How do you disprove the existence of God when he’s standing in front of you: Wry smile on his all-knowing countenance; not as old as you’d expect; not a stitch of clothing on him; definitely male, if a little feral.
There were hundreds gathered around – watching, recording, posting – when I arrived at the scene. I was numb from the October wind. He wasn’t even shivering.
He wasn’t flashy: No miracles or anything, just knew everything, everyone, every…
Red laser! Gunshot! He’s down!
“Your first telepath?” My Director sympathized later. “They always try the ‘I’m God’ gambit. But nude? That’s new.”
Author’s Note: I recently read a story about God personified trying to prove his existence to an atheist and I thought “but a telepath could do all that.”
John wandered aimlessly about his house. He could see his family, but they couldn’t see him. When he spoke, they didn’t hear. When he touched something, his hand merely passed through it. Nothing he did made the slightest bit of difference.
He had been like this for nearly two weeks. For the thousandth time, he screamed in frustration. He collapsed onto the ground, staring off in bleak despair.
Finally, a raven arrived and said, “Sorry about the long delay, I was on vacation. I guess they didn’t get anyone to fill in. I’m here to take you to your judgment.”
Author’s Note: There are some jobs in which arranging a vacation is simple. But for others, like being a guide to the dead, they must be carefully arranged.
A pyre was erected and the witch was brought forward. It was Winter. My Winter. Warmth filled me and I ran forward without thinking, the heat increasing with each step.
I was too far away. A torch was lit and the blistering heat spread through my body.
The guard bent to light the pyre and the heat consumed me. Guards burst into flame and I laughed. It felt like coming inside on a cold day.
The fire stopped. Winter stared, mouth open. My head spun. What just happened? The crowd shrank back in fear.
Then someone yelled, “Witch!”
Author’s Note: What if you became the thing everyone called a monster?
Reggie took to his new tasks with such alacrity that the captain named him crewman of the month.
“Look how happy the parnaxes are with their spotless cage!” the captain said.
Indeed, their songs filled the transport ship. Avian aliens, the parnaxes boasted wings that conducted electricity—they shocked fishes to death in tidal pools, and put on winning displays for orbiting circuses.
“You’ve got talent,” the captain said.
“Happy to help, sir,” Reggie replied. But once he was alone again, he upended his liquor flask into the faux tidal pool. “Drink up,” he whispered, “and give us a show.”
Author’s Note: One thing I greatly enjoy about sci-fi is imagining alien flora and fauna.
Faye was in her second decade when she broke Lady Toadstool’s prized necklace. Pearls rolled all over Faerie and beyond, and the lady, furious, cursed her to walk the land until she recovered the baubles.
Faye searched for centuries: in Faerie, the demon realms, and the world of men.
She had found all but one. The last pearl lay in the museum case before her; she needed only break the glass to be free.
But then she’d have to return home, and she so adored green smoothies and California rolls.
She turned her back to the case.
Perhaps next year.
Author’s Note: They probably don’t have California rolls in Faerie.
“Brianna, you should turn right if you want what’s best for you!”
“If you want to meet the man of your dreams, Bri, you’d better turn left!”
“If you’d rather be the richest woman in the world, turn right!”
I stare at them, my two future selves from alternate universes. The happily married one does not look so different from current me. The rich version of me sports clothes and accessories that have me drooling.
“So I’m to choose between love and wealth?”
I could ask them how and why they’ve come here. Instead, I turn around to go home
Author’s Note: Wouldn’t it be irritating to know what choices lead to which outcomes?
Mable pulled the trembling bunny closer to her chest, enough to feel its tiny heart beating. On the floor before them, a piece of rainbow bubbled in a lead cauldron.
“I’m sorry,” Nancy whispered. The bunny, not caring for its cramped position, twisted out of her grasp. It landed in a basket of eggs and darted away covered in magical yolk. Nancy cried out and grabbed for the rabbit, but only managed to knock over the cauldron. Steaming hot rainbow splashed everywhere, scorching fur and flesh alike.
The front door had been left open.
Seeing its chance, the bunny escaped.
Author’s Note: Really, could the Easter Bunny be anything other than a freak magical accident?
Everyone knows where the answers are – at the event horizon. Hawking radiation retains all information. All you have to do is go get it…
Bold and desperate peoples, attempting to rewrite their history, often tried, and repeatedly failed.
The crew of Hawking’s Hope had a different plan. Don’t try to capture the information, try to join it: Immortality, a long sleep, until someone else figures out how to retrieve them. So the last humans, fleeing extermination, gathered on one ship, gambling on becoming wooly mammoths revived from extinction.
Whether that ship’s fool errand worked, we still don’t know. Maybe someday.
Author’s Note: If event horizons retain information, as Stephen Hawking postulates, can we write to that storage medium?
Tray’s watch chirped. “You’ve been browsing travel sites! Maybe you should check out these Greek lessons!”
He swiped at his wrist. “Shut up, would you?”
“Oh. Would you like some relaxing music?”
“No!” He put a hand over it, trying to silence the stupid thing.
“Okay. But I noticed your list of websites to “read later” has grown a lot! Perhaps you’d like me to schedule an hour for—”
He wrapped his sweatshirt around his wrist until it was muffled, and then grinned fiercely at the stunned clerk. “Like I said, I want to return my Life Assistant. Please.”
Author’s Note: If Google prompted me to fulfill every aspirational search I ever made, I think I’d go crazy in less than an hour.
The newspapers label me a “serial killer.” I don’t really like that. I consider myself an artist, and I love my art. I love the hunting, the stalking, the anticipation, that first stab, the blood. Oh god, do I love the blood.
I reach into my jacket and feel the box cutter.
“I have to admit,” I tell her. “This is my favorite part.”
She turns to face me, “Mine too.”
Shocked, I drop my box cutter. She lunges and bites into my neck. I can smell her hair. It smells like blood.
Oh god, do I love the blood.
Author’s Note: Always a fan of when a potential victim turns the tables.