Defenestrationism.net

“Then we shall make Art”
— Paul-Newell Reaves, owner, co-editor

Chantelle Tibbs, co-editor:

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What a contest, everyone, what a contest.

Never one to waste an instant, the winners are:

Grand Prize: the Burn

Runner-Ups: “My Dog Dies Today” & “In Hot Water”

We had a tie for first place, so, as always, the Fan Vote was the tie breaker.

How the Judges Voted: (a Grand Prize vote is worth two Runner Up votes)

Glenn A. Bruce: Grand Prize– “the Burn”, Runner Ups– “My Dog Dies Today” & “In Hot Water.”

Lady Moet Beast: Grand Prize– “In Hot Water”, Runner Ups– “Leopardus” & “My Dog Dies Today”

Aditya Guatum: Grand Prize– “My Dog Dies Today”, Runner Ups— “Feng’s Way” & “the Burn”

Fan Vote: Grand Prize– “60 S 150 W”, Runner Ups– “Leopardus” & a tie between “the Burn” and “Frozen Asset” (both were awarded a runner-up vote)

back to the 2024 !Short Story Contest!

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The judges’ votes are all in.

Fan Voting remains open until 11:59pm Eastern Standard Time. That’s in 11 hours.

Vote now.

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In 1985, the Pogues– that’s Gaelic for the Kisses– released “Rum, Sodomy & the Lash”, what I will call an umbrella concept album. Every track falls under the umbrella of the main concept, every song is a type of, or an example of, that concept. In this case, the concept is the title of the album, and every track relates to either rum, or to sodomy, or to the lash– often a combination of the three.

1985 was an astonishing year for Punk music. In the 21st century, when blueberry pies and toddler papooses might be described as, “that’s so punk-rock”, a punk-rock fife whistle is not so extraordinary. But in ‘85, with hardcore bands like Black Flag and the Exploited putting out seminal albums, the Pogues— playing Irish folk music on entirely acoustic instruments except for a bass guitar— still maintained a Punk Ethos. Yes, the Pogues have full throttle energy on par with any band in history, but that doesn’t make them punkers. It is their Punk Ethos that does it.

So let’s take a stage dive into this album, and find out what makes Punk punk.

read more…



Fan Voting for the 2024 !Short Story Contest!
remains open until September 1st

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This is an extremely close contest, and, with about fifty votes cast in the first few days of Fan Voting, the results are also extremely close.

Voting will remain open until September 1st.

read the stories
https://defenestrationism.net/fan-voting-2024-short-story-contest/

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Voting will remain active until September 1st,
at the stroke before midnight,
Eastern Standard Time.

You will find the page also in our
retro navigation panel
somewhere around
<—————— here.

https://defenestrationism.net/fan-voting-2024-short-story-contest/

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by Eros Nocturne

My dog is going to die today.

When I wake, I’m met with the unbearable realization that the appointment is soon. There’s no getting around it. To keep him alive for longer is to be selfish and cruel.

I can’t do that to him. Not after all he’s done for me.

My lips twitch into a frown, and I roll out of bed, trying and failing to stretch out the back pain. The black bundle at the foot of my mattress lifts its head, foggy eyes swiveling towards where I stand.

“Good boy, Milo. Good boy..!” I coo at him, scratching under his chin.

Those misty, grayish eyes close, and his coarse fur presses into my palm.

I’m used to it being softer. Cleaner. With a tender touch, I run my hands near the bald, fleshy spot on his back. Parts of himself he’s chewed up in his old age.

I’m sorry.

Deep down, I know it’s irresponsible of me to have let it get this far. It would have been wiser to lay him to rest soon after he stopped being able to bend his tiny, stiffened joints.

I couldn’t bring myself to lose him. I wasn’t ready.

Today, the same is still true.

I need him. I know damn well that I need him way more than he needs me.

I set him down so that he can eat while I go through the motions. Teeth, shower, clothes, hair. Phone, purse, wallet, phone… I got my wallet, right? Yes. Keys- My keys. That’s what I’m missing.

My dog will die today.

I gather the miniature senior up into my arms once he’s finished lapping up all the water his little heart desires. He isn’t moving much, and I have to refrain from checking to see if he’s already passed.

He goes so still whenever he rests. I’m not used to it. It’s too different.

I bring him outside, setting him down in the driver’s seat of my car, putting the carrier in the back seat before joining him. He goes still in my lap, and I roll down the windows to give us some fresh air as I drive.

I can’t allow myself to think about all the times I dealt with a hyperactive dog in my back seat.

A problem I wish I could bring back now.

The world outside is insulting in how stereotypical it is. Cold, biting. Frigid. The air nips at any exposed area on my face, whipping my hair around.

I’m aware I look like shit. I managed to do the bare minimum today, but prettying myself up for a funeral seems disrespectful. As though I’ll be celebrating his death, rather than mourning the loss of my one true companion.

The dulled brown of the barren trees provide little comfort and even less reassurance. Muted orange and washed-out, pathetic yellow blow between the wheels of my vehicle and the cold, inky asphalt.

The fresh air does me no favors, though I’m not sure a sunny day would have been what I wanted, either. But it’s not for me.

It’s for him. Milo matters more.

He always has.

Then why have you let him get this bad?

My hands tremble on the wheel.

My dog is dying today.

As we wait at a red light, there’s a yip off to our left. It’s enough to make Milo look up at the same time that I glance towards the shadowy alley that it came from.

A few more yaps. I glance down. His eyes don’t turn away.

The light turns red, and it takes until someone honks before I flip my signal and make the turn, apologizing under my breath to the aggravated couple behind me.

Ignoring the tightness in my chest, I pull over to the side of the road. I swipe my phone and leave Milo in the car. My steps going into the pitch-black alley are small, and I make sure to keep my feet low to the ground.

The sole thing to greet my vision is the vague outline of an overfilled dumpster.

I unlock my phone, tapping the flashlight button and swinging it around until I spot a light brown puppy in a stained, lumpy, navy blue blanket. I can’t tell what breed it is, but the little thing must be bottle-feeding age.

There’s a rustle, and the two lumps reveal themselves to be more pups. The same litter, for sure. Light gray and cream coats.

I bite the inside of my cheek, mulling over my options…

Right. Leave them here to die, or take them with me.

It’s a no-brainer.

Squatting down, I reach out a hand. “Come on, guys… It’s okay…” Not wanting to startle the poor things, I keep my voice low, keeping as still as possible.

The brown dog is the first to toddle over, wrinkled snout clumsy in its sniffing of my hand. Once he shows no signs of moving away, I allow myself the indulgence of petting its squishy little face.

The other two are quick to follow, and I find myself with young dogs wrapped in the dirty blanket I intend to replace the moment I can.

Anyone else would find themselves doing the same thing, I tell myself.

Milo’s fallen asleep by the time I return to the car, and I’m relieved the carrier is spacious enough for all of the babies. I place them inside, taking an effort to pad the bottom and sides with the provided throw-over while they wriggle around. Once they’re all settled in, I get right back to driving.

I can’t find it in me to care about being late.

Not to this appointment.

My dog dies today.

Once I’m parked near that too-familiar off-white building, I roll the windows up — but leave a gap for the pups in the back.

Milo first. Then I’lll make sure they’re cared for.

I take the small bundle of wiry black fluff into the office, laying him in my lap and petting him while we wait. Looking around at all of these other dogs, my hand running through his fur in an effort to soothe, I’m not sure which of us I’m doing this for.

Soon enough, the vet calls us back.

Everything moves forward, though it’s difficult to feel as though I’m all here, in the moment. The piles of stress and heartbreak I’ve been struggling to repress melts away into a numb sort of pain that is anything but comforting.

I pet him, no longer feeling the texture beneath my fingers.

There’s a wag of his tail, a low whine, and then his little tummy no longer moves.

Everything decides to return then, and I’m unable to keep it together.

My dog died today.

But I can’t let the ones in the car follow his lead.

Words leave my mouth, yet I can’t hear them. I know what I’m saying — telling the vet that I have abandoned puppies in my car. None of the words I speak make it to my own ears. The look in her eyes is full of pity, and she allows me to bring them in.

The vaccination process is swift. There’s dates I write down for the next appointments, and then we’re in the car, driving home, that odd emptiness filling my insides once more.

I make a stop at the pet store. Bowls, leashes, toys. Dog beds. Carriers. Bottles. So much more.

When we get home, I allow them to run around while I set up their gear, putting Milo’s old stuff in a cabinet. I can’t bear to throw any of it away, or donate it. Or even reuse it myself. Not yet. Maybe after I visit his grave.

Maybe…

His grave.

I can’t. I can’t. I can’t.

Not now.

Don’t think about that.

My gaze falls on the puppies. The unclean, light colors of their fur clash together while they tumble around on the floor, and I make a mental note to bathe them soon. Before bed. Yeah. I have to stay on top of their care. I can’t allow myself to fall behind. Not again. Not now. There’s others relying on me. I won’t be alone.

I’ll always miss him.

But there’s others to care for. They’re still here. I have no time to wallow in destructive self-pity.

One pup bumps into my leg, and I pick them up, looking into the bright eyes of a wiggling baby.

A new person was born today.

More of the 2024 !Short Story Contest!
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by Eli V. Washington

The rope was itchy around my neck. I looked at the tree branch it was tied to, and despite its lack of leaves, the tree looked strong. The heat from the sun poured down my body like rain as sweat was running into my eyes, despite my heroic efforts to blink them away. My legs were wrapped firmly around the sides of a black Mustang and my hands were tightly bound behind my back.

“Taking it all in for the last time, lad?”

Despite my blurry vision, I could tell who it was from the faint Irish accent. Chris McGowan, head of the McGowan Crew. They were known as cruel, tough, and ugly sons of bitches. Chris was the ugliest, something you could see even with sweat rinsing your eyes. He made sure to surround himself with the rest of his posse, eyeing me down with twisted smiles on their almost as ugly faces. I tried to move my hands, hopelessly thinking the rope was old or the idiot who tied me up did a poor job, both were proven untrue.

“Lucky for you, I’m feeling pretty gracious today. I don’t take very kindly to dirty little thieves running around in my camp. Especially the fecking likes of you. The fellas wanted me to cut open your belly and send you on a walk, leave you out to die for the savages to mistake your dark body as one of their own if they see you.”

He and his boys chuckled at the thought of it, but I paid them no mind, worrying more about the horse as it was shuffling its hooves in place.

“But I said ‘Naw, I’ll let the bastard hang off the tree like fruit. I’m sure he’d be a lot more familiar with that.’”

If the thought of me laid out with my guts hanging out was amusing to them, my body swinging off the branch really gave them a laugh. They started guffawing and wheezing, part of me was scared it was going to set off my horse. Chris started to recognize my silence.

“You can keep your mouth shut all you like,” he snarled, “It won’t change my mind none.”

Chris reaches at his side for his Colt, aiming it at the ground near my unsteady steed.

“I bet I’ll hear your gurgling cries after-”

Whatever Chris wanted to say was interrupted by an arrow sticking through the side of his neck. Chris slid off his horse, crumpled up on the ground as he tried to weakly pull at the arrow. Blood was already pouring out of his mouth, but he still tried to make a sound. That was then followed up by a haunting swirl of hollers that were trailed by tan men dressed in paint, feathers, and buckskin. Natives.

They were still a distance away from us, so the McGowan Crew gathered themselves to charge ahead towards them. Most of my focus was on calming down the horse as all the noise and carnage made it start to briefly buck and trot but not at enough speed to cause me to fall off, surprisingly enough. However, from what I did see, it was a clash of white and brown trading blows with each other. The McGowan Crew shot wildly at the Indians, nicking a good number of them but only killing two. The Indians fired back with arrows and what few that didn’t have arrows, used clubs and tomahawks to ram into the skulls of the Irishmen. One of them even tackled a McGowan off their horse to the ground, bashing in their head with a nearby rock. The brain oozed from the top of the head like a jar of broken molasses.

After the dust settled, the Indians came out victorious. As they cheered in celebration, one of them noticed me trying to wrangle in my horse and made his way closer to me. He set his arms apart, cupping his hands, and slowly opened his mouth. I realized what he was going to do. My body stiffened up as I prepared for what was to come. It was only then that the Indian dropped his hands and rode off with a satisfied snigger.

Like a jewel on a crown, I would study its leather handle, there was not much else I could do with it. Even if I slid off my horse, I could hardly pick it up, even with my feet. And suppose I did escape; with no sign of a town nearby, I’d surely die of thirst out in that maddening desert. In my anger, I spat at Chris’s face, summoning whatever moisture I had left in my mouth, hitting the cheek of his limp face. A victory in my eyes, but an inconsequential one. I raised my head to look around and to keep my neck from locking in place. 

It was in the distance I saw it. The dark cross stood tall in a shimmering haze, instead of planted to the ground, it seemed as if it was floating slightly as it towered over me. Dangled to the cross was the Lord himself above me. His head hung limp as his thinning, disheveled hair covered where his eyes would be. His jaw was slack, opening his mouth ever so slightly to reveal his sickly yellow teeth. The rest of his body was weak and skinny, but most importantly, rotting. Though he was still nailed to the cross, it was clear as day his body was moments from falling apart. His skin was peeling like old paint and what flesh he had left was slowly sliding off him as maggots crawled through his orifices.

“I reckon yew didn’t do this to yourself?”

I turn to see a man ride up next to me on his horse grinning. The man had sandy-colored hair and a thick mustache wearing a snow-white colored hat. I couldn’t even muster up the energy to answer him back, not even fully certain if he was of this world.

The man took out his gun and aimed at the rope tied to the tree branch. A loud CRACK could be heard as he hit the rope. The horse finally took off and I came crashing to the ground. The last things I saw were the man’s black boots as he climbed off his horse before I lost consciousness.

I felt a warm liquid run down my face and my eyes began to stir awake.

My eyes snapped open, assuming the worst had happened. Thankfully, what I saw was a canteen of water running down my face, held by the same sandy-haired man. Once he noticed I was awake, he capped up the canteen and his stern expression switched to a toothy grin.

“Thought I’d lost ya there,” he said, tying the canteen to his horse’s saddle. “Be a shame if yew were sent away too early.”

Even after he told me that, I was still drifting in and out of consciousness. As my eyes were beginning to open again, I felt my back against a rough surface. I looked up and saw that I was at a tree different than the one I was set to hang at, this tree had actual leaves which provided relieving shade from the scorching heat. The sky around me was painted with additional purples, reds, and oranges as the sun began to set. The man’s horse, a grey stallion with white spots, was standing near me nibbling at what little grass miraculously grew from the desert floor. I looked down at my hands were still bound with the same itchy rope.

“Y’know when I saw yew,” the man continued while reaching into his saddle bag. “I thought you were just a poor fella having ‘imself a hell of a day. Especially getting tangled with the McGowan Crew, assuming the fellow I saw melting on the ground next to yew was really Chris McGowan ‘imself. I was ready to cut yew loose and send yew on yer way.”

He pulled out a folded-up piece of paper and brought it over to me.

“Until I got a good look at ya and realized this was an act of God and yew ain’t just some poor fella, Sam Kennedy.”

He unfolded the paper to reveal it was none other than my wanted poster: 

SAM KENNEDY/CAPTURED ALIVE IS $400, CAPTURED DEAD IS $200

“Theft, bank robbery, murder, aggravated assault, yer a regular scourge on the earth, aren’t you? Got a pretty penny on you, that’s fer sure. Truly an act of God I found yew before ya hung.”

“How so?” I croaked.

The man looked confused as if he’s never considered that. “Well, I just told yew,” he said. “God kept them McGowan boys from stringing yew up.”

“It was the Indians that killed them that kept them from stringing me up,” I replied. “Maybe it was their God that kept me alive.”

That set him off good. His bemused grin turned to a sour grimace.

“Them beasts wouldn’t know the sun from the moon.” He growled. “The only ever sense they had was given by our Lord to kill them Irish bastards. And answer me this, if yew have all the answers, why would those savages even keep yew alive in the first place?”“Well, they ain’t exactly cut me loose.”

“They ain’t exactly let ya hang either. Why do yew think that is? ‘Cause God gave them the sense to realize yew were here sent fer me, Jonesy Moore.”

Though his argument didn’t convince me, I will admit I was stumped as to why that Indian didn’t just let me hang or just kill me himself. I had no use for him, and I doubt even he would’ve lost sleep at night over doing it. Instead, I came up with a different response.

“I’ve been on this earth for a while now,” I replied. “I don’t think any of the things in my life can be ruled as ‘an act of God.’ Even after the War, it didn’t make my family no difference. If there was a difference between a slave and a sharecropper, I couldn’t see it if you told me. All the skirmishes and dustups I’ve gotten myself into, wasn’t no God that saved me, either the bastard missed, or I did. All the run-ins I’ve had with the law, wasn’t no God that saved me, my horse was simply faster than theirs, or slower. If God was there during all those times, I couldn’t notice him if you pointed him out to me.”

Jonesy was gathering up branches during my speech, piling them up in preparation for a fire. 

“Can’t expect God to hold yer hand through everything now, can ya? God gives us the freedom to make our own choices. Can’t blame him just because yew made the bad ones.”

“You said I was sent on that tree for you to find,” I spat. “Which one of us chose that, you or me? ‘Cause I for damn sure didn’t ask to be anyone’s bait.”

“God can’t save those who don’t wanna be saved,” Jonesy said simply. “And he rewards those who do.”

After a dinner of hardly warm beans, prepared and force-fed by Jonesy, I laid down on the sandy dirt. Although I desperately wanted to sleep, my racing thoughts, as well as Jonesy’s farts, kept me awake. Jonesy’s knife and gun were on his belt hanging on the horse’s saddle and even I don’t have the craft to lift either from his belt without waking it up. Jonesy and I both knew I wouldn’t know up from down in that desert, that’s why he was so comfortable sleeping for the night, I reckon. Running was out of the question, regardless. Then, I tried thinking if I could escape while I was brought to whatever town he was reporting to, commandeer me a horse, and ride off. That wasn’t gonna work either, seeing as I’d be gunned down before I’d make it out of the stable. Ready to accept what was to come, I finally drifted to sleep.

I awoke to the sound of Jonesy’s horse whining loudly, snapping my eyes open. To my surprise, Jonsey was trying to settle down the horse while it was bucking and neighing a distance away.

“Settle down, girl! One scorpion ain’t gonna kill ya!”

As I sat up, I noticed Jonesy’s belt lying on the ground, knocked off the horse’s saddle when she got stung. I inched my way towards it while making sure Jonesy was distracted. I used my feet to dislodge the knife from the sheath before scurrying back to where I was resting. I quickly fumbled the blade to cut on the ropes, most likely nicking my fingers in the process. Once I felt the ropes come loose, I hurried to put the knife back in the sheathe as Jonesy finally settled her down and walked her back to the smoky fire pit. He reached down to pick up his belt.

“Yew would’ve thought this girl was shot at the way she was actin’!” Jonesy said bewildered. “And right after I had the perfect dream!”

Feeling particularly good about myself, I decided to mess around with him a bit. 

“What was the dream?” I smirked.

Jonesy looked down on me with a disapproving look. “Not that it would interest you none, but I happened to get a vision from the Lord.”

“Is that so?”

“Yessir, I did. It happened right here at this campsite, but instead of the fire, it was Jesus on the cross Himself surrounded with golden light. The cross must’ve been ‘bout eleven feet tall, towering over me the way it was, made from this beautiful, shimmering wood. And on the cross was Jesus Christ of Nazareth. The strange part was, the light was so darn bright, I couldn’t even see what He looked like! It was just a blurry figure of Him, but no doubt in my mind it was Him.”

“You just said you couldn’t see him.”

“He was there on the cross, I just couldn’t get a good look at him exactly.”

“Y’know, I had a vision of him too.”

“You did?” His hand began to lower to his Colt. “Or are you just trying to get a kick outta me?” he asked with a snarl.

“No, no. I’m telling the truth, honest. Right before you got me down from the hanging tree.”

“Well, what happened?” he asked excitedly.

“I was seeing the same things you saw. Instead of the tree that was set to hang me, I saw the cross with Jesus and all.”

“I’m guessing you didn’t see him either, huh?”

“The opposite, honestly. You wanna know what I saw?”

Jonesy finished fastening his belt as he heard that, snapping his head up in shock.

“What yew see?”

“A rotting, disgusting, corpse.”

As I began to chuckle to myself, Jonesy drew his gun and aimed it at me, and for whatever reason, I didn’t need to laugh anymore.

“Now, I’ve been nothing but hospitable to yew. I could’ve let yer black body dangle off that tree and just brought ya in for a lower pay. I gave ya water, beans, and rest even after you disrespected my Lord. But after that little remark, yew done flat-out spat in his face, and I don’t know if I can let that go unpunished.”

“Just telling what I saw, is all.” I shrugged.

“That ain’t what ya seen!” Jonsey screamed. “Yew were probably just delirious from the sun, that’s it!”

“And who’s to say you weren’t delirious from those beans?”

Jonesy cocked back the hammer from his gun. In an instant, I dove out of the way, scooped up sand and rocks, and threw it in his eyes. He roared in pain as he raised his arms, barely missing my head as he fired. I got up to tackle him to the ground and the gun skittered from his hand to the floor in front of us. We were both entangled in each other as we tried to go for the gun. Jonesy reached in his belt for the knife and tried to drive it into my chest. I put my hand up to block the knife and it drove through my hand. I roared and fell back in pain. Despite the pain, I yanked the knife out of my hand and tried to lunge at him, but he kicked me square in the chest sending me back down to the ground.

Jonesy was still crawling for the gun before I stabbed him in the thigh and climbed over him to grab the gun. Once I had it in my hands, I turned around to see Jonesy dive at me with the knife. I dropped the gun and held my arms forward to keep him from thrusting the knife into my skull. I struggled to keep the knife from descending, but Jonesy was putting all his weight into it. Even his eyes were trying to pierce into mine with a crazed and hungry desire until he momentarily looked up. Once he did, his eyes were glued to whatever it was he saw as if he was entranced, and because of that, he took some of the pressure off the knife. I reached my hand to grab the gun and bring it to the side of his skull.

He came down hard to the ground beside me and I immediately jumped up and aimed the gun at him. With no hesitation, I fired, sending a bullet through the back of his skull. Blood erupted from the back of his head as it hit the ground with a wet thud and moisturized the dry dirt. I stood over him for a few more moments, basking in my victory. Once I looked up, I noticed what Jonesy was looking at.

A short distance away from me stood a man sitting on his horse. The man wore all dark grey clothing as if he were a pillar of smoke. The horse he rode stood perfectly still, not even flicking its tail, and its eyes were glazed and cloudy. Despite this, you could still determine there were signs of life in the horse. Although cloudy, its eyes were bright and alert, it had a beautiful grey coat to match its rider, and its body was not sickly or frail, but healthy and strong. The man immediately steered the horse towards me, and my body tensed up in anticipation. The air went dry and frigid as they drew closer, the teeth in my mouth began to hum steadily, and the hairs on the back of my neck rose with perfect rigidity. I wanted to run, fight, and yell at the same time but my body refused to obey me.

But as the horse strode towards me, I tried to get a good look at the rider, but to my surprise, I couldn’t make out his face. Not as if his face was covered, but as if he had no features to discern. His face shimmered like a ripple in a pond. He continued his travel, not even stopping or turning his face to me as he rode, carrying on with complete indifference as if he did not see me kill a man. The air began to heat up again, my teeth settled down, and my hair began to fall again.

Even as I live today, I still haven’t the slightest concept of what it was I saw in that desert, and I am beginning to doubt if what I could even be explained. Soon, after the stranger was a good distance away from me, I realized whatever had happened was not going to bring me closer to town, so I began my journey, taking Jonesy’s horse with me after settling her down. But as I did, I could think of two things: There was no more water in Jonesy’s canteen, and that was not the Lord.

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by Pamela Christie

Once upon a time, in late twentieth-century Manhattan, a business school graduate sat in an office, waiting for a job interview. She was able to enjoy the refreshing scents of springtime while she waited, for she’d opened a window, which usually wasn’t possible in a skyscraper. It was a nice modern touch – windows that could be manually opened and shut, (Whatever would they think of next?) but the young woman had already found this company to be less than impressive in other ways. The premises were badly laid out and the employees were unprofessional. She had been left to herself in the corner office for nearly an hour, and no one had bothered to check on her.

Eventually, though, the door was opened, and a tousled secretarial head appeared in the gap.

“You still here?” asked the head. The candidate refrained from affirming the obvious. “The boss totally spaced your interview, and now he’s gone to lunch. I’d come back some other time if I wuz you.”

“How soon do you expect him?”

“No idea.”

“I’ll wait.”

The head withdrew, the door closed, and the candidate resigned herself to the inevitable. She was elegance itself, with a touch of enlightened serenity, in a white suit of raw silk. Her dark hair had been sleeked into a becoming chignon. And her gaze was thoughtful as it pondered her uninspired surroundings. Hmm, she thought. Too much yin.

The young woman removed an amethyst crystal from her briefcase and placed it on the desk’s SW corner, to ensure the luck of harmonious relationships with the office personnel. Then she extracted metal wind chimes and hung them in the SE corner. These would dispel the poisonous breath created by the angular spines of the shelved books, and harness positive energy for an optimal work environment. She repositioned the desk, too, so that it sat diagonally across from the door, freeing the chi to circulate more auspiciously. The increased energy flow was immediately perceptible. The candidate sat down, not on the hard little visitor’s chair this time, but in the expansive executive throne on the other side of the desk and counted slowly to eight. In addition to being the generally acknowledged luckiest number, eight was also auspicious for her, personally.

The door opened again, but this time the secretary knocked as she opened it and came all the way inside before addressing the candidate.

“I beg your pardon, Ms. Feng, and thank you so much for waiting. Mr. Spaulding asked me to let you know that he’s on his way and will be here as soon as he can. May I get you anything in the meantime? Water? Coffee?”

“Green tea, if you have it.”

“I’ll check.”

“Oh, never mind,” said the candidate, rising to her feet. “I haven’t got time to wait after all. And it’s pronounced `Fong,’ not `Feng.’”

“No! Oh, please don’t go!” cried the secretary, “Mr. Spaulding really wants to meet with you! He just phoned, and he was most insistent that I ask you to wait for him!”

“Oh, all right then,” said Ms. Feng, wearily.

“Thank you! He won’t be long. Would you care for a magazine?”

“I would not. I shall sit here admiring the view for ten more minutes. Then I shall go.”

Moments later, a clerk entered. He was chatting to someone on his headset andwheeling a dolly, which he proceeded to load with file boxes. His personal vibration was at odds with the fresh, new energy that Ms. Feng had just finished generating for the room.

“Dude!” said the clerk. “It’s Eric. You gotta see this! I’m in Spaulding’soffice, picking up the Barracuda files, and there’s a fuckin’ goddess in here! Come check it out! I dunno, man! Just make some excuse and get over here!”

The clerk had spent years listening to loud noise that passed for music, with the volume turned up full blast and pumped directly into his head. Consequently, he was now a poor judge of decibel ranges. Besides, the woman seemed unaware of his presence, which must mean that she either couldn’t hear what he was saying or wasn’t listening, so he launched into a litany of her physical charms without a second thought.

But then he realized that she was looking at him. Straight at him. Her hostility was palpable, too. So much so that even this thick-skulled file clerk felt the vibe. Ms. Feng was a master of the poisonous glance. It almost felt like he really was being poisoned, and he shrank from her gaze. Literally. His clothes were suddenly too big for him. And the smaller he got, the faster he shrank. When his headset fell off, Eric realized that his shape was altering, too. A moment later, he found himself perched on a file tab, rubbing his hands together. The former file clerk was now a fruit fly.

Hey, thought the fly, flexing its wings, do these puppies actually work? It would never know, for at the apex of its leap into space, the insect found itself stuck to the bulbous end of a fleshy tongue. A moment before it disappeared into the maw of no return, the fly caught a glimpse of the author of its demise: a warty, three-legged toad, which was squatting (though the fly couldn’t see this detail) on a heap of coins.

The toad swallowed the fly, squeezing its eyes shut and drawing them inwards till they were nearly flush with its head. Then it passed a four-fingered paw across its face, to remove any bits of former file clerk which might have squirted out during the capture and ingestion. After making sure it was clean and presentable, the toad transformed once again into Ms. Feng.

Yum! she thought, picking her teeth with a pin from her chignon. Fruit flies are so delicious! (This one had the full-bodied flavor of summer peaches, with bright raspberry notes.) Unfortunately, Ms. Feng’s inside didn’t like Eric any better than her outside had, and she was briefly but violently sick out the window. She found a tissue in her handbag and wiped her mouth with it. Three minutes remained of her self-allotted ten, and fair was fair, so she resumed her seat.

Mr. Spaulding made his belated appearance on minute eight, with Ms. Feng’s CV in his hand. He was apologetic; obsequious even, because the odd change in attitude he’d suddenly experienced over lunch had become a certainty when he entered his office: Life would not be worth living if he failed to engage this paragon.

“Well, Ms. Feng,” he said, nervously seating himself on the hard little visitor’s chair. “I have looked over your impressive resume, so there’s really no need for an actual interview. You’re the most qualified candidate we’ve had for this position so far. The most qualified we’ve ever had for anything, in fact!”

Ms. Feng graciously inclined her head.

“Please come and work for us,” said Mr. Spaulding. “Please?”

“Oh, very well,” she replied. And if you’re going to let me do things my way, and I think you’d better, it will save a lot of time. Because I’ll be making a lot of changes around here.”

#

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by Ahmed A. Khan

What is cryogenic sleep if not a form of time travel?

I have been asked by the Cryo Corp agent to record one day, moment or event of my life that I would like to remember most. It is a requirement of anyone who undergoes cryonics. This is not going to be difficult for me, because the day and time that I am going to record is fresh in my memory. It happened just last week.

It began as a very special winter night, a night with a very special moon and a very special snowfall. A night full of benevolent but potent magic.

Till that time, I had been a loner by nature, a shy boy who had difficulty in talking to girls, even though I felt that girls were attracted to me, probably not so much for myself as for the fact that I came from a rich and prestigious family. I think it is to my credit that I usually managed to hide my shyness behind a mask of seriousness.

That night, something in the air made me think of the ice skating rink. I dressed up, gathered my skating shoes, put them in a knapsack and hung the knapsack on my back. As I came out of my room, I saw my parents taking off the party decorations off the dining room wall where yesterday they and I, with lots of our relatives and friends, had celebrated my nineteenth birthday.

“Need help?” I asked.

They looked up. “How are you feeling?” Mom asked.

“No pain today,” I smiled.

“Going out?” Dad asked.

“I felt like a little bit of skating.”

“Go, skate,” he said cheerfully. “We will take care of the decoration.”

I hugged them one by one and came out of the house. I thought of taking my motorbike but the air outside was so invigorating that I chucked the idea and jogged all the way to the rink.

As I jogged, the wind played with my hair, snowflakes softly brushed my cheeks and my moving legs seemed to draw power from the very earth itself.

The slumbering, snow-tinged trees, the sleepily blinking far-away houses, the silent moonlit road, freedom from pain – everything reconfirmed my earlier feeling that this night was magic.

My legs pistoning powerfully against the earth, and my body cutting through the snow-laden air, I imagined that I could actually feel the earth rotate beneath my feet, bringing the skating rink nearer and nearer to me.

I could see the rink. And in front of me, I saw a graceful silhouette of a girl in a white dress, jogging in easy, zestful strides towards the rink. She had a pair of skates slung behind her back.

I slowed my jog and hung back, letting the girl stay ahead of me all the way to the rink. I saw her face clearly as she passed the lighted doorway of the rink and recognized her as a girl I had seen a few times in the town. I had always been fascinated by her loveliness and her look of innocence. Of course, I had never talked to her. No one had introduced us to each other and I did not have the guts to approach her directly.

Through the lighted doorway she passed into the rink and I followed her quietly.

On account of a beautiful moonlit night, the managers of the rink had sense enough to put off the artificial lights that normally shone over the rink. The pearly moonlight, falling on the ice, transformed the rink into a land of enchantment where faeries and elves danced with throat-choking grace.

She was a faery queen among all the lesser faeries skating around. The moonlight, when it fell on her ice-white dress, formed an aura of purity around her, and when it fell on her cloud-dark hair, gave it a lining of sparkling silver. The snowflakes were like stars in her hair.

A sudden impulse took complete control of my body and propelled me toward her, and my hands reached out and held her around her waist, and my lips said, “Mind if I skate with you?” And she turned her face to me and looked at me and I was bathed in the light of pure, joyful innocence and beauty and loveliness which made me catch my breath and made my heart strain against my chest.

And together, we skated around for an eternity which passed in an instant.

Gloriously tired, we then sat on a snow bank, talking and watching others skate. Playfully, I picked up some snow and threw it on her, adding more stars to her hair.

Then it was time to go. I walked with her to her house, and as I parted from her, I said, “I will call you.”

I did not.

The next day, my family physician informed me that all my test reports had come in and I was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer at a very advanced stage. I had just three to six months to live. That was when I decided to go in for cryonics and here I am.

***

She shut the screen and looked up at the Cryo Corp representative.

“He has a way with words, doesn’t he?” she said. “I like him, I will take him.”

“I am sure he will make you a good sex partner,” the Cryo Corp rep went into his sales pitch. “With her looks, she does need to buy a sex partner,” he thought. “She couldn’t get one any other way.”

“How long will the thaw take?”

“I am starting it right now,” he replied. “It will take two hours.”

She thought for a while, then remembered something. “What of his cancer?”

“That has already been radiated out.”

“And the time chip?”

“Installed in his brain, set for the standard three years. It will shut down all his life signs at the end of that period.”

“What if I get tired of him before the three years are done?”

“Just call us and we will shut him down sooner. Just remember one thing. There are no refunds.”

She assimilated all the information.

“I am glad that the cryos have been classified as nonpersons in spite of the vociferous protests from the humanitarians,” she said.

“Oh, these new regulations were inevitable,” he said. “With our existing over-population crisis, who would want to unleash more people into the world?”

The End

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