Category: My stories

The Wormholy Land

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The official name of the technology is Geographic Phase Displacement, but it’s marketed as Phasics.
Got a land dispute? Just set up a Phasics engine, set the boundaries of the field, and now both parties can occupy the region at the same time.
The Nobel Prize for Physics went to its inventor, and then three years later the Peace Prize went to resolution of the ancient conflict over the Temple Mount and Haram Al-Sharif.
Phasics engines were spread throughout the territory, and refugees hopefully and joyously poured into the parallel Al-Quds pocket-reality.
Problem solved.
So, why isn’t the terrorism stopping?

Handling the pressure

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Arthur’s control panel was a thing of beauty.
So many switches, so many dials, and so many pretty green lights.
Day after day, Arthur would sit in his chair and whistle a happy tune.
When one of the lights turned yellow, Arthur stopped whistling.
He tapped the bulb a few times, just to see if it would change.
It stayed yellow.
Looking in the manual, a yellow light meant… something… to be… corrected.
So, like all the other yellow lights before it, Arthur got out his marker and colored the lightbulb green.
Arthur’s whistling covered the pressure valve leak nicely.

You shoah me yours, I’ll shoah you mine

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Despite eating five meals a day, Schultz was as thin as a rail.
The doctors tore out too much, he thought, and he fell asleep listening to the camp radio.
He woke suddenly, hearing the alert.
The Americans are coming!
Schultz looked around the camp, but his comrades were long gone.
All that was left were… those filthy survivors.
Schultz shed his uniform, rolled in the ashen dirt, and stumbled along with the skeletal crowd.
The Americans caught up with his group, put blankets over their shoulders, and led them to a Red Cross station.
“Goldstein of Lvov,” groaned Schultz.

From the future’s footlights a dim bulb sputters

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I went into the archives, pulled the tapes, and threw them in my satchel.
With the originals gone, people would have to rely on the edited copies that had spread throughout the world over the years.
Then, I went into the labs, stepped into the Epimetheus Booth, and removed the handset.
“Number, please?” said a voice.
“July 20,” I said. “1969.”
“Thank you,” said the voice, and I heard the connection tones.
I pulled the slip of paper in my pocket, but I’d stuck my gum in it earlier.
It covered the “a” in “One small step for a man.”

Sequel

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When Lisa woke up, Ethan wasn’t in bed.
She walked to the den and saw Ethan playing his new game.
“Morning,” she said. “When did you wake up?”
“Never slept,” said Ethan, watching the two titanic figures on the monitor beat each other senseless.
“You’ve been playing that since last night?” asked Lisa.
“Yup,” said Ethan. “It’s a really tough game. I get really, really close, but in the end just can’t beat it.”
“What’s it called?” asked Lisa.
“Immortal Kombat 2,” said Ethan.
Lisa thought for a moment. “How did you solve the first Immortal Kombat?”
Ethan didn’t answer.

Smell And Stop

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Arthur watched with pride as his daughter walked to the podium and led the congregation in prayer.
She’d been waiting all her life for this moment.
Arthur, too.
He pulled a rose from his pocket, sniffed it, and let the aroma fill his mind.
Time stopped.
Arthur strolled the pews, appreciating the delight on each face admiring his daughter’s recital.
Until… Elliot Laslo.
There were rumors about Elliot. And from how his hands sat in his lap… his expression…
Arthur returned to his seat, crushed the rose, and let time start back up.
He’d settle Elliot later. Probably brake lines.

Tough On Crime

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The mayor grimaced at the camera, rubbing his backside.
“Hello to all the citizens of our fair city,” he said. “I’d like a moment of your time.”
“We’re all aware of my campaign to put a camera on every streetcorner, but City Council decided not to adequately fund the necessary staff to monitor these cameras.”
For a moment, the attack came back to his memory. A camera panning to his battered body.
Then wagging a bit.
The motors sounded like laughter.
“Using prison labor to monitor them and dispatch officers was a mistake,” he said. “One that we’re correcting soon.”

Weaponized

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After years of research and experimentation, Dr. Odd managed to isolate the chemical compound which was responsible for luck.
He tried to bottle the stuff and sell it over the counter, but he kept running into all sorts of problems in production and distribution.
The Food and Drug Administration sprung a surprise inspection of his facilities and ultimately shut his labs down for a wide variety of violations.
“This is concentrated Bad Luck!” moaned Dr. Odd.
The Pentagon was very interested in a weaponized form of Bad Luck, so Dr. Odd shipped them a sample…
Back on September 10, 2001.

The Headless Nessman

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Shaking nervously, Herb Tarlek looked out into the hallway.
“Do you see him?” whispered Mr. Carlson. “Do you see… Les?”
“No,” said Herb. “He’s not out here.”
“Well, no wonder why you can’t hear him,” said Johnny Fever. “Your jacket’s way too loud.”
Venus and Bailey cowered in the corner. “We’re all going to die,” whimpered Bailey.
Jennifer took a deep breath. “Who’s watching the back door?”
Just then, Andy let out a hideous moan and fell to the floor, an axe buried in his neck.
The Headless Nessman drew back the axe, hacked again, and dragged off Andy’s head.

Those Daring Young Men Without GPS And Their Flying Machines

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Trailing black smoke, Baron Von Schmidt’s mighty war zeppelin chugs across the Munich sky.
Henchmen with spiked helmets sing with the thrumming impeller blades, and the zeppelin begins its bombing run.
They open the portholes, hold out the bombs, and…
The Baron shouts a command to halt. The henchmen draw back their bombs and snuff out lit fuses while the nose of the zeppelin jerks upward.
“Nicht das London!” shouts the Baron.
There is an argument, and the navigator is thrown overboard, crashing through a church roof.
The Baron, ever the gentleman, apologizes and pays to have the roof fixed.