Watching The Clock On Old Year's Night

WATCHING THE CLOCK ON OLD YEAR'S NIGHT
by Matthew Sanborn Smith

Unbelievable. Just a year ago he was a fat and sassy little baby, shaking it for all to see in nothing but a white sash and a suntan. Now here he stood, hunched over his cane, bald head aglow above the comet-like tail of his long white beard. He looked again at the clock. Not much time left. This must have been how Saddam felt just a couple of days ago. When that big bloody ball descended mere hours from now it would be like watching the executioner's switch thrown in an unbearable slow motion.

What a screw job. It hadn't even been much of a year. Damned elections. Between the attack ads, the debates, the pundits and election day coverage itself, he'd missed out on days of quality television time. He wasn't a political animal. 1968 had enjoyed politics. Now he'd had a good life. All 2006 had wanted was new episodes of Married With Children and there wasn't a chance of that happening.

At least he had half an Olympics. If they hadn't switched their crazy little system around, he wouldn't have had that.

2006 hoped there was such a thing as reincarnation. Imagine coming back as 4017! He bet that would be a cool year. Maybe they'd have world peace by then. No, No! A leap year! What could be better than being a leap year? To have your life artificially extended by .274 percent. Man, that would be sweet. What would he do with an extra day if he had it? Catch some more of the Twilight Zone marathon, he supposed. Eat a whole bag of Doritos. He really liked the Twilight Zone. And Doritos.

But of course, all that extra life would have been stolen from three other years that had their lives cut short by six hours each. He didn't think he could live with the guilt of those poor suckers' hours on his hands.

Wait a minute! He was one of those poor suckers! Who was it? Was it 2004 that stole his time? Or would it be 2008? He wanted revenge on one or both of them suddenly, more than he wanted anything else in life. But those years weren't here to face him like men. His eyes filled with water until the clock on the wall blurred.

"Stop it, stop it, old man," he told himself. He wiped his face. "This is the hand you were dealt. Make the most of it. Seize the day."

He checked the clock again, with a clearer head. He turned on the TV. Cheers would be on soon. It was one with Diane. He liked Diane.

2007, Here We Come


Well, gang, it’s resolution time. And this year, my resolution affects you, my occasionally loyal readers. You see, after many misfires, I’ve decided that 2007 will be the Year of the Novel. I’m resolving to finish a novel and send it out the door in 2007. I’ve been tinkering with a little something for years now, a trilogy of short stories featuring the same characters, and I’ve decided to weld them together into a novel. I’ve got about 31,000 words down and I figure about 45,000 more would make a decent sized book. At first, my goal was to get the first draft done by the end of March, but then I realized once I reached that goal, I’d probably just let the first draft sit there for many more years. So, I expanded the goal.

“How does this affect me,” you ask? Certain things have to take a back seat to the goal. Not that I’m quitting anything, but my daily work on the novel takes first priority from here on out. I want to lose about twenty more pounds (I’ve lost seventeen since Halloween) and build some muscle up so I don’t look like a flabby-skinned stickboy, but if at the end of the day, I only have time for one thing, the novel comes before the exercise. So, I have no idea what kind of impact this is going to have on the daily blog story. Perhaps you won’t notice a difference, perhaps there won’t be another story for a year. The reality will probably be somewhere between these two extremes. I’m preparing you now.

I still haven’t thought up a story for today, but I’ve still got nearly five hours to go.

I posted this bulletin on MySpace a couple hours back:

I want to wish all of you a 2007 that will shake your soul and show you meaning through the
simple act of doing that which you haven't done before.

Tell those people you love that you love them. Go outside and take a deep breath and feel it in
your lungs. Relive what your heartbeat feels like when you're doing something so exciting or
terrifying that the experience will stay with you forever.

And for once, stop listening to those people.

Soylent Green: It Isn’t Just People


For some reason the subject of cannibalism seems to come up a lot more often at my house than (I can only assume) at most other people’s houses. My wife, Bianca, made an astute observation on the subject yesterday. “The thing about Soylent Green is it isn’t just people,” she said. “It’s old people.”

Doing The Thing

DOING THE THING
by Matthew Sanborn Smith

Slappy wanted fame, wanted fortune, wanted love. For decades he had nothing, including talent. On his forty-second-and-a-half birthday he had an epiphany: The lowest common denominator was a concept he could actually put to good use. He wrote his book within minutes.

It wasn't a novel. It was too short for that. But it did come in book form. And it became the best selling book of all time. It's title? "The Covenant".

It's content? As follows:

A person did a thing.

And that was it. A more universal message could not be found. Once he hit the New York Times bestseller list, people hounded Slappy wherever he went.

"Hey, I did a thing! Just like the person in the book!"

"Your book really spoke to me!"

"Finally, a character with whom I can identify."

"What's up with that title?"

"I just thought it sounded cool," Slappy admitted.

Slappy got his fame, Slappy got his fortune. Slappy had yet to get his love. There was one woman who caught his eye. Dara Klyburn. Once Slappy's book went big, Dara jumped on the bandwagon with imitation after imitation. Her book, "The Elms of Yesterday" went like this:

Some people did some things.

But who the hell wanted to read a book like that?

She to boil down Slappy's message even further with "The River Karma":

Person thinging.

No.

"Frowning in the Elderberries" went:

You.

But everyone thought it was about someone else.

"The Mortician Doesn't Ring at All":

Me.

But everyone thought it was Dara's autobiography, and a bit thin at that.

If imitation was the sincerest form of flattery, then Slappy was flattered beyond belief. He had to have this woman.

He wrote a book for her, a one copy press run called: "Alkali." The text read: A woman did a thing. It reduced Dara to tears.

"It's about me!" she cried. "It's so detailed!"

"Marry me, Dara," Slappy said. And she was helpless before him.

Everybody Loves Ramen

EVERYBODY LOVES RAMEN
by Matthew Sanborn Smith

Poor Bjorn. As the only elf-repellent salesperson in a land of elf lovers and respecters he lived on the cheap in a big, big way. He couldn't afford an apartment or a car. About the only thing he could afford was ramen noodles. But Bjorn was a resourceful young man. He built himself a house and a car out of noodles (uncooked, of course). However, he found himself constantly ridiculed by the townsfolk he loved. They called him things like "Noodle Man" and "Soupy" which were pretty lame, but hurt him nonetheless. He constantly received fines and tickets from the authorities for his unsafe construction, but he was at the end of his financial rope anyway. Jail was an improvement.

As Bjorn sat in prison, the mother of all blizzards swept across the country. They lost power and the roads were blocked for weeks and famine set in.

"I can help!" Bjorn said. "If you just let me out!"

"You'd like that, wouldn't you, Noodle Man?" his captors said. "You're just itching to get free so you can build a ramen airplane or something and kill yourself. You just sit there and think about what you've done."

But days after the last can of sardines was finished, Bjorn squeezed his skinny self through the bars and ran home.

"Everyone follow me!" he shouted on the way. Bjorn pushed his car into the volcanic hot spring in the center of town. The people feasted on noodles and when those ran out they threw his house into the spring. Everyone was saved. Bjorn was their hero. Until the snows melted.

"Hey, can I get a lift back to jail?" Bjorn asked everyone.

"Screw you, freeloading Noodle Man!" they said. And Bjorn sank into obscurity once more.

That is, until the elves attacked.

Jerry And The Monsters

JERRY AND THE MONSTERS
by Matthew Sanborn Smith

Jerry kept his clothes piled on top of the bed. There were so many monsters in the closet, he couldn't fit anything else in there. His parents scolded him for the mess on his bed. They opened the closet door to show him that there were no monsters in the closet. The monsters ate them.

Jerry didn't leave. He had no where else to go. He wasn't afraid of the monsters, he just wanted them gone. They took up too much room. And they had eaten his parents. That was supposed to be bad too.

He tried starving them out, but that didn't work. There were too many nosy friends, social workers, and police officers looking in the closet for that too happen. If anything, the monsters were getting fat and taking up even more room. Too make things worse, Jerry's room stank of monster poo.

When he'd had enough, he went to the closet. He planned to drag them out if he had to. Jerry opened the door and lunged for the nearest lump of prickly fur. It shrank back, even in those tight quarters. He reached for a green and glossy hoof which pulled back startled like a doe's. There was a reason the monsters stayed in the closet. They were afraid of him.

Jerry closed the door again, left his hand on the big metal knob until the coldness left it. He got boards and nails from the shed and sealed the closet permanently. After one more look at his childhood, he closed his bedroom as well and slept in his parents room after that, on the other side of the house where he couldn't hear the low moans of the sad, dying things.

Man Of The Worlds, Part IX (Conclusion)

Farwir charged down the passage screaming, with his short sword held straight out. Suddenly the gladius disappeared and Farwir's arms were caught in the beast's mouth. The Blue Man heard a sickening grinding sound as he tried to pull out the arms of the screaming Farwir. Had the man been wearing any sort of protection on his arms he probably could have escaped with them intact, albeit crushed. As it was, this looked as though it would be a mortal wound.

Unable to pull the young man to safety, the Blue Man yelled at the young Anamather in an imitation of its parent enraged.

"Trelest poui heig marayt!"

He was answered with a coughing flood of something that was supposed to pass for speech from the not yet fully developed Anamather. Farwir was pulled back to the steps of the entrance as soon as the creature had opened its mouth. The Blue Man screamed for the barrage of metal from above to stop, and handed the people above the moaning figure of their would-be hero.

The flame on the tip of his staff had once again gone out and it now lay in the dirt below, wisps of smoke rising in the stale air. The Journeyman Exterminator called for iron spikes and began to hammer the odd pieces of armor and silver to the walls, wedging the spikes beneath the stones that made up the wall, oblivious to the screams of the Anamather trapped at the far end. When most of the walls and ceiling were covered, the Blue Man held his staff so that one end was above ground in the sunlight. Once again, he called upon the sun, though in a different manner this time. From the top of the staff the rays of the sun shot out, reflecting from the polished metal thousands upon thousands of times, and filling the space with a brilliant yellow-white light. Now the Anamather's screams turned from frustration to unimaginable pain. Instinctively, it teleported from the passage to the back of the cellar, covering its eyes. The Blue Man was upon it almost at once. He was no longer concerned with the light, for he was certain that the monster's eyes were damaged beyond repair. Throwing his voice, he swatted the Anamather with his staff while scolding the beast in its mother's voice. Then something inside of him made him stop. The pathetic mound of malformed flesh lay at his feet sobbing and choking up thick liquids. It was hardly in a position to harm anyone now.

He stood over it for a short time letting the pain sink into his murderous side. This would be an intelligent creature someday.

It could just as well have been Ithcyer a hundred years ago. He knelt down to stroke the thing softly, full of pity, and spoke in Moragadriel's voice for the last time.
"My baby, please come home."
The young Anamather disappeared.

The Blue Man's heart welled up with guilt for misleading the young one with a tone of voice that it would never actually hear from its parent. Anamathers cared so little for their offspring it was a wonder the species was able to perpetuate itself. But he had spared its life, among other reasons, in the hope that it would live long enough to feel a change, in the individual sense and in its species.

He dropped to the cool dirt, exhausted from the day's work. Though two families had been preserved, he had originally only worked for the preservation of one. His motives now struck him as questionable and he felt shamefully burdened by the title 'Exterminator'.

When he rose into the afternoon sun he was met with the cheers of the crowd. Old Soot ran to him.

"We thought you had been killed, Journeyman Exterminator. Did you destroy it?"

"Your home is now safe, Soot. It is gone. And I would ask that you no longer refer to me by that title."

"Of course, sir. What would you have?"

"Perhaps, you could call me . . . A Student of the Worlds."

Man Of The Worlds, Part VIII

The man directly in front of him jumped backwards as well as he could, being surrounded by people, and let out a startled yelp upon the return of the Journeyman Exterminator.

"He's back! The Exterminator is back!"

A few others grabbed him and tried to lead him back towards the cellar entrance. He couldn't be moved until finally he decided to walk on to the front of the screaming crowd and see if someone else's ear had been eaten. At the trap door he was grabbed and mauled, while at least seven people vied for his attention. All that could be understood was that something was happening beneath Soot's home.

Concentrating, he chanted and gesticulated and finally pointed to the sky with one hand while passing the other in front of the never-closing mouths of those about him. One by one they fell silent, though their mouths kept moving. Their voices were projected hundreds of feet in the air above them, and some passers-by took the skittish reaction of overhead birds as an ill omen.

Soon there was quiet about the Blue Man save for the chicken farmer. The exterminator reached through the mass of bodies and pulled the excited young man to him. The farmer also fell silent, realizing that he was the only person who hadn't lost the ability to speak.

In a calm monotone, the Journeyman Exterminator asked him to explain what had happened.

"Younger Farwir, Exterminator. He's gone down to slay the beast and impress the ladies."

"Listen to me, carefully. Get all the polished armor and silver your people can get together and throw it down into the cellar."

The Blue Man said no more but created another flame, and broke the spell of voices. He pushed through to the door and went below, staff firmly in hand.

"Die, you filthy, livestock-propositioning bastard!", yelled the man at the bottom of the steps, drawing back arrow after arrow and plunging each into the tough hide of the screaming Anamather which was now wedged between the crumbling cellar walls. "You smelly, fat-headed, dung eating, rancid, . . . thing, you!"

The Blue Man held back for a moment. He couldn't deny that Young Farwir' tactics weren't all that bad. Perhaps it was time to invest in a bow. However, the arrows seemed to infuriate the young Anamather more than harm it. Soon Farwir's quiver was spent, and the fervor of the upper hand possessed the man to take up his gladius, raising it until it hit the low ceiling. The Blue Man grabbed his arm but lost his grip as a large silver teapot bounced off of his unprotected skull from above.

(To Be Concluded)

Sorry Santa

SORRY SANTA
by Matthew Sanborn Smith

It was late, two nights before Christmas. Strangely, there weren't any kids in the mall that night and Santa sat, silent and contemplative, the elves having wandered off to price cell phones. There was no one else around, no one looking. A man in a uniform with the name "Ted" embroidered on the chest snuck over to Santa.

"Hey," he said.

"Merry Christmas," Santa said.

"I gotta talk to someone."

"You want something for Christmas?"

"Yeah, I guess I do."

Santa looked around for a moment, giggled, and patted his lap. "Take a seat."

Ted did.

"So, what can Santa do for you, young man?"

"I'm in love with my mother-in-law," Ted said. "She's all I think about. I know it's wrong, but I can't help myself. This thing could ruin my marriage, I could lose my kids, everything."

"Uhh . . . " Santa said.

"I want you to take it away from me. Take away the desire so I can be happy again."

"I can't --"

"I'll just wait over here until you're done."

Before Santa could say another word, a small woman plopped into his lap. She wore a hideous orange plaid overcoat, green cords, and worn out sneakers. Her long hair was graying and her face haunted.

"Make it so my baby never died," she said.

"Jesus, lady."

"Yes, Jesus," she said. You've got an in with Jesus. He can bring my baby back."

A second woman fell to her knees at Santa's feet.

"Ask him to make it so the war never happened," she begged.

More people came to him.

"Make it so my father stops hitting my mother," a woman said.

"I need my car to hold out for one more year so I can keep a job."

"My kid needs medicine bad."

"Hold on a minute!" Santa said. But his voice was drowned by more requests.

"I need a man who doesn't drink."

"I want my wife to trust me again. To love me."

"Make me stop burning for morphine."

"We can't afford to keep the baby."

"Christ, people!" Santa shouted, struggling to his feet. "I'm just a guy who works at a mall! I can't help you. You people have real problems. I'm just a mall employee." No one else spoke. Santa had tears in his eyes as did the orange plaid woman he'd dumped to the floor. He took her hand and helped her up.

"I'm sorry," he told her quietly.

"No, we're sorry, Santa," she said. "We didn't mean to lay everything on you lie that. We just needed to believe again for a few minutes." She hugged him hard. "We needed to believe there was someone who could make it all better again."

"Sorry, Santa."

"We're sorry, Santa."

They all gathered in a huge, sniffling hug and stayed that way for a few minutes until mall security told them the place was closing. They peeled away reluctantly and said their goodbyes.

"Have a nice Christmas, Santa."

"Merry Christmas, Santa."

"Merry Christmas," Santa said.

Man Of The Worlds, Part VII

"Most of my people have never seen an adult Anamather."

"That is true. Then they must deem us a horrible species considering what they have seen."

The World Walker decided not to respond to that. "Do you have any idea to whom this child belongs?"

"Would you allow one of my thought reapers to collect your experiences of the young one?"

This thought put the Blue Man ill at ease. "Would I still have the experience or would it be wiped away? Also can I have your word that your reaper won't look for more than that single experience?"

"You will retain absolutely everything. And I can assure you that our creatures are well trained and hold their lives more dearly than we do."

"Then you may proceed."

A tall, gangly creature appeared between the two beds. The World Walker had trouble picking out the details of the reaper's body in the dim light.

"Bend toward me, please," Ithcyer requested in a soft voice.

The Blue Man did as asked and closed his eyes. In time, he felt the touch of several thin, greasy appendages about his head and squirming beneath his damaged armor to rest on his back. He felt a ticklish sensation and then a burning as the worm-like sensors burrowed into his flesh. His body twitched and his thoughts raced as Ithcyer tried to put him at ease: "You're his first human. He's just getting the feel of things. It will be over in just a moment."

And it was. He rose to see the stalks writhing from the thought reaper's head as they found their ways into the pre- existing holes of Ithcyer's belly\head.

"Ah, my creature knows of this one. I shall alert the parent of your coming."

The reaper disappeared. After an exchange of farewells, the Blue Man found himself in the cave of one Moragadriel. He was offered no bed.

"Ithcyer's pet has told me that you were unfortunate enough to feel the presence of my child, World Walker. In answer to your next, most logical question, yes, you may slay it."

"I thank you, Moragadriel, although I am not sure I am able to. My only option may be to try to drive it out. Would you be receptive to it?"

"Not enthusiastically, but I shall not turn it away. My child left of its own accord, as many of them do, though few have found your master's world. It was an accident, I'll warrant, but perhaps there is some hope for the monster."

The Blue Man bowed. "I appreciate your time and hope that my business is swift. I have but one more request."
"0f course."

The World Walker found himself blinded by a bright light and wiped the mask from his eyes to break the spell. He was back on the property of old Soot, in the midst of an almost riotous mob.

(To Be Continued)

Man Of The Worlds, Part VI

After dunking the fowl in yet another of his many concoctions, the Blue Man whispered to the chicken and sent it on its way, scrambling and cackling to the west. They all waited.

"Don't the rest of you have something better to do with your time?" asked the Journeyman Exterminator.

An old woman in a tattered frock said, "Harvest was over days ago and the animals've all been fed. 'Sides you're the only thing around here worth interest till next spring. We gotta have somethin' to talk on, don't we?"

"Say, am I gonna get my chicken back?" asked the farmer.

"Bill it to Soot." He sighed and sat down on the hard ground, studying the door to the cellar.

An hour passed and still he sat. A few spectators had wandered off and the Blue Man was hopeful that the crowd would disperse, until they returned with food and drink for the others who were now sitting comfortably.

"Disappear already!" one boy yelled. The group mumbled its support.

The Blue Man yelled back, "Look, it usually doesn't take this long. If I had a dove, rather than that scrawny hen, I would have been gone long ago. The bloody thing has to get over the horizon. And anyway, who asked-"

He disappeared, missing the smattering of applause that followed his departure.

"-you to stay . . . " His sentence trailed off as he noticed the change in surroundings. He was in a cave, or rather a bubble of space deep within a world of rock, for there was no visible exit. A low voice welcomed him from a phlegm filled throat.

"It is pleasant to see you once again, World Walker. Please rise. I have summoned a bed for you."

He made out the figure of Ithcyer against the far wall. Even through the magic of the mask which enhanced the light of the glowing wall lichen, he doubted that he would be able to tell his friend from any other Anamather without prior knowledge of his destination.

"Thank you for welcoming me into your home, Ithcyer," he said in his host's tongue. "I was not sure you would respond to my message considering its form." He sat on the low slab covered with fat-filled mattresses that made up an Anamather bed.

As his eyes adjusted to the light, the World Walker was able to study his host. The only major physical differences between Ithcyer and the younger thing in the cellar were their sizes (Ithcyer wouldn't have been able to fit in the cellar), and their legs. Ithcyer had no legs, as they fall off during the early stages of adulthood.

"Yes," Ithcyer remarked, "I found it strange but I believe it will digest just as well. Please drink with me as we discuss your business. I have called for some of your native wine."

"Once more, I thank you, Ithcyer." A chalice appeared at his feet as another appeared in the hand of his host. "To get right to the point, one of your young has been discovered on my master's world. I request permission to return it if it is lost or slay it if it is not."

Ithcyer bobbed its left arm slowly. It was the Anamather equivalent of a nod. "They are absolutely beastly at that age. It must amaze your people that we're part of the same race."

(To Be Continued)

Man Of The Worlds, Part V

A man would not have lasted this long if the thing had grown to adulthood. He had known, of course, that this was a child when Soot's boy said the creature was just a little bigger than he was. A thought struck him. It was bigger. Keeping his head down, he crawled back into the passage. The thing was too angry and senseless to grab him. It simply dropped more blows because that was all it knew how to do.

The Blue Man slithered on one elbow from the rain of huge fists. He had slipped from danger, as the passage was too small for the creature to enter. His lungs struggled for air as he hit the cold dirt floor. Lying there in the darkness, he listened to the unceasing screams and mindless flailings just a few feet away.

#

Soot, his family and some friends from nearby placed themselves at what they thought was a safe distance from the outside door to the cellar with pitchforks at the ready. The bravest of them was covered with sweat on this temperate day as they listened to the unholy wailing from below. Soot let out a weak sound when the door was raised.

From the depths rose the Journeyman Exterminator, looking like he had spent a day in the cellar rather than a just a few minutes. "It is time for a new plan," He shouted to the onlookers.

Some laughed, but Soot's spirits sank when he saw the bug armor shattered like a mirror. The Blue Man walked toward them with obvious fatigue. "I'm going to try something else. If all goes well, I may disappear suddenly. Don't worry."

He went to his mount and reached into a saddle bag, pulling out a small clay pot filled with muddy, black paint. Dipping in two other fingers, he applied it across his eyes until it seemed he was wearing a mask. The pot was returned to its place and the ropes tying down the lizard's snout were loosened. The reptile's master then whispered something into its ear hole. It responded with a hiss and worked its jaws slowly while the Blue Man went back to the gathering crowd.

He looked around the back of the house, screaming to nobody in particular:

"Are there any doves in the area? I need a white bird called a dove."

The people looked at each other mumbling, until finally a young farmer said, "I got a white chicken."

"No," he said patiently. "I need a dove. A small, white bird." He cupped the air to indicate its size. "In many lands it is the symbol of purity or peace. A dove. A sort of pigeon, I suppose, but I need one that's pure white."

The crowd quietly stared at him with a host of blank expressions. Looking at the ground beneath his feet in frustration, he finally said, "Let me see the chicken."

Man Of The Worlds, Part IV

Soot called to them and soon three women of various ages came out to stand with them.

"Where is the door to the cellar, Soot?", asked the Blue Man.

"There's one just inside the kitchen. We built some fires around it so nothing's coming out that way. The other one's behind the house. There'll be a short passage before you get into the actual cellar and I imagine you'll have to stoop."

The Blue Man cringed inwardly as he thought about all the cellars he had been in. He always had to stoop.

Dipping two clean fingers into a packet on his belt, he pulled them out, covered with a thick, brown sauce. The staff was then planted into the ground and the upper six inches was covered with the sauce. The Soots looked on with not a little bit of interest. The Exterminator held the top of the staff with one hand while reaching to the sun with the other. A few mysterious and guttural words later, the top of his staff as well as his hand was on fire. This drew some cries of concern but he quickly beat his hand out on the ground. He smiled to the Soots reassuringly. "I've done this before. It doesn't hurt anymore."

The family stepped aside as the Journeyman Exterminator went to the back of the house. "Bite his ear off!", encouraged the old man. Now on the other side of the house the Blue Man heard the young boy scream, "He ain't got no ears to bite!"

I know, the Exterminator thought. He came to the wooden door set into the ground. Lifting it, he descended, taking care to keep the flame ahead of him.

The passage was indeed small and he was forced to walk sideways while in a split-legged crouch just to fit through. The walls felt cool and alive with vermin; He could feel the worms burrowing between the stones. It stank as, he supposed, the entire cellar did, of excrement, dampness, and fear.

Finally arriving at the mouth of the passage, the Blue Man found himself hoping the creature was what he expected it to be, but deep within he dreaded even that.

The scream started slowly in the far end of the open room and it built up with ferocity on top of ferocity, with terror and pain, fear and aloneness, and at its very core was an empty chasm that could only be called Hunger. A large shape charged the Blue Man with shriek after shriek of coldness and hate. He instinctively lowered the staff to impale the beast with the flaming tip. And with this a different cry of agony was born from the creature's throat as it swatted wildly, knocking the Exterminator to his knees.

They were in darkness now. The fire had been extinguished as it ground deeply into the darkthing's belly/head. The Exterminator cursed himself, for he knew the fire and the light to be poisonous to the thing but he had only brought enough to anger it. Now he was unable to see, without his primary weapon, and his opponent definitely had the upper hand. He felt and heard the insectoid exoskeleton of which his armor was composed cracking under the repeated blows of two club-like arms and knew that his spine would soon follow.

(To Be Continued)

Man Of The Worlds, Part III

"Is that bad?" asked Soot.

"It could be. Who is this boy?"

"Why, my son. My only son."

"You told me you only had one son, Soot."

The old man opened his arms toward the boy. "And here he is."

"You told me your only son had been eaten, Soot."

"Look here then," said the old man and he proceeded to take off the bandages, during which time the Journeyman Exterminator's mood grew exceedingly dark.

"There," said Soot, turning the boy^s head so that its left side faced the Blue Man. There was a large scabby clot where the child's ear used to be.
"You told me he had been eaten!"

"Well, not entirely!", he said, as if it should have been obvious. "Do you think I'd have let my whole family stay in that house if some monster had come along and swallowed up my son as simple as that?"

The Blue Man turned back to his mount and called, "Good-bye, Soot. "

"Wait! Just a minute!" called Soot. "You can't deny that thing is dangerous. You just said yourself that it could be a nasty situation. "

The Blue Man turned back. Soot was right and in his anger he almost let himself forget. Yet Mariah still tried to convince him:

"Look, I'm still paying the same amount as I was last week, whatever that is. It's still the same job. Oh, so an old man exaggerates. Are you going to let this beast terrorize the countryside because of that? Are you going to let it bring humankind to its knees because you only exterminate the lethal variety of monsters?"

Soot's voice was harsh, but there was pleading in his eyes. "It came this close to biting his whole head off." Soot held his hands apart the width of the boys head.

"Save your breath, Soot. I'll do it. Get your family out of there now."

"Thank you, sir. Thank you. It will be my pleasure, Journeyman Exterminator."

(To Be Continued)

Man Of The Worlds, Part II

Man Of The Worlds, Part II
by Matthew Sanborn Smith

"It is of no matter," he assured Soot. "After today you'll require my services no longer and I shall be gone. Tell me, have you seen it?"

"The creature?"

"Yes."

"I have not seen it myself, sir, but I assure you something is down there." He folded his hands, the picture of compliance.

"I believe you, certainly, old Soot. I only ask in the case that you might provide a description. I may have encountered such a creature before."

"Ah, yes!" said the old man. He yelled toward the house and a moment later a boy ran out to them. His head was bandaged rather shoddily and he tripped and fell twice, for his sight was obviously hindered.

"Hurry up, hurry up!", the old man cried.

Soot stooped into the boy's face and yelled, "This is the man who is going to kill the thing in the cellar." The boy's half-covered eyes blinked to shield him from the spit that flew from the old man's mouth. "Tell him what you saw," Soot continued, "So that he may be better prepared for the killing."

The boy nodded and turned his entire body with a jerk to face the huge man.

"It was big!" the little boy yelled, raising his hands to the sky. "A little bigger than you. A real big head with arms and sorta chicken legs comin' out. And the skin was like you and me . . . Well like me, anyway, except it was melted all over him. Like candle wax."

The old man stooped and yelled, "Tell him about the teeth!"

"Big, fat, stubby teeth!" the boy yelled.

"Oh, no," the Blue Man said softly.


(To Be Continued)

Man Of The Worlds, Part I

I was completely prepared to chuck it and say no story today. I could have come up with something, I just didn't feel like it. But I decided to take this story, break it up and post it in installments. This is the third story I ever completed with the intent to publish. It was written back in 1991, my first attempt at a fantasy story.

MAN OF THE WORLDS
by Matthew Sanborn Smith

Soot had slept little these last few weeks, what with the thing that had ravaged his son still in the cellar. But now outdoors in the daylight, with the imminent arrival of the blue mercenary at hand, he dozed standing up.

In the haze of a dream he heard the quick swish-thump, swish-thump of a forgotten nightmare and suddenly he was awake. I know that noise, he thought. What in Soozham is it? His stomach felt icy and tight as the memories filtered back into his conscious mind. Thrort! That is how the natives had referred to the monstrous six-legged lizards that roamed the Pers Mountains on the far continent. It was a word that was barked rather than spoken. And through the entire Pers campaign that bark heralded fear and often violent death. Soot called to his family inside the cottage, but cut himself short. For now it had come into view and he saw that atop the gigantic reptile rode the Blue Man, his beautiful, faerie-like face greeting Soot from beneath a head of long black hair. A wave of relief swept over him, followed by an extreme confidence in the man who had harnessed this monster.

"Sub-Master Builder," he cried, "I see that you have had experience with life-threatening creatures!" He used the polite lawyer's voice that he had rarely needed since his retirement from the army as the Captain's counselor.

"That I have, good sir. But, please, you may call me Journeyman Exterminator. At least for today."

He dismounted and tied the thrort's head and tail to the dry ground. Soot saw that he was equal to the monster's shoulder. Six and a half feet if he's an inch, he thought. The old man felt an even greater bolstering of his spirit as he saw the irregular curvature of the Journeyman Exterminator's armor. It was Bug armor, ripped from the back of one of the giant insects who own the great jungles of the south. The crusader rose up inside of him and he was almost willing to follow the Blue Man into the cellar, but not quite.

The Blue Man called, "You have not given me your name, old one."

"Oh, yes. It's Mariah Soot," he proclaimed proudly. "And yours is . . . ?"

"I told you," said the Blue Man, looking at Soot a little strangely. "Journeyman Exterminator. At least for today."

Mariah nodded slowly, returning the look. "Yes, of course. How in the world could I have forgotten so soon?"

It then occurred to the Blue Man that Soot's age had probably taken its toll on his memory.

(To Be Continued)

Deal: Gone Sour

DEAL: GONE SOUR
by Matthew Sanborn Smith

They liked to sit in the old sleigh with the broken runner, snow frosting the farm and the countryside beyond, and listen to Don Ho songs. Richard held Marta's mitten in his and made a silent deal with death: that if the reaper wanted to take him right this very moment, he wouldn't struggle. These moments, when everything was perfect, were the only times he would go willingly.

Old Red, their Irish Setter came out from behind the barn. He stopped right in front of them, hunched over with his rear end pointed in their direction and experienced one of the most supreme bowel movements of his thirteen year old life. The results lay steaming in the snow, marring the entire Currier and Ives landscape.

Now, a hooded black shroud seemed to hold itself empty and upright off to his left. Its great, billowing sleeves wrapped themselves about the very scythe that usually hung from the barn's rafters with the other antique tools they'd collected over the years. Richard strained his aching knees until he stood upright in the sleigh, shucked off his mittens and rolled up his sleeves.

"Sixty seconds earlier," he said, shaking his head, "And you wouldn't have had this ass-kicking to worry about."

Seconds

SECONDS
by Matthew Sanborn Smith

We stayed up all night drinking our five-foot beers and eating the new Walnut M&Ms. They were the size of fucking tennis balls, they were! Between vomit breaks we watched the old mechanical bull that escaped Phil's country-themed bar last year getting it on with Ivan's mechanical cow, Jenny. Jenny supplied half the neighborhood with mechanical milk and I couldn't help wondering if a year's supply of synthetic bull jizz wouldn't sour it or whatever. I decided I was going to make the switch to electric water then and there. Right after this beer.

"The C.I.A. is run by squirrels!" Pol declared. I didn't feel I could argue with him.

"You think Kelly loves me?" I asked him.

"No," he said.

"You think anybody loves me?" I asked.

"I love you, but not in that way," he said. "If Jenny falls to pieces, that bull over there will love you in a very different way. Still, not in the way I think you want."

"You, uh . . . you think a calf'll come outta that union over there?"

"Hadn't thought of that," Pol said, huffing a can of artificial Malaysian body odor. It was the only thing that got him high, but Christ, what it did to his breath! "God, I hope so. Never had mechanical veal before."

"I had digital veal once," I said.

"How was it?"

"Little tough."

"It's that binary, my friend. You go to them ritzy places out in Vegas, what have you, they got it mononary. All zeroes. Tender as a baby's bottom."

I imagined chewing on a baby's bottom. I vomited again.

"That makes twelve for you," Pol said. "Twenty-seven for me." We stepped out of our own filth yet again that night. Pol had to take off his pants, revealing a disturbing erection, considering the wildly bucking bull before us.

"That makes thirteen for you," Pol said a moment later.

"I think I'm going in," I said. I looked back just before turning the corner and caught Pol edging closer to the enraptured couple(ing).

"I am definitely never drinking that milk again," I said to myself.

New Tricks

NEW TRICKS
by Matthew Sanborn Smith

I was only twenty when I reached the height of my career. I was the guy who figured out the thing with dogs and fences. You're young, so you probably take it for granted that dogs can build fences, but it wasn't always so. We'd known for, who knows how long (millennia?), that dogs could be trained to attack, to guard things, sit up, roll over, all that stuff. We figured we'd reached the extent of their abilities. But I found out we hadn't. While a young dog trainer, my dogs watched with fascination as I built a fence around my yard. Before I could finish, I received a call and went inside. When I came back I found my dogs eagerly continuing my work and doing a damned good job. Who knew? Play dead, shake hands, build a fence.

I got a lot of work after that, at first from fence builders who wanted free labor, but soon everyone wanted to teach their dog the new trick. It was all picket by the way. The dogs hated wire, especially electric and barbed. I became rich, I became famous, but there's one other thing I became: a one-trick pony. How do you follow an act like that?

I'm sixty-five years old now, a legend and a has-been all in one. I've spent the last four decades searching for the next big trick and breaking records for piling up failures. Just so you don't waste your time, here's a few things dogs definitely can't do:

1. Your taxes
2. Make a decent pasta salad
3. Disembowel a burro with a mechanical pencil
4. Tell a joke in mixed company
5. Spread jam on a broken television set

They still hold some secrets, the wily bastards, you can see it in their eyes. I leave it to you, the future generations, to continue my work if I should die before discovering the next new trick. And don't any of you try taking credit for the diet cola formula they seem to all know innately. The aftertaste is like ass.

Pissin'

PISSIN'
by Matthew Sanborn Smith

Pissin' feels so great
That I can hardly wait
To drain my six-inch vein*
Of that which causes my bladder such pain.

I love to fill the toilet,
But I never miss, cause that would spoil it.
With colors of brilliant liquid gold
I paint the inside of that bowl.

Now quite relieved, my legs collapse.
But I'll strike again, tomorrow perhaps!
I love my urine and it loves me,
but there's nothing I like better than a nice, long pee.



*(I wrote this poem as a teenager (like you couldn't tell) and the second half of this line originally read, "eleven-inch vein." Years later I got real and changed it. I'm willing to fess up. Are you?)

Climbing Trees

CLIMBING TREES
by Matthew Sanborn Smith

It wasn't all tea and crackers. No sir, not by a mile. We all laughed when we first heard the reports of trees climbing people. I mean, that's funny stuff, is it not? Then it started happening to us. With the saplings it was innocent enough, we'd take photos of little trees on our shoulders and shoot them around the net. Good fun. But when the mature trees climbed a person, what you were left with was people juice, and lots of it. Mashed, people were rich in nutrients and so even this was good for the trees. My own grandmother was soaked up by the thirsty roots of a great weeping willow.

Once the trees knew they had the upper hand, they really threw their weight around. The little ones made people houses up around our chests and heads. Then there were the Christmas people. The trees would hang decorations all over us and light us up. We couldn't run away because there were presents all around our ankles. I'd always thought trees were pagans but it turns out that cross Jesus got crucified on? It used to be a tree.

We tried fighting back, but try and start a forest fire when the forest can just get up and walk away. Soon their destructive ways caught up with them, however. As the human population dwindled, the oxygen levels in the atmosphere went up, carbon dioxide emissions fell drastically. Global cooling set in and those trees choked themselves with their own program of rampant environmental destruction.

Hah! Stupid trees!

The Fixer

THE FIXER
by Matthew Sanborn Smith

We had ourselves a desert planet at last. However, Dune was much more fun than this. For one thing just about everything that wasn't dead before was very dead now.

When the Uelp discovered Earth, they found it much too wet a world for their liking. They stuck the planet inside a gigantic clothes dryer and tumbled Earth to its destruction. It cost them trillions of dollars in quarters and the ghosts of old Earth got their revenge when the Uelp had to clean the lint trap. Man, was that gross. The aliens left and never returned.

A few of us were off world at the time, but watched the whole thing on vid feed. We couldn't spare a lot of people so they sent me to fix everything. Probably because I was the only guy with a plan. When I got to Earth, I plugged in my little humidifier, kicked back, and waited for the world to come back to life.

After a while I got something to drink.

Porn 2.0

PORN 2.0
by Matthew Sanborn Smith

When people didn't want the same things, when people weren't even people anymore, what was a purveyor of sexy goodness to do? Since they unlocked the secret in 2034, what was once humanity had broken into thousands of new species, if you could call them species. Many of them refused to reproduce in the old fashioned way, that is, the way which had kept Tommy Jarvis and his family in business for decades: plain ole gettin' it on.

The porn industry was largely dead. The once multi-billion dollar industry knew exactly what its audience had wanted until they hadn't wanted it any longer. What was left fought over the scraps of fundamentalist mankind, but Tommy, sweet Tommy had vowed to rise again. He knew the essence of good porn and knew that sex was nothing but a format. Pornography was defined simply as whatever was privately desired and socially forbidden.

The aquatics liked looking at eggs. Not chicken, the fishy kind, you know. Millions and millions of eggs, the more the better, all shiny and translucent, oh man, they're probably getting hot just reading this.

The cyborgs dug robots, but the robots got into efficiency. Show the robots a program that was so efficient, some law of physics would have to be broken to pull it off and you, my friend, would have a mess to clean up.

Rudy, the Species of One, only needed a mirror. The men of wax enjoyed having hot nipples poured on them. There was a thriving market among some asexual perverts in watching films of two separate cells joining together to form one larger cell (you'd have to run the video backwards, but Tommy would always tell them they were watching the real thing as it happened). Hive minds enjoyed watching free-thinking individuals engage in auto-eroticism. Tommy rooted out every kink in the post-Homo sapiens society. He became a very rich man, not only by giving beings what they wanted, but by keeping it quiet as well.

The sentient gas giants? Well, you'd never hear this from Tommy, but word was they found old Alka-Seltzer ads highly erotic.

Day Late And A Dollar Short

Sorry folks, I blew it. I thought I'd be able to post the story for the 8th just before midnight but problems arose at the job and you know what they say about mice and men. Now just because I disappointed you, don't go expecting two stories today. These are free, after all. Count yourself lucky to get one.

Go to your room.

A Short Excerpt From My Forthcoming Novel

A Short Excerpt From My Forthcoming Novel
by Matthew Sanborn Smith

The

What Happened Here?

I dunno.

Pressing The Button

PRESSING THE BUTTON
by Matthew Sanborn Smith

The three of us floated in our spacesuits. The three of us floated in an endless grey void that used to be the universe. Nothing else existed save for the machine in the middle of our little group. Roughly cubicle, it was about eighteen inches to a side. I couldn't remember who my companions were or even who I was. All I knew was that the machine would bring back everything. I thought myself a manufactured being, programmed for this one vitally important task. Three of us floated. The machine had only one button, large enough to fit three fingers. We all pushed together.

Everything happened at once. The whole universe happened at once. Every color, every sound, every happening. There was no Bang from a single point. Chaos came evenly distributed and instant. Needless to say, I went insane. What happened next, I'll never know. That is the whole of my existence: two minutes. Floating in space, going insane. I don't replay it over and over. It just is and always is. Reinforces my belief that I'm manufactured, perhaps an AI in a program that froze when my companions and I tried to populate our vast machine with a reality.

Floating. Insanity. That is all there is.

Truck Stop

TRUCK STOP
by Matthew Sanborn Smith

"No, see this is a truck stop. Lit'rally," said Frank. He scratched his big belly, beneath the flannel.

Ted scrunched up his face from up in the driver's seat. "What do you mean, 'literally?'"

"I mean, you come here, we stop your truck."

"What'd you do, take out the spark plugs or something?"

"No, sir, this is a diesel, like every other truck," Frank said. He spat on the cracked, grey tarmac.

"How do I get it going again?"

"Welp, there's a truck start, bout five miles down the interstate."

"A truck start."

"Yep.

"You're fucking kidding me."

"No, sir."

"Look, Frank,"Ted said, "I'm not a regular driver, I know. But I'm not stupid. The whole reason I'm on this haul is for my sociology thesis. I'm not some rube you can bullshit."

"No, sir."

Ted got on his cellphone, to call for a tow. No service.

"No service," Ted said, holding his phone up.

"No, sir."

"Gotta phone I could use?"

"No, sir," the two of them said together. This explained everything. Great service, low prices, not one other truck at the stop. Ted was caught in some hillbilly Twilight Zone episode.

"What do most people do in this situation?"

"They walk down to the truck start and call for a tow."

Ted considered for a second or two. "Wait. Wouldn't the tow truck stall once it got here?"

"Yep. Lotta folks don't get that right away. You are a college boy."

The Proposal

THE PROPOSAL
by Matthew Sanborn Smith

They talked all night on her new couch about her new couch and about seventy-three other topics that didn't really matter and it was a good thing too. He couldn't have handled deep thought in his state. Seeing her relaxed for the first time, shorts and a tanktop and curled up in one corner while an endless list of bands he'd never heard of before cycled from her hard drive's whim, he thought that maybe now they'd pushed past the curtains that keep people from one another. They could show parts of the real selves they were, intimate in a way more rare than just sex. Bodies were so easy to bare. Souls? That's when the defenses came down. How many people did you see in this state in a lifetime?

"I want to be your friend forever," he said. "Friend or companion or whatever it is you need of me over the next seventy or so years." It was late and he was afraid all of this would be forgotten soon, chalked up to fatigue.

She giggled a little and smiled. "I need someone to clean my toilet for the next seventy years, are you going to do that?"

"I'm there, baby, but I've got to know."

"Know what?" she asked.

"What the fuck did you do in there that's going to require seventy years of cleanup? Should I bring my truck?"

"I like a good bowl of chili now and again," she said. In that moment he realized this night, just out of reach of the one that had driven him nuts for five years, was the best night he'd ever spent with a woman in his life.

Life Story

LIFE STORY
by Matthew Sanborn Smith

Hervé only lived a month for every word in this story. And you'll say, "Well, that's not very long." And you will be right, because by the time you're done reading this sentence, three years will have already passed. Hervé pissed through his words like they grew on trees. We all do when we're kids. That's not to say he didn't love life. He had his kicks. But when you don't know what they're worth, it's not unusual to really, really, really waste your words in activities that amount to nothing nothing nothing. He began to see people all around him running out of words and there wasn't a lot of epic poetry in the paper they left behind. No novels. A lot of job applications and flyers.

Here he was, just turning eleven when the realization hit him. Life wasn't to be squandered. But what to do? He had no idea, so he pitched in with the dishes. He recycled, visited the elderly. He'd no great vision, instead choosing to help and use every word as wisely as he could. So many throughout history had made their mark young; that was the reality. No screwing around because you'd be lucky if you ever saw forty. At seventeen, Hervé's life was nearly over but he had no way of knowing. He lived like it was, not hiding under a bed, but talking to people, letting them in on the one secret he'd found: Every Word Is Precious.

Two-hundred and sixty words: twenty-one years or so. It went fast didn't it?

A Plague Of Strolling Chinchillas

A PLAGUE OF STROLLING CHINCHILLAS
by Matthew Sanborn Smith

Vampires, zombies, the undead in general, it was all a load of hooey and any mention of it would get you laughed off even the most ratings-desperate talk-show. We're talking humans, of course. Chinchillas . . . now that was another matter.

We'd narrowed down the source of the problem to an unknown Haitian Voodoo priest we referred to as Doctor Rodent. It made sense, I suppose, a member of the poorest nation in the world, turning the luxuries of the richest against them. We just called him a terrorist to make it easy.

It started in New York, Palm Beach, L.A., bastions of real fur love. Chinchilla coats, wraps, muffs, what have you, peeled themselves into their constituent parts and wandered off into the closest thing to their living forms as possible. No minks were affected, no foxes or rabbits. Just chinchillas.

People freaked of course. It was all over the news for days. The animal rights people thought it was justice, pure and simple. The awful part was that it wasn't just their furs. Bones started crawling from landfills. Some muscle tissue crawled out of people's stomach's (That was pretty gross. I had no idea that was happening.) Chinchilla parts rose from the dead all across the country and the parts met up with each other once more, to make, if not entire chinchillas, then as reasonable a facsimile as they were then capable.

The worst part was the way they moved. They didn't run. Nor did they shamble. They strolled. You could hit them with a shovel or blast them with a shotgun but still they strolled. And if you've ever seen a strolling zombie chinchilla, you know that it's beyond chilling. It's chinchilling.

Most of the hysteria died down once people realized the chinchillas weren't out to kill them. They just wanted what the rest of us want: to eat sleep and get laid. In fact, that simple and well chronicled lifestyle caught on even more so with the rest of us. If there had to be a choice between wearing furs or getting more action, I'd have to say that someone up there, or over there (Haiti) made the right decision.

Terrorist Schmerrorist.

What's Already In There

WHAT'S ALREADY IN THERE
by Matthew Sanborn Smith

"The Greeks grew as a civilization because of a constant influx of ideas with their trading partners. They were dynamic. The Romans, on the other hand, fell because of conservatism and empire wide standardization," Fea said.

This concerned me, not because of the flimsiness of her argument, but because the mind caulk should have prevented such thoughts. Besides, her statements were a philosophical slap in the face to our own movement. We'd caulked ourselves to keep new, bad thoughts out. We'd even caulked the space between our two minds to ensure our fidelity. First issue first, however.

"The Roman empire lasted much longer than the classical Greek civilization they absorbed and was much larger, discounting, possibly, the conquests of Alexander, whose empire fell as soon as he did," I said.

Fea opened her mouth to rebut my rebuttal, but I held up a hand. "More importantly," I said, "Where did you get such an idea? Is your caulk peeling? Because we paid for the extended warranty."

"Well, it was there before. The thought, I mean. Danny told me about it once. I don't know why it just came back like that."

"Danny told you."

"Yep."

"Danny. Tall guy, muscular?"

"Yeah, that's him."

My tongue clicked the comm inside my mouth. I got hold of the guy who sold me the caulk and ordered a case of mind scrub. Good thing he'd put the thought in my head before I'd sealed myself off. How lucky was that?

Tunnel Of Love

TUNNEL OF LOVE
by Matthew Sanborn Smith

This other universe wasn't mostly space like ours. It was mostly matter with planet sized pockets of space floating around within. The deep miners were the great explorers of their systems, seeking out new pockets of life with ultrasound and seismic equipment. But what to do with all that dirt?

The Pythians were the boldest of all people, digging a tunnel so large that the dirt filled up their world. They obliterated their homeland for the promise of first contact. From that point on, the tunnel was their home and they roamed the reverse galaxies in an enormous worm-world. Where they made contact, they did their level best to bring love, even to those who made war upon them.

It was understandable, after all, when your world is going along swimmingly and suddenly an entire alien civilization pokes its head up through the ground, you might be startled and pull a trigger. Only natural. But love was a powerful thing. And alien love was kinky enough to calm the politicians into submission. After a period of cross-pollination and cultural exchange, the Love Tunnel rolled on.

Brief Encounters With Magnetic Poetry

BRIEF ENCOUNTERS WITH MAGNETIC POETRY
by Matthew Sanborn Smith
(With thanks to John Aitken and his refrigerator)


Shake the drool from them peaches

#

The wind in me hair
the smell of the sea spray
and two sweaty men under me arms
Arrrrrrrr!

#

She's hot like some sweaty Panamanian dress

(I know what you're saying. You're saying, where the hell did he come up with the word Panamanian from a box of Magnetic Poetry? I did it thusly:
I turned a letter "d" upside down for the "P". Then I used the following tiles in order: "an", "a", "man" "I", and "an" again. So there.)

#

The summer sky roars and drips a wicked cocktail into my mouth by the cheek-full

#

Her heart murmurs love
like some café beat poet
that bleeds coffee
but the brilliant words
stagger in her mouth
every time she drinks in
his caramel eyes

#

Come woman
throbbing young sister
speak of vast eternity in your kiss
porcelain angel
warm streams of liquid desire
delicious fever
velvet embrace
wild blush
and breezy perfume breath

The Fall Of The House Of Light

THE FALL OF THE HOUSE OF LIGHT
by Matthew Sanborn Smith

No mere home of stone or tree could house Torvak. Too great a being was he, beyond the needs of shelter from the elements, as he himself had become a force of nature. As the gods had for ages, Torvak would make his home from beams of light.

With mere flicks of his fingers his bright walls rose, interlacing with each other, and his palace took shape. In moments, it stood complete and Torvak lounged about his new home without a thought of the wants of mortal men.

Until Tom came over.

"Torvak!" he called. "Torvak! What in the hell do you think you're doing?"

"Welcome, friend Tom! You shall be the first man to gaze upon the House of Light, home to the Younger Gods!"

"Well, I don't know what that's about, but I do know you're running around in your yard buck naked with a bunch of flashlights all over the place."

"This is my home, Tom," Torvak said, spreading his arms widely.

"No, that's you're home, Torvac," Tom said. He pointed at the little one bed/one bath rental behind Torvac. "And you better get yourself on in there! You're disturbing --"

"I'm disturbing what, Tom? The peace? Im not bothering anyone!"

"No. You're just disturbing. That's all."

"The human body is a beautiful thing, Tom."

"I understand that, Torvak. But you gotta understand, I got a little girl over there and, I don't know, maybe it would be different if you were in shape. You . . . you ain't in shape, bubba."

"Fine, then! To hell with all of you." Torvac walked around the front yard, turned off and collected all of his flashlights.

"That's better now," Tom said. "You might wanna get that lump checked out."

"Leave me alone!"

"I'm just saying."

The Book

THE BOOK
by Matthew Sanborn Smith

Früd, intersystem artiste, wrote his book in fire across Death Valley. Fire fed by print books. He claimed his words could be seen from space. There were people in space. None of them could see his words. A nice helicopter ride, however, revealed the story in all its glory. Or lack thereof. For when the rented choppers first flew overhead, astute critics realized:

"Hey, this book reads like ass!" and, shortly thereafter, "We burned Steinbeck for this?" The whole thing was a disaster. Until another disaster saved the day. A group of near-sighted readers kept pressuring their pilot to get closer to the words, so he got as close as possible by crashing right into to them as well as the ground directly beneath them. This miraculously changed the word "ramrod" in paragraph seventeen of chapter twenty-three, into the word "benediction" (trust me on this) and utterly transformed the story from dogshit into a song of the divine. People wept at its beauty and Früd found success that was previously unknown in his paltry existence.

The families of the near-sighted tourists and their pilot sued for a cut of his profits. Früd claimed the book itself, and not the story it told, was the work of art, and he countersued because the defendants' dead family members had vandalized his work. Früd won.

This pissed off a lot of people who, this time, made a deliberate attempt at sabotage and turned the word "avocado" in the very last sentence into the word "mahkrolish," which of course isn't a word at all. But somehow, this made the story even better. Früd couldn't lose for winning and hired his own saboteurs to make revisions until he had enough money to buy a couple of planets.

He didn't buy a couple of planets, because who wants that hassle? His dad owned an apartment building and just dealing with those people was bad enough. Instead he bought a tower, a comfy chair and a nice sandwich and read the latest edition of his book. He found the story gut-wrenching, heartbreaking, and all those other cliched organ-tormenting things that one might expect. It couldn't possibly get any better than this, could it? He called for another helicopter to find out.

It's A Wonderful Life

IT'S A WONDERFUL LIFE (The Song)
by Matthew Sanborn Smith
(Loosely based on the film of the same name.)
(You make up the tune, but make it punk if you care about me.)

You give me a blowjob
And I give you my thanks
And then we get up and get some ice cream
today

It's a wonderful life
Full of blowjobs and ice cream
And firetrucks and submarine sandwiches.
We've got guns and we've got sex
And occasionally we've got drugs
If Vinnie can score some
from that guy who works at the newspaper
It's a wonderful life.

We go out and tussle
With seven Chinese acrobats
And then the nine of us go test drive the latest
volvos

It's a wonderful life
full of Acrobats and Volvos
and army ants and solar powered teeth
We've got love and we've got heat
And we even have a girdle
like the one that Vinnie found
underneath his mom's refrigerator
It's a wonderful life.

We get matching hernias
and drink rat-flavored iced tea
And then race our turtles on the salt flats.
That's neat!

It's a wonderful life
full of hernias and iced tea
and spider-milking farmers and beans.
We've got toasted leather sandwiches
And always go clog dancing
with Vinnie's ex-twin sister
who just turned three
It's a wonderful life!

Northern Discomfort

NORTHERN DISCOMFORT
by Matthew Sanborn Smith

There was Southern Comfort, there was a little coke, there were rocks in snowballs and why the hell were they running around naked in the middle of winter? Hank's rapidly returning consciousness discovered that his willie was tucked so far up into him it might as well have been a vagina. AC/DC's Jailbreak was blaring, distorted around the edges, from the back of Soto's Buick. They were drunk and fucked up and even if Hank caught Selina out there in the playground of the old elementary school was he going to do with her, besides warm the hell up?

"With a bullet in his back!" Paul screamed to the song when it came time. Fuck it, Selina would have to come back on her own, Hank was freezing his ass off and couldn't feel anything below his knees. Hank watched each step, concentrating too much on balance. His feet were bleeding maybe? He thought he left dark splotches in the moonlit snow.

Selina had long been forgotten. The location of his clothes as well. All there was was the exhaust ridden fifty-dollar Buick. The Buick was warmth. The Buick was life. He prayed it held more booze and or drugs. As he fell to his knees and crawled for safety, he prayed he could get blitzed enough to wipe this thing entirely from his life's memory.

Consider The Stuffing Beast

CONSIDER THE STUFFING BEAST
by Matthew Sanborn Smith

Consider the lowly stuffing beast. An ugly creature, it's only saving grace, the succulent flesh which millions consume annually on the fourth Thursday of November. Because of their hideously mottled appearance, stuffing beasts suffer from a lack of exposure, and consequently, severe inferiority complexes. Turkeys and beasts may be slaughtered equally, but it's the turkey that gets all the camera time, the turkey whose form adorns greeting cards and holiday parades, the turkey who can count one among its number as the relieved recipient of a full presidential pardon. No stuffing beast has ever been raised by a family, named by one of the children, and spared execution because of the bonds of love.

It is because of this that stuffing beasts so often attack turkeys, not only killing them, but consuming specific organs such as the neck and giblets. Outside of these, beasts are known mostly to eat large quantities of wheat and various herbs.

Stuffing beasts, like turkeys are slaughtered year round, though the beasts are often preferred dehydrated to be sold as croutons.

Making The Call


Sorry, gang, for another incredibly short one but between work and pre-Thanksgiving events, time is short.

MAKING THE CALL
by Matthew Sanborn Smith

When we all went telepathic, the phone companies were pissed. They sued everyone for making phone calls in their heads.

Oh, The Ideas, They Fell Down Like Rain

OH, THE IDEAS, THEY FELL DOWN LIKE RAIN
by Matthew Sanborn Smith

Throughout the day, the heads of the fortunates caught outdoors were pelted with explosive epiphanies and intuitive leaps. Jorge created a gene-therapy rider for fertility drugs so that women who rattled eight babies from their frightened egg-sacs would have as many breasts to feed the lot.

Someone figured out how to fix the stoplight on Poplar street and we all thanked him for that. Damned thing was always blinking.

Cornelius asked himself why, and painted the sky by bending the atmosphere until he'd achieved a pleasant peach. "No, not pink. It's peach."

Sally's children made gravity bubbles that lifted entire buffalo from their grazing grounds and carried them off into strange and distant lands. When the bubbles popped, the buffalo fell somewhat harder than the ideas.

One especially virulent meme forced strangers everywhere to join hands and play a game of crack the whip the stretched across continents, tore limbs from bodies, and sent people into orbit.

It occurred to someone else to get out of her car and walk once she realized the traffic on Poplar street would never move again.

When it was all over and the lawns had dried, Marnie asked Maxie, "What the hell happened today?"

Maxie rubbed her pretty little head where the buffalo had hit and wept. "I have no idea!"

Experiment

EXPERIMENT
by Matthew Sanborn Smith

Zip injected himself with just a little bit of everything and then waited to see what would happen.

He never saw what happened.

First Kiss

FIRST KISS
by Matthew Sanborn Smith

My first kiss involved twelve other people.

I was a genetic aberration with a lip span fourteen feet across. School, needless to say, was a generally unpleasant experience. The kids called me big mouth and it hurt. Not as much as when somebody stepped on my lips, but it did hurt. Aside from that, I was happy. Not that anyone believed me. With lip droop like mine, I broke records for the largest perpetual frown.

Then in high school, Cassandra and Helen and Fran and Gertrude and Suzanne and Elliot and Petra and Trina and Julie and Paulette and Yasmine and Trish came along. They formed the Lip League, a group of young fetishists who nearly wet themselves when they met me. They swept me away to an underground party the first weekend of my freshman year and there, among the stolen six-packs and scratchy basement couches, they lifted my lips, counted three, and laid the biggest smooch upon me in smooching history. I found the whole thing bone-meltingly erotic.

The thirteen of us became sweethearts. My confidence soared. I knew they'd never leave me for someone else. We were married in a highly dubious ceremony just after graduation. My lips have not drooped since.

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The Testers

THE TESTERS
by Matthew Sanborn Smith

The boys down at the plant tested crashes all day long. They built and modified their dummies. They set them and belted them just so, or left them unbelted. They ran them into walls. They ran them into each other. All day long.

By the end of the day, the month, the year, their heads were thick and gluey with images of violent accidents until they couldn't see anything else when they lay their heads down at night. They no longer enjoyed the civilian's advantage of taking a drive without expecting a crash. So they crashed. And they crashed.

They knew just how to buckle their belts and position their bulks to minimize their injuries. While they destroyed their own vehicles as well as those of their victims, destroyed bodies and lives and families and first loves, the testers came out of things relatively unscratched. Well, the government had to shut that shit down post-haste, wouldn't you say? That's what the lawyers said. They rid themselves of the testers.

Over time, vehicles became less safe. What to do? Robots! Robots just seemed to be the perfect solution for everything (the robot manufacturers said). They picked up where the testers left off and everything seemed right with the world.

Until, of course, some asshole let the robots drive.

Yahoo Headline

I just saw this headline on Yahoo News:

Major battle in Iraq's Baqouba kills 18

Now, I'm as appalled as the next person about the cluster-fuck over there, but how does something that purports to be a news agency call anything that results in eighteen dead a major battle? Yeah, I know that if one of those eighteen was my kid, that would be as major as it would get, but let's keep it in perspective. We went through two world wars where tens of thousands of people could be killed in a single day. This is even a small number for this conflict, where literally hundreds of thousands of Iraqis have been killed between the two wars. The nicest thing that could be said of this headline is poor judgement. The most honest thing would be to call it bullshit.

The Beautiful Ones

THE BEAUTIFUL ONES
by Matthew Sanborn Smith

They appeared over the near horizon, the beautiful ones. Before I caught sight, Edna threw a rock skyward. I wrapped myself around her.

"Stop that," I whispered. They glowed in blues and pinks, floated up and over, never looking at us. The rock would have meant nothing to them even if Edna had the arm to reach them. It was the others I worried about, the ones in the gathering crowds that might have her head for threatening their sky gods. But all faces turned upward; if they had seen anything, it had already been forgotten.

The beautiful ones were here for some other reason, not for us, but we took everything we wanted, drinking in their feathered headdresses (or heads) and carnival costumes. We took it all and there wasn't a damned thing those divine beings could do to stop us. It was the greatest pleasure some of our sad little lives ever witnessed.

No pleasure for Edna, though. Yet as much as she hated their beauty, even she couldn't look away. Maybe that was why she hated them.

For her sake, I looked at her. Only her. Edna's own beauty shone with their reflected light, a little brighter in the wet stripes which ran down her face.

Cold Comfort

COLD COMFORT
by Matthew Sanborn Smith

By the time the aliens got here, the Earth was pretty warm. So warm, in fact, that there was no ice to speak of. The only cold things left were our cryogenically preserved bodies. So, these they diced to chill the drinks at the big conquest wrap-up party in Pittsburgh.

Milk Maid

MILK MAID
by Matthew Sanborn Smith

They hung a cow on the kitchen wall so the children could enjoy fresh-squeezed milk anytime they wanted. When Charlie and his wife, Shirley, came over for cards (four games of solitaire in separate corners of the game room (they were social, but not crazy social)), Dave thought he heard Shirley mumbling something from her corner about cow's milk not being right for children.

"Human children evolved to digest human milk, not cow's milk," she said as she slapped her cards on the table. Her logic sounded good to Dave and he felt foolish for putting all that money in a cow instead of the magic beans he'd been eying at the marketplace.

He sold the cow the next day and hung a human on the wall instead. Her name was Myrtle and the kids enjoyed her milk. Dave found himself in awe of the size of the woman's breasts to the point where it began to interfere with his digestion.

That night, after Elke fell asleep, Dave snuck out to the kitchen. He hadn't been there for two minutes before Elke flipped on the light behind him.

"Hwah!" Dave said, pissing his pajama bottoms.

"What are you doing?" Elke asked.

"Me? I was, ah, just getting some milk, is all."

"I don't think you're supposed to drink it straight from the tap like that," Elke said.

"Uh, no, that's okay because, see, it's better that way. The . . . The milk doesn't hit the oxygen in the air and it doesn't . . . It doesn't have a chance to . . . sour . . . as fast."

The next day, an orange juicer went up in place of Myrtle.

Tom's Old Toothbrush

TOM'S OLD TOOTHBRUSH
by Matthew Sanborn Smith

"What happened to your toothbrush, Daddy?" Lainey asked. She'd caught Tom brushing with a toothpaste covered index finger.

"I tossed it out," Tom said, with greenish-white spit dribbling down his chin. "I thought we had some extras but I guess not, I can't find em anyway. I'll get some more when I go out today."

"What was wrong with your old toothbrush?" Pete asked. He'd been listening from Tom's bedroom during a commercial and was out to see if anything interesting could be gleaned.

"It just . . . had a bad taste is all. I tried it for a couple of days, couldn't get rid of it.

"What'd it taste like?" Pete wanted to know.

"What could it taste like?" Lainey said. "You didn't like, drop it in the toilet or anything, did you, Daddy?"

"Lainey! Jesus!" Pete said, holding his head.

"Listen, don't you kids have school or something?"

"It's Saturday!"

"Why do you think we're still in our T-shirts and underwear?"

"What did we eat, Pete?" Lainey said. "What did we have in the last couple of days?"

"Who the hell cares?" Tom yelled. "Why is this so important?"

"It's a commercial!" Pete insisted, as if that made it his inalienable right to know.

"I was just wondering why our toothbrushes didn't have the same taste," Lainey said.

"It wasn't food, okay? It was an adult thing!"

"Oh, Daddy. You haven't started drinking again?" Lainey asked.

"You promised you'd stop!" Pete said.

"I didn't drink anything, goddammit! If you want to know so bad "

"What is it?"

"It's your mother's . . . vagina."

Everything stopped for a moment. It was Pete who broke the silence:

"Okay, we can't turn back time can we? And make this conversation not happen?"

"Next time you won't be so nosey, will ya'?" Tom said. "Go back and watch your show."

"I don't . . . think I'll be going back in there . . . in this lifetime. I'll be in my room."

"What about you?" Tom asked Lainey.

"I gotta pee."

"Go ahead, I'm done." Even after he left the bathroom she stayed, bouncing in the doorway.

"What?" he asked.

"Daddy could you get your old toothbrush out of the bathroom garbage can first?"

The Universe, Take Two

THE UNIVERSE, TAKE TWO
by Matthew Sanborn Smith

The Universe, for some strange reason, had turned into a blank white board, stretching into infinity. Donny floated alone in the vast nothingness beside it with twenty-seven billion and three dry-erase markers.

He grabbed the closest marker and drew a woman to keep him company. Although he was no great artist, he could do better than stick figures. He took his time, because he seemed to have no pressing engagements. He used quite a few different colors, and tried to make her as realistic as possible. When he was finished, he floated back a bit and waited.

Nothing happened.

Talk about disappointment. He'd just assumed she would come to life, like that kid's drawings in the books and cartoons. You know, his name was Simon? And the things he drew came true? But she just sat there. He even named her Melanie, but that didn't seem to help. Sure, it was a crazy idea, but look at how the day had gone so far.

Donny had to face it: the Universe had become a white board and only a white board. Nothing magical about it. He couldn't recreate the human race or draw a firetruck that he could actually drive. He couldn't even keep himself company. He looked around, as far as he could see. There was no one. He was utterly alone. There was no one around and no one to ever be around.

Finally convinced, he gave Melanie much bigger boobies.

Flow

FLOW
by Matthew Sanborn Smith

When Frank discovered that the human body was about sixty percent water, he had faucets installed. Then he drank enough water to bring it up to about sixty-two percent. When he went to bed, he turned off the flow from both hips and one shoulder so his legs and left arm shut off. The bed seemed much roomier, but it only reinforced his loneliness.

Frank went to the beach the next day and increased the flow to his limbs and chest, reduced it to his gut and butt until he almost passed for being in shape. Women spoke to him, they laughed at his jokes, everything was right with the world. A movie producer offered him a job in a porno movie. It was his dream come true and he jumped at the offer.

He turned the hose spigot in the old crotchal area to give himself a couple extra inches, and a star was born. Frank had incredible staying power, being able to literally turn himself off at a second's notice. When the time came for the big finale, he got so excited he broke the spigot and ejaculated his entire body. Frank would never know that this single scene would make him a legend in the adult film industry and earn him truckloads of posthumous awards.

When the director yelled cut, the only sound among the horrified actresses was the clanking of brass and chrome water fixtures hitting the floor.

The Important Thing

THE IMPORTANT THING
by Matthew Sanborn Smith

The important thing was that tourism increased as nature overran the works of man and if every so often you spotted some human remains, you just kicked some leaves over them and went on with your picnic.

Bisected To Life

BISECTED TO LIFE
by Matthew Sanborn Smith

Existential aliens split us open and what came out was not blood and muscle and marrow, but our true selves. I became a man of black rubber bands who became attached to everyone who had ever touched his life and was pulled in all directions for the duration of the experiment. My wife Hilda sprang to life as a wrecking ball dead weight, pulling me down to my ideal hell at the same time my leg, wrapped around her neck, choked the life from her. Our babies escaped their human shells in violent puffs of smoke.

To another it might seem harrowing, what the aliens did to us, but honestly, we had already grown accustomed to the situation before they ever showed up. We felt not shock so much as relief that we could finally show each other how much we suffered and point the blame with the whole of our very beings.

When it concluded, things changed. Not just for us, but for everyone in the world. Divorces were rampant. Games and distractions were gently set aside and we went about the business of helping one another. Hilda and I simply walked a block away from each other, each with a child in hand. We tried hard to stand for something beyond mere suffering. We transformed our lives and when the aliens came back again, we welcomed their next experiment.

I became a young oak . . .

All The Love He Gets

ALL THE LOVE HE GETS
by Matthew Sanborn Smith

It wasn't until he was absolutely fucked up on kerosene that Pete got the idea to seek out Karen. He'd spent the morning in his closet, breathing deeply with an open jar. He'd been going for suicide but the shit had broken his concentration and now he stumbled down the long halls of condo city, not really feeling when he came down CRACK on one knee or hit his mouth on a faux-marble windowsill.

Joey got him to Karen's place in his old Charger that was more Bondo than body. She and her family were doing their Memorial Day thing in the back yard. Pete fell out of the car, closed the door slowly and poked his head back through the window at Joey.

"I'm gonna stick this," Pete said. He found the paperclip in his pocket and jammed one end right through his nose.

"Good God!" Joey yelled. "Jesus, man, when the cops pick you up, don't even tell them you saw me today."

Joey tore off and Pete faced Karen's house. He came out with everything, just as he'd planned.

"Karen! I love you!" he shrieked, and then he pissed his pants. And that was everything. That was all he had. He waited because he didn't have anywhere else to go. He had been planning to kill himself earlier. It's not like he made any appointments for this afternoon or anything.

Pete didn't really register Karen's four brothers coming out to greet him. The oldest one punched him into the ground and they were pissed at him when he couldn't get up. They generally felt bad about kicking people, but they didn't feel like bending over this time. They were scrawny, but what they lacked in size, they made up for with enthusiasm. Eventually they got tired and went back to their barbecue. There had been screaming somewhere during the whole process.

Pete lay filthy and bloody and half in the road, broken teeth, swollen eye and coughing up blood. He stared at the sky for a long, long time. Karen came dreamlike into his line of sight. She knelt above him, her tears burning beautifully his opened flesh.

"You have to stop now, Peter," she said. "Go away and don't come back or else they'll kill you next time." She started to get up.

"Hold it," Pete said. "You came out here, even though you hate me. That's all the love I get, this time around, and it's good enough. Just stay a second. I wanna enjoy it."

I Am Verbing

I AM VERBING
by Matthew Sanborn Smith

I am sleeping.
I am dreaming.
I am ejaculating.
I am waking.
I am cursing.
I am doing (the laundry. Early.).
I am showering.
I am shaving.
I am eating.
I am pissing.
I am brushing.
I am going (out).
I am walking.
I am running.
I am skipping.
I am laughing (at the ugly children).
I am racing (them to the bus).
I am beating (their asses to the bus).
I am getting (on the bus).
I am closing (the door).
I am starting (the bus(because I'm the driver)).
I am laughing (at the ugly children outside of the bus).
I am ignoring (their pounding).
I am running (some of them over as I pull away from the curb).
I am rolling.
I am speeding.
I am speeding.
I am hurtling (down the highway).
I am crashing (into the front of the grocery store).
I am leaping (from the burning wreckage).
I am thrashing (through the aisles).
I am stealing (all the pudding cups I can fit into my pants).
I am fleeing (the authorities).
I am running.
I am running.
I am panting.
I am slowing.
I am being (caught).
I am resisting.
I am being (beaten).
I am screaming.
I am hurting.
I am crying.
I am sleeping.
I am waking (in the back seat of a police vehicle).
I am moaning.
I am complaining.
I am threatening.
I am pulling (down my pants).
I am defecating.
I am laughing.
I am laughing (less).
I am being (pulled from the car).
I am laughing (less and less).
I am being (beaten severely).
I am being (beaten repeatedly).
I am waking (in prison).
I am showering.
I am soaping.
I am dropping.
I am bending.
I am questioning.
I am screaming.
I am screaming.
I am screaming (?).
I am smiling.
I am switching.
I am lying (in my bunk).
I am contemplating (the ugly children).
I am considering (the reverse function of my wet/dry vac).
I am recalling (the fifty-five gallon drum of spaghetti sauce in my uncle's old bomb shelter).
I am noticing (the looseness of the pipes behind the toilet).
I am observing (the obvious softness of the guard's skull).
I am wondering (what tomorrow will bring).

I Got Nuthin'

Okay, I'll admit it. After pretending for hours that I had a story in me tonight, I'm coming clean and letting you know I don't have diddly.

So. What now? Well, I hope everyone voted. Ummmmm. Oh.

I have been a little obsessed with my probable number 54, The Way to His Heart. I've been fiddling with it constantly. Hopefully, it will be ready by Friday.

Fans (and by that I mean MY fans, you two there) may be interested to know that my story, Passions in Orbit, a Stirring in the Pants (#52 for those keeping track) will be published in the beginning of 2007 at Antipodean SF.

Also, Challenging Destiny will be publishing my story, The Keys to the Yellow Kingdom (#43) around June-ish 2007.

I'd like to give you a link to something mildly interesting. I don't know what it might be yet, let me check around here . . . (sounds of Matt clumping down the stairs in his boots. What follows is his voice, faraway and a little echo-y.)

"Everybody's seen that goddamned OK Go video . . . That one's stupid . . . Time-wasting bullshit game . . . That one's just gross . . ."

Okay, here's an interactive map of Springfield. Now that's mildly interesting.

Man, even my links suck.

Ah. Post Secret. Always fun to be disturbed.

The Short, Yet Quite Fulfilling Life Of The Food Taster

THE SHORT, YET QUITE FULFILLING LIFE OF THE FOOD TASTER
by Matthew Sanborn Smith

The food taster tasted the food and not just a taste, but all the food. One never knew when a side of a roasted boar was untainted yet the other poisoned. From soup to pheasant hearts to chocolate-dipped giraffe's head, the food taster ate the most exquisite meal of his low-born life. Then, once the food taster was properly prepared in full view of the court, the king ate the food taster.

Not surprisingly, good food tasters were rare.

But seared on the outside to seal in the juices.

Words To Live By

WORDS TO LIVE BY
by Matthew Sanborn Smith

Denemar's words held power, suspended it on the physical plane. When he was seventeen and full of something, he began to recite himself a ladder constructed of his own sentences for the purposes of climbing to Heaven, where he belonged.

"Don't do it!" his mother cried. "You'll never make it!"

He ignored her, climbing as he uttered his manifesto, made up on the spot. He improvised the philosophy which would take him through existence.

"Come back!" his father cried. "It's a fool's errand! There is real work to be done down here!"

But his father's entreaties blew away on the wind from which they were made. Denemar's words were sturdy and clinked together like magnets. They were far below now, his family, his friends, his earthly concerns. How far, he'd never know, for he wasn't looking back.

Denemar fell to his death when his throat went dry and his hand missed a rung that was not there.

He looked down upon them all from Heaven and laughed at what idiots they'd been to doubt him.

War Is Over

WAR IS OVER
by Matthew Sanborn Smith

It was an electronically imposed night, the whole continent bathed in a black light that overwhelmed the sun until it shone a dark star. Survivors danced to a techtronica algorithm that surged from the ground, a throbbing beat shook every molecule of their bodies. War was over and there was a lifetime for crying. Today was for celebration, the biggest party imagined.

They hired a sentient Yukon storm to blizzard down on the too hot Mediterranean. With a lifespan of mere days it took payment in the instant gratifications which the American enemy had long ago mastered: chocolates, sex, the sensation of a good bowel movement and inane Internet videos. The storm snowed neon through the night, frosting the thin bare trees that lined the streets.

Xuxa sucked in the cold air and fanned her brown leather jacket to let it all in. Her sensitive skin bruised when the storm's light shone on her angelic face and her head still spun from the glut of new information that overwhelmed her at the nodelink. She'd absorbed the entirety of the conquered country, available for only twenty-two Euros per download.

Smooth, glassy, black wolves raced through the streets ahead of the devil-boys. The drive-by canings began at midnight. Even Xuxa headed for higher ground.

"The only thing that's keeping me here is the gravity," she said.

Lyla's Declaration

LYLA'S DECLARATION
by Matthew Sanborn Smith

"How much do you love me, Pietro?" Lyla asked. They held each other beneath the stars in his back yard, while Gert, her little Scotty, sniffed circles around them.

"You'll call me a dope if I tell you the truth," he said. His eyes looked tired and his smile was wide and soft like he had something good in mind.

"No, I won't. Tell me!" Lyla urged him on with a sharp hug.

"All right. For forty-five years, I was absolutely miserable. I didn't have a hard life or anything, but I was starving for something I couldn't get. I didn't even know it existed. It was you, Lyla. I needed you to live as much as I needed water. I didn't know what living was until I met you last year.

"I feel like I've spent my life paying my dues and your love is some incredible reward I've earned for all of my heartache. If I had to live my life all over again and I knew that after forty-five of the worst years imaginable, I'd have you there waiting for me at the end, I'd sign up for it in a heartbeat. That's how much I love you. I feel like you're a part of my soul and if I die tomorrow, everything will have been worth it.

"Look at you, you're speechless," Pietro said.

"I don't know what to say," she said.

"Tell me how much you love me, then."

"Well . . . okay." Lyla looked at his chest, then down at Gertie before looking at Pietro again. "Um . . . Lots! I guess."

He kissed her passionately and they made love, falling asleep in the grass just before the dawn.