Gifts From The Lawn

GIFTS FROM THE LAWN
by Matthew Sanborn Smith

Sarah picked crayons here and there from the front yard, along the edges so she wouldn't trample the wax and upset her father. The front yard was his for show and the back yard was hers for play. That's why she had to sneak her crayons from the front. She crumbled the back to pieces.

Sarah had a crayon deal with her cousin, Ellen, in Oregon. Oregon grew lots of yellows, and Sarah loved lemon yellows. The only crayons around these parts fell in the burnt umber range, so deadly dull that Sarah might have wept if it wasn't for her crayon network. Besides certain yellows, Sarah regularly received lavenders, light blues, and navy blue which was her most prized possession. Navy blues came from Scandinavia and just the postage for a handful of them was two weeks of Sarah's allowance.

She tried planting a navy stub in the backyard once, in order to grow her own. But nothing ever came of it. Her father said it had to do with the soil and the climate. Even if it did take, the thick roots of their burnt umber lawn would probably choke the navy before it could bud.

Sarah's life changed when she read an excerpt from the first chapter of Darwin's "Origin of Species" aloud in class. As soon as she got home she cleared a couple of patches in the backyard and started segregating her russets from her sepias, digging them up by the roots and transplanting them to their own corners of the yards. On weekends she and her mother frequented nurseries and garden shows for samples of slightly darker and lighter shades. At nine years old Sarah became a crayon breeder. By twelve she was a savant of artificial selection and had her own booth at the local shows, selling shades that many people had never seen before.

She sent checks along with her shipments on the crayon networks, asking for local soils and climate data. As Sarah's business grew, so did her color palette. By the time she was forty, she offered gift boxes of crayons in all the major department stores. Her company, Gifts from the Lawn, was the first to offer scarlet, a color native to Brazil and previously thought to be unattainable in a pure, never-melted state.

Sarah retired from the running of her company at forty-five to pursue her other horticultural interests. In the evenings, after a long day's work, she'd relax in her study with a stack of coloring books from forty years ago. With all seven thousand hues of her company's crayons spread across the floor, she filled in the white areas in all of her childhood books.

Boss Conversion

BOSS CONVERSION
by Matthew Sanborn Smith

Gene claimed he could convert a plastic fork into an automobile and when we held him to it, he went out and got a car and threw the fork in the glove compartment.

"Ta-Da!" he shouted, Vanna Whiting his hands all over the place.

"That's bullshit, Dude," Julio protested. "You just threw the fork in a car that was already made!"

"Look," Gene said. "If you want to make a fork into a car, you've got to add an awful lot of shit to it, agreed?"

"Well, yeah!"

"I just bought all the stuff preassembled. Think of this as a kit," he said, indicating the car. "I can convert anything into anything else. Give me something else."

It was a dead Wednesday and we were hanging in the triangle made where the tracks crossed Howard Rd. and Denny's package store made the third side. Someone had left huge blocks of concrete here at some point, about two feet by two feet by three feet, with pieces of rusted rebar sticking out of the sides. Lee's dad always told us we'd get piles by sitting on them and we were determined to find out for ourselves.

Gene found a kid on the street and converted him from Christianity to Judaism. Lee was blown away, but then Gene turned the kid right back and gave him fourteen dollars. The whole thing looked dubious.

"Man, I wish I had something to do," Julio said. "I feel like I'm trapped here watching this dumb-ass."

"Gimme another!" Gene screamed. I was worried that he was starting to believe in himself. "One gallon equals three point eight liters. I just converted gallons to liters!"

"Anybody coulda done that," Julio said. "You don't even know metric, you read that on a urinal."

"So what?" Gene asked. "I didn't say it was magic. Conversions are just conversions. Gimme something!"

"All right," I said. "All right." It was time to put a stop to this. "Let's see you convert a nuclear submarine into a - a sea sponge."

"Where'd you come up with something like that?" Lee asked.

"No, no! That's good," Julio said, jumping to his feet. That's good! Let's see you do that, Mr. Converter Man."

"I'd get into some real trouble for doing that."

"Ha, I knew it!" Julio said. "Fulla crap!"

"No, I'm serious! If you think I'd get in trouble for bringing a shampoo bottle on an airplane, imagine what the government would do to me if I destroyed one of their nuclear submarines."

"Ya see? He's full of it!"

"Hold it," Gene said. He pointed at our seats. "How about one of these cement blocks?"

"Give it up, man, you've already been shot down."

"I want to see it," I said. "Not this one, cuz I'm sitting on it, but how about that one?"

He walked over to the one I said, knelt down, and put his hands on it. Black smoke started coming from it where his hands touched.

"Don't breathe it in," Gene said to us, over his shoulder. He didn't have to worry about that.

"Yo, man, what the hell is he doing?" Julio asked me.

"Like I know?" I said. The smoke got scary big. It was a good thing there weren't any cars coming. Two minutes later, Gene was surrounded by (not to mention covered by) thick black soot. The block looked like a huge piece of sponge with rusting pieces of rebar sticking out of it. Gene tore off a piece and handed it to us.

"I ain't touching that!" Julio said, backing off. I took it. It was hot and I handed it off to Lee fast.

"Can I have this?" Lee asked.

"I don't care," Gene said.

"Can I have more?"

"Go ahead."

Lee tore off huge chunks of the sponge. "You guys don't know how expensive real sea sponge is," he said. "My mom's going to love this."

"How the hell did you do that?" Julio asked.

"See, unlike the other conversions, I had to alter the molecular structure of the concrete and, to some degree, the very atoms themselves."

We all stayed away from Gene after that.

The Burning

THE BURNING
by Matthew Sanborn Smith

Up the ancient North Highway, once Pojur has been left far behind yet the traveler is not yet halfway to Lucia, just before the great stone overpass blocks out the starlight, the Burning begins. Far to the east the fires burn, sometimes close enough to make an orange smudge low against the night. Usually far enough from the traveler not to seen. But the smell never goes away.

It is always night on the North Highway. The ones who know keep their heads down. The young search the sky for the smoke and the flames and get only chills for their efforts. Once they look, they can no longer turn away. Their hearts fill with the Dread as they wonder about what is out there, not far beyond the woods. The Burning has been since before their great- grandfathers' times. It never encroaches and yet it is never so far away that it is not to be felt. The young search the darkness and feed their nightmares. The fire out beyond is greater than any other they will ever know. The fire out beyond isn't wild. They know someone out there tends the Burning. They know someone out there brings more fuel.

The Golem

The Golem, my flash fiction piece which originally appeared here, was purchased by Everyday Weirdness. You can read it on their January 30th, 2009 post: http://everydayweirdness.com/e/20090130/ I hope you enjoy it!

City Of Killers

CITY OF KILLERS
by Matthew Sanborn Smith

Cutlery murders were true crimes of passion because you had to really want to do it. They were often some of the messiest killings as well. Being a homicide detective was real job security, but nothing had prepared Jones for the Spoon Killer.

When he'd first gotten word of the Spoon Killer, he assumed, like a lot of other people, that the guy killed spoons. If only that had been true. Jones knew of a few spoons this city could do without. No, this guy killed people. Using spoons to do it. And nothing as humane as a melon-baller either. Jones had heard of victims done in with teaspoons, tablespoons, ladles, and measuring cups. This one on the slab though a full set of wooden spoons. Betty Binkus, the coroner, had removed over twenty-seven hundred splinters from the body.

Nothing worse than inheriting a case. Especially from Wilson. Now there was a guy who needed a good spooning. But it was the Fresh Raspberry Killer who did him in. Jones would have gotten that case too if that guy hadn't gotten into a lethal spat with his lover, the Custard Sprinkled With Chocolate Shavings Killer.

"Been a lot of killers running around here lately, huh, Betty?" Jones said. Betty pulled off her gloves and dropped onto her task chair. They'd been keeping her pretty busy lately. She had job security.

"Yeah, well, remember the Serial Killer?" she asked.

"The guy who killed people with Rice Krispies?"

"No, Serial with an S', silly!" They both laughed at his mistake.

"The guy who used to kill people with soap operas," Jones said.

"Exactly. He said something to me on his last day in court that might explain things. He said, 'I'm talking a kite saute a canteen.'"

"What the hell is that?" Jones asked. "That's nonsense! What does that explain?"

"That he's a crazy bastard," Betty said. "We've got a bunch of killers because we've got a bunch of crazy bastards running around this town."

"Betty! That's brilliant! I know how we can catch this guy!"

That night, Jones prowled the street dressed as a giant spoon. He felt ridiculous but this killer was, as Betty said, a crazy bastard. As his killings progressed, his choice of spoons became more esoteric. How in the hell could he ever pass up a weapon as bizarre as a man dressed as a spoon? He just plain couldn't, that's all, Jones concluded.

The chief, as always, wanted a backup plan. Jones suggested they run a classified ad for a Spoon Killer killer. He of course had to specify that what he was after was a guy that killed Spoon Killers, not a guy that used Spoon Killers as a weapon with which to kill. This came to so many words that the chief put the kibosh on the whole backup plan because of budget restrictions. He always did know how to play the chief. Jones had faith in Plan A.

Beneath the streetlight in front of the restaurant supply store, a big creepy looking guy eyed Jones while bouncing nervously. He made his way over slowly, and Jones watched his backup close in on the creep. This was going to be fun.

In the seconds before they pounced on the Spoon Killer, Jones saw an open career highway before him, leading straight to the Commissioner's office. It was all so easy. Tomorrow night they'd corner the Petroleum Jelly Killer, and then the $19.99 Green Plastic Mailbox Killer or the Jai Alai Fronton Killer. That guy had to be huge. They'd need a lot more backup for that one. And Jones would need a lot more costumes.

Costume maker. Now that was job security.

All We've Got

ALL WE'VE GOT
by Matthew Sanborn Smith

The house was . . . well, Rich had been a bachelor for a long time. And, really, it was too late do anything about it. Lynne was Mrs. Stemberg now. And she'd have to get used to the fact that over-sized foyer was a trampoline room.

Not a room with a trampoline in it, she would explain to her mother, maybe tomorrow. No. Maybe next week. The entire floor was a trampoline. And hopefully mom would never find out that ninety percent of the house was in a tree.

Rich had made his money in the dot-com boom in the mid-nineties. Bananastoyourdoor.com. It was exactly what it sounded like. Anyone with Rich's flair for persuasion could have made money with even a half-baked idea like that back then. He was in his early twenties at the time. Young, hot blood, and fast money -- she shouldn't have been surprised that this was the house he built. Should not have been surprised. Didn't mean she was pleased by the idea of taking a rope ladder up to her bedroom. The fire pole down to the kitchen was something she would have loved -- when she was five.

The view was nice. It was Florida, it was wilderness (could snakes get up here?), it was on the river (Did alligators live in moving water?).

"We can take the canoe to the grocery store," he said. Way to sell it, marketing guru, she thought. She noticed the orange slide spiraling down to the dock.

"I'm moving into a funhouse," she said.

"I know!" Rich said. "Isn't it awesome?"

"Rich. You can't be serious. You're almost thirty-five years old. You've got to want something more than this."

"Sure, but this is what we've got right now. This is all we've got. We might as well enjoy it."

"This is temporary right?"

"I told you it was."

"Tell me again."

He wrapped his arms around her and emphasized each word with a kiss. "This. is. temporary."

"You promise."

"You think I want to be here in the heat of summer? Not to mention the hurricanes."

"Oh my god, the hurricanes."

"We won't be here. Come on," he said, holding up the big paper bag he'd brought in from the car. "I'll show you what's going to pay for your summer house in the Hamptons." He took her by the hand and led her through a door off the kitchen she'd assumed was a pantry. It fed out onto a deck about fifteen feet in the air which snaked around the treehouse and out of sight.

"Take off your shoes," he said, kicking off his loafers. "Better grip."

"I'm not climbing the tree, Richard."

"Suit yourself," he said, squeezing her hand. "Just hang on tight." He pulled her along.

"All right, all right!" Lynne said, stumbling out of her shoes. He led her along the length of the deck which ended in a bridge arching over to other wonders in another great oak.

"This is like the freaking Lord of the Rings or something," she said.

"It's better," he said. "This is real."

Across the bridge, he took her to a spot where a net made of thick rope was slung between two huge tree limbs.

"What's this?" she asked, as he climbed down into it.

"It's my super-hammock! Come on."

"This is ridiculous," she grumbled, but she crawled in alongside of him. The hammock was curved like a chair. They got comfortable in its pocket and hung their feet over the side. They were almost directly above the river and had to speak up to be heard over the rushing water.

"Look," he said. He pulled a plastic bottle out of the bag, twisted something set into the bottom, and handed it to her.

"What is it?" she asked.

"Champagne," he said.

"In a plastic bottle, how romantic. Hey, it's getting cold!"

"There you go. A little chemistry in the base of the bottle and you're chilled. We're going to be the Southeastern distributors of these babies next month."

"Oh my god. That's great." She twisted off the cap and took a sip. "It tastes good, too."

"AND it's less filling. Okay, I made that up. It's not really less filling. It might even be more filling."

"You're such a dink."

"Look," he said, opening his own bottle, "There's something you've got to know about us dinks. Lot of ups and downs with us. You're going to be rich with me and you're going to be poor with me."

"I am poor with you."

"My point exactly. One thing you won't be with me, is bored."

Lynne swigged the bottle down in a couple of gulps and let out a prize winning belch.

"That's my girl," Rich said.

Maybe the alcohol was lightning quick or, more likely, she was exhausted from the flight. She was ready to fall asleep right here. She sank back against his warm body. The air was cooling off, but here it was, December and everything was green. She may have dozed off for a couple of minutes. All right, perhaps the super hammock was the one saving grace of the overgrown treehouse.

"Nice out here, huh?"

"Mm," she conceded. "Maybe I could try it for a couple months."

"I told you the house kicked ass."

"I meant the hammock."

"Deal. We'll live in the hammock."

"How much of that champagne did you bring?"

"This is all we've got," he said, holding up the bag. Lynne reached in and fished around for another.

"We might as well enjoy it," she said.

The Monopoly Man And I Flee For Our Lives

THE MONOPOLY MAN AND I FLEE FOR OUR LIVES
by Matthew Sanborn Smith

A guy can get tired of running. But then again, a guy doesn't want to get killed by those who are chasing him, so he finds the strength. Roger and I were running once again, this time from a frenzied mob of amusement park patrons down the five and a half mile boardwalk. I chose the boardwalk for the traction.

Roger had spent his life, money and countless surgeries trying to look like the Monopoly man, and now with the anti-trust movement at its murderous apex he was nothing but trouble. You would have thought, with those short little legs, I could have easily outpaced him and left him to the dogs, but the little freak was enhanced with glands that weren't meant for you and me, and though I ran like hell, I couldn't shake him. I had to find some new friends.

"I don't understand it," Roger said. "Atlantic City is my hometown. They should love me here."

"Atlantic City is the Monopoly Man's hometown, Roger. You're from Wichita!"

There was some extra commotion behind us. I think the combined weight of our pursuers was too much for the flexing planks we drummed across and some of them had broken through. There would be injuries and chaos. Good.

But more of them came, and once we hit the concrete there was no slowing them down.

"They're going to kill us, Roger!" I screamed. "We're screwed!"

"The Hell you say!" Roger said. "I know how to deal with the little people, my boy." And with that he reached into his topcoat, pulled out scads of pastel paper and threw them over his shoulder.

"That's Monopoly money, you jackass!"

"Of course it is, lad. The most recognized money in the world." He kept throwing money. I started to hope that they'd catch us, just so the last sight I'd ever see would be the crowd tearing him to pieces. There was a roar behind us and to my shock, the idiots pounced on the play money and forgot we even existed.

With the sun setting over the ocean, Roger and I stumbled into a hotel as soon as the mob was out of sight. The place was pretty posh, one of those mid-twenty-first century models cast whole in red plastic with a nod to Art Deco. The night was wonderful, an unending river of Martinis and cigars, punctuated with twelve courses of the finest food the Eastern seaboard had to offer.

The next day at check-out, the bill knocked Roger senseless. It seems that those socialist lunatics that chased us a day earlier pooled the money Roger had thrown them and bought up all the properties on the boardwalk including our hotel. They'd even had enough to buy Park Place. The bill they laid on us broke poor Roger. Like it was yesterday, I can still see him standing there with his out-turned pockets and pleading expression. I bought his top hat, mostly out of pity, though I did look pretty ritzy in it. With the money, he had enough for a sandwich and a bottle of ripple. Last I heard he was squatting in a little green house over on Baltic.

Let’s Have Some Chatter Out There, People!

Can a brother get some comments on his blog?

One With Everything

ONE WITH EVERYTHING
by Matthew Sanborn Smith

(UPDATE 05/03/10) Another story yanked due to its purchase by Everyday Weirdness! The story will be up on May 5th and you'll be able to read it then at this address: http://everydayweirdness.com/e/20100505/

Enjoy and show Everyday Weirdness some love while you're at it!

A Visual Aid For My Poem

I just found this site which reminded me very much of my poem, "Mr. Mellon Puts on his Fingers" in issue 76 of Antipodean SF. Read the poem here first (You'll have to click on the forwarding link once you get there).

Then look at the site here. Don't watch too long. It will suck you in.

Fen Across The Rubicon

FEN ACROSS THE RUBICON
by Matthew Sanborn Smith

Walking out into the sunlight of the warm afternoon, he felt alive. There are worlds to be won, Fen thought, suddenly overwhelmed by the taste of summer, a prodigal memory. The Hasco Distribution Center was right where it was supposed to be -- behind him. It's time was past and even though Levinger and the others expected him back after lunch, he'd never so much as utter their names or the name of that place again.

Across the hot pavement he approached his 79 Thunderbird like a tiger: huge and powerful and self-assured. His hands spread over the air, mere millimeters from its surface and caressed its dusty green paint job remotely. At once, when he knew it wouldn't get away, he embraced the old beast passionately, kissed the hot metal; His steed was here awaiting its master's commands. His left hand slid like a controlling lover down her grimy side until he felt the chrome handle at hip's height. Delicately working their way beneath the handle's smooth exterior, his fingers popped the door open as if it was a brassiere and he dove in just as greedily.

The smell of old plastic, the too warm interior and the savaged dust motes scrambling for their lazy order in the sunlight: these were all too pleasurable. He breathed deeply and knew his life had changed forever. The car started immediately. Fen took off down the highway, feeling each bump and crevice of the asphalt in his mid-section as if he were the car. He merged with the Thunderbird and rode it up hills like spurring a charger to take his enemies by the throats.

Fen went home and had a sandwich and the feeling passed. He sat in his chair in the quiet apartment and enjoyed a carbonated beverage. A Tab.

Without thinking, his eyes fell upon the clock above the kitchen sink. He meant to pull away, but never did. The scarlet second hand jerked around its bleached paper track. Fen stared, as frozen as Prince Prospero's dancers at the bell's toll. 12:41 PM was highlighted in his imagination as the ultimate annihilation. It was Doomsday. It was the Apocalypse. It was through the black hole. One second past 12:41 PM and it would be impossible to return to his job on time. The die would be cast. Lunch had seemed to settle his head but he'd be damned if he wasn't approaching the same conclusion in this slower, calmer manner: There was more to life, much more to life than that place.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

TICK.

TICK.

TICK!

The tick that took him from 12:41:00 PM to 12:41:01 PM was a thunderclap that shook his chest. Fen leapt to his feet and cried:

"What the hell has my life become?"

BOB!

BOB!
By Matthew Sanborn Smith

There really wasn't much to being a sheep. Bob found it suited him. Stand around, eat some grass, take a dump. You had some occasional sex and every so often, one wicked haircut.

The biggest problem he had was that all the other sheep were always calling his name. He looked around constantly to see what everyone wanted, and by and large they ignored him. Now, you'd think he'd get used to that after the first week or so of sheepdom, but he never did. This could have been a negative thing, Bob could have wound up a nervous wreck, a sheep suicide at the age of three years, and in fact he was a bit disturbed at first.

But one night when sleep was hard coming and he and the gang were all counting each other (not an easy thing when everyone you're trying to count is milling about trying to count everyone else), Bob decided that he wasn't going to get any sleep tonight. He was too wound up and his neck hurt from craning to see who wanted him all the time. What he needed was some exercise, a stroll through the forest seemed like just the thing for him. But between him and the forest, stood the fence. How in the world would he ever get past that big old thing?

The horses did it, didn't they? They were always showing off, jumping things. Why couldn't he? Because he was a sheep, that's why. And a nervous sheep at that. And the sheep him wouldn't stop calling his name. He looked back and something was different this time. Some of them were looking right at him.

"Well, what is it that you want?" Bob asked. They didn't say. They just kept calling his name.

"Holy cow," he said. "They never wanted my attention. All this time they've been cheering me on! I'm gonna do it! I'm gonna jump that fence for all you bastards who never had the faith to do it yourself!"

He gave himself a good running start of about two hundred feet and he jumped that fence, by gum! Bob felt like a god. Everybody was still chanting his name. He ran off to see the world and days later, when he came upon another herd, they too were chanting his name. He'd never even met these sheep!

"I am the most popular sheep in the whole goddamned world!" Bob exclaimed. "No more haircuts for me! I can do anything!"

He vowed then and there that he would bring peace to this world that man had darkened with violence. He would lead his people from subjugation and see them colonize the stars.

He took a pottery course at the local community college and then found a job as a customer service representative for a toaster oven manufacturer. He lived out his days in relative contentment and brought satisfaction to many toast-loving customers.

#

What about his great aspirations, you ask? The world peace and the stars and what not? Well, he was just a sheep, you know. Anyone else would be quite impressed with all that he did accomplish. I mean, just the fact that he could speak should astound you.

C'mon!

You frickin' people.

Just Another Day at the Job

JUST ANOTHER DAY AT THE JOB
By Matthew Sanborn Smith

Suddenly, we were surrounded by the spaghetti worms and Darren's brilliant fucking idea of covering them in tomato sauce had only made them stronger.

"What do we do now?" Magda asked. "I've heard these things can strip a person to the bone in just over seventeen years."

"Jesus," Darren said.

"I'll tell you what we're not going to do," I said, "And that's throw Parmesan or garlic bread on them!"

"At least I had an idea!" Darren yelled. "What have you done?"

I studied the stone walls of Professor Nefarious' hidden sanctum. There was no way we were getting through those.

"Wait a minute," I said. "The sewing kits!"

"You mean the ones given to us by customized milking machine that achieved sentience?"

"No, no, not those. The fully automated ones we stole from the samurai/Viking/gas station attendants that we fought at the bottom of the Swimming Pool of the Apocalypse."

"That's it!" Magda said. "Release the sewing kits!" And we did. But it was too late. The spaghetti worms were upon us.

I'm a strong man but I went into spasms as they crawled up my pants legs. Not only were they slimy and squirmy, but I swear they must have come straight here from the refrigerator. My spear gun was useless against them. Magda made progress, hacking at them with the sharp end of her snow shovel, up to her waist in gore and tomato paste. Darren tried his acrobatic fighting technique, slid, and fell on his back. I looked on horrified. Darren's jaw stretched wide while hundreds of worms all fought to force their way into his mouth at once. Even his nostrils were filled. If I didn't act now, he'd be dead.

I scooped him up and punched him hard and high in the gut until he Heimliched them all over the dungeon walls. Darren was out of the fight, gasping for air and sputtering phlegm and spit and bile. I held him up while I stomped the little bastards under my meat-tenderizing boot soles. The attack slowed and I looked around to see what happened. The sewing kits had kicked in, stitching the spaghetti worms into three great big worm-blankets. We were safe. For the moment.

The blankets saved our lives during our cosmic Stratego game against the Walrus Lords, but after that . . .

After that, things got weird.

OOPS!

I was just checking my settings and found out that I had this bloody thing set to only accept comments from registered blogger.com users. Excluding people was definitely not something I wanted to do. So, if you've tried to comment on a post in the past and weren't able to, I apologize. I welcome any comments on past and future posts.