The microscopes are heavy and delicate and Ms. Peril wouldn’t normally be breaking them out this early in the year, but something’s happening, something strange. The kids tromp around the school parking lot steaming, glass slides in their mittens to catch snowflakes.
Each time they get two under the lens they confirm it again: identical. All of them. The scope camera clicks away, filling a card with proof.
“What does that mean, Ms. Peril?” asks Chandra.
“It means you should all pack your lunches tomorrow,” says Ms. Peril, who wouldn’t normally break out the probability portal in the fall semester either.
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
“Congratulations! You’re a finalist for our tenth season here on The Decision.” The host grips Winthrop’s shoulder; the audience whoops. “For tonight’s challenge, we’ve brought your bedroom closet to the studio! You need to organize it, AND–” The audience murmurs. “–start your 2011 taxes!”
“Wow. What’s my alternative?”
“You can let this professional welder hold an acetylene torch to your face until the count of thirty.”
The torch ignites with a blue-white hiss. Winthrop winces.
“Time for your Decision!” says the host. Floor lights swell with tension; the audience and the orchestra hush.
“Can I count, like, onetwothreeforfivesix?” Winthrop says.
Thursday, November 25, 2010
The cat coughs up something headless, effervescent and green.
“Dammit, Taco,” mutters Merle, levering herself out of the Adirondack. Its wings are still spasming but, she notices as she bends down, it’s not a bird or a dragonfly. Taco washes one paw, looking insufferable.
Emerald stains the paper towel when she scoops it up. Suspicion worms into Merle’s chest and she googles up confirmation: Taco has half-eaten a garden sylph. Shit.
She packs the stupid cat off to Mom’s and hangs horseshoes on lintels, but the tribe still slashes her tires in vengeance. The neighbor’s dog doesn’t stand a chance.
Friday, November 26, 2010
Ratchet has the hardest job of all Transformers even back at the Ark, but now he’s doing emergency surgery in the middle of London rush hour and sweating transmission fluid. “Someone call for an emergency tow!” he yells desperately.
“I’ve got a better idea,” says a dark-robed, ice-blonde young man. He waves his wand and whisks them all magically toward the nearest garage.
Ratchet turns to him, eyes glowing with gratitude. “How can I repay you, Mr–?”
“It’s Professor,” smirks the man, “Professor Malfoy,” and though robots have no lips, they lean close and THIS WAS A TERRIBLE PROMPT
It gets dubbed the Honesty Virus even though of course it’s a bacterial infection. The symptoms are about as close to genuine honesty as sodium pentathol is to the truth, too, but that doesn’t stop anyone from believing it.
Kids in cities hold parties to give it to each other; there are at least three strains, so you get a few chances. The content of their glossolalia is overwrought and trite. Haint, a bit older, knows well enough to fear it. The mind arranges stray words with cruelty at the top, like vapor in the neck of a brown glass bottle.
“Three counts possession of partially hydrogenated soybean oil,” says the bailiff, “intent to distribute. Â One count trafficking in corn syrups. Â One count supplying fats to a minor.”
“Man, that was entrapment, man,” sniffs Roscoe. Â He’s still wearing his fry apron, and exotic oil scents waft through the court.
“Prosecution requests remand, your honor,” says Sienna. “Defendant is a repeat offender who has put the lives of children at risk–”
“Y’all hypocrites,” snaps Roscoe. Â “Like anybody here ain’t going home to light up a frydaddy tonight!”
Glaring, Sienna clenches a grubby meal toy in her pocket and wills her stomach to silence.
Thursday, December 9, 2010
“Forgive me,” says Holofernes, mouth stuffed with cheese, “if I’m having trouble understanding your kindness here.”
“I simply admire your work,” says Judith, lashes batting.
“I know, right?” says Holofernes, washing down the cheese with a jug of wine. “(Glug glug glug.) But that’s the thing, I’ve got Bethulia under siege here!”
“I reserved a special supply,” says Judith. “Just for attacking generals with awesome names.”
“Did you know it’s Greek?”
“I even know the root words,” she purrs.
Then he falls asleep and Judith breaks the siege by cutting his fucking head off with a knife (seriously, look it up).
Friday, December 10, 2010