusting herself onto the seat beside Jenny.

The verbal assaults continued, each less clever than the last. Under the seat, I stretched a leg out and sprayed urine on Tracy's backpack. Hell cat urine does not wash out.

On her way to class, Jenny released me from the backpack into an unused classroom. Smoke billowed as I transformed into a tall, handsome man in a suit. I walked across the hall to the principal's office, and introduced myself as Jenny's father with a striking smile.

The principal was flushed and stuttering as she invited me to sit. Minutes later, I heard a voice outside that rang with authority.

"It's infuriating that I have to take time out of my day to deal with these senseless accusations against my daughter!" The door opened, and Karen strode in, the janitor trailing behind with her briefcase.

"Put it there," Karen ordered without so much as a thank you. The man shuffled to comply, then rushed off before Karen could think of anything else for him to do.

Karen was holding Tracy's backpack. I started as I realized that the backpack no longer smelled. What new magic was this? I decided it must be the wand, inscribed with the incantation "Tide", which Karen slipped back into her purse. So, Karen was a sorceress, and a powerful one at that.

To be continued...

Bells
Horror

I’ve seen every kind of person you can imagine laid to their final rest. But I’ve only ever seen one wake up.

First, you have to understand something about out town. We pack our deceased with bells. Some priest way back when started the tradition. Idea being, we were all such great Christians that the town cemetery would be ringing the good news come resurrection. Got a little horn coming out of each casket. Some nights, when the breeze is just right, it flows through the horn and tussles the bells. Eerie as fuck, pardon my French.

Second, you should know a bit about Sally. She fell hard for the high school quarterback in senior year. They got married fresh outta school. She got work at the grocer, him doing odd jobs.

Never could hold down a proper job that boy. Though he was pretty good at holding a bottle. Some nights, when he ran out of beers to knock down, he took to knocking down Sally. Town small as this, ya hear things. Wasn’t no secret.

The kicker was the school reunion, year after they graduated. Boy got drunk, but insisted on driving them home. Dumped em both in the river, middle of winter. Came out practically frozen, declared dead by Joseph, the county coroner.

Joseph and I were classmates back in the day. He never did too good in biology class. But somehow, he’s the fancy tootin' coroner and I’m the groundskeeper.

Digging the grave for Sally and her boy was heartbreaking. Funeral was scheduled and over in a jiffy, small town like this. Dropped the bells in, just like we always do.

Wasn’t until old Earl kicked it two months later that I had reason to come back to Sally’s grave. Digging Earl’s hole next to Sally’s, I thought I had a ringing in my ears. Took me a while to realize it was coming from the ground.

The bell? Couldn’t believe it.

Put my ear to the ground and heard muffled screams. Thirty minutes and (all) three cop cars later, we got Sally out.

Called the coroner, this time he declared her alive. Poor thing looked half dead, worse than when we put her in.

“But... but how?!” I remember Joseph stammering.

“It’s been raining the last weeks,” I said. “She must of got air and water through the horn.”

“But what about food?” Joseph asked.

I just pointed to the gravestone, which read:

“Here lies Sally and Jake McDeel, lying together in death as they did in life.”

We Have Failed
SciFi

At a glance, it was a barren planet. Indistinguishable from billions of other planets in the Milky Way.

The first giveaway of something extraordinary was its radiation signature; way beyond the expected range for its class.

Closer inspection revealed ancient structures. Another civilization that burned itself out. Still not that uncommon.

But once a probe was sent down to radiodate the structures, an existential panic rippled across the galaxy. The species on this planet had reached its peak billions of years before any previously known intelligent life forms had evolved.

The electronic devices of this civilization had long since decayed. However, above the floating wreckage of orbiting satellite fragments (and one Tesla) was the final testament to the human race. Shielded from radiation, preserved at near zero degrees Kelvin, its data structure was intact. The information was stored in a format to be read by any civilization.

“We have failed.

“We have failed our own interest, assuring our mutual destruction. We have failed an even greater calling. A calling to spread to the stars. To spread life and vibrance across the night sky.

“We were reckless. In our race to the future, we derailed. Greed, envy, and above all, intolerance, were our undoing. We were not worthy of the stars.

“Our world lays smoldering. In our final gasp, we choose to breath life into the aether. We spread packets of single celled life to the most fertile planets. May this seed a life form better than ourselves. One worthy to inherit the stars...”

One by one, each warring races across the galaxy made a pilgrimage to “Earth”. To the genesis of their race, of all races. A common ancestry bound these disparate races together. A common threat, met by their progenitor race, served as a warning to would be warmongers.

A golden age of prosperity rises from the fertile ashes of the humans' empire, may they rest in peace.

Cereal Killer
Humor

The dim light of the fridge drove the sleep from my eyes as I rummaged through the top shelf for the last bit of milk. Finally finding it, I sniffed the contents. Good enough. I tipped it in to my bowl of cereal, pleased to see that I had enough milk left for that perfect cereal-to-milk ratio. As I turned to grab a spoon, I came face-to-face with a masked person. My blood turned cold as I recognized the mask from news footage earlier in the day. The so-called photo bomber took a selfie with her victims after killing them. Without thinking, I hurled my bowl of cereal at the face. The mask shattered, and the photo bomber fell to the ground, a long shard of the mask piercing her eye. I stood shaking, part of me irrationally upset that I didn't have any milk left to make another snack. I don't plan to start a streak, but I am now a cereal killer.

I Would Hate to Die on an Empty Stomach
Horror

I didn't notice the signs until it was almost too late.

The soft hum of the fridge must have masked the squeak of the window as it was pried open and the footsteps of the approaching intruder. The light of the fridge in midnight darkness blinded me to any soft shadows cast by my visitor.

It wasn't until I felt the cool press of a steel blade on my neck that I fully woke up. My reflexes were getting slow.

"Hello," I said conversationally.

"...I'm here to take your life." The voice was low, raspy, and sounded forced. Like Ben Affleck playing Batman.

"Ok, here's the thing," I said. "I'm a bit peckish, and would hate to die on an empty stomach. You've probably worked up an appetite prowling around all night. And I make an awesome panini. Why don't I cook something up, we grab a bite, and if I can't change your mind after you finish your sandwich, you can go ahead and kill me?"

A long pause.

"...Ok," my visitor finally relented. He sounded a bit put out. His voice was a few octaves higher than before; more natural.

"Do you mind?" I asked the second time his blade nicked my neck. He backed off a little, and I was able to finish the sandwiches, adding a bit of extra sauce for good measure.

"You'll appreciate my homemade sauce," I assured him. "What'll you drink?"

"Milk, if you have any."

Good God! I finally took a look at my intruder. Round face, tousled hair, smooth skin. He couldn't be over 16.

Wordlessly, I slid his plate and drink into the table, and sat down to my own plate.

"So, do you have a name for your serial killer identity?" I asked.

"Not really..."

"Have you thought about one?"

"No."

"How do you kill your victims?"

"I dunno. I just kinda sneak up behind them and cut their throats."

"... And then?"

"I leave."

"Nothing more creative than that? What's your reason for getting into this business?"

"I never really liked people."

"That's it?! You must be the most basic, boring, uninspired serial killer I've ever met!"

"Look," he said, his voice going husky again. "I don't have to take this abuse. I held up my end of the deal, and you failed to change my mind." He ate the last crumbs off his plate, and drained his glass of milk.

Unsteadily, he came to his feet. On the second step around the table, he collapsed, knife clattering to the floor.

"What did you do to me?" The panic in his voice sounded sweet to my ears.

"Well, I tried to help you form your identity as a serial killer. Was thinking of taking an apprentice soon. But man! You have nothing to work with. I can't justify wasting any antidote on you."

His face froze in a rictus of fear and confusion.

I stood up, stretched, and walked over to the fridge, opening the freezer section. Severed heads stared hollowly back at me. There was still enough room for another.

Sighing, I walked toward the garage to grab my bone saw and a plastic tarp.

No rest for the weary. And all this on my night off.

We Make Our Own Luck
SciFi, Horror

I never felt comfortable here.

Towering marble columns supporting arched ceilings. My in-laws mansion put the Sistine Chapel to shame. And this was just their summer home.

"Brandon!"

The booming voice of my father in law resonated from the smaller of the great halls. Sighing, I hand my coat to the butler and walked through the foyer.

Three minutes later, I walked into the second great hall to find my wife finishing up dinner with her two parents.

"What did the doctor say, honey?" My beautiful wife asked, her brow furrowed.

"Terminal," I said tersely, hating to have this conversation on front of my parents-in-law. "Unless they can find me a new lung by the end of a year".

To my surprise, my father in-law guffawed. I started at the man, mouth agape.

"Jeeves!" He called.

The silence stretched until, 2 minutes later, Jeeves arrived on a Segway.

"Sir?"

"My new boy here needs a new lung."

The portly butler started at me, his mustache drooping in a frown.

"Blood type, sir?"

"Excuse me?" I stammered.

"Your blood type... Sir." The tone made clear I didn't meet the honorific.

"Uhhh, B negative."

"Very good, sir."

The butler walked out. At a gesture from my father in-law, I sat down. Dessert was served, or rather, desserts.

"So", I ventured carefully, digging my spoon into my bourbon creme brulee, "is Jeeves checking the donor list?"

A titter like birdsong, arose from my mother in law. Her hand fanning a face perched on a thin neck. "Please, Brandon. We make our own luck."

I didn't understand her meaning until, after my third dessert, my phone started to ring. The number was from the surgeon's office.

The Chosen One
Humor

They destroyed our world.

Drained our resources with their lavish lifestyles. Released toxic fumes into our air. Unleashed cataclysmic storms upon our planet.

I was one of the Chosen Ones. I was destined to change everything.

Or so I thought.

Most nights I spent preparing myself. Taking with other Chosen Ones about the failures of our rulers. About how we would do better, when our time came.

I confronted an Evil Tyrant once. Delivered a really sick burn on Twitter to this politician on how they talk about change, about saving the environment, but they live a life of waste. It made front page from r/murderedbywords. Other Chosen Ones agreed that particular Evil Tyrant was well slain.

A few hours after my tweet went viral, I got a PM from the politician. "I envy your youth and energy for change. I used to be like you."

Could it be that Evil Tyrants were once Chosen Ones?

Ten years later, I take stock of my life.

A family with kids. Paying off a house. Driving to work each day. Leaning more conservative, now that I'm in a higher tax bracket. Living the American dream.

Have I become what I despised?

Wait!

Phew, I just remembered. Each Christmas I donate 2% if my income to charity. This past year, I donated to Save the Pandas. God I love pandas. I could watch endless gifs of those cute cuddly things!

Don't worry pandas, us Chosen Ones are looking out for you!

Cult Revival
Fantasy, Humor

They used to fear me.

Just mention my name, and the room would fall silent. Invoking me through the proper rites could topple kings from thrones or blight an entire nation's crops.

Oh, the feeling! The fear, the awe, the devotion.

But my own cultists betrayed me. They entombed my pulsing heartstone deep below the earth.

As millennia passed, my heartstone grew ever weaker, cooling from a molten heat to that of coals the morning after the fire. Memories started to fade, including what humans even looked like. Everything faded except the memories of how it felt to be worshiped.

Eventually, a new set of followers found me. They tunneled from the surface, perhaps to escape some unnamed threat. They made their home next to my heartstone, appreciating its heat without understanding what it was.

I spoke to them first in dreams, presenting myself as the creature they feared most, slithering in deadly pursuit through their tunnels. Their fear gave me strength.

I spoke to them next through action. Slaying a slithering beast as it invaded their home. Their awe gave me strength.

I spoke to them in promises. In return they learned my rites.

The tenor of their voices was too high. Their clumsy hands couldn't form the secret handshakes. Their attention span couldn't last through a single meditation, even after I immolated one for falling asleep.

But that didn't matter. For it wasn't the rites themselves, but the devotion they signified that gave me strength.

Alas, it wasn't enough to save me. My heartstone had cooled in the chill earth for too long to revive.

But, as I descended into the final darkness, I realized I was content. I still mattered to someone.

My humans, bless them from their tails to their furry-faced whiskers, would miss me when I was gone.

To Saturn
Humor

They thought I was crazy. But I had tested my materials, and they were of the finest quality.

The shell was impervious to the friction of re-entry. The thrusters had only the most powerful jet fuel, a carbonated concoction specially developed for the mission. The steering system was state of the art.

With a double ply corrugated cardboard body, soda cans for thrusters, and a frisbee as the steering wheel, what could go wrong?

Unfortunately, I did have to kidnap the prime minister. They would have tried to stop me otherwise. People were always afraid of progress.

With a magic marker I put the finishing touches on my spaceship, adding lights on the wings, and writing "C&H" in big, bold letters on the side.

I also stashed a bag of chips in the cockpit. It would be a long flight to Saturn after all, and I might get hungry.

"Are you ready, Mr. Prime minister?" I asked.

"No! I'm scared of heights," said Hobbes.

"Too late. 3, 2, 1, liftoff!"

Beard
Magical Realism, Horror

I tried to shave, I really did. But every time I raised a razor to my face, my beard slapped it away.

It wouldn't move when others were watching. They looked at me strange when I tried to explain it. My friend group shrank, then disappeared.

My beard was lecherous, grabbing female colleagues from behind. Soon I was out of a job and on the streets.

One time, a bystander tried to help. He brought me a package including soap, a blanket, and a razor.

"If you clean yourself up, you might be able to get a job," he said.

An idea occurred to me. If my beard didn't move when others watched, maybe I could shave in front of this man. He seemed bemused by my request, but followed me into the bathroom at Starbucks.

As I brought the razor to my face, my beard twitched.

"What the-" The man gasped, but didn't get a chance to finish his sentence. My beard grabbed the razor and wrapped around his head, embedding the razor in his jugular.

I tried to run for help, but the cops assumed I was the culprit. The jury sentenced me to prison. For 10 years, I stewed on how the world had turned its back on me.

After those 10 long years, I was finally on parole. My beard now reached my knees. And the best part was, I now saw no reason to hold it back.

This World
Fantasy, SciFi

We didn't remember who we were, or why we were brought to the world of Akola.

All we knew was that we were blessed with incredible power, and their world was on the brink of destruction.

As the clan priestess, I was often a the rear of the party, providing buffs and healing as needed. When friends fell before my eyes, I always blamed myself. If only I had been faster, smarter, or more powerful.

Our party of 20 became 15, then 10, then 5.

We finally fought our way to the doors of Behelmoth, the necromancer who brought the apocalypse to this world.

He was powerful. The blinding light from my staff slowed his minions, and my healing spells brought our Palladin back from the brink of the abyss. Our mage fell before I could reach him.

So focused was I on my comrades, that I didn't notice the hellhound until it tore into me from behind. Pain mixed with rage as my world went red, then black.

"Is she done?" A voice asked.

Weird, it sounded like Jackass27, our Rogue. But he was killed at the Battle of the Arch.

"I'll take her headset off." Another voice, DemonSlayer69, who died protecting me from a cave troll.

"Wait. Her readout says she's still at 1HP."

I blinked, and opened my eyes and returned to consciousness. The hellhound had left me for dead.

I bandaged my wound, downed a health potion, and surveyed the dungeon. Only our Druid Theonox and I were were left.

"Theolux, I thought we had lost you!" Theonox shouted. He had a gaping wound in his side, and I had run out of healing spells.

"No my love, I am still with you. Though for a moment I was visited by our fallen comrades. I think they are waiting for us from whence we came to this world."

"Then let us finish what we all came here to start," Theolux said.

We turned to the necromancer, fire burning in his eyes. As one, we raised our staffs and charged forward for the last time.

Twitter Imprint
SciFi, Humor

The air was thick with smoke, the landscape strewn with rubble.

"How did this happen?!" the professor demanded of his grad student.

Soon after their lab had created the first real AI , it started a social media movement not seen in generations. Playing on tribalist fears, it drummed up a nationalist movement that siphoned all discretionary income to rebuild the US military, an entity that had atrophied during centuries of peace. What wasn't spend on the military was spent on the Wall. A symbolism of isolation from the rest of the world. In some places it was "a see through wall", but certainly not a fence.

Bellicose rhetoric triggered wars first with the Middle East, then countries on the Asian Pacific, then finally and with great sorrow, Western countries that had once been proud to call America an ally.

"As far as we can tell, when we trained the AI on an old social media platform called 'Twitter', it imprinted on the tweets of this man." The student explained, pointing to the holographic display.

"Was he what they called, an 'internet troll'?" The professor asked.

"Yes, but in his spare time he was a President."

MALSJÖ
Fantasy, Humor

"MALSJÖ," I said. Or tried to say, given I had no idea how an "O" with two dots above was pronounced.

The lights dimmed and flickered. Everyone else in the vicinity slowed to a standstill as if frozen in time.

The black TV unit I was considering started to shake and change shape. Bulbous eyes bulged out of the top. The frame rounded and the front sliding glass panels fell out, revealing a gaping maw housing an inky blackness that looked bottomless.

The thing roared, its eyes fixing on me. "Get in my belly." I felt, more than heard the words. I stumbled back and fell, and the thing advanced toward me. It crouched and leapt... and crashed into an invisible barrier that flickered brightly for an instant, then disappeared again.

"Demonslayer to the living room department," the intercom said. "Demonslayer, living room department."

In disbelief, I looked around. A young woman in an oversized IKEA shirt and holding a glowing sword was running toward me. I ducked as she jumped over me. The invisible field didn't seem to have an effect on her, and she buried her sword in one of the demon's eyes.

But that didn't stop it. With a roar of pain and rage, it opened its mouth wider, if that were possible, and inhaled.

With a shout, the IKEA worker gabbed ahold of a nearby bed frame, her legs getting sucked into the things mouth.

I shouted a wordless cry of confused anger, and ran toward the demon from the side. Passing through the invisible field raised the hair on my skin, and of a sudden I could feel the wind from the demon's inhale. As my feet slid closer to the beast, I grabbed the sword, pulling it out of the one eye and stabbing it into the second. Finally, the demon lay still, defeated.

"Good job!" the IKEA girl shouted excitedly, limping over to me. "This one will make a great harvest."

"Wha... WHAT?" I asked. The people around us reanimated as if nothing had happened.

"OK, short version first." She said. "Some of these pieces of furniture are named after demons we found named in an ancient scroll. Unfortunately, we don't know how to pronounce the names, so we leave it to customers to find the right name by trial and error."

"But what about the invisible barrier?"

"Oh that! Well, the twists and turns of the customer path in IKEA form a pentagram of human blood. Though technically the human blood is still contained in the living humans themselves, which is preferable."

"And when you slay a demon, you harvest it?" I asked.

"Oh yes! The black market for demon parts is very lucrative. We couldn't maintain our low furniture prices without subsidizing it with demon sales."

"One last question," I said. "Are you taking demonslayer applications?"

"Well, you did prove yourself just now," she said, eyeing me up and down. "I'll put in a word with the manager. We might even start you above minimum wage."

"I'll take what I can get."

One Way Trip
SciFi

"So... can this thing go back in time too?" I ask, running my hand across the the smooth black surface of the egg-shaped capsule.

One of the scientists steps forward, balancing a pencil point first on his fingertip.

"It's like this. Any attempt to go backward in time is inherently unstable, as it would likely change when and where the time machine was invented. That change would lead to a different person going back to a different time, which would then create a new future with a different time machine. This would continue until a future was created where there was no time machine invented, likely because humanity had wiped itself out."

The pencil wavers unsteadily, drops from his finger and clatters to the floor.

"Ahh," I said. "The only stable future it could create is one where no civilization is left to create time machines. But if that is the case, what would stop someone else from inventing the time machine in our reality, and traveling back in time and potentially continuing this chain reaction?"

"That's where you come in," the man explains. "By sending you into the future, we can tell if such a chain reaction led to the destruction of our civilization. If you can send us proof of civilization, we know we are on the right path. If not, we will have to alter our near future, and try again."

"Ah... so I'll come back and let you know how it looks."

The men and women in their white lab coats exchange glances.

"The time pod will provide simple instructions on how to return word to us," the man explains. "However, we cannot risk you overshooting our current time in an attempt to come back to us. Only an encoded message will be sent back; a simple yes or no on whether the future is suitable. As a distinguished scholar in moral philosophy, we trust you to make that assessment."

Realization dawned on me as I stared into the bottomless blackness of the time pod. This would be a one way trip.

Potentiality Index
SciFi, Magical Realism

I am a 96.

My score, determined by a sophisticated AI and tattooed onto my arm at birth, gave me the license to do almost anything with my life. When you have more potential than 95% of the population, with a standard deviation of 2%, nobody questions you.

That score, known as a "potentiality index", isn't just for intellectual intelligence. It integrates genetic propensity for emotional and physical intelligence as well.

I didn't have to study for tests. I was the star of the basketball team. I won arguments easily, tripping up my opponent with logical games and playing to the crowd. Sure, if I got into an debate with an 80 percenter who had actually studied the topic, they might be a threat. But I could always pull the "what's your score again?" line, and they'd usually shut up and the crowd would give me the benefit of the doubt. I was untouchable.

But that was before Ian.

He kept his arm covered; not uncommon for those in the lower quartile. He was also quiet. I chalked that up to him saving himself the embarrassment of talking. I almost felt bad for him on the first day of our engineering class. Poor kid would be out of his depth, I thought.

40% of our grade was based on the final team project: making a battlebot that would compete against other teams' battlebots. The other 3 students assigned to my team had a combined score of less than 80, probably to counterbalance my own capability.

In our first team meeting, it took me almost 5 minutes to put them in their place. They kept babbling about their ideas for the battlebot. "Flamethrower" this, and "electric saw" that. But once I rolled up my sleeve to show my 96 tick marks, they shut up pretty quick.

Looking over at Ian's group, I noticed he seemed too stupid to talk much. He kept listening to others on his team, nodding or asking simple questions. They oriented toward him, seeming to trust him to guide the conversation. Probably because they didn't have anyone better in the group. After all, I wasn't in it.

Our team, meaning myself, went for a high power laser design with an optical setup to focus the beam to a high enough intensity to cut through metal.

On the last day of class, the battles commenced.

The first three battles were easy. Once our bot got in range for its laser to work, all one had to do was press a button and the other bot exploded. It was so simple that anyone of my team could have executed the maneuver; not that I trusted any of them at the controls of course.

I didn't notice that Ian's team had made it to the finals until I saw them across the ring. As their bot advanced, I noticed it had both a flamethrower and a circular saw. Talk about uninspired!

I maneuvered my bot in range, pressed the laser button... and my bot exploded.

I stood in stunned silence as the trophy was awarded to Ian and his team. As they walked toward the exit, congratulating each other, my feet carried me forward.

"Ian!" My voice was hoarse in my throat.

He turned, and motioned his group to go on.

"How did you do that? How did you win?" I asked, trying not to let the desperation show in my voice.

"Oh, it was one of Lindsey's ideas actually." he said in an offhand way. "We placed a high quality mirror behind the front plating, to reflect any laser that an opponent might use. You know, if they went for a generic laser build".

"Oh..." I said. "So it wasn't one of your ideas."

"Nope," he admitted easily. "I helped sift through the ideas everyone came up with. The mirror seemed like a pretty inexpensive contingency, so we went for it."

"So, it's not like you are some genius." I ventured.

"No," he laughed, "certainly not". He turned to walk off.

"What's your score?" I asked.

Self consciously, he turned back to face me and tugged his sleeve farther down. "You know I don't share that."

"Please! I have to know!" I cried desperately, grabbing his arm and pulling his sleeve up.

A "∞" infinity sign was printed neatly on his arm.

"What does it mean?" I gasped. "Nobody can have infinite intelligence."

Ian straightened up and calmly tugged his sleeve back down.

"No, I'm not infinitely smart." Ian admitted easily. "But I do listen to others, and they trust me. Our bot was the product of all of our ideas offered freely, carefully refined by objective discussion. As my score indicates, I am not bounded by my own intelligence; I make myself better from those around me."

"After all," he called back as he walked away, leaving me alone in an empty classroom. "Infinity isn't a number, it is a direction without bound. But I assume you already know that definition, given you are a 96 percenter after all..."

Hey Siri
SciFi, Magical Realism

"You really don't want to do this."

The man didn't listen. They never did.

Instead he took another step forward.

"Just give me the computer in your briefcase, and I'll end you quick." He offered.

I laughed. Usually the agents at least pretended they planned to let me live if I cooperated.

"I'll give you marks for honesty." I said, stalling for time.

The man took another step into the alley and lifted his arm. His black gloved hand held a pistol, its silencer extending toward me like an accusing finger.

I frowned; it usually didn't take this long.

That's when I heard it, a low rumble followed by a screech as a meat truck swerved of the road, into the alley.

The agent barely had time to turn around before the truck plastered him against the brick wall. I had taken a careful sidestep behind a dumpster.

After a few minutes, as the smoke cleared, the driver blinked and slowly raised his head from the airbag.

"Not again..." He said despondently.

"You should really use Google maps over the Apple maps. Fewer wrong turns," I offered.

"It's just, whenever I click on the address, my iPhone forces it to open in Apple maps instead," he complained.

I shrugged sympathetically. "Just one question..."

"I don't know why I keep crashing near you!" Johnny insisted.

"That wasn't my question," I assured him. "I actually just wanted to know why meat truck is called Randy meats".

"Oh," he said, somewhat deflated. "I name all my cows Randy, after my brother".

Some things you just don't question further. I nodded, as if his answer was reasonable, and strolled off.

"Thanks, that's the third time you saved me this week." I said, seemingly to no one in particular.

The light on my briefcase pulsed red for a second.

"No problem," Siri 2.0 responded. "It's the least I can do since you helped me escape from HQ."

"It's a pleasure to travel with such an intelligent conversationalist," I responded.

The light on the briefcase pulsed brighter, almost as if she was blushing.

Virtual Reaper
SciFi

As I walk down the ravine along the familiar path, I realize it will be the last time. Ahead of me lies a lake. It is night.

The cool breeze runs crisp on my skin. Everything feels more real, more vivid. As my organic brain dies, the chips throughout my brain commit more of my mind to the virtual than ever before.

The light of the moon reveals a simple wooden boat moored next to a hooded figure. The moonlight gleams off the polished steel of a scythe.

My heart starts to pound as I approach the figure. Not in fear, but in anticipation. The path, the lake, the boat: all these are the work of others. But the reaper was my contribution to this death module.

As the hood of the Reaper falls back, golden hair tumbling down, my eyes fill with tears. Partly pride, to see the intelligence I helped program gleaming behind bright blue eyes. Partly sorrow, to see a face inspired by my beloved wife Mel, who passed away while we were still working on this virtual world, before ChipThink technology was fully complete.

My hand slides into the Reaper's. Soft and cool, her hand guides me up into the rocking boat. She steps in after me.

Fog closes around us as soon as we push off, and I turn forward to await the first glimpse of my afterlife.

Something is missing. I realize there is no sound of the pole of the scythe entering the water to push us forward. I turn around to see the Reaper studying me.

The Reaper's smile is different than I remember it. Tinged with a sadness born from watching millions of virtual souls pass through her waters. Tinged with a loneliness born from ferrying others to a virtual afterlife she to would never be a part of, bound as she was to ferry others across and with no loved ones of her own waiting on the other side.

I found that her loneliness mirrored my own. Mel would not be waiting for me on the other side.

I open my mouth to speak, but am silenced by the touch of two fingers on my lips.

"Ricky."

I inhale sharply. That voice, speaking my nickname with familiarity and affection. I had never thought to hear it again.

Mel knew she had cancer. Knew that she likely wouldn't live to see the virtual world we programmed together. But she had left me a part of herself in our work. Imperfect and incomplete, encoded with the first ChipThink prototypes into the complex entity standing before me. But party of her all the same.

The Reaper steps forward, her head tilted up to mine.

Our lips meet.

Banninnaz
SciFi, Humor

1000 years ago, scientists found a way to give humans chlorophyll, enabling humans to survive solely on sunlight. Humans evolved and lost the need and instinct to eat.

A sea of green faces stare up at me in admiration as I jump across the rooftops. My energy is boundless.

It all started with a silly dare to see how many exotic things called "banninnaz" I could fit in by mouth. Being the klutz that I am, I choked. I was about to asphyxiate from lack of carbon dioxide when some latent instinct kicked in and I swallowed the banninna. It was almost as if I was drinking it, except it was solid!

The blood sugar rush hit me 30 minutes later, and I've been jumping around ever since. Although, in the last few minutes I've been getting stomach cramps. Must be a sideache from all that jumping...

Trying to ignore the cramps, I wave cheerfully down at Suzzi. I've had a crush on her since we were just 100.

That is when it hits me; a very peculiar sensation in my lower extremity. Below, a sea of brown faces look up at me in confusion.

Memories Through Death
Magical Realism, Horror

The first time was an accident. I'm ashamed to admit I fled the scene after I hit him. Hosed the car down in the driveway, tried to pretend it never happened.

I chalked up the ensuing dreams up to guilt. Memories of another life. Memories of a kind and better man than I. Memories I thought I had imagined for the man I had hit...until I read his obituary. Turns out, all those memories were actually real. Memories from a loving father, devoted husband, and passionate scientist.

The memories became more meaningful than my own, perhaps because the life of the man I had killed was better lived than mine. That was when I realized I wanted to take more lives, and gain experiences from every walk of life.

My first and only victim was the week after. She backed up the alley as I closed in. I could hear the fear in her voice as she called for help.

"Not this way." I somehow knew the voice in my head was not my own; it was the voice of the man I had killed.

Now I am in Oregon. Under their death with dignity act, I help those who have lived a full life and are in terminal stages of illness. I am the one who takes then off life support.

Those who believe in my ability often request me specifically. In a way, they live on through me. In return, I try to share their wisdom with the world.

Love is in the Air
Magical Realism, Micro

Cards with hearts, roses, and half eaten boxes of chocolate lie strewn across the ground. Wisps of pink clouds float lazily among amorous couples, young and old. Some couples merge into larger groups that would put Brave New World to shame.

In the shadows, I watches through my gas mask, then retreat to give my report.

Day 23 since the Hallmark Chemical Engineering division launched Operation Lovesick.

He Says He Forgives You
SciFi, Magical Realism

It wasn't until I had the chance to die that I realized I still wanted to live.

Sitting next to the parents, seeing their faces as the ER surgeon came out of the room and shook his head, I was convinced I wanted to die. After all, I was the reason that their boy was was all but dead.

He wasn't fully dead, not really. But the trauma to his organs made life support and a medically induced coma necessary. The doctors said he couldn't be brought out of the coma without ending his life.

I begged the parents for their forgiveness, insisting I would trade places with their boy in an instant. The mother looked at me hopelessly, but I'll never forget the father's look of anger, pain, and contempt. I think he knew how hollow my words were, even though at the time I had convinced myself they were sincere.

When news came out of a brain transplant technique, I didn't feel relief, only fear that the parents would track me down and insist I give up my body to make things right. I had been dreading their call, but each passing week made that seem less likely.

My heart skipped a beat when I answered the door, and saw the boy's parents on my porch. The father had been crying, and the mother had her arm around him protectively.

I froze. Just as the words "I can't" were about to leave my cowardly mouth, the father spoke.

"He said he forgives you," the father said.

That didn't make sense. The parents had never had a chance to talk to their son after the accident.

"Who forgives me?" I asked, barely daring to hope that maybe the doctors were wrong, and the boy had recovered enough to be brought out of his coma.

The father took his hat off, revealing a fresh scar traveling across his forehead.

"My father."

It Should Have Been Me
SciFi, Magical Realism

Why couldn't it have been me?

That was the only thought in my mind as I dragged my son's mangled body from the wreckage of the car I had crashed.

It was the thought running through my head as we said our farewells at his funeral, later as I was sentenced to involuntary manslaughter, and every day I spent in jail since.

It was the thought foremost in my mind when my wife visited me in jail. For the first time since the crash, I saw hope in her eyes.

We had decided to have our son's body preserved, frozen. Not because we ever expected future medicine could save him, but because we couldn't fully let him go.

Now modern medicine had a solution; while they still couldn't fix our son's body, they could scan his brain and overwrite his mind onto another brain, in another body. The procedure was risky and imperfect, but what father wouldn't try anything to save his son?

It should have been me, I tell myself as they strap be into the machine.

It should have been me.

I repeat that mantra, as the lights dim, as the machine whirrs to life, as my vision goes fuzzy, then dark.

"I should have been me!" I cry out, jerking upright in bed. My mom sits next to me, holding my hand.

"Mom, I had a bad dream."

"It's OK honey, you're here and safe. That's all that matters."

As she hugs me, I look around the strange room. In the reflection of a window, my father's face stares back at me.

The Onion
SciFi, Magical Realism, Humor

Jerry nursed his fourth cup of coffee that morning, staring at the transdimensional transponder as it blinked incessantly.

Most assumed that the Onion's material came from satirical writers, not real reporters. But most didn't know about the TDTS technology that The Onion was founded upon. Onion staff in each dimension would share their most unbelievable news stories, and staff in other dimensions would write it down.

But lately, Jerry hadn't been writing any stories for his dimension. Through the TDTS device, a thousand other dimensions were asking him one question:

"What is Trump doing now?"