Short Stories
By Scott Niven

Presented by
Authorama
Public Domain Books

The Torch Is Passed (Stolen)

Will bought the boots on Sunday. By Wednesday, they looked worn in, used.

“Why do you wear those?” asked his mother. “They’re five sizes too big.”

But Will knew what he was doing. He baked the boots in the sun, fading their color from a rich brown to a dull auburn. He frayed the laces with a hunting knife. He walked through a nearby forest, careful to scuff the soles. And he stepped in puddle after puddle, letting the water seep through the shoelace holes to dampen his feet.
Five weeks later, he was ready. He crept toward the secluded lake, boots in hand, mindful of the time. It wouldn’t do for him to arrive too early or too late. When the familiar clump of honeysuckle appeared on his right, he ducked behind it.

The creature of habit had arrived ahead of him. On a dead tree limb, out of reach of animals but not out of reach for an 8-year-old boy, hung the clothes and boots of the nearby swimmer. Will slid out of hiding, judged the differences between the hanging boots and his own to be unimportant, switched the boots, then took off running down the path.

His plan had worked. He had stolen the boots of one of the greatest literary geniuses of his time – Mark Twain. Now he too could create stories of Southern greatness.

Content with his crime, William Faulkner shuffled back to his house, wearing the oversized boots and dreaming of the many wonderful stories he could now write.

End

The Carrion Sphere

If not for the pummeling wallops of rain, Hest never would have stumbled upon the sphere.

He moped through North Wood, sword banging against his side, shiny, day-old armor sagging on his shoulders, and helm clasp between wet, soggy fingers. He sneezed once, then again. Lightning punctuated his body’s ailing with daggers of yellow-white brilliance, as if the Gods, in their finite wisdom, wished to view his hapless soul struggling through their wretched forest. Seconds after the flash faded, a peal of thunder quaked the land, its crackling cry unmuffled by the barren tree limbs that spiderwebbed the sky. A cold wind followed the thunder and nudged through the many chinks and crevices of Hest’s armor, chilling his arms, chest, and legs.

All in all, a miserable day for the Hunt.

Hest groaned. His friends were surely sitting inside a warm hut chuckling over him at this very moment. Mighty Hest, they were saying. Master of the Great Water Hunt. Protector of Puddles. Defender of Drenched Leaves.

But you couldn’t choose the day of your twenty-first birthday. No, the Hunt waited for no one. Hest included.

His friends had been lucky. Yeltsor had returned to Fourth Village after the required two days with a plump, six-legged deer in tow. And Tig’s Hunt, while not a magnificent success, had yielded a small dinner for five of rabbit and squirrel. Neither of the boys had dealt with rain, cold, or scarcity of wildlife.

Thus far, Hest had been plagued with all three.

He grumbled, slowed his pace, and listened to the rain slither over his bald head. He studied the gloomy sky, waiting for a subtle shading from dark to very dark to alert him night had fallen.

“Oh, Drox! Pox and Lomox, too!” Hest spit the names of the Gods into the downpour. The hungry spatterings of rain swallowed his words without answering. He moaned, shook his head, then kicked the ground with a heavy, steel-toed boot.

The ground kicked back, knocking Hest backwards.

A huge clattering of metal later, Hest stared up at the falling raindrops from his back. Now he really was Protector of Puddles!

He climbed to his knees and inspected the patch of earth he had swiped with his boot. The ground was rounded, bluish-black, and shiny. A needle of disappointment stabbed at his belly. If only the earth really had risen to attack him, a clever revenge for his careless defiling of the Gods’ names. What a wonderful hunter’s story the attack and, of course, his subsequent heroic defense would have made. Protector of Puddles, indeed!

Hest sighed. None of his imagined glory, it seemed, aligned with his true destiny. He hadn’t been attacked; he had slipped. And bumbling warriors rarely survived beyond the first few sentences in the tales he had heard.

He eyed the shiny mound once more. Its dark, curved dome beckoned his curiosity, urging the boy he still was to fend off the man he hoped to become. With a little luck, he could still pull some self-respect out of his recent oafishness.

He leaned forward and rubbed the object’s surface. It was smooth, hard, impenetrable. He scraped its outer coating, then pawed at the mud surrounding it, tossing wiggly muck, squirmy insects, and tattered leaves on both sides of his crouched position. His hands shoveled and scooped and dug and delved, over and over, faster and faster. A moat widened around the object. Hest rushed, exciting himself with his speed, furrowing the ground with swift rakes of his grime-filled fingernails. Finally, with the help of the loosened soil and cleansing rain, he pried and wrestled the object out of its burrow–

–and flung it into the air. The object’s feathery-lightness had surprised him. Once again, Hest found himself on his back as he watched the object fly over him and land with a gentle splash in a nearby puddle. A spurt of mud jumped to his face, adding insult to stupidity.

Hest stood, then squinted and scowled at his appearance. In his throes on the ground, Hest, Protector of Puddles had become Hest, Wearer of Puddles. His suit of armor, forged last week by Blacksmith Barsowen, crawled with caked mud and rotted leaves. And no amount of brushing, it seemed, would remove all the mess.

Then Hest gasped.

The object he had jerked from the ground stood revealed atop the rippling puddle.

A sphere. A perfectly rounded sphere slightly smaller than his head. The blackish-blue tint extended around its surface, wrapping it in a cocoon of midnight sky.

Hest crept across the saturated forest undergrowth. He huddled over the mysterious object, then lifted it, this time prepared for its lack of weight. He balanced it on a palm and marveled at its symmetry, its impossible smoothness, its shell of rigid permanence.

The sphere, he realized, weighed the same as one of Baker Jessica’s pies.

The cheerful memory of warm, flaky crust and apple filling did nothing to abate his hunger. He peered at the sadly inedible item for several long tics of time, wondering what to do with it, wondering why he was coveting spheres instead of hunting animals or foraging for fruit. The decision to keep the strange object happened quickly: one minute, the sphere rested on his palm; the next, he had nestled it inside his helm, safety stored away for future examinations. Then, his act of thievery accomplished, Hest continued wandering through the forest, slightly happier but no less wet, warm, or hungry.

The fire would not catch.

The wind whipped any sparks Hest summoned with the flint into swirling, darkened nothings that sailed away from his stack of twigs. After an hour spent sitting on a log, hunched over a meager fire pit, cloaked in a blanket of onyx nighttime, Hest surrendered. Why did he need a fire, anyway? He was growing into a man, after all. And a man could do just fine without a fire. Or shelter. Or any other kindness or comfort of the world.

Still, the thought of yellow-orange-red tendrils of flame leaping from his tiny teepee of wood, warming him, burning away the chill, soothing his aching, hungry body...

Hest had just grabbed the flint again when the woman spoke.

“Mind if I sit with you?”

He would have leapt out of his armor if he hadn’t already removed it and placed it in a neat pile beside him. As it was, he slid off his log and banged his shoulders and rear on the many, pointed pebbles embedded in the soil behind him. For the third time today, he found himself staring upward. This time, he saw parting clouds and several prickly needles of starlight.

“Who are you?” he asked, tilting his head at the shadowy figure standing at the edge of his clearing. He climbed back onto his log. “A Fourth Villager?”

“Your fire will never catch,” she said. “Not that way. Wind’s too strong. But maybe I can help.”

The dim figure advanced to the pile of twigs. Hest smelled cinnamon, pepper, thyme. He inhaled rose and lilac, breathed heather and poppy. His eyes discerned long, wispy hair attached to a woman’s bulky shape, but could pull no other details out of the darkness. The shape crouched over his fire pit.

“Now, then,” said the woman. “Let’s see what I can do.”

Hest heard a click, then another. He watched with wide eyes as a small glow flickered to life beneath the stack of twigs. The woman’s hand whirled magically inside the stack, waving and fluttering, before jerking away as the flame bustled to life.

Hest hurriedly added more twigs to the fire. “Thanks,” he said, unable to look away from the mystic flames that had sprung from the spot of his failings. “How did you...what did you do?”

“Gave your fire some heat,” the woman said. “That’s all.”

Hest finally raised his eyes from the crackling, busy fire. The woman settled onto a log opposite him, on the far side of the clearing. Her long, gray hair dangled in tangles around the sides of her neck and shoulders. Her wrinkles fought each other unendingly, battling over ever crack, ridge, or valley on her aged face. She wore a black sheet that looked frigid in the chilly air. Her eyes sparkled brilliant blue. Her skin glowed dove white.

Hest didn’t need his eyes to know what she was. The warmth spreading over his legs, chest and arms proved her identity: a witch. Perhaps even a sorceress. His hunting trip had taken an exciting turn indeed!

“What’s your name, ma’am?” he asked in his most awed, respectful voice.

The old woman smiled. “No, it’s more complicated than that. I don’t have a name, because I’m not a woman. I’m an idea. A dream. Not yours, however. Someone else’s. From a long time ago.”

“An...idea?” Hest fumbled with the concept.

“I’m a memory,” she said. “A visual memory. That’s how I exist. As a thought, a history, and"–she sighed–"as a tool. I tunneled through the past, but I can also touch the future.”

Hest reevaluated his initial impression. She wasn’t a witch, after all. She was a soothsayer. Suddenly, he remembered the sphere. Perhaps it belonged to her, and she used it for divination. Perhaps she had blundered into North Wood tonight in search of it.

He reached for his helm, heaved it into his lap, then retrieved the sphere from its niche. He held the darkened ball over the fire. “This yours?”

“No, dear.” The old woman chuckled. “That is me. I’m inside it.”

Hest bit his lip as he scrutinized the sphere, searching for the old woman. “I don’t see you inside it.”

“No, but I’m there. Trust me. You are, too, in a way. But we’re drifting from the topic.”

“The topic?” Hest wondered if his oafishness was confusing the woman’s words, or if she truly spoke in riddles. He lowered the sphere to his side.

“Yes, the topic,” she said. “And the topic is now. Today. So, please. Tell me about your pile of armor. You wear it for protection from the evils of the forest. Am I correct?”

“Well, no.” Hest fidgeted. “That is to say, you’re wrong, ma’am.”

The old woman’s smile calmed his accelerated heartbeat. “Then why do you wear the armor?”

“For the Hunt.”

“Hunting? In that noisy outfit? What ever do you sneak up on wearing that?”

“Deer,” said Hest, embarrassed. He had no deer to offer her due to his poor outing, so hoped she didn’t plan on asking for a meal.

“Deer? But how can that be? Aren’t deer wary and quick? And don’t they leap and bound away when they hear you jostling along behind them?”

“No, ma’am. Deer are slower than pine sap. All you need is a sword to whop off their heads.”

The old woman flinched, then raised a hand to her chin and rubbed. The flames blazed higher, increasing the clearing’s circle of warmth.

“So how does the armor help you attack these...apathetic deer?” she asked.

“It doesn’t, actually. The armor’s more ceremonial than anything. It’s my twenty-first birthday, you see. My village, Fourth Village, sends boys on their Hunt so they can become men, and–”

“Ah-ha!” The woman’s eyes flared green, then misted back to blue. “Now, I understand.” She paused. “And that sword of yours? Is it...does it represent your village’s most effective means of attack?”

Hest shrugged. “Guess so, not including bows and arrows.”

“Bows and arrows?” The old woman giggled. “How delightful! Maybe I will accomplish something this time. And after all these years. The thought makes me dizzy!”

Hest cleared his throat. “Ma’am? You’re confusing me. What is it you hope to accomplish?”

“Ah. A simple enough question, dear. But the answer’s a different animal altogether. We’ll start with my home.” She pointed to the sphere. “All things have their names, you know. And the name for my home, in your tongue, is carrion sphere.”

“Carrion sphere? Carrion meaning dead, icky flesh?”

“Yes. But in this case, meaning dead essence, without the ickiness. You see, once you touch the sphere, your soul is linked with it forever. Not a bad thing, really, so quit making faces.”

Hest forced the contortions out of his face.

“Now, the link with the sphere,” said the woman,” means absolutely nothing while you’re alive. But when you die, a part of you – your memories, experiences, anything that made you into the person you were – merges with the sphere. The sphere becomes you, and you become the sphere. And you aren’t alone. Thousands have already been enveloped inside it throughout the ages. And thousands more will be enveloped in the future.”

Hest sputtered his words. “I don’t...I mean, I’m not ready to be enveloped.”

“Good, because you’ve got things to do. Important things.” The old woman frowned. “Last person to find the sphere found it too late. Too much had already happened. Too many ideas had already been discovered, created, combined, miniaturized, improved and processed. I told the person what to do, but he didn’t care to do it. In the end, his village – considerably larger than yours and capable of much more than killing deer – went to war with the other villages. Horrifying explosions heated and melted their homes, turning all they had created into wasted ash. No one, I thought, had survived.”

“That’s terrible.” Hest threw more twigs onto the fire to ward off his chill.

“Terrible, yes. But also incorrect. You’re here, which means someone did survive. You’re almost hairless, of course, and probably suffer from any number of unknown internal problems, but you’re alive. To me, and to the thousands of others inside the carrion sphere, that’s all that matters.”

Hest considered her words. “So what do you want me to do?”

“You’ve got to help me,” she said. “Help me stop things before they progress too far. We’ve got time. When my creator designed the sphere, it was in the final moments before the very first occurrence of massive destruction. He didn’t have time to use it. But we do. At last, after so many terrible misfortunes, the carrion sphere has been awakened at the correct time. You’ve got to bring it to your village and show it to everyone. You’ve got to let me talk to them. Teach them about the past. Instruct them about the future. Some things in the years ahead are good, and will help enrich your lives. But other things can – and will – destroy you. I know which is which. With my advice, we might prevent what has happened so many times already.” She paused. “So. Will you? Help me?”

Hest peeked at the sphere, then refocused his eyes on the old woman. Her words, though strange, had scraped through his clouded mind and touched fears in him he hadn’t known existed. If she knew his future and the future of Fourth Village, and if she knew they were headed for destruction...

“I’ll do it,” he said, forcing the tone of his voice into the firm deepness of a man’s.

The old woman’s face unwrinkled with relief. She smiled. “I thought so, I hoped so. At last, things have a chance – a chance, mind you – of changing.” She reached into the folds of her black sheet covering. “To reward you for your decision, let me give you something brought into the carrion sphere by the last man who entered it. Physical items are allowed inside the sphere, you understand, but only if I feel they’ll serve a purpose later. And this item now has purpose. Duplicating its power is beyond the abilities of your village, but it can still act as a token. A sign of the good that can come in the future, as well as a warning of the bad.”

She stood, stepped around the fire, then pressed a chill something into Hest’s hand.

“What–”

The old woman held a finger to her lips. “Shhh. I’m leaving now. Or rather, I’m staying. Going back into my home. Take the carrion sphere to your village. We’ll see what we can do.”

As Hest watched with a million questions frozen on his lips, she faded, a ghost disappearing into a ghostly night.

After she had vanished, he opened his hand and stared at the object she had given him. It was a rectangular metallic box the length of his index finger, with perhaps twice the width. An indented line wrapped around the top half of it. He shook the device and heard fluid inside, but decided to leave the rest of the exploring to the Village Council.

“Probably magic!” he said, spooking himself with his own words.

He tucked the object into his shirt and donned his armor. Then, after dousing the fire with water, he lifted the carrion sphere, placed it inside his helm, and darted off into the wood. At a fast walk, he hoped to cover the ten miles to the village before dawn. Then he would wake everyone and show them what he had found.

His Hunt, he guessed, would be deemed a success.

End

Wedding Day

When Marcus Hessing awoke, all he heard was silence.

His studio apartment was located five floors above one of Manhattan’s busiest intersections. In the seven years he had lived in the dump, he couldn’t remember ever hearing this particular lack of noise before.

He climbed out of bed, stumbled to the window, and peeked down at the streets below. Cars, cabs, and buses were aligned on the black asphalt and in the parallel parking spaces in typical New York bumper-to-bumper fashion, leaving little room for blind spots or motorist error. The stoplights dangled over the crossways, untouched by wind, teasing one row of vehicles with green, frustrating the other row with red. Everything looked normal.

Then Marcus squinted. In his half-awake state of mind, it took him a second to spot the problem.

The world had stopped moving.

Every car, cab, and bus was frozen in place. There were no revving engines, no tires squealing against pavement, and no shrieks of profanity.

The sidewalks were empty too. There were no doughnut-eating policemen, no women in curlers walking their dogs, and no Wall Street types doing their Wall Street strut in Wall Street attire. No one.

Marcus’ head thumped against the windowpane. Goose bumps peppered his skin.

“I’m alone,” he said. “Something’s happened and I’m alone. And that means–”

His voice trailed off as he remembered the date. Saturday, February the fifth. At four o’clock this afternoon, he was supposed to get married, supposed to transform Janine Pelshore into Janine Hessing. Two plane tickets to the Bahamas were tucked away in his luggage. Paul Yants, best friend and best man, carried the ring.

Marcus hurried across the room, grabbed the phone, and dialed Janine’s number. It rang three times before her answering machine clicked on.

“Hi. You’ve reached Janine Pelshore. I’m out and about and won’t be back till later, so leave a message and maybe I’ll call you back.”

Marcus hung up the phone. Janine should be home. When he’d called her last night, he’d heard a roomful of bridesmaids giggling, yapping, and screaming in the background. What had happened to them? What had happened to everyone?

Dazed, Marcus stumbled to the coffee table, grabbed the remote, and flicked on the TV.

Black and white phosphorus snow covered the screen.

He switched channels. More snow.

After checking every channel, including the Home Shopping Network, Marcus forced himself to face what had happened.

The networks were gone.

Cable was gone.

His fiancee was gone.

But he wasn’t gone. For some reason, he’d been left behind while everyone else had been taken away. Left behind to fend for himself in a city that thrived on people, noise, and events. A city that killed its loners.

Marcus slumped into a chair by the window. A pile of dirty clothes lay beside him. He shuffled a foot through the unclean items, located a shirt and a pair of pants, and dressed himself. Then he plopped his chin into his hands and stared glumly at the empty scene below him on the street.

“Now what?” he asked. “What does a man do in a city of eight million people when that city suddenly has a population of one?”

His thoughts continued twisting in self-pitying circles as he watched the frozen city beneath him.

Then there was a knock at the door.

He rushed across the room and swung open the door. A woman of perhaps twenty-one stood outside. Her supple figure was covered with a pair of jeans and a t-shirt advertising the music of a local radio station. She had long blond hair down to her waist, blue eyes, and a face devoid of scar or blemish. In a word, perfect.

“Lose your train of thought again, Marcus?” she asked with a sly, knowing grin.

“Train of thought?” Marcus frowned. “How do you know my name?”

“Uh-huh. Thought so.” The woman slithered around him and collapsed into his recliner. “Third time this century, dear. You’ve got to pay more attention.”

Marcus pondered her words. The woman had obviously suffered shock at the disappearance of everyone and needed psychological help. She must have seen his name on the mailbox downstairs. The idea popped into his head to get rid of her, because if she really was crazy then she might be dangerous as well. But a woman of this beauty didn’t come around every day. And since she was possibly the only other person who hadn’t vanished, and since his marriage was in all likelihood postponed...

“Want something to drink while we sort this out?” Marcus asked, moving toward the refrigerator.

“Oh, that’s precious. Yeah, sure, I’d love something to drink. How about a glass of mango juice?”

Marcus frowned. “Sorry, I don’t–”

“Of course you don’t,” the woman said. She laughed. “Oh, this is a strange meeting.” She pointed to the sink. “Some water would be fine.”

Marcus dug in his cupboard for a glass, then fingered some ice cubes from the freezer. “You got a name?”

“Many.”

He filled the glass and carried it to the woman. Then he settled into the couch across from her. “Minnie, did you say? Or Penny?”

“No, I’ve got many names. Most recently, until your loss of concentration, I went by the name of Carla Boykin. But you know me best by my real name.”

Marcus waited. When she didn’t continue, he asked, “Which is?”

The woman’s lips touched the edge of her glass and she drank. Marcus watched patiently.

After she swallowed, she smiled. “My real name is Eve.”

“But I don’t know an Eve.”

“That’s the problem...and the joke.” She laughed again.

“Look,” Marcus said, “I know this all seems very funny to you, and you’re the first person I’ve seen today so God knows I’m grateful, but what’s going on? You know what happened to everyone?”

“Yes, and you do too.”

“Afraid not, Eve. I woke up and everyone was gone.”

Eve frowned. “So it happened while you were asleep, huh? That’s new. Last couple of times it happened in the middle of you having sex.”

Marcus stood up. “Now just a minute, woman! Speak sense! Tell me what happened in plain English!”

The grin never left her face. “In plain English, you happened.”

“I happened?”

“Yes, you happened. Where would you like me to begin?”

Marcus suppressed the urge to grab Eve and shake her. “How should I know? At the beginning, I suppose. I woke up this morning, the day of my marriage, and everyone was gone. Why?”

“As near as I can tell, dear, you forgot. And when you forgot, everyone ceased to exist. I can’t hold onto them for very long by myself, you know.” She paused. “You remember your real name?”

Marcus snorted. “My real name is Marcus Arnold Hessing. You can’t convince me any different.”

“Okay. Let me try to explain.” Eve licked her lips. “Your real name isn’t Marcus. It’s Adam.”

“Adam what? What’s my last name?”

“You don’t have a last name. That’s just a silly contrivance you created so women would be subservient to men when they married. Your name is Adam, and I’m Eve.”

At last, Marcus understood. The woman really was crazy. Faced with the crisis of an unpopulated world, she had renamed the two of them after the only other completely isolated couple in history: Adam and Eve.

“Well, serves me right,” he said, laughing. “After all the good fortune I’ve had in my life, I deserve to spend the rest of eternity with a wacko.”

“You don’t believe me?” Eve asked.

“Of course not,” Marcus said. “I mean, where’s Eden? Where’s all the good, the holy, the pure? I don’t see any of that in New York.” He chuckled. “No, lady, you picked the wrong city to go crazy in. Maybe someplace upstate would’ve been more Eden-like. Quiet town like Mayfield, perhaps.”

For the first time, Marcus saw frustration in Eve’s eyes.

“Dear, I’m telling the truth. Now listen to me and let me prove it to you.”

That sounded interesting. Marcus returned to the couch, crossed his arms, and smiled. “Okay, sure. Prove it.”

Eve sighed. “Several thousand years ago, you and I were in Eden. It was nice, I guess, but...well, it got kind of boring. I mean, years and years with nothing but lakes, mountains, and forests gets old. Anyway, you got tired of hearing me bitch, so you came up with the idea of creating our own paradise. And since Eden allows us to do whatever we want, we soon began to create. We designed civilizations, populated them with people, watched them grow, laugh, sob, die, etcetera, etcetera. Then about midway through the so-and-so period, you came up with the idea of putting us into the scenery. And wha-la! Here we are. The problem is that you tend to forget what’s going on, and end up taking on the characteristics of the person you’re playing. It’s happened before, but never as serious as right now.”

Eve knew how to weave a good story, Marcus thought. Immediately, he began poking holes in it.

“But I’m black. You’re white. Wouldn’t we be the same color?”

“Not here. But in Eden, yes, every square inch of that bod of yours is actually white. And believe me, I’ve seen it all.”

Marcus felt his face redden. “Why would I choose to be a different color than my true color?”

“Variety. You wanted to experience what the people we had created were experiencing. You chose black this time. Forty years ago, you chose to be a Spaniard. And sixty years before that, you were a woman! That was an interesting few years. Never will forget the look on your face when you squeezed out that baby. Priceless!”

“So why do I forget where we are,” Marcus asked, “and you don’t?”

Eve smirked. “How should I know? Must be some genetic defect caused by the y chromosome. Next question.”

“If I’m Adam, why can’t I bring back all the people?”

“You can, as soon as you remember this world is fake. Then we can continue, and you can get married, the weather can change, and all that fun stuff that makes our dream so real can start happening again. I’ll have to get out of here quick, though, before one of your friends catches you with another woman and tells your fiancee.”

Marcus shook his head. “You’ve got it all figured out, don’t you? But I’m not Adam, despite whatever your imagination tells you. And if we’re the only two people left on this planet, I’d appreciate it if you’d act normal.”

“Wait a sec!” Eve slapped her forehead. “You’ve got me playing by the rules, too. Mortal rules. But I, unlike you, don’t have to. I remember who I am.” With those words, her body began disappearing through the chair. “See? I’m phasing through this cheap recliner of yours. Know anyone who can do this, Marcus?”

Marcus’ eyes widened. He watched her fall, then stared as she vanished into the carpet. After a few seconds of quiet, she reappeared on his left, sitting beside him on the couch. She wrapped an arm around him and pecked him on the cheek.

“See, dear? I’m telling the truth.”

Marcus began to suspect he’d gone crazy. Out of pure loneliness, he’d created a woman with a perfect body to keep him company. Unfortunately, his insanity had created a woman who was also insane.

“Why don’t you leave?” Marcus asked with a whimper. “Leave me to my delusions in peace. I’m sure if I try, my shattered mind can conjure up something a little more creative than a dumb blond in a tight outfit.”

“You’re being difficult,” Eve said, “and I’ve had enough of difficult. I didn’t want to do it this way, but here it goes.” Her eyes closed and her lips snapped shut. “Now, what was that word? Genocide? Jennifer? No, wait. Now I’ve got it.” Her eyes shot open. “Genesis!”

Suddenly, Marcus remembered everything. He remembered Eve and her constant complaining, remembered Eden and its plush but boring vegetation. He also remembered his idea, his dream to create a world inside Eden where anything and everything was possible. He and Eve had haunted that world in one guise or another for the last six thousand years, guiding unimportant events, causing disasters, creating fast food, and so on. His identity as Marcus was authentic on the surface, but in reality, he was indeed Adam.

“I see it in your eyes,” Eve said in a husky voice. “The word worked. You remember, don’t you?”

“Yeah, I remember.” Adam slumped in the couch. “And I also remember why I chose to forget.”

Eve toyed with his curls. “And why is that, dear?”

“Because it made Marcus’ life more real, more exciting. Pretending to be normal when I knew as Adam I could make myself win the lottery tomorrow took the zest out of life. But when I pushed the thought that I was Adam out of my mind, little things became exciting. Like wondering if it would rain, or snow, or sleet. Or wondering if I could afford a trip to the Bahamas. Or wondering how my marriage would turn out, how my kids would look, or how my job would go in the future. All those unknowns added to the experience. You understand?”

“Oh, of course, dear.” Eve waved a hand through the air. “You’ve always gotten into this playland more than I have. You live it, while I just use it. But as you’ve seen, if you live too closely in it, you tend to lose touch with being Adam, and then the people disappear.”

Adam thought for a moment. “No. It doesn’t have to be like that. If we both choose to live our lives as mortals, and if we both forget about being Adam and Eve, the world would be fine. It’s only when both of us don’t have the same dream that things go wrong.”

“What are you saying?” Eve slapped him on the knee. “You want me to forget that I’m Eve? How droll! How perfectly droll!”

“I’m not kidding,” Marcus said. “If we purposefully forget our Adam and Eve identities forever, we can do this. What do you say?”

Eve crossed her arms over her chest and pouted. “Can’t we just–”

“No, Eve. Let’s do this. Now. Okay?”

She flung her arms into the air. “Oh, fine. We’ll do it. I’ll be prissy Carla Boykin.” Her eyes took on a mischievous glint. “But couldn’t we at least make Carla and Marcus friends, so I can visit you from time to time?”

Adam glanced at Eve’s figure. “Don’t know if Marcus needs friends like you. He’s getting married today.”

Eve looked offended. “Don’t reject this body now, hon. You’ve wanted me to keep the same appearance throughout the generations. Like the dumb blond look, don’t you?” She smiled, then her lips pursed together. “Let Carla and Marcus be friends, Adam. Please?”

Adam thought for a moment, then nodded. “Fine, fine. They’ll be friends. Not good friends, but occasional, distant, used-to-know-you-but-now-send-you-Christmas-cards variety.” Adam paused. “Ready?”

“Ready, dear.” Eve sighed. “Nice knowing you.”

“We’ll close our eyes,” Adam said, “and concentrate on what the world was like before all the people vanished. Then, on the count of three, we forget about being Adam and Eve. From that point on, we’ll exist solely as Marcus and Carla.”

Adam watched Eve close her eyes, then he closed his. He fixated on a mental image of the day of his marriage, of waking up and being only a few hours away from becoming a husband to the most wonderful woman in the world. “Okay. Here we go. One...two...three!”

He opened his eyes. Carla was sitting beside him on the couch.

“Carla?” Marcus frowned. “I’m sorry. What were we talking about?”

Carla’s face beamed at him. “You were just telling me about your upcoming marriage, dear. And you had just asked if we could go for a walk.”

“A walk?” Marcus heard a car screech outside as another head-on collision was narrowly avoided. Dogs barked and pigeons squawked through the window.

“Yeah, a walk.” Carla stood, and as always, Marcus couldn’t help but sneak a peek at her tight jeans.

“Where to?” he asked.

“To a place I never could convince an old, dear friend of mine to go. Central Park.” She smiled a wily, deep grin. “Earlier, I found the most wonderful fruit tree there.” Her eyes flashed. “And you, my dear Marcus, simply must try it."

End

Every So Often in Ducere, Nevada

Dora pitched the last dog onto the roof. The terrier landed with a thud, yelped, then scurried to join her sisters.

“Hmmph,” Dora said, one eye focused on the horizon. The haze had mustered into a faint ball of dust, but still showed no sign of moving toward the house. She stepped off the stool, then kicked it sideways to the ground. She turned to face Terry. “They’ll be safe up there.”

“Is safety really a problem?” Terry asked. “I mean, I’ve heard things in Vegas, mom. Not bad things. Curious things. Things that spark a woman’s interest. Can’t we stay in the house?”

“No, we can’t. And quit asking, girl. I’ve been through this before, and the house ain’t no place you wanna be. Now, get.”

“Where we going? The car?”

Dora looked up and saw the windmill twisting in a slow, westerly direction.

“No, child. East. Top of the shed. Now, stop yapping. We need to be up there before things go bad.”

The sun heated their backs as they raced across the yard, their shoes scuffling over stray crabgrass, scattered pebbles, and parched earth faded dull brown. Dora glanced at the haze. Closer, now. A mile away. A mile and a half tops.

“Hurry, child,” she said. But Terry’s long, young legs were already hurrying much faster than Dora’s; she had sprinted ahead, and would reach the shed a good five seconds before her. Apparently, chasing men in college had converted her daughter’s awkwardness into speed.

A ladder balanced against a worn gutter gave them access to the shed’s roof. Terry’s hands and legs danced up its rungs. Dora followed at a slower pace, her mouth grabbing air, her hands sweaty but vice-like around the ladder’s cooked metal. When they sat beside one another, perched at the apex of the slanting shingles, Dora pointed across the yard and grimaced.

“Pay attention, girl. You never seen nothing like this. Danger, ugliness, and beauty – all in one package. Watch.”

The billowing haze rapidly closed the distance to the house. From her position atop the roof, Dora could now discern the shape of the beast swirling inside it.

Or rather, the shape swirling inside the beast.

“The stories,” Terry said, her voice little more than a sigh. “They’re true. It’s really there.”

Dora nodded but said nothing, fighting the tears of anger that threatened to cloud her vision.

After twenty long years, the dust-dog had returned.

It bounded, hopped, and churned across the yard, kicking sand, dirt, and grit in two-feet spurts behind it. Something lived in its cloud of dust, but it was a transparent something, an unnatural something that seemed to claim its shape on whim. As Dora watched, the outline of a German shepherd flashed into being, then shrank into a poodle, then mutated into a husky. Despite the different shapes the canine chose, however, its cloak of cloudy haze remained constant, huddling and breathing around the animal as it surged toward the house.

The dogs on the rooftop howled. Dora watched them dart across the flat, slate surface, craning their necks at the shape below, barking and yapping, wanting to pounce but afraid of the fall.

The dust-dog paused. It raised its head – or seemed to raise its head, Dora couldn’t be sure – and uttered a loud, three-syllable bark.

“What’s its doing?” Terry asked.

“It’s calling ’em. Trying to lure ’em down.”

“Will they jump?”

“Not likely. Too far.” But she heard the doubt in her own voice and winced.

“Why they so fired up to get down there, anyway?”

“They–” Dora interrupted herself. “Oh, dear Lord. Look at him now, child. Watch what he does now.”

The dust-dog sniffed at a crack in the front door, then slipped through the crack and vanished inside the house, leaving a plume of smoke in its wake.

“Jesus, mom. It can’t climb, can it?”

“No. It can sift, but not climb.”

Dora watched one window of the house cloud with dust, then another, and then a third, tiny grains of sand pelting each pane, covering all of them in a brown, gauzy layer of dirt. Seconds later, the dust-dog seeped through a hole in the plaster and was outside the house again, inciting the dogs into renewed fits of yammering.

“How does it do that?” Terry asked. “And how does it move? Where does it–” Her hand locked onto Dora’s arm. “Look!”

One of the smaller terriers, apparently judging the distance to the ground unimportant, chanced the leap. She landed a foot away from the dust-dog, sprawled in a sideways position that hinted of broken bones. The dust-dog roared, then pounced.

“What’s it doing?” Terry asked. Her shrieking voice overrode the frenzied cries of the dogs.

“Doing?” Dora frowned. “It’s mating, that’s what it’s doing. Dust-dog’ll mate with anything. Cat, chicken, horse. Anything.”

At that moment, the distant silhouette of the windmill stopped turning. It inched to a halt, shuddered, then began to slowly twist in the opposite direction. A subtle shifting of the wind.

Dora gasped. She breathed, exhaled, breathed in again, and there it was, just like twenty years before, the scent, the urging, the longing to rush down the ladder and run to the dust-dog.

“That smell,” Terry said. “Do you feel it inside you?”

Dora’s hands clenched a pair of shingles. She bit down hard on her tongue. Below, the dust-dog climbed away from the terrier and turned toward the shed.

He’s coming for us,” Terry said.

Dora jerked her eyes away from the dust-dog to study her daughter. Terry’s appearance – mouth open, back arched, hands fisted, chest rising, falling, rising, falling – proved a new emotion had taken priority over her fear, her anger, and her awe.

A wrong emotion. Excitement.

Terry climbed to her feet.

“Stay where you are,” Dora said. “Sit your butt back down and stay where you are.”

“No,” Terry said. “I’m going down. I need to understand this.”

She stood and began inching across the roof toward the ladder. But Dora snagged her leg, and with a loud smack, Terry landed on her stomach on the shingles. She rolled and scraped toward the side of the roof, but Dora’s arm could more than handle her daughter’s weight, and caught her easily. She jerked her upward and stretched the young woman across her lap.

Terry growled. “Let me go. I want down.”

The dust-dog barked three times at the base of the shed and Terry’s struggles increased. Dora grappled with her daughter while fighting her own private war, chewing her tongue till it bled, trying to ignore the dust-dog’s scent, doing everything she could to keep the rising desire out of her mind and body. No, this wouldn’t be like last time. It couldn’t be. Not again.

The dust-dog barked a single, solemn bark. Terry writhed and flipped, went limp, then squirmed, heaved, and spasmed. But Dora didn’t release her.

After a long moment punctuated by the grunts and groans of the two women wrestling, the dust-dog lost interest. He seemed to glance at Dora, his transparent dusty eyes glinting, acknowledging her victory. Then his swirl of dust receded across the yard, circled the house of baying dogs, and proceeded across the arid earth toward the neighbor’s.

As he disappeared from sight, Terry howled – a long, throaty howl that lasted several agonizing seconds.

Then the scent faded.

Terry relaxed. Dora released her and watched the young woman pant and sob and settle into a sitting position beside her.

“Mom, what happened?” Terry asked. “I wanted to be down there. With it! With him!”

“Calm yourself, child. It’s over. The scent of the dust-dog grabbed you, that’s all. Something they might not have taught you in that fancy college of yours.”

“You’re right about that,” Terry said. “We hear rumors, of course. Glittery, romantic rumors. But nothing like what just happened. That wasn’t romance. That was lust.”

Dora wiped the moisture from Terry’s cheeks and nose.

“How many times he been here, mom?”

“Lord, I don’t know. Comes around every so often, I guess. Second time since I been here.”

“What happened the first time?”

Dora frowned. “Does it matter? Look, child, we survived. That’s the important thing. Whatever happened in the past...” she shook her head. “Well, it means nothing now. Forget about it." Terry’s eyes glinted, and a growl caught in her throat, but she seemed to accept the answer.

Dora sighed.

Some branches of the family tree, she felt, were better left unclimbed.

End

Thou Shalt Read the Book of Chuckles

Sparks spit his words. “Find it?”

“Uh-huh.” Daphne yanked the folder from her briefcase. “Don’t know what good it’ll do you.”

“The complete fictional writings of Chuckles the Clown? You really can’t guess the value?”

“Not for a sane person, no.”

“The man was a genius, Daphne. Pure genius. With this, I can do anything.”

“It’s three short stories.”

“I’ll be rich!” Sparks cried.

“And a poem.”

“Rich, rich, rich!”

“Look. None of these were even published. Nobody wanted them.”

“That’s because no one recognized Chuckles’ intellect at the time. A comic mastermind. That’s what he was. A mastermind.”

Daphne frowned. “Why don’t you tell me how his stories are going to make you rich.”

“You’d like to know, wouldn’t you? But I’m not telling.”

“Fine.” Daphne stood to leave.

“Wait. I’ll tell. Have a seat.”

Daphne sat.

“The world’s gone wrong,” Sparks said.

“How so?”

“War. Pollution. Infomercials. Diet drinks. Everything’s wrong.”

“Uh-huh.” Daphne waited.

“But now, I can fix things. I can fix it all!”

“With three short stories and a poem?”

“You laugh? Get out of here. No. Stay.” Sparks giggled. “So. Don’t believe this hodgepodge of words can save the world, huh?”

Daphne shrugged.

“Well, I say it can. It’s happened before. Oh, yes. It’s happened before.”

“When?”

“Maybe you remember"–Sparks’ eyes widened–"the Ten Commandments?”

Daphne sighed. No matter what she prescribed, his conversations always degenerated back to his obsession – the Ten Commandments. She’d hoped for better today.

Oh well, she thought. Maybe tomorrow.

End

Two Days Later

“I know you killed someone, sir,” the boy said in my direction. A smile danced across his face.

I glanced around the waiting room to see who else had heard the kid’s accusation. His mother stood by the front desk, yapping with the secretary. The others in the room, two fifty-plus men and a young college-aged woman, were too busy sniffling, wheezing, and coughing to pay us any attention.

“Killed someone?” I duplicated the boy’s smile. “What makes you say that?”

“I can smell it,” the boy said. “Ten-year-olds have a keen sense of smell.”

“Is that so?” I laughed in what I hoped was a show of comradery: two guys – one ten, the other thirty-three – sitting beside one another having a chummy talk about the smell of death.

The boy didn’t buy it. “You’re evil. Someone needs to deal with you.”

“Uh-huh.” I surveyed the room again.

“And they need to deal with you soon. Before you kill more innocents.”

“Look, kid. I got a fever of 101. Don’t you watch cop shows? Killers never get sick. You got the wrong guy.”

The boy’s head swung left and right. “Nope. You’re the killer. I smell it. Wait’ll I tell mom.”

I peeked at “mom” and wished she had taken her kid to some other lousy doctor. Nonchalantly, my left hand fondled the .32 caliber pistol through the lining of my jacket.

“Now, kid, your mom’s not gonna believe you. She’ll be upset, and warn you about talking to strangers. And that’s what I am. Not a killer. A stranger.”

“A stranger who kills,” the boy said. “My mom trusts me. She’ll believe, and then she’ll call the police.”

I shuffled my back against the chair so the sweat gathering beneath my armpit could run freely. The kid knew. Forget why. Forget how. Some way, the kid just knew.

My right foot tapped against the floor as I unbuttoned my jacket. “Why don’t you pretend you never saw me, kid? Better for both of us that way. You don’t like me, and I’m starting not to like you.”

The boy smiled. “Killer. Killer, killer, killer.”

The coldness of the gun shocked my probing hand. I dipped my entire wrist in the jacket pocket. “Warning you, kid. Stop your mouth. Now.”

“You like jail, sir?” he asked. “Do you? You’ll be there soon.”

A pair of women strolled through the front entrance. The kid’s eyes flickered to them. I used the distraction to wedge my hand deeper inside my pocket.

“I’m going to tell those two women all about you,” the boy said. “Going to tell them everything.”

“Please, kid. Shut up.” My voice cracked on the word “up.”

The two women glanced at the secretary, saw she was busy with the brat’s mom, then sat in chairs across from us. I watched them flash the boy “oh, we’re mothers, too” smiles of approval.

“I have something to tell you both,” the boy said to their smiles.

The women exchanged a curious look, then focused their eyes on the boy. I clutched the gun beneath the lining of my jacket.

“What is it, young man?”

“Yes, what would you like to tell us?”

My finger caressed the trigger. I waited.

The boy grinned. “I know you both killed someone,” he said to the women. “I can smell it.”

Fortunately, the dark pants I wore hid my embarrassing surge of relief.

The pants didn’t, however, hide the smell.

End

Obsession

Spencer maintained an immaculate yard.

His fastidiousness and attention to detail waited until his retirement to fully blossom. Then, with nothing to do but count age spots and wonder when his overeager son would sweep him into a nursing home, Spencer’s mind turned to upkeep.

He bought a new rake. He planted exotic flowers. He purchased fertilizer, grass seed, and a riding lawn mover, then used the last of the three to keep the first two in line. Every blade of green measured three inches high. Every weed was plucked and burned, the ashes stuffed inside an airtight bag and driven to the dump. Sprinklers spun from four in the morning until five.

The town cancelled its Yard of the Month campaign. They awarded Spencer the sign permanently. He rigged wires to his house so the sign could hang above the lawn, thereby preserving his perfect greenway from puncture.

Despite his many landscaping accomplishments, however, Spencer cultivated a hatred for one relentless yearly foe.

Autumn.

From September to December, he spent his days raking leaves and cramming them into bags. Yet always upon returning from the dump, he discovered additional leaves scattered about the yard, mocking his impeccable fortress.

Eventually, Spencer fought back.

He bought a chain saw. One by one the great oaks fell. Pines crashed. Magnolias thudded. Dogwoods died.

September. Spencer watched the yard from his bay window. The jutting pencil points of truncated wood did not shed. But as the wind increased, leaves from his neighbors’ trees stampeded onto his property, staining his pure and verdant grass. He rushed outside each time a new wave attacked, but the wind was ceaseless, and Spencer’s body was not.

When he approached his neighbors, they declined the use of his chain saw. So he lugged the whirling, jagged teeth into a huge forest and left a much smaller forest in its stead. Then, with hammer, nails, and an abundance of timber, he erected a thirty-foot wall around the perimeter of his property. He draped the Yard of the Month sign on the outside of the wall to remind everyone what was inside.

October. Again Spencer fixated on the sparkling yard from his bay window.

November. Though his daily vigil continued, not a single, tainted leaf surmounted his spiked shield of wood.

December. Spencer began to relax. He limited his careful scrutiny to six hours a day.

Finally, one morning in early January, Spencer strolled across his yard, inhaling the sight of his victory. But as he gazed up at the northern wall, a furious wind billowed over its crest. A lone leaf fluttered through the air, flung itself over the spires, then drifted, drifted, drifted, eventually landing at Spencer’s feet. Its diameter covered a two-inch swatch of his lovely, uncorrupted grass.

It was too much.

Spencer packed his bags and moved to Arizona.

End

Stud

I ignored the tattered magazines scattered about my chair, choosing instead to watch the female students whisk in and out of the beauty school’s beaded door entrance. The smirks they exchanged as they strolled back and forth in front of the waiting room suggested a lack of regard for their customers. I sensed, however, that their haughty attitudes were a lie. Each woman secretly hoped her next customer would pluck her out of the salon and haul her away to a better life. The carefully cultivated movements, laughs, and hairstyles of the women, perfected over their nine-month tenures at the school, proved it. Mentally I reviewed each woman’s qualifications. Wide hips or narrow? Amazon, hourglass, or lithe nymph? Which mix of feminine allure and mystique would saunter through the beads, smile, and read my name off her yellow customer ticket? Which sultry beauty would move her smooth hands, painted fingernails, and soft palms through my hair, dancing scissors round and round my head till I deemed her finished and fished in my pocket for a tip? We’d talk of whatever interested her the entire time. That’s how I preferred it. Listening to their chatter made them more receptive. Every two months I played this game, laughing and joking with a random woman while searching for the line that would earn me a date. Thus far, none of the women had agreed. But today would be different. I’d taken pains to hone my appearance. My khaki pants – ironed, pleated, adjusted with the belt looped around my waist at the most flattering level – combined with my designer silk shirt to radiate power and prestige. My hair had been cut and styled the other day in a genuine hair salon, a place some of these women would probably work when they completed their schooling. And outside, my red ’97 Porsche claimed two spaces in the last row of the parking lot. At some point, I’d work the car into the conversation. The women always liked hearing about the car.

Donna cut my hair last time. She was short, with brown eyes and dark hair and a small chest. Cute, though. She’d wanted to attend the local university, but her parents hadn’t supported her decision. Money problems, I think she’d said, though I rarely remembered that type of detail. Now, three years after high school, Donna was pursuing a career as a hair stylist. She drove a ’79 Datsun, owned a dog named George, and lived with two roommates down by Waterson street. I asked if she’d like to walk her dog with my dog Jack, a purebred pointer I’d bought when I noticed women admiring him in a pet store. Donna smiled at my offer and told me what a nice guy I was. Then she explained that she had no time for walking dogs. She spent almost all of her time at the school, and when she wasn’t here she was working a night job at a shoe store in the mall. I returned her smile, waited an appropriate amount of time, then ended the haircut with a frown as my hand casually buried her tip money in my pocket. I hoped I wouldn’t get stuck with her again today.

Besides, I preferred adventurous women, not workaholics. Last summer I lucked into Becky Balingo, a crazed, tanned, storytelling nympho who claimed she needed only three hours of sleep a night. She nicked my scalp twice with her scissors as her eyes struggled to stay open and her mouth fought against yawns. Her breath reeked of Listerine-laced alcohol. Still, within minutes of meeting her, I decided that a woman named Becky Balingo entered a man’s life only once. Our chance meeting demanded exploitation. And her skin was tan. I’ve always liked tans. When she paused in the middle of one of her risqué stories to wipe blood from my left ear, I invited her to the beach, explaining that we could relax and talk further in my 1500 square foot oceanfront condo. She finished cleaning my head wound, said no thanks, then continued cutting my hair and telling stories. I didn’t leave a tip for her either.

Of course, the many rejections have been offset by sporadic, partial successes. Two years ago, a girl named Cynthia said yes. I gave her a five dollar tip, asked for her number, and told her I’d call her later in the week to schedule the date. My method never varies. I get my hair cut on Mondays, ignore the phone on Tuesdays, then call the girls on Wednesdays. The procedure builds anticipation, both for me and for them. But when I called Cynthia, she explained that her ailing, elderly father had arrived from Michigan in need of a place to stay while his burned-to-the-ground house was being rebuilt. Dates and romance, she said, were out of the question, and would remain so for an indefinite period of time. I told her I understood, and said I’d see her at the salon. She must have quit, though, because I never saw her again. I’ve often wondered if we would’ve become lovers or gotten married if her father had only stayed in Michigan.

“Taylor? Taylor Brislow?”

The scratchy yet perky female voice sifted through the waiting room. To my right, a man lurched to his feet. He advanced to the beaded doorway where a woman stood alone, her white hands parting the beads into an inverted letter V.

“I’m Taylor,” the man said.

“Great.” The woman smiled. “I’m Georgia. Come with me, please.”

She pivoted, and the man followed her through the beads and into the salon. As they disappeared behind a mirror, I mused on the randomness of the school’s haircutting system. First come, first served. The policy, one I usually appreciated, enabled me to enjoy a different mysterious hair stylist during every visit. And because the students rotated through the school in varying nine-month intervals, new women and girls presented themselves every time I needed a cut.

But the random policy created a unique danger. As I watched the beaded entrance, two students traipsed into the waiting room. One was a blond. Tall, with a large chest and tangerine lipstick and a yellow ticket crinkled in her right hand. The other student also carried a yellow ticket, but he was a man. I found myself shrinking into the plastic cushioning of my chair. My singular worry while waiting for a student to call my name was that the voice that finally called it would be a man’s. The odds promised this shouldn’t happen. Out of the forty-three students who attended the school during any given week, only two or three of them ever happened to be men. Still, it could happen, so I worried. The pair of students glanced at their yellow tickets, then hunted through the room with their eyes, as if they could intuitively match the names on their tickets to the faces the names belonged to. I waited.

“Stephanie?” the blond asked.

A woman sitting beside me abandoned her chair and claimed the name with a nod. Together, the two women paraded into the salon.

The male student studied the room for several more seconds, then focused on me. I broke eye contact and fixated on the black-white floor tile patterns until I heard him speak.

“Richard?”

My head shot up and I grinned. No, not me. That’s not my name. My luck had held.

But someone else’s had run out. A man sitting on the far side of the waiting room responded to the student’s call by approaching him and introducing himself. After they slipped through the beads, I straightened my posture and recommenced my daydreams about the female stylists.
An hour had now passed since I had arrived and paid for my cut. As my wait continued, I visually selected the girl I hoped would acquire my ticket. She wore her black hair short, exhibited nice cleavage, and possessed full lips that spread into bubbly smiles. The bubbly girls always entertained me, because they laughed and moved and jiggled and made me think they would say yes when I asked them out. I watched the girl finish with her current patron and noticed her eyes glowing when he handed her a one dollar tip. What magnitude of happiness would she display for me when I handed her a five?

As her patron exited the building, she slid behind the front desk and vanished through a rear door. Then, after a long three minutes, she reappeared with a new yellow ticket clasped between her delicate, soft fingers. I tried to catch her eyes with a smile, but she failed to notice.

“Mark?” she asked in a loud voice. A man stood and walked toward her. Together, they headed into the salon. I couldn’t help glaring at them as they stopped in front of her counter. The happy, airy looks she fed him were supposed to be for me. And the way she–

“Felix?”

I swiveled around in my chair to examine the woman who’d called my name. A brunette – flat chest, dull face, large legs – slouched in front of the beaded doorway, her wide hands fumbling with a yellow ticket. Reluctantly, I stood and shuffled toward her.

“I’m Felix.” My lack of enthusiasm sounded loud in my ears. I could come again in five weeks, probably, but four would be pushing it. Three was out of the question.

“Hi, Felix. I’m Molly, and I’ll be cutting your hair today. Follow me.”

She twisted around, parted the beads, and weaved across the hair-covered main floor of the salon. I trailed behind, eyeing the various female students in the mirrors. The school’s instructors, apparently deeming their establishment a place of beauty for beauties, tended to showcase the knockout women up front, while hiding the less-glamorous ones in the building’s rear.

Molly’s counter stood alone in the back.

As I dropped into her chair, I reviewed the different lines I typically used to entice women into conversation. At least I’d get practice with my delivery.

“So, Felix, how do you want your hair cut?”

The way she pronounced the word hair nettled me. My coiffure had thinned over the last couple of years, prompting me to twist the wispy strands across growing bald spots. But did she have to refer to the strands as a hair?

Suddenly, I didn’t want her. The girl showed no couth, looked over twenty-one, and would probably make a terrible hair stylist. And she wasn’t even attractive. Why waste my time and money dealing with her?

“Ah, I think I changed my mind,” I said, jerking forward to climb out of the chair.

“You can’t change your mind.” Molly’s hand rolled through my hair and her lips feigned a pout. “Look at this. You need a cut. And you already waited and everything. Let me cut it, Felix. Please?”

Intuition, I’ve always believed, is everything. At that moment, I realized that if I asked Molly out, she would accept. She seemed more attractive now, more developed, more fun. Maybe we would make an interesting couple after all. Yeah, I could date her. She wasn’t that bad.

So, I stayed.

The haircut lasted twenty-three minutes. Molly talked the entire time, providing me with the details I would need to interest her in a date. Whenever she paused to catch her breath, I interjected witty comments about her stories, often receiving a laugh or giggle for my efforts. The girl liked me. Her eyes, lips, and body motions told me so. I studied people, and knew the signs.

When she finished, I handed her a five dollar tip for one of the worst haircuts I’d ever received. Then I made my move.

“If you like jazz so much, Molly, you ought to go with me to the Runaway Blues cafe. A friend of mine plays there. He’s excellent." Molly waved the five dollar bill at another hair stylist. The two girls exchanged grins and winks. Then Molly pocketed the money, gazed into my eyes, and frowned.

“Sorry, Felix, but I’ve got a boyfriend. Thanks for asking, though.”

My smile didn’t waver. “I understand. Don’t worry about it.”

As Molly ushered me toward the salon’s exit, I debated whether or not I could ask for a return of my tip money without causing a scene. Maybe I could get away with the request by telling her I needed the money for gas. The plan sounded plausible, but I decided against it. The expression on her face when I’d asked her out proved she’d been close, oh so close, to saying hell with her boyfriend and going out with me anyway. Besides, now two of the girls knew I tipped with fives. They might tell others, and rumors of my generosity might help me next time I come here.

“Bye, Felix,” Molly said at the exit.

I waved without turning and pushed through the front door. The haircut was terrible. I’d have to return again soon. And there’d be new women working by then. There were always new women. Women just waiting to be released from the hair stylist cocoon that had trapped them. Waiting to be asked out and swept off their feet.

Waiting. For me.

End

This Is Not Your Mother’s Earth

Bill glanced away from his book to find Lexie peeking her head through his doorway.

“Morning,” she said. “Ready?”

“Sure. Hold on a sec.”

Though he knew he would never pick up the book again, Bill marked his place between the pages. Then he stood and eyeballed his room. The twenty by twenty windowless chamber contained the standard items issued to a man of eighteen: queen-sized floor cushion, toilet, set of free weights, and a bookshelf full of the latest bestsellers, novels by Paula Ryton, Julia James, Mary Higgins Clark, and Beverly Moonwater.

When he spotted his robe pinned beneath the edge of the floor cushion, he pointed. “Think I need it?”

Lexie studied his naked torso with her usual expression of feigned disinterest. “Well, yeah. I’d put it on. Why not?”

Her discomfort made him smile. “All right, Lexie. I’ll wear it. For you.”

“Bill! Don’t tease. If you only knew...”

Bill studied Lexie’s reddening face as he slipped into the robe and felt guilt wash over him. They could never be together. He knew that, and so did she.

“Sorry, Lex.”

“S’okay.” She motioned him out of the room. “Now c’mon. You’re going to be late.”

Bill followed her into the hallway. The overhead fluorescents reflected off the white cement walls and the shining black squares of floor tile, bathing the lengthy corridor in an uncomfortable level of brightness.

Bill shielded his eyes while listening to Lexie talk.

“You’re going to like this one, Bill. She’s beautiful.”

“Oh, yeah? Where’s she from?”

“Florida. Think Daytona, but forgot to check. Sorry.”

Thoughts of surf and sand and tanned legs and blond hair drifted through Bill’s mind. “Don’t worry about it. It’ll be a surprise.”

The corridor stretched forever, with doorways on the left and right every twenty feet. There were no doors. The removal of those fixtures had occurred ten years ago when the World Government decided a closed door promoted aloofness.

As they passed each doorway, Bill searched the rooms for his friends. He saw no one, of course. It was eleven-fifteen, and that meant everyone was at work. The only reason he had been allowed to stay in his room longer than everyone else was because of the specialness of his day.

Lexie spoke his thoughts. “So. Last one, huh?”

“That’s what they tell me. And you know, Lex, I can smell that red licorice already.”

They both laughed at the old joke. Then Lexie put a hand on his shoulder and stopped him in the hall. Her smile disappeared.

“Bill, thanks for letting me work with you. I know you had thousands of choices, and it could’ve been anyone, but for whatever reason, you chose me. Thanks.”

Bill waved a hand through the air. “You were great. I couldn’t have chosen better.”

Actually, he had selected her at random. On his eighteenth birthday, he had tried previewing all of the 10,953 assistants available. After several days of contemplation, however, the women had blurred together, melding into a jumbled mesh of pretty faces, strong muscles, and five-page resumes. He had eventually just pointed at the Select-An-Assistant screen and let chaos choose for him.

Still, Lexie had been great. He would hate not to see her again.

The corridor continued for another five minutes before opening into the Chamber, a large amphitheater with rows and rows of seats lining all sides of its sunken rounded pit. The seats rose one hundred feet into the air in gradually widening concentric circles.

Currently, all the seats were empty.

Bill stared up at that emptiness and felt something stir inside him.

“You okay?” Lexie asked. “You look strange.”

“Fine. Just feeling a bit overwhelmed.”

“You? Overwhelmed? Don’t expect me to believe that. You’ve done this too many times to feel overwhelmed.”

“Yeah, well, this time it’s different.” Bill grinned. “Different in an exciting way, of course, but different nonetheless.”

Lexie smiled and rolled her eyes. “Always kidding, aren’t you? Now, let’s go. Time, as they say, is a-wasting.”

They walked side-by-side across the pit, their feet shuffling over an earth composed of dark black soil. Unlike the black tile in the hallway, however, the surface they now walked on failed to reflect light. No one wanted a glare when the amphitheater was displayed on television.

At the center of the Chamber, a small white building stood alone. The elevator. They stopped walking when they neared it.

“Now, what?” Bill asked.

Lexie wiggled her nose and grinned. “Nothing’s changed, silly. Just because this is the last doesn’t mean the basic procedures are any different. Go to the elevator and ride it down.”

Bill paused. “Well, I guess I better do that."

Lexie grabbed his hands. “Yeah, I guess you better. You always do. And you always, always, always come back grinning.”

Bill smiled and squeezed her hands. God, how he’d miss this woman!

He released her, then turned and walked to the elevator. As he approached the wall nearest him, the wall opened with a fizz-fizz sound that always reminded Bill of the noise a cola made when poured into a glass.

He stepped inside the elevator, then turned to face the opening. “Bye, Lexie.”

Lexie waved. Bill thought he saw tears in her eyes. “Bye, Bill. I’ll be watching for you. Section H, row nineteen, seat four.”

Then Lexie vanished from his view as the wall shut. Bill sighed.

“Good morning, Bill,” the elevator computer said in a metallic female voice. “Got some great news for you on your special day. Just received word that Vera Nine has been diagnosed as pregnant. And get this. She’s pregnant with twins! Both girls! Congratulations!”

Bill’s melancholy attitude disappeared. He felt a smile climb onto his face. “Vera Nine, huh? Last Monday?”

“That’s right. Monday.”

“Had a feeling, you know. Not sure how, but I did.”

The elevator lurched into motion, jerking downward at an uneven pace.

“Whoops. Sorry about that, Bill.” The ride smoothed. “Guess I’m nervous.”

Bill laughed. “Since when do computers get nervous?”

“Why, I’m nervous for you, of course. You’re the youngest ever. Ninety-one days. Incredible.”

The elevator thudded to a stop.

“And now,” the elevator said in a sing-song voice, “behind door number one...”

“Stop, stop,” Bill said. “You’re going to make me laugh. I can’t very well walk in on her giggling, can I?”

“Lisa Fourteen didn’t seem to mind.”

Bill couldn’t prevent his laughter. “All right, already. Open the wall.”

The wall opened and there she was, a beautiful blond buried beneath the bedsheets of an enormous queen-sized bed. As Bill stepped into the room, he heard the elevator say goodbye and heard the wall fizz close. The sounds came to him from a distance, a distance created by the overwhelming power of the girl’s beauty. Lexie hadn’t lied. A Florida girl of his dreams.

“Hi, Bill,” the blond said with a grin. “Looks like I’m the last. You going to keep your eighty-two percent track record intact?”

“Gonna try,” he said, moving to the bed. The rest of the room was empty. No furniture, no doors, no windows.

No distractions.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

The blond sat up in bed, shoved the pillow to the wall, then leaned against it. “Shirley. Shirley Twenty-two.”

“Nice to meet you, Shirley.” Bill slipped out of his robe. “Ready?”

“Uh-huh.”

The sex lasted one hour and forty-six minutes. Of course to Bill, it wasn’t sex. Not anymore. No, after sleeping with ninety-one different women over the last ninety-one days, sex had become a dance, a performing art that continually needed perfecting. Bill took his responsibility seriously. His caresses, whispers, kisses, and thrusts were designed to please her, not himself.

In the end, however, the experience concluded the way all of these couplings had to conclude.

With his orgasm.

“Thanks, Bill,” Shirley said, looking suddenly modest. She climbed out of bed and wiggled into a dress.

“No need to thank me. I enjoyed it.” Bill nestled his head deeper into the pillow. Fifteen minutes remained until he had to leave. “What do you do for a living?”

Shirley sat on the edge of the bed while lacing up her shoes. “I’m a doctor. A cardiologist. Work out of Janice Memorial in Miami. Ever been there?”

“No, but I’ve seen pictures. Those hospitals, they look nice.”

“They’re wonderful.” Shirley coughed, stood, then bent over and kissed Bill on the cheek. “Well, I gotta go. Thanks again. You’re a cool kid. I have a feeling you’re going to be the one for me.” She eyed the room. “After four years of this, I certainly hope so.”

The wall opened.

“Bye,” Bill said.

Shirley turned. She shook her head sadly in Bill’s direction. “Oh, and I’m afraid I’ll have to miss the licorice. I’ve got a consultation with a client in an hour, so I’ve got to get back to Miami. I wish you luck, though.”

Bill nodded. He wasn’t surprised. If she had said she was going to stay, now that would have surprised him. He wondered how many of the other women would actually be there.

After the elevator whisked Shirley away, Bill wrapped himself in his robe and reexamined the room. Though he had seen it almost a hundred times, it looked different today. The gray walls looked closer and darker. The ceiling lower. The floor grimier. He knew this vision was incorrect. The walls and ceiling never changed, and the room was sterilized on a daily basis by a three-person team of cleaners.

Still, the room did seem different. As he walked toward the elevator wall, he pushed his imaginative thoughts away, letting his excitement over his accomplishments fill his thinking. He’d done it. After ninety-one attempts, he had impregnated his seventy-five women. Seventy-six, if he counted Vera Nine, the woman who had been diagnosed with twins. And several of the other women from this week might be pregnant as well.

But it was the number of days that mattered most to Bill. Ninety-one. A new speed record. One that would hopefully stand for generations to come. His name, of course, would be praised throughout the world. He knew that. And as the elevator wall fizzed open, he couldn’t help but smile.

“Ahem,” said the elevator. “Smiling, are we? Did it go that well?”

“It was a fitting finale.”

“That’s what Shirley said. You’re quite the star with the ladies. Too bad this was the last.”

The elevator screeched, then began moving upward.

“Elevator?” Bill asked.

“Yes.”

“What do most men do at this point? Before the licorice?”

“Oh, I don’t know. You guys tend to get self-absorbed. It’s not a big deal, though. Really. Don’t worry about it.”

“Not worried. Just curious.”

The elevator stopped moving. They had arrived at the Chamber.

“I’ll tell you what you should do, then. Think of something memorable, something unusual, to say to the masses. Something they’ll never forget.” The elevator laughed. “As if your performances in bed could ever really be forgotten. I watched them all, you know.”

Bill felt heat on his cheeks. “Stop. Please.”

“Ready?”

“Uh-huh.”

There was a click as the roof of the elevator slid open. Bill heard an anticipatory rumbling. Then the four walls of the elevator separated at the corners. Each side peeled open, slowly, like a flower spreading its petals to reveal the stigma.

Then, as the four walls sank into the dark black soil, fifty thousand women welcomed Bill to the Chamber.

They covered the seats around him, ringing him in loop after loop of beauty, each circular row combining with the next to create a wavy sea of women that cheered, whistled, clapped and smiled in his direction. Cameras flashed from everywhere, blinding him, while above, dozens of videocameras from the networks and cable stations captured the moment for the entire world.

Bill had known what to expect, but the magnitude of the event still caught him off guard. He stood without moving for several minutes before remembering to wave. Immediately, the crowd responded to his acknowledgment. Some women threw roses at him. Others held up signs to show their love. Bill spied one banner that read, THANKS, BILL. MY DAUGHTER’S GOING TO HAVE A BABY GIRL IN SEVEN MONTHS. WE LOVE YOU!

But though he appreciated the efforts of his fans, there was one fan in particular he wanted to see the most. He counted sections, then rows, then seats until locating her. Lexie. He smiled and she smiled back. This time he was sure she was crying. Part of him wanted to cry with her, but now certainly wasn’t the time for that. He had a tradition to uphold.

He gave Lexie a wink, then surveyed the rest of the pit. Though the women occupied every seat, and though the videocameras dangled down from above, the black soil around him had nothing on it.

Except, Bill knew, for the spot ten feet behind him.

He turned and heard the cheers strengthen as he faced the pit’s other occupant.

A bed. A queen-sized bed, sitting alone, its cushions covered with white sheets chosen to provide a contrast to the black soil.

Bill walked toward it.

A chant of “Bill, Bill, Bill” rose throughout the Chamber. By the time he arrived at the foot of the bed, the intensity of the chant vibrated the air.

Bill looked into the audience and bowed, as he had seen other men do on television as they reached this point in the ceremony. No other man had ever earned as large a crowd as Bill’s, however. And the cheers had never been as loud as they were today.

He was, he realized with a twinge of embarrassment, a living legend.

After bowing, he studied the bed. It had no headboard, because a headboard would prevent many members of the crowd from watching. There was a fluffed pillow, however. And atop the pillow, a foot-long strand of red licorice lay horizontally, a note propped in an inverted V behind it.

Bill grabbed the note and read it, then waved it before the crowd.

The crowd hushed.

“This note is from the World President herself,” Bill said, rushing his words together.

The crowd oohhed and aahed. The World President had never written a note to a man before.

Bill cleared his throat. “The note says, and I quote, ’Bill, you are a World Hero. You have done well, and I, on behalf of the World Government, would like to personally thank you for your efforts. Good luck, boy, and God speed.’ It’s signed Tabitha L. Sumter, World President.”

The crowd cheered. Bill half-sat, half-collapsed onto the corner of the bed, his head swimming with pride. When he reached for the licorice, the crowd noise deafened him with its volume. He peeked into the audience at Lexie. She waved, her hand a soft flutter in a sea of hard clapping. He held the licorice high in the air, savoring the moment, before lowering it to his lips. It smelled pungent, a peppery-garlic odor that tickled his nose with its strength.

Without further hesitation, Bill took a bite.

The crowd roared.

He took another bite. Then another. The tough skin of the licorice reminded him of salami. Not fresh salami, but week-old salami whose flavor had frayed around the edges.

Bill kept eating.

When he finished the licorice, a fireworks display began in the open sky. Bill smiled at the many sparkles of color that danced and popped above him. A bitter aftertaste clung to his tongue and extended down his throat, but he hardly noticed. Aftertaste was something a World Hero could ignore.

As the fireworks ended, he held up a hand in an effort to silence the crowd. The elevator had told him he should say something memorable, something unusual, and Bill knew exactly what he wanted to say.

But with the formalities of the ceremony out of the way, the crowd didn’t want to stop cheering. Once again, they began chanting his name.

“Bill, Bill, Bill!!!”

Bill began to feel a little sleepy.

He continued to wave his hand, still hopeful he could silence the crowd. After another minute of failure, however, he gave up, looked at his adoring audience, and found Lexie. Then he yelled his memorable and unusual phrase in her direction.

“I love you, Lexie!”

No one heard it, of course. Not over the roar of the crowd. But Lexie seemed to smile at him for a moment before burying her head in her hands. Bill yawned. He lifted his feet onto the bed, inciting the crowd into a standing ovation. Police women patrolled the edge of the amphitheater, preventing the crowd from stampeding onto the pit’s floor. An old superstition said that whoever touched a man lying on the Chamber bed would have good luck for years.

As Bill rested his head on the pillow, the tiredness crept further inside him. He tried to look into the audience, to see Lexie, but couldn’t remember where she was. Everything was foggy.

When he closed his eyes, he found he could no longer reopen them.

And the bed felt so comfortable.

As he lay there, listening to his name reverberate throughout the Chamber, one thought danced through his head.

I’m a hero. They all said so. A World Hero.

Then he smiled and fell asleep forever.

End

A Mare Imbrium Wink

I’m tired and cramped and I’ve only traveled half the distance to the Earth. My ship smells like rotten zucchini, and my body reeks of food powder and overaged excrement. I can endure this environment for years, but the human in me cannot. The human requires voices and bathing and exercise.

The human requires a break.

The decision to concede to my human wishes comes easy, a comfortable glove of choice that feels more and more natural each time I try it on.

I punch a request into the computer, asking for coordinates of the nearest entertainment. Words wrap across the screen. The Nubi system, the latest system to advertise the existence of a Corndada bar, is only five hours away. Yet I hesitate. The Corndada bars have spread throughout the universe because of their ability to cater to all species. But my species, because of our peculiar habits, are often discouraged from attending such public places. I should be safe, looking as I do, but caution will be required. I adjust my flight path, dim the controls, and prepare to fall into sleep.

My dream is of my own choosing. The human in me can’t understand my ability to choose my dreams. But it’s the way of my people. We encapsulate our most vivid memories, then cycle through them while we sleep. I’ve tried dreaming the way humans do, allowing my cluttered unconscious to pick the patterns and colors for me. It never works. I always end up in complete control. Random dreaming is one thing humans can do that I cannot.

My dream begins.

In a dark place, rows of human bodies float in blackened preservation solution. The bodies bob on the surface like corks in water, limbs stiff, shoulders and toes touching and bouncing against one another. As the bodies drift into the center of the pool, pressurized waterfalls of black liquid push them beneath the solution. Slowly, they return to the surface.

“And this batch,” my teacher says, “comes from among the scientists of Earth. Great men, or, to put it more accurately, great thinking men. Highly valued. I hope at least one of you will show interest in science and choose to polymorph with one of these specimens.”

I gaze down at the swirling masses of flesh. My form is less certain than a human’s. I’m more of an idea, a puzzle of unresolved DNA waiting to happen.

My people obtained these human bodies back when we first discovered man had reached their moon. That one success, coming so early in the human stages of development, awakened a fear inside all of us. A fear that we were witnessing the birth of a new rival, a potential enemy who would rush into the universe and try to tame it with unimagined technologies.

Our fear passed quickly. After the humans set foot on their moon, their interest in cosmic expeditions deteriorated, and they began to regard the openness beyond their planet as nothing more than a strategic location for satellites. To many of my people, the failure of the humans was both a relief and a disappointment. A relief because our people were safe. A disappointment because we watched a young species reach for the stars, then watched them recoil from their success as matters on their home planet took precedence over exploration.

We now know humans have many other weaknesses. They challenge one another constantly, they duel over trivial matters, and they carry too much pride. Without homogeneity, without cooperation, they will never attain the stars.

This thought leads me to a question.

“Teacher?” I ask. “What’s the point of polymorphing with an inferior race?”

“Inferior doesn’t mean useless, Gusta-Feen. While properly motivated, humans were on course to become a great power in the universe. Their failure, due to their own pride and infighting, does not lessen their greatness. I know our people have lost interest in the humans, but at one time in the past, we wanted to be just like them. We wanted their lust and hunger to succeed, their devotion to ideas, their passion for never giving up even when the cause was hopeless. Those are still fine traits to desire in a polymorph. You just have to be aware that the bad comes with the good. Now let’s move on to the next container.”

I linger. I stare and watch bodies pop to the surface of the solution. I’m eight timespans away from sucking alien DNA into my lifestrands to give me shape. After the unification, I’ll retain my personality, but I’ll acquire fragments of the thoughts and memories of the alien. And I’ll forfeit my malleable form forever. But it’ll be worth it. It’s what my people live for.

A scientist rolls into an eddy and spins and spins, knocking into the others around him. What would it be like to be a human scientist? What obstacles must they overcome in their efforts to explore the universe? And how do they react when their efforts succeed or fail, when their life goals are achieved or relinquished?
In this moment filled with questions, I decide what I will polymorph into.

Shrill whistles wake me from my dream. I’ve arrived at the Corndada bar. Through the viewport, I see that this bar, like the others, twists into a stretched spring of purple-glowing metal, its two free ends tied and connected by a black tunnel shooting through the spring’s center. Thirty-nine different docking bays dot the loops of coil. More entrances can, and will, be added later, as the needs of new species are discovered and implemented into the bar’s design. The Corndada always plan ahead.

The oxygen-gravity entrance is spaced one-third of the way down from the top of the spring, or two-thirds of the way up from the bottom, depending on how you approach. I guide my ship into the bay and wait for permission to disembark.

This is my second visit to a Corndada bar since polymorphing into a human. The memories of that other visit scatter across my mind, confusing my perceptions of what the bar is with what the human part of me believes the bar should be. It’s the Corndada style that irks my human side. You step inside one of the bars, and your skin tingles, and all you see is sparkle. Ivory mirrors, sequined stools, and shiny Idola lovechairs. How do the Corndada keep their establishments clean when none of the bars ever close? Do they launch bacteria into the atmosphere to feed on specific undesirable debris? Or do they hire Chronoples to stop time, so grit and grim can be swept, dusted, and siphoned from beneath the frozen feet of their customers? It’s the not knowing that bothers my human tendencies. Humans need to understand this kind of thing. The knowledge would be worthless to them, but acquiring it is essential.

A Corndada guardian hologram grants me permission to leave my ship. I slide my body out of the steering capsule, orient myself to the ship’s exit, and let myself drop. I land on my feet, but my legs can’t support me. They wobble left and right before giving way and sending me crashing against the metal flooring of the bay. The loss of muscle control takes me by surprise, yet I should have remembered. I learned this lesson already. Extended flights without aerobic activity enfeeble the human body.

I stretch and bend and slap my weakened skin, trying to hasten the return of strength and feeling. When I can stand, I follow the purple neon signs to the bar.

The human in me is overwhelmed. Words, laughter, groans, twitters, ringing, and musical chimes surge through the room, loudening and softening in random pockets of noise. Various oxygen-gravity creatures mingle everywhere, grouped in ones or twos or threes, drinking at the bars or tables, searching for their fun. Above the crowd, the translucent Comm balls glide quietly back and forth, darting between speakers, translating all dialogue into common Langua.

I scan the room with eyes that see two viewpoints. The human in me sees possible companions, creatures with whom I can spend time and exchange stories. But I see differently. I see species that represent danger, and I smell scents that might bring trouble.

The path I choose merges these two viewpoints together. I step away from the entrance, the bar surrounds me with its flavor, and my search for conversation begins.

Several bubble-skinned nomads of Yinka sit at nearby tables, each by himself, each cloaked in long garments that jingle with the slightest movement of the wearer. Beneath the robes are riches beyond some species wildest speculations. But I can’t approach the nomads. I have nothing to barter, so they’d ignore my attempts at conversation.

I penetrate further into the bar. The harsh vapor women of Nebunia float around the Idola lovechairs, teasing the current occupants of the chairs with promises of unending ecstasy. But speaking to the vapor women always costs. The cost is never apparent at first, but in the end, you learn you probably can’t afford it.

An empty table catches my eye and I move toward it. The solitude won’t please my human side, but I don’t see a suitable companion, and my legs are weary of walking.

Pleasing my human desire for companionship, of course, has always been a problem.

Celia and I stroll along the Jersey boardwalk. We’ve spent our gambling money, and we’ve decided to walk outside to enjoy the ocean breeze and the surprisingly warm November night.
We pause at a railing and lean against it. Celia wraps an arm across my back and points a finger upward. Above, a full moon peeks down at us.

“He’s beautiful, don’t you think?”

“Ah,” I say. “You see the moon as a male.”

“Not the moon itself, Gus. The man in the moon.”

I whisper a kiss into Celia’s hair and stare at the sky. The information is waiting, hiding inside me, ready to use. I feel around for the right sense of what to say, for the words that’ll let me express a small portion of my knowledge of the moon in a phrase Celia will understand.

“The moon man favors us tonight,” I say.

“How do you know?”

“Legend says that if it’s misty or cloudy or foggy, the moon man’s turning his face away from the Earth. But tonight he’s in clear view. Everything’s perfect.”

Celia’s cheek rubs against my shoulder. “When I was little, daddy used to take me outside to watch eclipses. We would see the face in the moon, and then we wouldn’t, and then we would again. Daddy used to say that when the moon was half-full, it was winking at me, because that’s when its left eye disappears. A Mare Imbrium wink, he called it.”

The story makes her smile, so I’m glad she told it. Her words brought us closer together, and though romance is something foreign to my people, the concept of sharing to create intimacy is not.

We spend the next few hours walking up and down the boardwalk, watching the moon man slip across the sky while his shadow trails him in a path of silver through the ocean. Celia and I kiss sometimes, and other times we hold hands, but mostly we walk and appreciate the night for the gamble it is.

I sit alone in the Corndada bar for as long as possible, nursing a single Tossi crystal until nothing is left in the bowl but green foam. The human in me grows impatient, and begs for companionship, and finally wears me down with persistence. I leave the table and walk toward the Idola lovechairs, knowing the caresses and touches will be illusion, but hoping the experience will soothe my human side into silence.

“Like some loracca, my friend?”

I turn at the voice and find a Flanx staring at me, offering me an unused nose pipe and a sealed bag of loracca. The Flanx, a large boulder of a creature, enormous and wide, sits in a chair, lessening his height, and yet still he peers down at me. Caution warns me off: Flanx can be tricky, and they’re considered one of the most powerful species in existence. They can survive in each of the thirty-nine Corndada barrooms without difficulty. They’re capable of anything.

My caution goes unheeded as the human in me responds to the Flanx without thought to consequence. “I don’t need any loracca, thanks. I’ve had all the brilliant insights I need in my life already.”

“Oh, have you now?” The Flanx grins. “And what species are you, to be so enlightened?”

“Human,” I say.

“Lo and behold, a human. From Earth, right?”

I nod.

The Flanx chuckles. “I don’t think so, my friend. Come. Sit down, have some loracca, and tell me your true story.”

“You don’t acknowledge my humanity?”

“Only because your disguise is ill-timed. Humans haven’t escaped their birth planet and moon, let alone their system.”

“So how can I be here,” I ask, “if we’ve not accomplished what you claim?”

“Because you’re not human,” the Flanx says.

“What do you think I am?”

“I think you’re a Shivver in disguise, and I think the human inside you made you come to this bar.”

“Nonsense.” As I speak the word, I realize I’m throwing myself deeper and deeper into a lie. But fooling this Flanx seems important. A part of me wants to see how perfect a human I can be.

“You pose a thorny problem,” the Flanx says. “A Shivver disguised is no longer a Shivver, or so the saying goes. How can you prove you’re telling the truth?”

“The burden of proof’s on you, not me. I’m what I claim.”

“Spoken like a true scientist. Are you? A man of science?”

Fiery adrenaline spears through me, forcing me to continue this sparring contest of verbal wit and intellect. “You’re good with insights, Flanx. Yes, I’m a scientist.”

The Flanx stands. His rocky bulk towers above me by a full meter. “Please.” He points to the table. “You’ve captured my interest. Take a seat, and let this mystery continue.”

Never trust a Flanx, they say. But I see no harm in this, and he can’t get inside me to prove his theory.

I sit in one chair, he sits in the other.

“I am Grixana,” he says.

“I’m Gus.” Then I remember that humans often use last names. “Gus Landry.”

“So, Gus. You claim to be a scientist.”

“That’s right.”

“And you’re good with numbers?”

“Of course.”

Grixana smiles. “Then how about a little wager?”

“Your reputation forces me to decline.”

“Reputation? I had no idea you humans knew of my species.”

“Only rumors,” I say. “Stories of a powerful race that loves to gamble, but that only make bets when they know they’ll win. Go ahead. Explain your wager. But I’ll tell you now, I’m not interested.”

“Very well.” Grixana leans across the table. “I’ll ask you a question. A riddle, one that a human of science and learning should have no trouble deciphering. If you can’t answer my question, I’ll take something of value from you. If you do answer it, you take something of value from me. I’ve got a Silva skin right here, if you want it. Fair?”

The Silva skins of the Flanx are valued throughout the universe for their ability to regrow layer after layer of fur. One of those skins, sold to the right member of my people, would buy me enough time credit to live out the remainder of my life on Earth. I could marry Celia, we could have children, and I could watch my family grow old without worrying about when our time together would end.

Yet I hesitate. This is a Flanx. Though they’re honest, trickery is their trademark. The odds of me actually winning the prize he offers are small.

Grixana stares at my face, perhaps reading me, and smiles. “To make the wager more enticing, I concede my half of the bet. You can take the Silva skin now, regardless of the outcome. But if you lose, I still get whatever I want. Here. The skin is yours.”

Grixana shoves one of the brown constantly-growing furs across the table. My fingers swim through its softness. The skin is without price, and as my grip tightens around it, I realize how close I am to accepting the wager.

“What is it you want if I lose?” I ask.

“Of a human? It’ll have to be something a human deems valuable, won’t it? But what is it your people value? Other people, of course, but I don’t want a human. An object then. Something important to you. Something familiar.” Grixana snaps his fingers. The friction crackles toward me. “Yes, I know what I want. Do we have a deal?”

“Not until you tell me what you’ll win.”

“Please.” Grixana waves a hand through the air. “If you’ve truly heard rumors of the Flanx, then you know it’s our custom not to reveal our desires, but to take what we win quietly, without flaunting the winnings in front of the loser. If you win, I tell. Otherwise I stay silent. Deal?”

As long as Grixana doesn’t intend to take a life from Earth, I can abide by his terms. At worst he wants my ship. And the Silva skin can buy me a hundred more just like it.

“All right,” I say. “We’ve got a deal.”

Grixana grins. “Wonderful, my friend.”

His tone of voice makes me pause. Once again, I’ve taken a gamble based on emotion rather than intellect.

“Sorry Gus, but I’m not buying it. You’re about the furthest thing from an alien I’ve ever met. Have you been watching too many alien abduction tv shows?”

I shake my head. Though I anticipated Celia’s doubt, I don’t have a convenient way to alleviate it.

“Many species of aliens have visited this planet,” I tell her, “but none have made their appearance known on a global scale. Your doubt is understandable.”

“Dear, this is a side of you I’ve never seen. Don’t tell me I’ve spent the last four months falling for someone who believes in UFOs.”

I reach forward and caress her cheek. As always, the softness of her skin surprises me. Human females possess an amazing ability to appear both vulnerable and alluring at the same time.

“I can’t easily prove what I say. Once my species polymorphs with a human, the procedure is final. However, if you can take a few days off from work, I’ll show you my ship.”

“Your...ship?”

We spend the next day driving into the Appalachian mountains, then hiking to the location where I’ve hidden my ship. Her reaction is predicable. Once she realizes I spoke the truth, and once she understands and believes what I am, she decides she wants nothing more to do with me.

Over the next several months, I focus on my work, ignoring the sense of loss the human side of me feels for Celia. I made a mistake. I’ll only be on this planet for another six years, and should have kept my secret to myself.

But the situation was unusual. For the first time, both the human in me and the Shivver in me wanted the same thing. We wanted to reveal ourselves to this woman, wanted to establish a bond of trust. Establishing trust, the human side assures me, is essential in all successful human relationships.

Time passes, and my work continues. Then, on a rainy day in June, someone knocks on my door. I open the door to find Celia standing outside, crying.

“It doesn’t matter,” she says. “You can be an alien from the center of the universe for all I care. It just doesn’t matter.”

I wrap my arms around her and we hug. Then I pull her inside and we talk for the first time in months.

Grixana whistles, and a Corndada rodent appears by his side. The rodent is small and whiskery and peers up at us with black wax eyes.

“A drink, my friend?” Grixana asks in my direction.

“Not for me,” I say. “Not until after the wager.”

“Very well.” Grixana spouts his order. The rodent vanishes, then reappears with a crystal glass of sand. Grixana takes hold of the glass and tilts it, and I watch the grains of white and brown disappear in a sifting stream down his chasm throat. The sight reminds my human side of an hourglass, of time rushing away to someplace else.

“When you’re ready,” Grixana says, “we’ll begin.”

I turn my thoughts to science. Calculus equations, chemistry formulas, and physics symbols dance through my head, parading in swift lines of numerical knowledge. The human mind enjoys this type of workout. It wraps itself around trivial facts, squeezes them into its cerebrum, and never lets them go.

“I’m ready,” I say. “Ask your riddle.”

The last of the sand vanishes into Grixana with a loud gurgle. He wipes a hand across his lips, then booms his question toward me in strong baritone. “Tell me, Gus. What follows next in this sequence: seven, fifteen, thirty-three, fifty-one.”

Algebraic equations whiz through my head. Patterns of even numbers and odd numbers, prime and non-prime, squares, roots, multiples. Base two, base eight, base ten.

Five minutes pass and I haven’t guessed the answer. I move my thoughts in a different direction. Atomic weights. Freezing points, boiling points. Angles of polygons. Theorems and proofs.

Grixana stares at me with the hungry yet patient look of a black hole that can wait for all of eternity before swallowing the stars.

I close my eyes and watch historical data tumble through my mind. Dates of major discoveries, times of mathematical note, years of major scientific revolutions.

Ten minutes pass. Fifteen.

“Grixana, you’ve given me an unfair riddle.”

The Flanx looks to the ceiling and laughs. “No, the riddle isn’t unfair. You’re merely blind to the solution. Do you give up?”

“No.” Street addresses, Morse code, phone numbers, and sports scores circle through me, twirling among the numbers seven, fifteen, thirty-three, and fifty-one. Nothing fits. I review mathematical formulas for a second time. A third.

Fifty minutes pass.

“When will you admit you’ve lost?” Grixana asks.

“You know I’ll never admit that.”

“I also know you’ll never guess the answer. Already your human traits have shown themselves, and yet other traits that should be present aren’t so apparent. You’re a Shivver, and I’ve won our bet.”

DNA structures, leap year formulas, life spans of mammals. So much information hidden inside me, yet none of it assembled in a manner that’ll help.

Seventy-five minutes pass.

One hundred.

Grixana stands. “I can’t wait forever to hear you acknowledge defeat. But you did lose, and I’ll take what I claimed in the bet.”

“Wait.” I jump to my feet. “Tell me the answer. I need to know.”

“That’s the problem. You should know. The riddle should be easy for a human scientist to solve.”

I stand in front of Grixana and block his path. He can hurl me into another system if he decides he wants to move me. I do not possess the strength to stop him.

“You’re persistent.” Grixana sighs. “Very well. Let us sit, my Shivver friend. The scent of your urgency and desire for knowledge is attracting the harsh vapor women of Nebunia. I can handle them, but can you?”

I look where he points and realize the potential problem. I slide back into my chair, Grixana slides into his, and the vapor women grow bored and turn away from our table.

“The solution,” Grixana says, “is easy to explain. Are you familiar with the method humans use to organize their elements?”

“The periodic table? Of course.”

“And are you aware of the precise arrangement of this table?”

“Yes.” I feel a trap closing around me, but the trap’s made of invisible wiring, and I can’t step around it.

“Then tell me, Gus. How’s this table arranged?”

“Rows and columns of elements organized by atomic weight. But I considered atomic weights, and–”

“And if you look at this periodic table, and if you draw a vertical line that starts with the seventh element, then runs into the fifteenth, then the thirty-third and the fifty-first, what’s the next element the line will touch?”

The periodic table, extracted from human memory, appears in my mind. I follow the path Grixana describes, and discover the next element in the series.

“Eighty-three,” I say. “The answer is eighty-three.”

“I would’ve accepted bismuth as well,” Grixana says. “But you gave me neither answer, so you’ve lost the bet. The Silva skin, however, is yours.”

I rub my lips together, searching for something to say.

“You wonder what prevented you from solving the puzzle, don’t you?” Grixana laughs. “My friend, think about what you are, then think about what you wish to become. The reason for your failure is obvious.”

The spin he puts on my fate teases my curiosity. “Explain yourself, Grixana.”

“You wanted to fool me, right? You wanted me to believe you were human.”

“But I am human. I’ve become human.”

“No. You have the body of a human, and you have the mind and pride and intellect of a human, and you even have chunks of a previous human’s life experience. But the problem is, despite all the human in you, you still think like a Shivver. You couldn’t make the creative leap in logic required to see the periodic table for what it was: a piece of a larger puzzle; a puzzle of patterns and numbers.”

“No one would’ve guessed that. It’s a trick question.”

“You’re wrong. The human scientists would’ve known the answer, because to get where they are, they had to train their minds to think in all directions at once: analytically, historically, and creatively. You can’t do that. You don’t have the ability.”

“But I’ve studied Earth for decades. And I’ve lived there five years.”

“Historical and analytical details are fine, but can you take what you know and bend it in directions you haven’t already tried? No, you can’t. Shivvers steal, and adapt, and learn; humans try, and fail, and try again, this time in a new way, until they find a solution. Oh, I’m sure on Earth you’ll do fine, and become a very successful scientist. But all your work will deal with concrete evidence. You’ll never make the leaps of accidental creativity that cause a human to be great.”

I lower my eyes and stare at the table and wait for the truths to end.

“Goodbye, my friend,” Grixana sings in my ear. “Don’t feel bad. You’ve got everything it takes to mimic a human: the lust, the desires, the pride, the intellect. But you’ll never have the ability to think like one.”

Grixana’s shadow vanishes from the table. Alone, I think back to my last night with Celia, and wonder what my failed gamble might cost us.

“When will you be back?”

It’s not Celia’s question that makes me pause; it’s the temperature of her voice. She’s a woman, a human woman, and hearing the stirrings of emotion at our parting touches both the human and the Shivver within me.

“The trip will take two months,” I say. “Then I’ll return and resume my research job here in Charleston.”

Two months will be enough. In that amount of time, I can visit the Shivver homeworld, deliver my mid-term report to my superiors, and make the return trip to Earth for my final five years of research.

Celia says nothing aloud, but moves closer to me beneath the blankets. It’s a clear September night. We lie on her balcony, our bodies entwined, our relationship more comfortable, more familiar, than it was months ago when I revealed my identity to her.

We make love.

After our joining is complete, I wrap an arm about her waist and hug her against my side. Together, we gaze up at the sky. After my trip, I’ll have five uninterrupted years on Earth. Five years to be a human, to live with Celia and to explore the world with her.

Then my time on Earth will end, and I’ll be forced to leave this planet forever, taking only my research – and my memories – with me into space.

The wood planks of the bench jab at my collarbone, needling me out of my huddled position. I pull the Silva skin close against my body to ward off the strengthening wind. The skin doesn’t keep me warm.

Nothing can keep me warm.

I turn onto my side and stare through a crack in the bench. Below, a cockroach struts in a diagonal line, heading toward the nearest street. Where does he think he’s going? Does he believe there’s anyone nearby he can pester?

The roach walks several steps further, then stops. I notice a black ooze seeping from his body. Even this creature, as small as he is, suffered injury due to my error. For the hundredth time, I review the last couple of hours.

After leaving the Corndada bar, I slept through the return voyage to Earth, then awoke to find my ship hovering above a demolished forest. The walk into Charleston revealed similar destruction: upside-down vehicles, scattered power lines, and crushed buildings. I puzzled over the damage for almost an hour, walking the empty blocks near Celia’s flattened house, before asking one of the wandering survivors for an explanation. The man didn’t respond. He pointed at the night sky, whispered to himself, then limped away. I hiked several blocks further before realizing what he’d tried to tell me.

The moon was gone.

Grixana stole the moon.

Mildewed wood groans as I push myself upright. I watch a second roach discover his dead companion beside the bench. After a brief circle around his twin, he continues on, marching toward the street.

I watch the roach until he’s out of sight. He’s like me in some ways, discovering something unpleasant and yet forcing himself to move on. The results of my wager, though painful, are fair. I know that. And Grixana only did what his nature directed him to do. How can I fault him when it’s my deepest desire to someday be ruled by my own human nature?

My feet hurt and my head aches and the Silva skin is heavy upon my shoulders as I step away from the bench. Celia’s work causes her to travel. She might have been out of town. She might still be alive.

I’ll cover the ground of my new homeworld in search of her, and I’ll continue the search until I find her, or until I find proof that she no longer lives.

The search won’t make me human. But it’ll make me feel like a human.

For now, and perhaps forever, that’ll have to be enough.

End

Last School of Humanities

The campus dormitories suffered the most. Ashley, Spencer, and Walton dorms sunk into the earth to become ten-story deep adolescent tombs, each a tribute to the glories and fancies of a youth unable to escape the mistakes of older and wiser generations. But not all of the damage could be attributed to the disasters. An idiot savant Baptist priest gathered white bricks from the ruins of the chapel and tossed them into the historic old well. He used exactly seven thousand bricks, each brick coated with xegocidic pesticide, then hung himself with kite string from the well’s white-washed rafters. No one would drink from the historic water source again.

Across from the well stood the remains of the Terrel Science Building, where experiments conducted in the final hours of the old world and the first hours of the new left scars of red and black punctured into the walls. The roof blew apart, pushed upward by chemicals before fracturing into thousands of tiny projectile splinters. Bits of shingle and oak beaming could still be found littered across campus, each jagged edge crawling with unidentifiable bacteria.

Few areas of the world survived the combined thrashings of nature, vandalism, and disaster. On this campus, only Palton Football Stadium received such haphazard preservation. Chunks of the proud stone wall that encircled the stadium had been knocked free, and the stately ivy that had once crawled over every vertical surface now limped along the scoreboard’s lower edge, but the basic structure of the place endured. And the soil, the well-tended turf of the football field, remained fertile, undamaged by human error, ready for use. Inside the stadium, Janna maintained a farm.

She lived in the announcer’s booth along the top edge of the stadium’s northern wall. The windows had shattered long before she’d arrived, so to protect her home from future vagaries of the weather, she’d blocked the empty windowpanes with aluminum bleachers stacked and turned on their sides. Slits between the bleachers provided sunlight and irregular views of the field.

At night she slept in the men’s bathroom, where a moldy but disinfected cot provided cushioning for her sore back. She had removed the bathroom door years ago so she could hear when the children in the main room cried out. Invariably, one of them did. She rarely slept an entire night without waking at least once to fetch water or sing a lullaby.

Sometimes after soothing a child, when it was too close to sunrise to go back to sleep, Janna would carry a stool into the middle of the stadium, into the middle of her plot of corn, and she would pretend everything was like it used to be, back when people understood about quarterbacks and field goals and fumbles. She would sit on the stool and look up at SECTION H, ROW 12, SEATS 9-10, because she and Jake used to sit in those seats and watch the games. They would hold hands and talk and laugh and enjoy each game for what it was: a diversion, a relaxing break from the monotonous routine of the day.

There were no diversions now.

Everything was work to Janna: manage the farm; milk the cows; feed the fifteen children who had somehow fallen under her care. She was only thirty-eight, yet she was thirty-five years older than anyone else on her farm. But although she felt isolated by her age, she never went long without company. Wandering “tourists” seemed to gravitate toward her stadium, as if by visiting such a majestic relic of the past, they could remember and recapture the glory of an America that died. Janna tolerated them; they sometimes gave her food, providing her and the children with a better variety of diet. And occasionally, a man would spend the night and give her his seed, and she would hope for the bulge to build in her stomach.

Today, she wanted no visitors. Three of the children were sick with fever.