Explaining Cthulhu to Grandma and Other Stories

Praise for Explaining Cthulhu to Grandma and Other Stories

Wit, sentiment, imagination—Alex Shvartsman’s got them all.

– Mike Resnick, Hugo award-winning author of Kirinyaga and Birthright.

"It’s easier to explain Cthulhu to Grandma than it is to account for the fantastic variety and scope of the stories you’ll read in this wonderful collection. Alex Shvartsman’s imagination spans galaxies, offering the (very happy) reader everything from aliens to magic fish to demons to carnivorous space manatees (I am not making this up!) and then some.

Also, cats.

Prepare to be entertained, delighted and amazed."

– Esther Friesner, Nebula award-winning author of Deception’s Pawn

I am a very fast reader, but even I could not read quickly enough to get through Alex Shvartsman’s collection, Explaining Cthulhu to Grandma, as fast as I wanted to. Every time I finished reading a story, the lead of the next one attracted my attention and dragged me in by the eyeballs. His writing is enjoyable and his plots satisfying. The eponymous story could be horrific, but instead, as I might have expected from the editor of the now three-volumes old Unidentified Funny Objects anthology series, it’s funny and clever. He doesn’t stop with humor, though. He hands us future science versus human nature, fantasy, horror and thrillers, one after another, all full of intriguing ideas and wit. This collection is what the British call ‘more-ish’. Once you’ve started to read, it’s difficult to stop.

– Jody Lynn Nye, bestselling author of Myth-Quoted and Fortunes of the Imperium

After Isaac Asimov, Alex Shvartsman is the world’s foremost writer of fantasy and science fiction to have been born in the Soviet Union and immigrated at a young age to Brooklyn. But the Good Doctor is with us no longer, so the Good Gamer is his natural heir. Like Asimov, Shvartsman’s stories are often good old-fashioned space opera, crackling with imagination, pace and really cheesy jokes. But there’s fantasy too, and a dark side, and if you ever needed to explain Cthulhu to your Grandma, this is the place to start.

– Henry Gee, senior editor at Nature and author of the Sigil trilogy

PUBLISHED BY:

UFO Publishing

1685 E 15th St.

Brooklyn, NY 11229

Copyright © 2015 by Alex Shvartsman

Trade paperback ISBN: 978-0-9884328-5-7

All rights reserved. No part of the contents of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without the written permission of the publisher.

Cover art: Dixon Leavitt

Cover design: Emerson Matsuuchi

Typesetting & interior design: Melissa Neely

E-book design: Elizabeth Campbell

Visit us on the web:

www.ufopub.com

Explaining Cthulhu to Grandma and Other Stories

Alex Shvartsman

Introduction

by Ken Liu

Dear Reader, if you’re already familiar with Alex’s work, then we should pause and congratulate each other on our shared superior taste. If you aren’t, then I’m envious of you, as you are about to discover one of the funniest and most moving voices in speculative fiction today.

Now, if you know anything about Alex’s reputation, you’ll be grinning in anticipation as you hold this collection. After all, that august authority, Wikipedia, describes Alex as an American science fiction and fantasy writer and editor known primarily for humorous short stories.

Alex’s stories are indeed funny. Humor is a difficult—perhaps the most difficult—trick to pull off in fiction, but Alex does it with style. His stories feature tightly constructed, intricate, puzzle-like plots with clever banter and plenty of fresh, twisted pop culture references. Reading this book, I promise you’ll smile, chuckle, chortle, snort, and laugh out loud many times.

As you flip through the pages, you’ll discover tiny fairies with correspondingly scaled superpowers, a kabbalist hacker debating theology with an atheist, a magical pawn shop where timeworn knights bargain for the soul of an ancient god with a tough grandmother, our history re-rendered as a game of alien simulation, far-flung star empires with sarcastic alien diplomats…

If you want to laugh right away, I definitely recommend you start with the magic pawn shop stories, which include the title story for the collection as well as High-Tech Fairies and the Pandora Perplexity.

If stylish, smart humor were all these stories managed to accomplish, the collection would already deserve to be on every bookshelf, but Alex has also managed much more. The humor for which he is deservedly celebrated is but one tool in his toolbox. Just as important, Alex is also a writer of moving tales that explore the meaning and boundaries of what it means to be human.

In these pages, you’ll also discover when and how we lie to preserve love, the only truth that matters; what we lose and gain when we decide to uproot ourselves to give our children a new life; how history is a grand series of stark developments in which our only consolation is the freedom of choice; the power of the narrative in making sense of a world that is essentially accidental, unfeeling, lacking in design.

In this vein, my favorites from Alex are Icarus Falls and Things We Leave Behind.

It is easy to write stories in which these abstractions are discussed, but far harder to make the reader experience the associated emotions. And when the stories are flavored with the right amount of humor, the brightest act of defiance against the darkness of easy despair, the result is sublime.

Alex’s stories are sublime.

Though I don’t much care about identifying stories with their author, I do think it’s important for me to tell you a little bit about Alex.

I’m perhaps one of Alex’s oldest and most loyal fans, as I’ve been reading his stories practically since the time he started writing for publication. We’ve been critiquing partners for much of our fiction writing careers, and I’ve read many of these stories in both draft and final form. Reading them again in preparation for writing this introduction is a nice reminder of our shared journey as writers.

As a critique partner, Alex is unfailingly careful, strict, and incisive. As a friend, Alex is warm, generous, cheerful, and always supportive. Time and again, he picks apart my plot and helps me reassemble the pieces into something coherent. He finds the awkward phrases and brings out his polishing kit. His suggestions are clever, insightful, and to the point. Despite his incredibly busy schedule, he has always somehow found a way to come to my aid when I’m under deadline pressure.

But did you also know that Alex has lived a life as amazing as one of his characters? Yes, that’s right, Alex has circumnavigated the globe many times as one of the world’s most successful Magic: the Gathering players. (He has lived my dream!) I’m pretty convinced that some of Alex’s skills at intricate plotting come from practice at assembling fast, deadly decks and devising lethal card combinations from the interplay of legalistic rules.

Either that, or he actually is a wizard with a magical shop (yes, he owns and runs a gaming store). If you visit, keep an eye out for Cthulhu.

I feel very lucky to have had the chance to witness Alex’s development as a writer and to call him a friend. I hope you enjoy these stories as much as I have.

EXPLAINING CTHULHU TO GRANDMA

I just made the deal of the year and I couldn’t wait to tell Grandma.

As soon as the customer left, I locked the front door, flipped the cardboard sign to Closed, and headed into the back. Clutching my latest acquisition to my blouse, I entered the packed stockroom, dodged around the bronze naval cannon, nearly caught the hem of my skirt on a rusty suit of armor, and made my way through a plethora of other items too large or too heavy to be stored on the shelves. Most of this stuff has been here since before I was born, and will likely remain in the same place long after my hypothetical future children take over the shop. You never know when the right buyer might come along, and the family is in it for the long haul.

Grandma Heide was in our office, sitting at the desk. She had moved the keyboard out of the way to make room for the game of solitaire she was playing with a Thirteenth century Egyptian Tarot deck. She barely glanced up when I walked in.

"You do know you could play this on the computer, right Grandma?"

She set down a card in one of the columns after a few seconds’ thought. Can your newfangled gadget fake the feel of shuffling a dog-eared deck of cards? Simulate the pleasure of placing one in just the right spot to make a perfect play? I didn’t think so. She looked at me over her glasses. The old ways are almost always best.

Yes, well, I’m not here to argue about that again. Guess what I just picked up on pawn.

I stepped closer and placed a pocket dimension in front of Grandma. It looked like a pyramid-shaped snow globe the height of a soda can. It was filled with ocean water. In the center floated a being of scales and tentacles and shapes so unnatural that staring straight at it caused a headache. When not stored outside of our space/time continuum, it was the size of a cruise liner and must have weighed as much as a small mountain, which is what made pocket dimensions so darn handy.

Grandma picked up the pyramid, pushed the glasses up her nose and peered inside.

What is this? she asked.

Cthulhu, I said, smug with satisfaction.

"Geshundheit," said Grandma. I couldn’t tell for certain if she was kidding or not. Probably not.

I didn’t sneeze, I said. Its name is Cthulhu. It is an ancient god of anxiety and horror, dead but dreaming.

Grandma didn’t appear impressed. What does it do? Besides dream. She turned the pocket dimension slowly to examine its contents.

"Do? It’s a symbol for the unknowable fathoms of the universe which dwarf humanity’s importance. Besides, it’s a god. How long has it been since we had one of those in the shop?"

1982, she said immediately. The government of Argentina pawned a few of the Guarani nature gods to help fund the Falklands conflict. Little good it did them.

I didn’t remember this, but I was still in diapers in 1982.

Pre-Columbian godlings barely count. This, I pointed at the pyramid, is the real deal.

Grandma finished inspecting the god and placed the pocket dimension on top of the computer, next to a mug filled with ballpoint pens. She turned her attention back to me.

And what did you pay out for this rare and unique item?

I told her.

Grandma pursed her lips and stared me down. Ever since I broke the wing off the stuffed phoenix when I was a little girl, it had been the withering expression Grandma Heide reserved for when I screwed up especially badly.

Whoever pawned it will have taken the money and run, she declared. They won’t be back. Enjoy it for the next month, and let’s hope some fool gets as excited about this overgrown octopus as you did. If not, then maybe we can sell it off by the pound to the sushi chains.

You never have any faith in the deals I make. I crossed my arms. I’m not a little girl anymore, and I spent my entire life around the shop. When will you begin to trust my judgment? I say we got a bargain and I’ll prove it.

This shop is full of the mistakes of overeager youth, Sylvia. She pointed toward the stock room, brimming with stuff. I made my fair share when I was your age. The pawn shop business is simple. Stick to quality common items that are easy to move, and pick them up cheap. The sooner you accept that, the sooner you’ll be ready to take over the family enterprise. Then she drew the next card from her deck, indicating that the conversation was over.

When your family is in the business of running the oldest pawn shop in the world, there are big shoes to fill. I wondered if Grandma had similar trouble when she became old enough to work at the shop, back before Gran-Gran Hannelore had retired.

Under the terms of the pawn, the customer had thirty days to come back and claim his item. That gave me plenty of time to line up potential buyers. There were a number of leads for me to pursue, but I started with the obvious.

I unlocked the front door, flipped the sign to Open, powered up my laptop, and logged on to Craigslist.

It didn’t take a month. The first interested party showed up within days.

I’m Keldmo, the Grand Prophet of the Deep Ones, announced the enormously fat man. He was wearing some sort of a toga or bathrobe getup, probably because no one made pants in his size. I understand that you’ve recently come into possession of the great Cthulhu?

We did. Or we will, if the previous owner doesn’t pay back the loan in three weeks’ time. How much are you prepared to pay?

Is the undying gratitude of thousands of worshippers not enough?

Not nearly.

I don’t have a lot of money. Keldmo wiped the sweat off his ample chins with a handkerchief. The congregation hasn’t been quite as devout in recent years. The collection plate brings barely enough to keep food on the table.

I bit back the obvious retort. Besides, Keldmo wouldn’t have appreciated the barb. If he ever had a sense of humor, he probably ate it a long time ago.

Having the actual Cthulhu to display at services, I’m sure that would turn things around, he said. Reinvigorate the worshippers, help with the recruitment drive, that sort of thing.

You aren’t planning to wake it up and unleash it upon the world, are you?

Heavens, no, said Keldmo. A living god can be dangerous and unpredictable. What if it has different ideas and plans for its followers than I do? No, it’s best to let sleeping horrors lie.

Good, I said. Now, what are you willing to pay, really?

Keldmo made his offer. It was significantly less than the amount I had invested, but it was a start. I told the cult leader that I’d be in touch and sent him on his merry way.

A week later a group of beings from a parallel universe showed up. They looked a lot like the alien grays on TV, if alien grays had fins and gills. I stared, perhaps beyond the point of politeness. Visitors from a parallel universe were a rare sight indeed, even in an establishment such as ours.

We seek the services of your underwater god, said the leader of the group.

What kind of services? I just had to know.

We are aquatic beings, said the leader, whom I mentally dubbed Nemo. Our waters have recently become infested with sea serpents. Being that we are pacifists, we can’t handle this calamity on our own. But it is well known that the Deep Ones are the ocean’s natural predators. We wish to awaken Cthulhu and release it into the wild, so it can eat all the sea serpents.

I had my reservations about this plan, and about what Cthulhu might do to Nemo’s people once it ran out of sea serpents. But at least they weren’t planning to awaken Cthulhu in this universe. That was a big plus.

How much can you pay?

The aliens huddled.

In addition to being pacifists, said Nemo, we’re also a moneyless society. We don’t mine, or fish, or produce artwork. We live in harmony with nature and eat algae. I’m afraid we possess nothing you would find of value. However, he added brightly, we don’t want to buy your god. We only want to borrow it. We’ll be happy to return it to you, in perfect condition, after it feeds.

I frowned. The idea of getting Cthulhu back, awake and nourished, wasn’t appealing.

You’d be helping to save an entire civilization, said Nemo. Surely the concept of compassion exists in this universe?

I felt bad for the naïve pacifists, but I was also fairly certain that I wouldn’t be doing them any favors by unleashing Cthulhu on a society that couldn’t even cope with a few sea serpents. Also, I was running a business, not an Interdimensional Wetlands Conservation Society.

I told Nemo that I’d think about it, and ushered him and his friends out of the shop.

No one is going to give you any money, Grandma called out from the stock room once the door closed behind them. But I’m sure you can find plenty of folks who’d be willing to take it off your hands for free.

I gritted my teeth and went back to sorting and labeling the rack of love potions. Thanks to that song we were perpetually sold out of Number Nine. Despite the fact that, from what I heard, it tasted like troll vomit.

Nearly two weeks had passed and I was beginning to worry, when another interested party arrived. This time it was a tall, lean man who wore a mantle decorated with a lion’s mane draped over his shoulder. He seemed unperturbed by the balmy August weather outside. His broad chest was adorned with several rows of teeth hanging on strings from around his neck. I could’ve sworn a few of the teeth were human, but I’m no dentist. A long sword dangled off his belt.

I’m Sir Barnabas, the Grand Knight of the Order of Saint George, he announced, more loudly than was absolutely necessary.

Welcome, said Grandma. Sir Barnabas’ bulging muscles and deep baritone summoned her from the back as if by magic. I’m Heide. And that’s my granddaughter Sylvia. She’s single.

Madame. Sir Barnabas bent down to kiss Grandma’s hand. My lady. He gallantly bowed to me next. I could swear that I heard Grandma swoon.

On behalf of the Order of Saint George, I seek the monster Cthulhu that is said to be in your possession. Will you aid me in my quest?

Is your quest dedicated to any Lady? asked Grandma.

What do you want it for? I asked before Grandma could get up to any of her matchmaking.

We’re the Order of Saint George, said Barnabas. Isn’t it obvious?

Humor me.

We hunt and slay dragons.

Dragons are extinct, said Grandma.

You’re welcome! said Barnabas. We shall hunt this Cthulhu and kill it, too. It will be glorious. Songs will be composed about…

Cthulhu isn’t a dragon, I interrupted.

Strictly speaking, you’re right, said Barnabas. But it’s got scales and wings, and it’s a vile beast. That’s as close as we can hope for, these days.

I see. The idea of a bunch of knights trying to defeat an elder god by poking spears at it was amusing, but only until I remembered that I shared the same planet with them. And that those spears would probably make Cthulhu mad. Madder. What is your order prepared to pay for the privilege?

The Knights of St. George take a vow of poverty. But your assistance in this quest shall be immortalized in the annals of our order. That’s better than mere money.

Grandma frowned. Poverty is the stupidest vow a knight could take. However is one supposed to come up with a proper dowry then?

For an excruciating fifteen minutes, Sir Barnabas kept trying to convince us to hand over Cthulhu to him, gratis. I promised to consider it, just to get him out the door.

Told you no one will pay money for this thing, Grandma said, checking out the knight’s posterior as he walked down the street.

She was wrong.

Two days before Cthulhu officially became the property of the shop, the next and final potential customer had arrived. He was a nondescript middle-aged man of medium height wearing a dark blue suit, the sort of person you would never look at twice in a crowd. The only distinguishing characteristic about him was an aluminum attaché case, which he plunked onto the counter in front of me.

I’d like one Cthulhu, please, he said as he opened the case. It was full of money.

Grandma appeared out of nowhere again. The only thing capable of summoning her faster than a set of perfect pecs was a briefcase full of cash.

It’s a deal, she said. But you’ll have to come back on Wednesday. The original owner has until then to claim his property. Rules and regulations, you understand.

I’m from the government, ma’am. I assure you that you won’t get into any trouble for handing over the creature a few days early.

What do you want with it? I didn’t trust the government. Who does? Is it the whole ‘why settle for a lesser evil’ thing? But the elections aren’t for another two years.

Very funny, he said, but his tone and eyes did not agree. My department is charged with destroying dangerous items and beings, before they get the chance to break free and bite everyone in the ass. Your operation is always on our radar. He turned to Grandma. You should make things easy for yourself and take the money. I could’ve just as easily classified Cthulhu as a weapon of mass destruction and confiscated it with no compensation for you at all.

Grandma stood up straighter and glared at the government agent, fire in her eyes. No. You couldn’t have. This is an ancient place of power, and there are wards and protections layered upon it by a hundred generations of my ancestors. It is much too tough a nut for the likes of you to crack.

Go. Grandma pointed at the front door. "I don’t appreciate being threatened in my own establishment. Come back in two days’ time and we will think about accepting your offer."

Without another word, he went.

On Wednesday, Grandma and I were awakened well before business hours by loud noises coming from the street. Both of us got dressed and came down to the shop to investigate. Outside, there was pandemonium.

Hundreds of the Deep Ones’ worshippers faced off against an equally impressive force of soldiers who had a pair of helicopters and a tank. In the middle of the street, a dozen knights stood shoulder to shoulder and sneered at anyone who came too close. And all around, small clusters of gray-skinned, gilled aliens milled about, getting underfoot of everyone else.

This is madness, I said. They’re going to begin killing each other any minute now.

I knew this Cthulhu was nothing but trouble, said Grandma. I’ve half a mind to let them fight it out. But I knew she didn’t mean it.

We were perfectly safe inside. The shop is protected by a collection of charms, spells, and enchantments laboriously assembled by the family over the centuries. An intruder would have an easier time getting into Buckingham Palace or the White House.

But that didn’t stop them from brawling with each other in the street. And, Grandma’s offhand comment aside, we couldn’t let that happen.

I know you like to do things the traditional way, I told Grandma, but I’m responsible for causing this mess, and I have to set things straight. This situation calls for a forward-thinking, unorthodox approach. Will you please trust me to handle it?

Grandma hesitated for only the briefest of moments, then smiled at me and nodded. I unlocked the shop’s front door and stepped outside.

A few minutes later, I had gathered the leaders of each group inside the shop. Keldmo, Sir Barnabas, Nemo, and the agent whose name—unsurprisingly—turned out to be Smith scowled at each other. The tension was so thick you probably couldn’t cut it with Sir Barnabas’ sword.

I can resolve the issue at hand to everyone’s satisfaction, I said. The four of them paid close attention.

Sir Barnabas, meet the interdimensional alien. His world is suffering from a terrible sea serpent infestation.

Oh? The knight was practically salivating at the thought of hunting sea serpents.

Would you agree that sea serpents are phylogenetically much closer to dragons than a dead elder god?

Most assuredly, my lady, said Sir Barnabas.

Will you undertake the noble quest of hunting them down and, in exchange, abandon any future claim on stalking the Cthulhu?

Gladly, my lady. He pumped an oversized fist on the breast plate over his heart.

I addressed Nemo: And will you accept the help of the knights and give up on the foolish idea of releasing an even more dangerous predator into your eco-system?

They seem bloodthirsty enough, said Nemo, and yet honorable. It appears to be a great solution.

The two left the shop to break the news to their people. They were already discussing logistics, munitions, and the songs to be composed in the knights’ honor.

Well, that was the easy part, I turned my attention to the remaining parties.

I won’t let a dangerous creature fall into the hands of a cult, said Smith.

I won’t let them murder my god, said Keldmo.

You can’t stop me. I have the entire military at my disposal.

My disciples are everywhere. If you dare to harm a single tentacle on our god’s head, they will exact a bloody revenge. My people are willing to kill and die for me. Keldmo sighed. Well some of them, anyway.

No dying. No killing. I already told you, I have a solution. Wait here, I dashed for the stock room.

I returned with a large silver plate under my arm.

Keldmo, you told me that you don’t want to wake up Cthulhu, you just need an impression of him to rally your followers.

Keldmo looked at me, waiting to see where this was going, but made no protest.

This is an enchanted plate, part of a matching set. It will display an exact replica of whatever item is placed on the other plate, for as long as it remains there. I tapped the side of the plate gently and the pyramid pocket dimension appeared on it. I offered the plate to Keldmo, who grabbed for it greedily. You can see it, touch it, and verify that it’s safe and sound on the other plate, which is at the back of our shop. Just don’t remove the replica from the plate’s surface or you’ll break the spell.

As for you, I turned to Smith, killing Cthulhu isn’t an option. You don’t need the trouble with Keldmo’s followers, and I seriously doubt you could kill it anyway. So instead, I will offer our shop’s services to store it for you permanently. Smith looked dubious, but I pressed on. There are few locations in the entire world more secure than our shop. You know this, or you would have come in guns blazing, trying to take Cthulhu by force. No one will get at it here, and anyone who might want to try will believe that Keldmo’s people have it anyway. Keldmo will make sure of that, won’t he?

Keldmo nodded, with a huge grin on his meaty face. Smith thought about this and finally nodded, too.

We will, of course, require payment for our services. That bag of money will cover rent for the first hundred years. Our descendants can renegotiate after that.

Smith mulled this over a while longer, but he could find no obvious flaw in my plan.

Several hours later the contracts were drawn up (in triplicate. That’s how the government rolls) and signed, and everyone finally left. The briefcase full of money sat in the office next to the silver plate housing Cthulhu. Smith wanted the case back, but Grandma got peevish at the last moment and insisted we keep it as part of the deal. She must’ve been still punishing Smith for his bullying earlier.

Did you like how I managed to make everyone happy and sell a silver plate for a giant wad of money in the process? I did good, and deserved a chance to brag. And we even get to keep Cthulhu. Governments and cults come and go, and who knows what it will be worth a few generations down the line? And are you convinced I’m ready to take over the shop now?

Not yet, said Grandma. If only you didn’t pick up this beastie in the first place, we could’ve avoided all this nonsense altogether.

I frowned, but didn’t argue. Expecting too much and complaining regardless of outcome is the prerogative of family.

Not yet, Grandma said again, but you’re getting closer.

I came over and hugged her. She pursed her lips, but in her eyes I caught a hint of a smile.

This story was born on Twitter.

Fellow writer Sylvia Spruck Wrigley posted something along the lines of I’m having a difficult time explaining Cthulhu to Grandma.

To which I responded by saying that Explaining Cthulhu to Grandma would make a great short story title.

Sylvia was kind enough to let me have the title, and I came up with a family-run magical pawn shop (loosely inspired by the History Channel’s Pawn Stars), and named the protagonist Sylvia, as a thank-you to my friend for inspiring the idea. Sylvia’s grandma and gran-gran are also named after my friend’s mother and grandmother.

This story was originally published in Orson Scott Card’s Intergalactic Medicine Show. It went on to become the finalist in the 2013 IGMS Reader Poll and made the 2013 Tangent Recommended Reading List with the maximum possible rating of three stars. It won the 2014 WSFA Small Press Award for Short Fiction.

You will encounter another Magic Pawn Shop story, High-Tech Fairies and the Pandora Perplexity, later in the book.

THE RUMINATION ON WHAT ISN’T

This isn’t a time-travel story. As you sit in the sterile room that looks and feels like a hospital ward but doesn’t smell or sound like one — you know the difference after so many months — as you stare at the thing at the other end of the chessboard and try to picture your daughter instead, you ponder the choices you’ve made. You realize that, if given a chance, you wouldn’t go back to change anything. There is no decision, no single action that would have altered the course of events. No moment in time that could have been modified to avoid this outcome. No matter what, you would find yourself in this room, lost in thought as your fingers caress a white pawn. She is waiting for you to make your move.

This isn’t a horror story. You certainly felt like it was, on that day in the doctor’s office, when he delivered the diagnosis with practiced compassion. Words like stage four and metastasis sounded surreal. They were fears of old people; there was no place for them in the life of a ten-year-old girl. You remember feeling shaken and detached, as if this was happening to somebody else. But the oncologist wouldn’t let you process this fully, to despair, to grieve. He wanted to talk treatment options, and DNA sequencing, and clinical trials. And he wanted decisions to be made right away, because there wasn’t a lot of time.

But it wasn’t all fear and dread. There were moments of happiness, when the two of you giggled while watching cartoons together, or went apple picking under the pleasantly warm September sun. There were moments of boredom, hours spent in waiting rooms filled with year-old magazines and stone-faced strangers who probably understood what you were going through better than your closest friends, but were barricaded behind the walls of their own distress. And then there were mundane moments, because even when your world is shattered you still have to go through the motions of picking up paper towels at the supermarket, and getting the oil changed in your truck, and doing laundry.

This isn’t a fantasy story. When her hair fell out from the chemo, and she lost weight, and the doctors began to mention the word hospice, you sought alternative treatments. Folk medicines and psychics, and any number of other things that don’t work, yet desperate people try them anyway, because they’re better than doing nothing. But this isn’t a fantasy, there’s no magic or miracles. She kept getting worse.

This isn’t exactly a tragedy. Before the illness could take her, lawyers in expensive suits showed up and offered you a way out. It was an experiment, they said. The procedure had never been performed on a human being before. There were plenty of risks and unknowns, but your daughter was given an opportunity to make history. More importantly, it was the way for her to survive. You hated the thought of her being used as some sort of a guinea pig, but the doctors said that she had just a few weeks left. This was her only chance. So you signed endless pages of legal documents until your hand ached almost as much as your heart, and you allowed yourself to hope.

This is a love story. You sit in the sterile room and play chess against a sleek metal box that houses your daughter’s mind. She has been uploaded, the first herald of the coming singularity. She will never again pick apples, or play soccer, or hug you. The scientists don’t know whether her mind will continue to develop or if she will remain a perpetual ten year old. They don’t know whether she will live forever inside the machine, or if her consciousness will degrade and disappear with time. The entire world is waiting to find out.

She watches you through digital cameras and hums her favorite tune through the speakers, impatient for you to finally make your move. And you know with absolute certainty that this is a love story, because you love your daughter just the same, regardless of her physical form. You get to tell her stories, and watch cartoons together, and play chess, and face whatever challenges may come in the future as a family.

You smile at her, and push the pawn forward.

I consider this to be the strongest flash story I’ve ever written, and certainly one of the darkest.

I wrote Rumination in one hour-long sitting. I woke up very early in the morning that day, and my son Joshua’s health was weighing heavily on me. He was five years old, and had begun experiencing some stomach problems. We had a strong suspicion that he was becoming gluten-intolerant, and were waiting to see a specialist in a few days.

I have a number of friends who live with various degrees of gluten sensitivity and certainly don’t mean to imply that such a diagnosis would in any way be equivalent to what the characters in this story are going through. However, it is not something I would wish on any child, and my dark mood helped produce a deeply emotional piece.

Joshua’s stomach problems thankfully proved to be far less severe; he isn’t allergic or sensitive to anything so far, and I hope it remains that way. But the story went on to earn first place in a Codex anonymous flash-fiction contest with fifty-odd competitors, then became published in Nature and podcasted several times.

DOUBT

An operative’s worst enemy is doubt.

As the town car drove him through the patchwork of narrow streets in the heart of the Russian city of Kursk, the Raptor stared out the window at the ramshackle storefronts, the boarded-up windows, the downtrodden locals hanging around in front of the ugly apartment buildings. If not for the ubiquitous