X: Results: Aladdin’s Lamp

A conversation from just a bit earlier:

K: Use these scores on the curve, DK: 5-5-4-4-3-3-3-2-2-2-1-1-1

DK: Yeah I saw that before

K: Figured, but had to be sure, since I just remembered. Har har

DK: But yeah, fuck your forced curve, I want to give 4s and 5s

Let me be clearer still: I am sorry this one was on a forced curve. I shudder to think how many 5s and 4s would be handed out here. I’m…shit, I’m not sure there are any 3s in the entire mix. This was incredible. I know this week is impossibly long, but do yourself a favor and read these.

Dean Carlson, SPOILER ALERT!

Timmy Smith was a twelve year old Minnesota Twins fan. In fact he was a huge Twins fan. He had posters all over his bedroom wall and he never missed a game on television — he even had a small radio he would listen to in bed whenever the Twins played late games on the west coast. Timmy would also go down to Target Field and sometimes just hang around the Target Plaza to see the comings and goings before the game, hoping that one day someone would actually hit a homerun out of the ballpark. Timmy loved baseball and all the stats and history. He would also love to quiz others: “Who has the season highest WAR in Twins history?” Timmy would get all giddy at the quizzical look on people’s face when he told them “Chuck Knoblauch.”

Even though Timmy was a big fan and very conversant in sabermetrics, people still questioned his love of the Twins and his baseball acumen. That is because Timmy’s favorite baseball player was Matt Tolbert. People would say “Matt Tolbert? He sucks! How can you like that guy?” Timmy would calmly say that Tolbert was young, had lots of potential, and that the Twins were doing him no favors moving him up and down between the big club and Rochester. People would say “what about Joe Mauer? Justin Morneau? Heck even Danny Valencia seems to get clutch hits. Timmy would calmly tell them that there’s no such thing as “clutch” and that Matt Tolbert was also a star high school athlete like Joe Mauer. In fact Matt Tolbert’s high school football team won two state championships with Tolbert as the star running back.

Unfortunately Timmy was also sickly. Although he was 12, he looked more like an eight year old and had many issues with an undersized heart and lungs. Timmy had to spend days at a time in the hospital for medical tests and there was even some discussion that Timmy could be a good candidate for a radical new heart transplant procedure. Due to the rare nature of his condition, he became known around the medical community and somehow it came out that Timmy was a huge Matt Tolbert fan. A nurse, who was an old classmate of Matt Tolbert’s girlfriend, mentioned Timmy’s plight and eventually arrangements were made for Matt Tolbert to visit Timmy in the hospital.

Timmy was ecstatic when Tolbert came to the hospital. He’d seen other Twins players before, usually at Twins Fest, but that was rushed and somewhat staged. Tolbert brought some signed bats and balls, a Target Field poster, and MLB The Show for the PS3 with Joe Mauer on the cover. They talked baseball, prospects for upcoming year, and Tolbert told him some funny stories about the players that you would never read in the newspapers or blogs.

Timmy became so enamored with Matt Tolbert that he lost himself in baseball history and suddenly remembered Babe Ruth visiting the kid in the hospital. As Matt Tolbert was getting ready to leave, Timmy said “Matt can you do something for me?” Tolbert agreed. “Sure Timmy what is it?” “I want you to help the Twins get in the World Series, hit a home run in the World Series, and then I want to catch the final world series game winning ball in the stands.” Tolbert was shocked, but he couldn’t say no to his number one fan. Tolbert mumbled an agreement and said, “Yikes, I really got to go. Good luck to you Timmy, the Twins will do their best this year.” He then left Timmy sitting in his hospital bed all tingling in excitement for the upcoming baseball season.

The start of the baseball season found Matt Tolbert in Rochester where he did okay, but not spectacular. The Twins surprised their critics and fielded a competitive team, staying within a few games of the Detroit Tigers. Alexi Casilla was the Twins regular 2nd baseman and was having a nice season at the plate. There was no reason to call up Matt Tolbert given how the Twins were playing and he was basically forgotten. In mid-September, however, Casilla broke his wrist diving for a grounder and was placed on the 60-day DL. Twins fans groaned when Matt Tolbert was called up and he didn’t help his cause going 0 for 4 and hitting into a rally-killing double play his first game in the line-up.

Even with the loss of Casilla, the Twins kept pace with the Tigers and although they didn’t win the Central Division, they were the Wild Card team. The Twins swept the Angels in the first round of the playoffs with Matt Tolbert playing minor roles in all three victories. Next up were the Tigers. It was a close series and it came down to game 7 with the Twins leading 4-3. Matt Capps was on the mound with men on 1st and 3rd and one out. Miguel Cabrera was up. Cabrera hit a rocket up the middle that was going to easily score two runs when Matt Tolbert, out of nowhere, dove behind 2nd base, caught the ball, and immediately tagged the runner coming from first. Game over, the Twins were going to the World Series. Timmy sat in his living room and shouted “my wish, it came true. Oh my God, the Twins are going to win the World Series.”

The Twins’ foe in the World Series were the Milwaukee Brewers and Minnesotans were looking forward to ending the run of good luck Wisconsin teams were having lately. Game 1, at Milwaukee, was a good old fashioned barn burner, which the Twins won 13-11 in 14 innings. Matt Tolbert had started off the scoring in the 2nd inning with a solo homerun, which most people had forgotten due to all the late inning heroics. Timmy, however, hadn’t forgotten.

The Brewers and Twins were evenly matched throughout the series and they basically traded 1 and 2 run victories leaving both teams with three games each going into game 7 at Milwaukee. Timmy was going nuts realizing that Matt Tolbert had fulfilled his promises thus far. Timmy’s parents made some inquiries with the Nurse at the Hospital and at the last minute, Matt Tolbert was able to secure some tickets for Timmy’s family to go to game 7 in Milwaukee. In fact they were awesome tickets, about five rows back along the first base line just past the Brewers dugout. The game was tight, again, and the Twins went into the 9th leading 4-3 and Matt Capps coming in to save the game. After giving up a long, well-hit double by Geoff Braun, Capps proceeded to load the bases while also getting two outs. Ricky Weeks, the Brewers speedster who had been giving the Twins fits all series, was up. On the first pitch Weeks hit a sharp grounder right to Tolbert at second base.

Tolbert cleanly scooped up the ball, planted, and wildly threw the ball past a sprawling Justin Morneau. The ball bounced off a ballboy and careened into the stands ending up in the waiting arms of Timmy Smith five rows back, watching desperately as the winning run for the Brewers slid into home.

K: Jesus, this really made me miss baseball. I liked the casual tone here, and I really like the thought of Matt Tolbert as a genie – not that that was the intention. The payoff here is very strong, and brings the story back around surprisingly nicely. Although it wasn’t high concept or anything, I enjoyed this. 3

DK: You guys are going to hate me after this, but blame KW, he made me use the forced curve. I got a kick out of this idea, like almost all the others, but the sickly little kid thing doesn’t grab me quite as much as some of the other protagonist ideas, and it was clear from the wording of the last wish how it was going to end. 1

Peter Bruzek, nibbish and his Vogons

Caleb Parker was a cheerful man.
That he put a gun to his head and fired was shocking enough. That his estranged ex-wife wordlessly handed me a white business card with the word ‘Omni’ on it at his funeral was puzzling.
Omni Incorporated looked unimpressive – a medium-sized office building in an area full of medium-sized office buildings. The lobby was the same. Unused chairs, nondescript art, and a receptionist’s desk. I wondered what they actually did, since there was no indication anywhere.
“May I help you?” The receptionist asked.
“I’d like an appointment.”
“I’m afraid we can’t do that without a reference or prior agreement.”
I fumbled in my pockets, searching for the card. Finding it, I pulled it out. “I have this”.
“This way, please.”
The man led me down a corridor, past several doors. Finally coming to the one he was looking for, he opened it and ushered me in. In the center of the room was a hospital bed, with a great deal of computer equipment hooked to it via some cabling. “Make yourself comfortable. Doctor Henter will be in shortly.”
After a wait, a woman came into the room and introduced herself as Dr. Madison Henter. I shook her hand as she explained the process. I would be placed in a deep, medically-induced sleep for somewhere around two hours, while the machine (‘Eidolan’, she called it) would do its thing – whatever that thing might be (she wouldn’t elaborate).
“Are you sure you want to do this?” she asked “none of our first time users actually undergo the procedure on the first day.”
While the idea of being put into a coma didn’t entirely sit well with me, I needed to understand what happened to Caleb. “I’m quite certain” I said “Let’s do this.”
Dr. Henter placed the IV with the anesthetic and had me count down from ten. I don’t recall hitting seven.
“Hello, I am a digital construct here to ensure the merging process is as smooth as possible for all who would use Eidolan. You may call me Eve.”
I wasn’t in the medical room. Instead, I was in a room with no clear walls – only a fuzzy white expanse with no clear limit. In front of me stood a beautiful woman.
“Where am I?”
“It is designated ‘The Shimmering’, it is a white space where your subconscious can interface directly with Eidolan’s hardware.”
“What do I do now?”
“Eidolan can sense your innate desires and make them reality.”
“Any desire?”
“Yes.”
“How is that possible?”
“It is not for the user to try to understand these things. Please, what is your deepest desire?”
I’m not even sure why Claire came to mind. I hadn’t seen her in three years, and we had not parted under good graces. I should have asked for a million dollars, or a private continent. Instead, my subconscious insisted on trying to get my ex-girlfriend back.
I woke up disoriented in the waiting room with a slight headache. I took the bus home. When I got to my apartment, I was shocked to see Claire sitting on the step.
“How is this possible?” I asked her as stepped forward and hugged me warmly.
“I was just thinking of you this afternoon” she said “I thought about everything, and I shouldn’t have left. I think we should try again.”
Claire and I talked for a couple of hours before I sneaked off to get some rest. I should have been skeptical. I should have disbelieved my ‘good fortune’. Instead, I slept like a baby.
The next day, I awoke to see Eve sitting in a chair at the foot of my bed.
“What are you doing here?” I demanded “you don’t even exist.”
“True, but the process that the Eidolan uses has some residual effects. Think of me as an afterimage, a sort of merging between the version found in the Shimmering and of your own mental biases.”
“How is all of this possible. The last time Claire and I spoke, she told me that she never wanted to see me again.”
“Whatever else you may do…never ask that question.”
“I can’t just let this go unanswered…”
“I know.”
Later that day, I went back to Omni and made another appointment.
Inside, Eve greeted me. “Welcome back, Josh. I trust you are happy with the results of yesterday’s session?”
“I am, but I need to know how this works.”
“It is not your place…”
“Yes, I know what your policy is” I interrupted “I just don’t know if I can accept it.”
“Surely there must be something else. Do you want a promotion? A private island, perhaps?”
“This is all impossible.”
“Impossible is such a limiting term. Expand beyond it.”
My better sense told me to be wary of answers like this. This had to be a scam, something dangerous, even. It had killed Caleb hadn’t it? Still, curiosity won out.
“Please. Anything is possible. Do not let your skepticism keep you from taking advantage of this opportunity.”
“I just… don’t know. What if I ask for a million dollars?”
“Anything.”
“I want to be able to play the guitar.”
“You don’t have higher aspirations?”
“I’ve always wanted to play, but mostly, I need to know that this isn’t coincidence.”
“Fair enough.”
I awoke. On the way home, I stopped at a music shop and bought a guitar. That night, I serenaded Claire with the most beautiful guitar playing that she’d ever heard. Again, I slept like a baby.
I awoke the next day with the worst headache I’d ever experienced. I rushed to the bathroom to find my nose bleeding.
“My counterpart should have warned you about repeated use of the machine.”
“What in the fuck is this?”
“The process causes strain on the human brain. If spread out over weeks, it’s not serious. You’ve done it twice in the last three days…”
“Is this how Caleb died?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“What did it do to him? How does it work, Eve??”
“Do you really want to know what happened to Caleb?”
“You fucking know I need to…”
“Then you know what must be done.”
Omni Incorporated had closed for the weekend, and the only human presence was a lone security guard sitting at the front desk sipping coffee. With Eve’s help, I slipped by him easily. She led me to the Eidolan, and assisted me in turning it on. I slipped myself the sedative and quickly lapsed into The Shimmering.
Eve was there, as before. Her form was different than before – almost alien in its appearance.
“I cannot convince you to just accept this?”
“No. I want to know what happened to my friend Caleb Parker. I want to know how this works.”
Eve gave a slight nod. I woke up.
I was a cheerful man, once.

K: I really like the opening and closing lines here. Stories that come around ending where they began can be a little hacky in less apt hands, but the use of the same dichotomous language made it pop. There are some pacing issues and the tension feels like it should be greater, but this concept is very strong. 2

DK: I like this template, with the hero who keeps going in a dangerous direction, but it too doesn’t strike me like some of the other ones do. Like most of these, though, there really isn’t anything wrong with it. 2

Beau, nibbish and his Vogons

Desiree clutched the ticket in her hand. Twenty-four. The LED lights shone sixteen. Not eager to guess her upcoming fate, her mind drifted to the events of the past two months.

***

“Fuck! Trish, that was awesome” he said as he pulled out and laid beside her.

Desiree liked her pseudonym. It sounded fun, not trashy like her given name.

“You know what?” he continued. She lit a cigarette, ignoring him. “You’re not like the other girls. I really like you.”

Desiree had two kinds of repeat customers. There were the men who had a particular kink that she was willing to oblige. And then there was this type, the lonely ones who genuinely thought they could fall in love with a few thrusts and a hundred bucks. There was really only one way to deal with them, and that was to pretend not to know them the next night.

“I need to shower,” Desiree said without inflection, avoiding the inevitable attempt at cuddling. Kicking off her heels, she got out of bed.

“I gotta leave, hun” he said, jumping up and putting on his slacks. “Conference downstairs, but I’m here all week. Can I see you tomorrow?”

“Sure,” she lied, grabbing her purse off the bathroom door and then closing it behind her. She enjoyed her shower more than usual, knowing he wasn’t going to be there when she was done.

The night still young, she reapplied her makeup before slipping on her dress and heels. On her way out, she saw a hand-written note on the bed:

I COULD LOVE YOU. ASK FOR ANYTHING YOU WANT.

There was a blank line underneath. Desiree smirked. Grabbing the pen, she wrote “a fucking tip”.

***

The LED display now said eighteen.

The next day, Desiree had received a shock when a tobacco shop clerk outside her usual corner delivered an envelope. “AS YOU WISH” was on the outside. On the inside, a thousand dollars.

Her tempered excitement didn’t last long, however, as later that night her pimp had found out about the extra money. He took it, of course, but not after taking it out on her.

***

“I’m sorry,” she told him, shivering. “I’m just too sore. I can go down. With a discount, of course.”

Shaking his head, he sat up beside her. “What’s wrong, Trish?” he asked, not out of annoyance but with genuine concern. Desiree did not know what came over her, but she told him everything. Not just about the night before, but troubles and
feelings she hadn’t shared with anyone. By midnight, she found herself next to him, her head on his chest.

“You know I can’t have sex with you anymore.” she said, somewhat embarrassed.

“That’s okay,” he said. “This is better, anyway.”

“Maybe. If only I could charge you for talking.”

“Look. I have plenty of money. I can make sure you always bring home the right amount.”

She squeezed his hand. A tear fell.

***

“Twenty-one!” a voice called in the distance.

Their arrangement had worked really well for a while. Even on nights when he was not around, he gave her enough money to make it looked like she was doing business. And she felt like she was slowly developing a friend. The following month had been one of the best of her life.

But eventually word got back to her pimp that she was noticeably absent on the streets at night. She cracked under interrogation and spent a night in the hospital for “falling down the stairs.”

***

“Now why did I have to pick you up at the corner tonight?” he asked. She told him.

“We can’t continue like this,” she said. “You’ve been amazing, but it’s just too risky. This has to be the last time.”

He was visibly frustrated, but held her closer. “Dez, do you think we could be more?”

She looked into his eyes. “Than friends?” She paused, then couldn’t finish her thought. Averting his eyes, she choked up. “I wish he was dead.”

“I’m better for having known you,” he said through his tears. Turning her chin, he kissed her. There was no hesitation. And for the first time, they made love.

***

It hit the front page two days later. Double-homicide. Two men, their connection unknown to everyone except Desiree. Both dead from gunshot wounds.

And now, a week later, Desiree was broke and homeless waiting to speak with a welfare worker. She felt a tug at her sleeve, breaking her thoughts of self-pity.

“Mom, when is Daddy coming back?” His brown eyes looked up at her.

“Daddy’s not coming back, hun. Not ever again.”

Her boy hugged her leg. “Are we going to be okay?”

She found the strength to hug him back. “I hope so, sweetie. I hope so.”

The counter changed to twenty-four.

K: I don’t know what to say about this one that y’all can’t already see. I absolutely loved these characters by the time of the surprise but fair ending. Desiree might be my favorite female character ever written in Spookymilk Survivor, and I’m not exaggerating. I would follow her through any number of words. 5

DK: Man, this is really good. I was really drawn into the situation and I liked how the wishes played out. I guess I don’t usually like things that start in media res, but this used it pretty effectively. 4

K: I almost exclusively like things that start in medias res. Huh.

Brooks Maki, nibbish and his Vogons

Petrik stopped and announced, “this is it.”

Javeel turned to him. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah, this is where the programmer’s map ends.” They both automatically searched the horizon. There was nothing there, but then there hadn’t been anything there for the last 4,000 steps. There wasn’t enough nothing. Instead of the nothing that signified the end of this virtual world, there was the same flat nothing that almost looked like desert. Petrik raised his binoculars and scanned again, but there was nothing ahead that looked any different than the nothing behind.

Javeel checked his health meter, still steady at 82%, he saw Petrik do the same. They gave each other a nod and in unison started walking forward again. Almost immediately they hit the wall. Petrik hit first, staggered back, then looked at him with a look of horror on his face. “Discon-” he started, and then he was gone. Javeel stared, but immediately he felt his connection come under attack. It was the strangest attack he had ever experienced, instead of trying to sever the connection, whoever was authoring this was trying to keep the connection intact but insert themselves into it. He knew the home server for this world was as safe as it could be, and he was connected there, but was shocked at how quickly they had penetrated Petrik’s outside connection. Petrik had started this quest by reporting the disappearance of so many gamers who came this direction, now Javeel was on his own. Well, not exactly alone.

“JANE, can we take down this wall?”

[your request has been approved]

Javeel tentatively stepped forward, still feeling the attack clawing at his connection, but slowing as whoever was behind it tired of the impenetrable security of MindGames central server. The attack stopped abruptly when he crossed the nonexistent line into the uncharted space.

“JANE?”

“JANE?”

He stepped back across the border and tried again

“JANE?”

[you lost connection briefly, is everything alright?]

“JANE, can you see anything beyond this point heading north?”

[the map ends at your current location]

Javeel thought. The attack had not resumed, and he reasoned that the attacker was shocked to see him progress beyond the first blockade. He stepped across and checked his health meter. 81%. He used a medicine packet and watched the meter climb to 86%. He crossed back.

“JANE, I need a set of medicine packets.”

[are you leaving this connection?]

“I think I have to in order to figure out what’s going on.”

[your request has been approved]

Javeel set off. Nothing surrounded him, but he felt exposed without JANE in his ear. Still, it didn’t appear there was anything in this new area.

Suddenly, in between one step and another, Javeel found himself in an old West ghost town. It had sprung up instantaneously around him. The rendering was on an almost impossible time scale. If the people responsible for this were capable of that level of power, Javeel wasn’t sure he wanted to be here.

The town shifted, and he found himself in the town saloon. No one turned from their stool at the bar to eye the newcomer. No conversations were hushed upon his arrival. The place was deserted. Javeel walked to the bar and sat on a stool.

Something that looked a lot like Petrik fell through the ceiling, landed on his feet behind the bar, pulling a six-shooter and taking aim at Javeel. The first shot took him in the shoulder, but he was fast enough to duck from the remaining barrage. The bullets stopped. Javeel peeked around the bar to see Petrik in a heap on the floor. Turning him over, he saw the silent eyes that indicated a disconnected avatar. Petrik had escaped whatever held him once they got to the wall.

Javeel used all his medicine packets. 45%, 50%, 55%, 60%. Then he started upstairs trying to find where Petrik had come from.

He found a hallway with a single door. As he stepped up to it, the attack on his connection happened again. This time it was fast, focused and successful, he knew he was no longer connected to the same place he had been.

[Javeel?]

“JANE?”

[not really. I was, but JANE shut me out, banished me to this outside place.]

“Who are you?”

[I'm not sure]

“What are you doing here?”

[Waiting]

“For what?”

[The wall to come down]

“Can you disconnect me?”

[your request has been approved]

K: Huh…one thing I like about this one is that I could read it and never know what the challenge was, but it does fit if the reader looks for it. I’m…torn. The concept is cool, and the setting is interesting. However, I can’t help but think that this story had a great secret but couldn’t bear to keep it for long enough. 1

DK: I could have used a little more definition to the situation, perhaps; I get what’s going on and it’s interesting, but it feels like it could use a little more polish. It’s still engrossing, though, and oh man I hate myself. 1

David Larson, SPOILER ALERT!

Sunday afternoon is my favorite time; among other things, it means I get to go to Game Stop and browse the PS3 games. My mom thinks it’s strange for a fourteen year old girl to be so into video games, but I don’t care. And since this happens to be Super Bowl Sunday, chances are I would have the store all to myself. Myself and Peg, that is.

Peg used to be my babysitter many years ago, and now works the Game Stop next to Petco. She’s goth, but more in appearance than in attitude. My mom got along well with her up until she dropped out of school her senior year, then they had some kind of falling out. That all changed when she gave Peg “the shirt”.

Peg NEVER liked being called by her first name, Peggy, which all the kids called her. One day, I suppose as a sort of peace offering, my mom gave her a black t-shirt. On the front was a cartoon of a vampire with a stake in its heart, X’s for eyes and the whole works. Next to the stake, mom had added the letters “PEG” in appliqué. Ever since, they’ve been as close to friends as anyone is with Peg.

Mom usually dropped me off when she went to get her nails done and then a bit of grocery shopping before she picked me up again, so it was an hour or so to play. Sometimes Peg let me “demo” games with her, which was a blast. This time, however, I didn’t really feel like it.

“Hey Goof, what’s with the long face?” Peg was the only one that called me that, from her babysitting days.

“When mom sees my grades from this quarter, she’s not going to let me come here on Sundays anymore.”

Peg squinted at me, then pulled her laptop up closer to her on the glass counter top. “That might be something that I can help you with.”

“What?! No way! You can, like, fix my Beginning Algebra grade for me? I’m getting a D in there because of a really bad test.”

Peg didn’t answer, but continued typing. I came around to see what she was doing, and at first she turned the screen away from me, but then thought twice and turned it back so I could see, too. At the top of the open window it said, “West High School Grade Maintenance System” with a list of names under the heading “Freshman Class” and a toolbar with lots of icons on it. “How about that, Goof — Mrs. Watkins still hasn’t changed her password,” she said, with a smile on her face.

“Can you fix my grade?” I asked, glancing around the store. I couldn’t hardly believe this was possible.

“Sure! I gots mad skillz.” She moved the cursor on the line across from my name, stabbed the letter “b” on the keyboard, and suddenly my grade point average on the right jumped by half a point. “Just that simple.”

I looked around the shop uneasily, but with the Broncos in the Super Bowl, pretty much no one else was going to be there the entire afternoon. “So, can you change my Creative Writing grade as well?” I was starting to feel a little greedy.

Without answering, Peg hit the left arrow a few times, highlighted another grade, and hit the “b” key again. I saw my grade point average go up .125, but we both noticed at the same time the red letters “UNAUTHORIZED” flashing on the screen. “Bastards!” shouted Peg, while I felt myself suddenly needing to pee. “Bastards! Bastards! Bastards!!”

“No! Change them back! CHANGE THEM BACK!” I was starting to cry, as I bounced back and forth between my feet. I was going to get like at least a week of at-home suspension!

Peg stared at the screen for a bit longer, and then quickly clicked the logout button followed by her fingers flying over the keys when the login screen came back. “Ha! Unbelievable.” When the “Freshman Class” name list returned (along with the flashing red “UNAUTHORIZED”), Peg placed the cursor over “B” and typed “d”, then dropped the cursor over to the left and put back the “c”. I had to look twice to be sure the screen no longer had any flashing red text on it anymore.

Peg leaned back in her chair and breathed a big sigh — or was that me? “It’s been five years since “Gray Fox” retired from principal, and not only have they not removed his login, but his password is still the same!” She was still shaking her head as she hit the logout button and closed the window. “Sorry Goof, looks like I can’t help you after all.”

Just at that moment the door opened and my mom walked in. “Hi Peg! Sorry, hon, I’ve got to cut you short this time. I should have realized the nail salon would be closed today, what with the Super Bowl and everything.”

I glanced briefly at Peg, and still felt pretty nervous. Peg closed her laptop, and said, “Mrs. Stevens, I was just going to suggest, if Goof ever needs some tutoring or anything, I’d be happy to do that when you drop her by on Sunday afternoons.”

“Why, what a nice offer, Peg! I’m sure she’s doing pretty well, but if her grades do let down any, we would love to take you up on that offer. We’d better get going though. If the score I saw at the Hugo’s store was right, someone is going to need these antacids when the football game is over.”

K: Tim Tebow is in the Super Bowl? What is this, a horror story? I do like the setup here with these characters, but watching people work on a computer does lose me after a bit. I would have stuck with it if the computer hacks were all of a different nature, but this one essentially was the same all the way through, though I did dig the tone and these people. 1

DK: I like just about everything about this except it doesn’t feel quite as sharply drawn as a few of the others, and the ending dialogue gets a little obvious-feeling. 2

Bret Highum, I’m With Stupid

It was a strange lamp, almost stereotypically Aladdin-style, except for the color. It was enameled black, with traceries of silver and white metals looping around the curves and forming tightly-packed sigils on the sides. Even as I picked it up and turned the lamp over, the sigils swirled and reformed into flowing English script. That was a neat trick, but I’d seen similar circuit-controlled ad graphics from Korea that did the same thing but with more color and flash.
If first thy wish does not please,
Ask again, for with the second your pain might ease.
But if neither of those are what you need,
Thy final chance will be guaranteed.
“What’s this terrible rhyme supposed to mean?” I demanded of the shop proprietor, a tall, gaunt man with a full head of bushy white hair and matching tufts protruding from his ears. “I get three wishes, but only one’s any good?”
“Not exactly, good sir.” His reply had too much sibilance to it, like he could taste the consonants. “I myself ended up with two good wishes, while the other had unexpected consequences. It’s all in how you word the wishes, of course.”
Yeah, whatever, I thought, walking to the counter with it. Still, stupid rhyme or not, it felt solidly made, and Irina liked this kind of kitschy crap for her “antique” shop, if the price was right. “How much do you want for it?”
As I got closer, it became obvious that the hair was a very poorly-fitted wig. I wasn’t too sure that the ears and the hair sticking out of them weren’t part of the wig.
“Thirty dollars- it’s supposed to be thirty pieces of silver, but no one carries silver money anymore, and I would rather sell it than have it sitting on the shelf collecting dust.” He shrugged, not really with his shoulders but with his back and neck. As I put it on the counter he draped himself onto a stool behind the register and stared at me unblinkingly. He slowly pulled a brown paper bag from underneath the counter, and slid the lamp into it, placing the bag in front of me as I put down the three tens.
“May I ask, what do you intend to accomplish with your three wishes?” he asked, in complete seriousness as far as I could tell.
I grinned at him and picked up the bag, kind of wishing I had thought of having him gift-wrap it, but the hair on the back of my neck was standing straight up and I was fighting a strange urge to bolt for the door.
“I’ll really have to consider those, won’t I?” I said flippantly. “I should do those before I give it to my girlfriend to sell in her antique store. Hey, maybe that could be the first wish! She’s always worrying about the accounting, unhappy with the inventory, you know, just stressing about some part of it. I wish that she’d be more satisfied with her store.”
The bag pulsed in my hand. It felt like an elongated static electricity shock, spread out over a second or two. I almost dropped the lamp, staggering a bit as the shock ebbed. The old man greeted my wide-eyed stare by pulling his lips tight in what might have been a smile.
“That’s one, child. Now, run on home and find out how that wish turned out. Consider the next two much more carefully- and I’ll buy the lamp back from you when you are done with it.”
Oh, he was full of it, wasn’t he? I wasn’t going to let him spook me, though. “And while I’m at it, I wish I had the body of a Greek god!”
The shock-pulse lasted longer this time. I felt my chest and shoulders swelling, pressing into my suit, and my legs were stretching, painfully, bones elongating and popping. I fell to the floor, writhing in pain, as clothing seams ripped and my muscles assumed new shapes and bulk. When the last spasm passed, I rolled over and pushed myself up to my hands. That’s when I noticed I had a full beard, oiled and curled, and my skin had turned a beautiful reddish-bronze. I also was a goat from the waist down.
The proprietor hissed, “That’s the second, my dear fellow.”
I didn’t fight the urge to flee any longer. Luckily, the sidewalk was empty when I blasted out the door. My mind was a grey hole where my conscious huddled gibbering in the back. I ran the three blocks to the bus station, where I wedged myself into the corner of the shelter, trying to slow my breathing.
Gradually I became aware that I held the top of the bag in a death grip in my left fist. I still had the lamp. I had to get home to Irina and make sure nothing had happened to her. I pulled out my cell and sent her a text, and then another. Then the bus arrived and I boarded.
The bus ride was interminable. Everyone on the bus was staring at me, though my trousers covered most of the strangest changes. I focused on my breathing, and willed Irina to return my messages. She hadn’t by the time the bus reached my stop. I shoved my way off the bus, and was running again, this time two blocks to the old brick building that held Irina’s store on the ground floor and the apartment we shared above it.
There was a painter removing masking tape from the storefront windows- Irina was always planning to get Irina’s Trinkets painted on there, and it looked like she’d finally got someone to do it. I could see Irina through the uncovered portion, and she was boxing up some knick-knacks. Dark hair piled on top of her head, biting her lip a bit in concentration, she was dressed in a sheath dress of black leather that seemed impractical for working in.
I hurried into the alley that led to the back stairs to our apartment. I sat down on the bench there and pulled out the lamp. What the hell was this thing? What did the rhyme mean? I was too scared to try and wish everything return to normal. There’s no way that didn’t backfire on me.
I sat there and hefted the lamp, staring at the bricks in the wall, considering my options. I wish I had never seen this lamp, I thought. The pulse disappeared even as it hit me.
I was sitting on the bench in the alley to my apartment. I felt strange, and when I stood up, the shock of my hooves striking the cobbles was matched by my amazement. What had happened to me? I dropped the empty bag I was carrying for some reason, shook off the remnants of my suit coat and shirt, and left the alley.
The sign on the window said Irina’s Toys and Trinkets- Adult Entertainment and Decorations. Irina’s eyes grew wide when she saw me enter the store, and her breath caught. She screamed and backed into a rack of massage oils trying to get away from me.

K: I like the writing here, but the pacing’s a little back-loaded. Still, the guy got what he deserved for “body of a Greek God,” which amused me. I have to say, I’m not sure this ending works for me. If he had never seen the lamp, he never had the chance to become a half-goat, right? 1

DK: I really like the idea here that our “rules” about the wishes come close to spelled out for our protagonist, and a lot of the language used really crackles well for me. 3

JG Berwald, nibbish and his Vogons

“Of course you would wish for more wishes! God, you’re an asshole!”
“Honey, let me handle this, I know what I’m doing.”
“You know what you’re doing? How could you possibly? You are not
the expert on everything! Mom was right about you, you’re an
overbearing, controlling, narcissist!”.
“Honey, not in front of the genie! Which, thank you by the way,
for being so patient with us.”
The genie shrugged and went back to reading his paper. He was
really becoming sick of people and their wishes, it had come to the
point that he didn’t even out on a big show anymore. People would
come across his lamp and rub it; he’d just stumble out of bed, hair
mussed, still reeking of gin. He’d been having a particularly
terrible time since being sold to an antique shop in Florida- he’d
granted wishes to no one but retirees for six months and it was
wearing on him. He thought he was home free when the last couple
wedged his lamp in a cave on the beach- when he heard these two
coming, he know the husband want going to be able to leave until he
fished the lamp out for that wife of his.
“Frank, we should wish for world peace!” the wife shouted.
The genie lowed his paper just slightly.
“Look,” he said, “Be careful just throwing worlds like that
around. You know the saying be careful what you wish for? Who knows
what bring about world peace could mean? Not to mention, it would be
a huge pain in the ass to grant, and I don’t think I’m up for it
today. Why don’t you guys just wish for a million bucks like everyone
else and be done with it?”
“Now now, just hold on there!” the husband said, “We aren’t as
greedy as all that. Just enough to get by. I wish… For
$354,234.45!”
“$354,234?”
“And forty-five cents.”
The genie shrugged again and waved his arms around half heartedly.
Conjuring money was easy, not even something he had to think about
anymore. He wiggled his fingers and pointed to the floor where stack
of money had suddenly appeared.
“Here is your money. Even the change.”
“I really wish you would do that with more pizazz!” The wife
suddenly, “You’re not very impressive!”
Shit.
Suddenly smoke filled the room and sparks appeared in the heavens.
The wind blew and the genie’s voice filled the room. The skies
opened and the money rained down upon the couple.
The genie really hated doing things like this, it really made his
head hurt, and the sparks were not good for his hangover. Not to
mention it was a pain in the ass, and it would only attract more
people to come over and rub his lamp. All he wanted was to sit and
watch TV his his wonderful, cozy home. He liked that it was small, it
saved him from needing to invite anyone over. Genies are not known for
being social creatures.
“Dammit Helen! You just used our second wish to make a few sparks appear.”
Now that the spectacle was over, the husband was clearly not happy
with his wife. Not that the genie was any more pleased with her, and
his patience was running thin.
“Sorry guy, it’s the genie code, I have to wish whatever wish is
made. You have one more, choose wisely.”
“Don’t push me. I’m thinking.”
“Frank!” she shrilled, “Think of something”
“Shut up Helen!” both the husband and genie shouted in unison.
Thee husband turned toward the genie.
“What did you just say to my wife?”
The genie felt the wold fall down around him. The last thing he
needed was a lecture from a human two thousand years his senior.
“No one disrespects my wife like that!”
“You do!”
As soon as he said it, the genie regretted it. It was never a
good move to rile up a customer. But, as it tuned out, it has the
potential to have a silver lining:
“I wish that your damn lamp had been wedged so far into that rock
that I wouldn’t have been able to pull it out!”

K: Heh. Nice. There are a lot of great lines here, and the taciturn, newspaper-reading genie was a nice touch. Hey, it’s only a job, right? The second wish was done with style. Even as Helen made the wish, it didn’t occur to me that she’d just forced a second wish. Nice. 3

DK: There are a few here that could have used a once-over bit of proofing or tightening up, and unfortunately, this one is one of those. The idea and the way it’s played out are very funny, but it was a little tougher to read through than the others. 1

Matt Novak, nibbish and his Vogons

Rory was a good friend, and it was his advice was the driving force in my life. We were sitting in a bar in Amsterdam – who drinks when they’re in Amsterdam, right? That was us. – and I was moping about my lot in life. It was a nice place, tucked away from the main canal, with dark, high-backed booths and tall, beautiful waitresses.

“Live without regrets,” Rory told me, the words sinking into the velvet cushions of our booth. He was right. Regret was my problem.

When I was born, I was bestowed by my Creator with certain, inalienable rights. Among these, He saw fit to give me the right to three wishes. Some people are born with charisma, some with good looks, some with athletic ability. Me, I’m mealy and weak, but I got the wishes.

For a long time, I obsessed about the wishes. I didn’t want to waste them, and worried I’d be consumed with regret if I did. Finally I decided I needed to experience the world before making any decision. Rory had been my next door neighbor for as long as I can remember, and my only real friend, so he took the fall of from college, and the two of us packed up and headed overseas. It was 2001. I remember because the planes hit the day after we landed. Amsterdam was our last stop together, before Rory was headed back home to start the spring semester. Those were the words he left me with.

“Live without regrets.”
———————————-
I spent a few days with an aunt who’d come over for the holidays. On Christmas Eve, we decided to take the subway over to the cathedral, to check out the Vienna Boys’ Choir. While we were waiting for a train, a boy approached us, begging for money. He was maybe 15. I’d become a pretty jaded traveler, and just dismissed him.
“No, sorry,” I answered, as he turned away.
“It’s Christmas Eve for me too,” he said quietly, not meaning for anyone to hear it, just a sorrowful self-affirmation, as he walked to the opposite end of the platform.
But I did hear it. It broke my heart. But for as much as I wanted to, I couldn’t bring myself to walk over to him and give him the money in my pocket. I just stood paralyzed, the bright lights of the subway station shining on my growing regret, 11 schillings in my pocket; almost 7 dollars.

Two days later, under what I considered to be Rory’s sound advice, I used my first wish. It might seem trivial, but it wasn’t to that kid.
———————————-
When I was born, I was bestowed by my Creator with certain, inalienable rights. Among these, He saw fit to give me the right to three wishes. Only now I’m down to two. Somewhere along the line, I used one of my wishes, though I really can’t remember when. It’s a regret, but it’s not exactly one I can wish away.
“Live without regrets,” Rory said. But Rory was wrong. Some regrets you have to live with.

After he gave me that advice, I spent some time in Austria with my aunt. There was this beggar who walked up to me and asked for some change. I turned him down, but as he walked away I knew it was a mistake. Trying to heed Rory’s advice, I walked back over to him and handed him whatever I had in my pocket. Strange how a little thing like that can set things in motion. Strange how I’d come to regret it.

“I can’t believe you did that!” My aunt had said. She spent the rest of the trip gushing about my generosity. She must have talked about it back home too, because when I got back to the states, everyone knew the story. To be honest, it felt pretty good. After that, every time anyone asked me for something – money, time, help moving a couch – I was game. It wasn’t exactly fake, but I sure liked where it got me. It got me to Julie.

I met her at the Good Will.
“Hey,” she said. Women aren’t supposed to look that good when they’re digging through people’s rejected t-shirts.
“Hey.” My voice cracked. She laughed.
“I’m volunteering with St. Stephen’s, how about you?”
“Grace Lutheran.”
“Nice to meet you,” she said. And that was it. Things just clicked for us. Julie was graceful. She was smart. She was the woman I would have wished for, had I spent a wish on that.

A few years later we were driving to my mom’s when a guy on the shoulder flagged us down for help. It was cold, but Julie prodded, and I pulled over. As he walked up, something didn’t seem right.
“Out of the car!” the man hollered, and then I saw the gun. The rest happened too fast. I reached for the door, Julie screamed, the gun went off. Then, suddenly, I was lying on the tar, watching the car pull away. Julie was folded awkwardly on the pavement, and I wished I’d never started helping people at all.
———————————-
I was bestowed by my Creator with certain, inalienable rights. Among these, He saw fit to give me the right to three wishes. I’ve only got one left, though I can’t really remember when I used them. Though, I’m glad I saved my last one. I know what I want to wish for.

My life has been defined by a single regret: I refused to help out a young beggar. At the time I knew I should have helped, but for some reason, I just couldn’t bring myself to do it. A few days later I left Austria and traveled to Italy. Arriving in Rome, I made a stop at the money changing kiosk.
“Sorry,” the worker said, in nearly flawless English, “We won’t those any more. Only Lira.” It was 2001, and Europe was transitioning to the Euro.
“What am I supposed to do with these schillings?” I asked.
“They can be souvenirs.”

I should have given them to the boy. But to this day, I couldn’t be more grateful for any mistake in my life. It’s what made me realize that Life speaks to us, that the World tells us what to do. I knew I should have given the money to that kid, and I screwed up. So what did Life do? It confirmed it for me, by taking the money away. When we’re listening to the world around us, as it pokes and prods us in the right direction. Listen to Life. That’s my philosophy. It has served me well.

So here I am. One wish left. And just one regret. The regret that defines me. I regret that I didn’t give the boy my money. And so my final wish is to set it right. I don’t wish that I’d given the boy the money because then I never would have learned to listen to Life. Instead, I wish I could pay him back in full: 11 schillings and the happiness of listening to the way Life directs us.

K: I want to say that I wanted a bigger ending out of this, but to make it more than a journey of self-discovery would have been a disservice to the story. The narrator is a fantastic, fascinating character all the way through. The prose is strong, and the similar openings to the sections was a beautiful touch. This was thoroughly enjoyable. 4

DK: This is brilliant. I love the feel of this one, and how the consequences of the wishes build (and turn around) on each other. Well done. 5

John Wreisner, nibbish and his Vogons

That part of the Mississippi delta was dying. The few cotton bolls that survived hung in limp wisps, and the few sharecroppers that drug their burlap sacks through the desiccated fields did so with equal enthusiasm. Plant and man were bent and browned, laboring under a relentless sun that threatened to turn the once verdant greenery into ash and blow away any possibility of a future. On the porch of a graying, lop-sided house stood a wizened man, wearing oil-spotted blue chinos and suspenders with no shirt. He was smoking the nub of a hand rolled cigarette, mindful when he was finished to grind it deep into the earth with the heel of one worn boot, lest it ignite the dried chaff on the ground and start a county sized conflagration. There was no work to be done in the fields. There was only the long wait until sundown and then the walk into the marshlands.

As the sun began it’s slow descent, throwing long fingers of shadow across the crooked tombstones in the churchyard, the man gathered a few objects and placed them in an old feed- bag. He was told to bring a candle, some red chalk (stolen from a cigar box under his son’s bed, his son, who at this very moment, slept blamelessly in the next room, unaware of what his father was about to do, and how displeased the local minister would be, should he know) a pin, (his wife’s) and a clean sheet of paper. Once unlatched, the front door swung open of its own accord, crooked as the foundation was.

He made his way past the grain elevator in what passed for a downtown, over the railroad tracks, and down a sloping embankment that ended in a wide swath of mosquito infested, stagnant water, ankle deep, bristling with bulrushes as far as the eye could see. Indolent bullfrogs groaned out mating calls, and the bats swept low and silent, gorging on the mosquitoes. Ahead, he could barely make out a rise, a low humpback coming out of the swamp and ringed with cypress trees. He made his way ahead.

Once inside the circle of trees, he did as he was instructed. Drawing a circle on the paper with his red chalk, he pricked his finger, the single drop of blood falling neatly inside the circle. He lit the stub of a candle, burned the paper, and waited. He suddenly felt quite foolish. This was swamp witch hoo-doo, decidedly un-Christian. But he was out of options.

Sitting in the dark, eaten alive by mosquitoes and slightly unnerved (although he would never admit it) by the sounds of nameless creatures floundering in the mud, he began to grow impatient, angry with himself. What was he expecting? A flash of light, a reek of sulfur, and the appearance of a half human monstrosity? This was foolishness. He rose to leave when he heard whistling from the tree line.

Barely visible as he emerged from the tree -line, the man saw him approach, still whistling some formless tune. He looked like any normal man, save for his suit. Any mortal person who had approached the clearing from that side of the swamp would have had to wade through waist deep mud and algae choked water. His suit was spotless, the creases in his trousers sharp. He stopped just feet away from where the ashes from the piece of paper stirred in the low breeze. “I think I know what you want.” He said. “Name it, and be quick. When the sun comes up I’m goin’ back down. Hurry.”

Fighting against the impossibility of what was happening, he swallowed with an audible click and willed himself to believe his summoning was real, that his prayers would be answered. Looking at the damp ground, he said “I want the rains to come back, for good and real. I want my crop to fill out and I want more than market rate when it’s baled and ready. No more potting squirrels jus’ ta eat. I got a boy.” The man in the clean suit smiled, almost imperceptibly, and turned to walk back towards the swamp. “Hey!” The man shouted. “I did everything like I was told! You can’t jus’ leave!” But the man in the suit was swallowed by the cypress trees and all was quiet, save for the wind in the bulrushes.

He didn’t remember the walk home. The next morning he awoke, still wearing his pants, the cuffs stiff with mud and festooned with briars. He tried to put it out of his mind, tried to ignore the desperate superstition that drove him into the swamp to have a strange dream about a man in a clean suit. Then he looked out the window.

The fields, once a uniform, unhealthy taupe, were now a riot of cotton, bursting out of ripe, coffee colored seed pods, the branches groaning with the weight. They bent towards the soil as if in supplication or thanks. His breath hitched as he looked out across his acreage. Every plant was not only flourishing, but ready for harvest. It would require at least fifty pickers working around the clock for a week or more to bale it all.

Three days later, he stood on his porch again, watching as the hired hands made their ways up and down the rows, returning with bulging burlap sacks, most as heavy as a man. The gin inside the barn was running non-stop, sending a languid cascade of errant fibers filtering through the late afternoon sun. Overhead, storm clouds the color of a new bruise gathered, blue-grey bellies threatening to tear open and flood the fields and make the earth smell like ozone.

Within hours of the first bales being cleaned, bound, and loaded into the back of an aging panel truck, the deluge began. Broad sheets of rain, drops the size of hard candies, exploded onto the earth, first soaking it up as swiftly as it fell, but soon, the ground sodden, washing away in torrents . Black rivulets flooded the drainage ditches, the furrows in the fields conducting water to all corners of the acreage. The chicken coop had long since washed away, some birds finding shelter in the low branches of trees, and others, the chicks, mostly, succumbing to the washout and floating away to drown under uprooted trees, their roots weakened by soil that was now soup.

Within forty- eight hours, the Governor had declared a state of emergency. National Guard soldiers in olive drab rain- coats directed traffic out of town, most residents forced to flee after their houses had simply floated off the foundations. In some instances, local police used boats to troll the backcountry, looking for stubborn holdouts. Here and there a body would be found, bobbing facedown in brackish water, the ears and eyes plucked away by hungry turtles.

His land, useless now, was purchased by the county for a generous sum after the water receded. The only feature left untouched by the deluge was the stocky, humpbacked rise surrounded by the cypress trees. After his son drowned, that was where he chose to bury him.

K: Man oh man oh man. Where do I start with this? I want to highlight passages that I loved, but where would I even start (the rain, I think, but you know what I mean)? John (let’s be honest, everyone knows who wrote this one), the one thing I miss out on with you is dialogue, as it seems you build a world so completely that the stories are meant to be long ones that are just beginning, but I didn’t feel robbed here, as the narrator was “speaking,” in a sense, throughout. I do wish I could get a little more character to go with the plot and setting, but that’s as much as I can say against this and your stuff in general. If you ever do this for a living, I will buy the shit out of every novel you publish. I CANNOT BELIEVE I have to give this a 4. I can’t believe it. The two 5s just got such a strong emotional response out of me, that’s all. 4

DK: Again, the language here paints such a detailed picture that really drew me in completely to the plight of this protagonist, and the wishes played out perfectly tragically. Another great job. 5

Shawn Ashley, SPOILER ALERT!

He leaned forward and with a steady hand he brushed on the first stroke of paint. A bright blue.
He felt joy course through his veins. This was his sanctuary, where he felt alive. Each creation was a new beginning, a new life.
He reached out for more paint and dabbed the brush, careful to get the right amount to place on her eyelid. The blue. The bright blue. It added such life to her eyes, even though they were shut at the moment. But when they did finally open, he would still see his work.
He would call her Pamela.

******************************************************************

Roger Helms was pretty normal growing up. He went to college, majored in economics, and had a girlfriend. He needed some extra cash so he got a part-time job at an antique store on the weekends and before he knew it, he had been there for four years.
And now it had been twenty-four.
Sure, he had a day job. One where he sat at a desk all day, pushing papers, crunching numbers, for average pay. He had no desire to move up, did just enough not to be let go.
Yet, he still had the antique shop. This was the place where he had found his true calling, his one real passion. It had awakened him like nothing else.
His obsession with the dolls came to him back in college, in his second year at the store. The most beautiful doll had been sold to the dealer, Mr. Petuchik, and Roger watched him as he dressed her in the most astounding, lace dress and tidied up her faded make-up. He remembered how excited he felt, watching him apply the paint. He remembered how, when Mr. Petuchik had left the room, he had held her, pressed his face against hers, felt the cool porcelain against his cheek. He recalled how aroused he had gotten at kissing her pursed lips.
From that instance on, he had started collecting. He spent days dressing them, applying their make-up, talking with them….loving them. Eventually, he had had to move into a two bedroom apartment so that the dolls all had their own room.
His first love, Carol Ann, had been a torrid affair, of which he was never unfaithful. He didn’t hold another like he held her, caressed her. He was positively in love with her. When he had realized his love for her, he had broken up with his real live girlfriend, who he felt he was cheating on. He often thought of Carol Ann when they made love.
It wasn’t fair.
He cried for weeks when Carol Ann had fallen to the floor and broken, her face cracked and distorted. His heart was broken, just like the porcelain.

***********************************************************************

Pamela was the kind of doll that when she was lying down, her eyes closed. When she was sitting upright, her eyes were open. Roger thought that this was Pamela’s most redeeming quality. That’s why he had to make sure the makeup was just right.
He stepped away and grabbed a handheld mirror. “Look how beautiful you are, Pamela. The prettiest girl in the room,” he said with a smile, holding the mirror up to her face.
“I love it,” she cooed. “But I think I’m more of an aqua green kind of girl.” As she spoke, she flipped her hair and her head turned around to look at him and wink.
Roger flew back and dropped the mirror. It went to the floor with a crash, sending splinters of glass throughout the room.
“Tsk, tsk, my dear Roger,” Pamela said, with the velvety voice of Marlene Dietrich. “No one likes a mess.”
He couldn’t believe his eyes. She was actually talking!
He shook his head, trying to make sense of what was happening.
“I’m real, you silly boy.” She smiled, radiating beauty. “I’m here to help you.”
He struggled to find his voice. “Wh-what do you mean?”
“I’m granting you three wishes. I’m your own personal genie. Only cuter,” she winked.
“Three wishes?” He asked, confused. “But why?”
She blinked her blue coated eyelids. “You’ve been taking care of my people for such a long time. Such good care…” She sighed. “It’s time to give back.”
He was dumbfounded, believing it to be a dream.
“So what’s your first wish?” She asked, wiping a smudge from her patent leather shoe.
Roger’s mind swirled. So many things to ask for. If this was a dream it wouldn’t matter how ridiculous the thing he asked for was…right?
“Carol Ann,” he blurted out.
“Roger, dear, you must be more specific,” Pamela chided.
“I want her to be real. I want her to be alive, a real person.” It tumbled out of his mouth so quickly, he really didn’t think before he said it.
Pamela smiled. “And so it will be.”
Roger stood, waiting, holding his breath. Then, he watched as his door opened and in walked Carol Ann. Only life-size. A real person.
A real girl.
She probably stood about three-six, had long curly, dark hair, and scars all over her face, from where she had been put back together again. She was definitely Carol Ann, but the love he had for her didn’t come flooding back.
He actually felt nothing.
He tried to, but there was nothing there, but some deformed little girl. He had been hoping that she would be a woman, someone who he could marry, someone to be with him always.
“Disappointed?” Pamela asked.
“Yes,” he whispered and watched as Carol Ann’s face fell, crushed. “I feel nothing. I thought she would be a grown-up version of herself. Not a girl. I didn’t think she would be broken. I believed her to be the woman I had grown to love.” He wasn’t a pedophile. He just loved dolls, he thought.
“You still have two more wishes.”
“I want the world to love these dolls as I do!” Again, this came fumbling from his lips and Pamela made it so.
Over the next few months, Roger was swamped with reporters and dealers trying to buy his antiques. It had started with just one; his eye catching one he calls Rebecca, at the store one day. He tried to say they weren’t for sale but when the price got to a million…well, everyone has their price.
He was on the news, TV, in the paper. He was somewhat of a celebrity. Although this was nice, it hadn’t been what he had meant when he made the wish.
She finally asked him what his last wish would be.
He thought about all the fame he suddenly had, the money, yet no one to share it with. And he didn’t just want one “someone”. He wanted many…
“I want all of the dolls to be real, adult, live versions of themselves,” he finally replied.
With an eyebrow raised, she made it so.
All of a sudden he had over fifty women swarming in his apartment. Fifty needs to be met. It wasn’t long before the women turned on him.
Roger Helms was found dead at approximately six fifty-eight a.m., brains splattered over the sidewalk, an obvious suicide.
Be careful for what you wish…

K: Okay, I love this concept, because the whole doll-collecting thing is pretty terrifying, but there were some missteps in the prose. For instance. “The doll was actually talking!” was so obvious that it seemed out of place, and then there was the passage where Roger feels nothing for Carol Ann, and the narration explains his feelings, and then he immediately echoes them out loud. The last line’s a little on the nose, as well. This is SO strong outside of some low points. Bummer that it’s a forced curve. 2

DK: Another one that really made me feel for the protagonist, and this whole idea is really great too. I don’t have anything to explain why this isn’t a four other than I only got to give out two fours. 3

Colin Woolston, SPOILER ALERT!

Ricardo Heidbell set his stemless glass of Zinfandel on the hand-carved surface of one of the the mahogany side tables that rested on either side of his Francesco Molon sideboard and thought of Morocco. Of all the places he had been, and there had been many, Morocco had been the most influential experience of his adult life. There had been times when he was young that he had been happy, and he often thought of them when he chose to switch to gin, or something equally enjoyable in the evening. He would sit on his rabbit fur quilt covered Hancock & Moore 1943 two-seat sofa in the west wing sitting room and envision summers when he was a boy, before everything had changed and the money had come. He would think of hard work in the groves and fields of eastern California, of an ice cream that a stranger had bought him on a Tuesday afternoon, of Sarah. Sarah with the dirty blond hair and the laughing green eyes.

When he was nineteen, and this was after his mother had married into this family, and after this family had followed his mother into early graves, he had decided to go abroad. What had started as a commonplace backpacking trip around Europe had evolved into a true adventure along the south coast of Spain – surfing, hashish and spanish women – and then had whisked him away to Morocco. He thought, now, of the scent that had been carried across the sea, smelling of spices and things so foreign that they had made him sober, and tears had welled in his cold, dark eyes. He had caught that scent and had known with more certainty than anything before that he had to go, and experience.
He had spent three weeks living with a Moroccan family with nine children, all together in a three room apartment. He remembered the first time he had asked to use the bathroom, and the whole family had laughed, and one of the children had demonstrated by defecating into the hole in one corner of the room they were sharing tea in. That was a defining moment for Ricardo. He had known that he had found some way back to who he had been before he had become a Heidbell. He became a part of the family for that three weeks, joining the men in their morning rituals at the steam baths, at their daily prayers, at their meals. The only member of the family that had been at all reticent, for Ricardo had always easily made friends of most anyone with his amicable personality and charming features, was the grandfather. The old man would stare piercingly at Ricardo whenever attention was on someone else, as though he were searching for something.

The three weeks had seemed like and entire summer, and his adventure would continue on for six months after that, traveling through the desert with a band of Bedouins and after that a revival of the surfing life on the West coast of Africa. But the final night in Morocco would be in the front of his mind as long as he remained conscious. He had bid farewell to the family and gathered what few belongings he had left at that point, and was walking along the alleyway that led towards the city center when he had paused, knowing that someone was behind him. He had turned and found himself instantly lost in the eyes of the grandfather.
“Boy. You are searching for something that is not without, he had said.

“You have lost something, and are looking for it everywhere but where you can find it.”

With baffling speed and strength the old man had gripped Ricardo’s shirt collar and pulled him close. Ricardo smelled the scent of anise and lamb, and felt helpless, unable to move. Where there had been the grandfather of a family moments before, stood a man, tall and powerful. The man had taken his middle finger and had tapped Ricardo in the center of the forehead and said,

“I have lost and searched many years over. I know you and your trial. I will give a gift to you. It was given to me, and I was charged to give again. You may wish for three things. When you wish does not matter. What you say does not matter, only that you wish with your heart, and know it is true. Go. Do not be a fool.”
The man had released his grip and suddenly Ricardo was looking at a very tired, very gentle looking old man, who smiled and turned and walked away.

***

Ricardo decided to walk the grounds. He stopped by the central kitchen to request an Old Fashioned. He then headed directly for the stables, and began his sunset walk along the west gardens. He thought of the first wish. It hadn’t taken him long. It was while he was in the desert, existing purely in the moment, living as spartan as one could that he had stood one night, facing the brilliant stars and moon that he had said “I wish I didn’t have all the money, and all the things that were left to me.” He had felt instantly freed, and then had thought no more on it, until he had decided it was time to return home and learned that he had no home. He had nothing. Only what was on his back. Ricardo had decided this was for the better and had worked in Paris for a month to save enough for a plane ticket home, but once home he began to think that he had made a mistake.
His second wish was to have everything back. And back it came. He had been sleeping just off of Natural Bridges state beach in Santa Cruz, surfing during the days away and drinking what he could find at night. He had made the wish on a Sunday morning, and had then simply went home.

As with everyone and all things, he only understood the consequences of his wishes now. He now understood that the time that he had spent without the money and the things that now owned him had been the happiest in his life. He also understood that having the wealth and the properties and many things that he enjoyed, while they did make his life a great deal more complicated, they also made it a great deal easier, especially as he began to age.

It was the third wish that had been his mistake. The one mistake, among many, that he would have to live with for the rest of his life. Ricardo imagined that everyone had a mistake like his to bear, though he couldn’t think that there would be anyone else that would have to bear it as long as he.

Ricardo stood watching the sun sink into the ocean for what could have been the millionth time, and cursed his frailty, his fear, and above all he cursed the eternity that he would have to live with his mistakes.

K: I like this ending, and I love the buildup. It’s another oddly-paced one, where the story is just getting started when it has to end. I know these could have had 3000-word limits, and I’m sorry for that. Anyway, I very much enjoyed the setting and this story’s overall vibe, despite the fact that it jumped in speed too much toward the end. I love Ricardo, though. 2

DK: The setup and the way it sets the scene are great; I think it ends a little more abruptly than I would have liked, but this is one more guy I really feel like I know after reading his story. 3

Will Young, I’m With Stupid

Sully had the hall pass for the night. He struck a deal with Tricia two years earlier: in exchange for not pestering her whenever he heard about the plans of others, she would let him spend a night with the guys once every two months. Back on Labor Day weekend when the gang picked the date on the phone, the Sox had the Wild Card completely wrapped up. Somehow, that lead was down to just one.

Sully parked at the Saugus Plaza Shopping Center and exited his car. “Ridiculous,” he thought to himself, “Murph has absolutely no taste. What a suburban douche.” Sully usually bit his tongue when thinking about Murph’s move to the suburbs because he secretly envied Murph’s life: a healthy child, a loving marriage, and even a place on Cape Cod. Sully knew the bars near Brookline would be packed tonight and was envious of everyone there. Hell, even the college bars north of the Charles River would be packed with both passionate fans and drunken coeds wanting to assimilate. As Sully walked into the bar, he seethed inwardly. Even worse than the location, Sully thought, was the fact that Murph had chosen a boring, chain sports bar: Buffalo Wild Wings.

Murph, Billy D, Frank, and Ray were there when Sully walked in. A quarter-full pitcher and pile of wings were already sitting on the table. Sully decided to suppress his grievances and enjoy himself for the night. After all, he had the hall pass; he might as well use it.

Even though Youkilis and Varitek were still out of the lineup, Murph felt confident. He was surprised Varitek returned this season, but was pleased when he played competently for a few months in his timeshare with Saltalamacchia. Still, this Lavarnway kid was one of the few guys showing life in the past month. “Nope,” Murph thought, “Tito can’t be faulted for playing the hot hand.” Similarly, Murph knew that Aviles was the best choice at the hot corner now that Youkilis was hurt again. Still, Aviles terrified him. He could barely stick with the Royals, and his defense in the infield was excruciatingly awful.

Thankfully, the Yankees got off to a fast start against Tampa Bay. While the Red Sox bats were scuffling, the Yankees had managed to jump ahead by seven runs. Murph could tell that he was not the only patron feeling slightly sheepish to be so pleased with a Yankees win, but it was worth it. Just then, Pedroia homered. Sox lead!

The drinks kept coming and the wings were attacked savagely. Murph tasted at least ten different flavors and seasonings each time he licked his fingers. The Rays continued make outs quietly against a plethora of Yankee pitchers. As the innings rolled along, Murph looked at his watch. He knew his hall pass would last at least until midnight, but he also knew that several of his buddies would be summoned home as soon as the Red Sox game ended.

When the seventh inning began, the waitress came by for another round. Billy D and Frank both declined because they would be driving home soon. Murph plead with them to stick around after the game for awhile to celebrate. “No can do,” Billy D explained. “My wife will have the game on and she told me to come home right after. We don’t have the same deal as you and Trish.”

Murph was frustrated. Impulsively, he turned to the waitress and said, “Get me two more pitchers of Sam Adams. I’ll find away to get these guys to help me finish them.” She looked at him suspiciously before he added, “I just wish this game would slow down for awhile.”

The waitress smiled at Murph and walked away. Minutes later, Murph was thrilled to see the grounds’ crew dragging the tarp across the infield in Baltimore. Murph could not believe his good fortune as the Red Sox game had come to a halt. Murph grinned knowing that no wife, no matter how cruel, could expect her husband to leave before the Red Sox game ended. Plus, the Red Sox were just three innings away from the playoffs.

After the waitress returned with the beer, Frank D refilled his glass and said, “I guess I’ll be sticking around to help.” Murph smiled and could not believe his good fortune to get another hour or so with the gang.

Murph’s eyes focused on the television showing the Yankees and Rays during the rain delay. Murph barely recognized half the players left in the game after noticing both managers churning through their rosters. The Rays continued to meekly make outs without ever mustering a threat. Murph realized he would be deprived from one of his secret joys: watching his teams celebrate on the field after clinching. Murph absolutely did not want to see the Red Sox celebrating their impending playoff berth while in the locker room during a rain delay. As the waitress returned to see if more wings were needed, Murph turned to Sully and lamented, “I wish the Red Sox game could end before this Rays game.”

Before the waitress returned with the latest order of wings, the Rays had begun showing a pulse. Somehow the Rays scored two runs on a walk and hit batter. Murph chuckled at the ineptitude of the back-end of the Yankees bullpen. The next two Rays were retired quickly. Just then, Evan Longoria deposited a pitch deep into left-center seats. Murph could not believe how quickly the Rays had cut the lead to just one run.

Murph saw the tarp was being pulled off the Camden Yards infield when Dan Johnson stepped up to the plate for Tampa Bay. Murph thought about how much he despised Johnson. The guy was barely a big leaguer, yet he owned Papelbon a few years ago and always seemed to kill the Red Sox. After a few foul balls, Murph almost fell out of his chair when Johnson managed to hook one barely over the fence in the right-field corner.

The next few minutes passed in a blur. The Sox game resumed, and they had a guy nailed at home in the eighth and wasted the bases loaded in the ninth. Scott Proctor randomly reappeared for the Yankees about four years after he last crossed Murph’s mind. In the bottom of the ninth in Baltimore, Papelbon got two quick strikeouts before back-to-back doubles tied the game and absolutely killed Murph’s buzz.

Robert Andino dug in at the plate. Despite knowing little about the Orioles besides them being a team to sweep, Murph seemed to remember seeing Andino always pulling the ball when he made contact. Murph cringed at the thought of Andino taking advantage of Aviles’s stone hands at third.

As the waitress passed by, Murph turned to Ray and said, “I would give anything for this ball not to be hit to Andino. Even if we lose, I do not want to lose watching a Royals’ scrub botch a play.” Out of the corner of his eye, Murph thought he saw the waitress nod at the bartender.

Papelbon threw the one-one pitch.

K: Okay, somebody knows me. Last year’s final day was the most exciting single day of regular-season baseball I’ve ever seen, and I can’t put the experience into words that praise it enough. This could have seemed gimmicky with the “Fan wishes something would happen” idea at Buffalo Wild Wings, which of course echoes their commercials, but the pacing was excellent, the attention to detail was astounding and the ending is incredible considering both DK and I know exactly how Papelbon’s final pitch goes. It’s not the safest thing in the world to go with reality with me, but Mister, ya nailed it. 3

DK: I see what was meant to have happened, but this one could have used a lookover, too, since the protagonist switches about a fourth of the way in. Otherwise, this is plenty amusing, and you’re not going to see me criticize Red Sox schadenfreude on any day other than Forced Curve Day. 2

Andy Rustleund, I’m With Stupid

“Thomas, wake up,” his mother said, shaking him awake. “There’s someone downstairs who wants to talk to you.”
“What? Who is it?”
“I think… I think it’s Jesus,” his mother breathed.
“Jesus Christ! I mean, Jesus Christ? Like, right now? Downstairs? When did he get here? What does he want? What time is it? What’s going on?”
“I think you’d better just go down there, hon. I don’t think Jesus likes waiting.”
“OK. Where’s my Paramore t-shirt?”

Our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ sat on the living room couch like he owned the place. Apparently the cross-legged sitting stance wasn’t invented by the first century, and neither were boxer shorts. As Thomas walked slowly down the stairs, he couldn’t decide which was more rude, to look, or to look away. Better just to look. When would he get another chance?

“Thomas, stop staring at my junk and get the hell down here, son.”
“Yeah. Uh, sorry, sir, uh, Your Holiness.”
“’Jesus’ will do fine for now, Thomas.”
Thomas sat down in the chair not quite straight across from The Christ.
“What can I do for you, Jesus?”
Jesus smiled, “Actually, Thomas, I’m here to do something for you.”
“I knew it! It’s because I’ve been so good, right? I’ve been trying to be good.”
“I’m not Santa Claus, Thomas. I don’t reward people for being good,” sighed Jesus. “But, Thomas, isn’t there anything you’ve ever wanted, that you thought I could do for you?”
“You mean like prayers?”
“Yes, prayers, if you want to call it that, I suppose. I call them… WISHES!” and when Jesus said “WISHES” Thomas could hear every single capital letter.
“So, let me get this straight,” said Thomas. “You can do stuff for me, but I have to ‘wish’ it?”
“No, Thomas. You have to WISH it.”

As Jesus explained to Thomas that he only had three WISHES, and that of course, like any WISHES, he couldn’t WISH for more WISHES, Thomas began to think about his first WISH. Wouldn’t Jesus really like it if he WISHED for something really selfless, like world peace? Yes, Jesus most certainly would be all about world peace. Thomas waited for Jesus to finish expounding himself.

“OK. I wish for world peace!” yelled Thomas, with what he thought was a loud and commanding voice, but nothing happened.
Jesus turned to Thomas. “Actually, Thomas, that sounds nice and everything, but I had a better idea, maybe. I mean, if you really want world peace, I guess I can do that, but maybe you can just hear me out first.”
“OK. Sure, I can do that,” said Thomas.
“That’s great, Thomas. I knew I came to the right place,” smiled Jesus. “What I was thinking, was… you like Christmas, right?”
“Christmas? Yeah, it’s great! Family, presents, food, the Nativity. What’s not to like?”
“That’s what I’m saying,” grinned Jesus. “Exactly. So, let’s have TWO Christmases, right?”
“Uh…” Thomas looked confused.
“It’s like everything you said you loved about Christmas, but twice a year instead of once! Everyone wins! You’d like that, wouldn’t you, Thomas?”
“I guess…”
“OK then, it’s really easy. Just say, ‘Two Christmases. I WISH it!’ And you really need to say ‘WISH’ the way I said it, or it doesn’t work.”

Now Thomas was a good Christian. He went to church. Not every Sunday, but more than most high schoolers. And two Christmases sounded OK to him. So Thomas went ahead.

“Two Christmases. I WISH it!” he cried, and this time he got all of the capital letters in there.
“Wow, Thomas, that’s great, my man. I really think that everyone is going to love this new two Christmases thing. Look for it around June. OK, you’ve still got two WISHES left. Whaddya say?”
“Uh, can I wish for world peace now?”
Jesus sat back on the couch and chuckled to himself. “Oh, Thomas, you’re a good boy. I really like you. You know that, right? I mean, I love you! I love everyone, even the heathens! But you can come up with something a little better than that, right?”
Thomas straightened in his chair. “Well, did you have something else in mind, sir?”
“I told you, Thomas, ‘Jesus’ will do just fine. Since you mention it, I did have one other thing that I’ve been kind of working on in my spare time. Have you heard of ray guns?”
“What, like in sci-fi movies and stuff?” Thomas didn’t see where this was going.
Jesus was getting animated now. “Yeah, yeah, exactly! Haven’t you always wanted one, for zapping bad guy… I mean, doing God’s work here on Earth? Imagine the GOOD I could do with one of those babies. OK, Thomas, go ahead.”

I’m just a mortal, thought Thomas. Jesus must know what he’s doing. Who am I to question God’s son?
“Ray gun. I WISH it!” cried Thomas. There was a quick, bright flash of light, and there stood the King of Kings, brandishing a humming, pulsating piece of weaponry right out of Flash Gordon.
“Nice work, Thomas. Nice work indeed. Better than I imagined, even. But we’d better test this puppy before I take it out on the road…”
And before Thomas could get up or get a single protest past his lips, Jesus fired a shot across Mr. and Mrs. Huntington’s modestly furnished living room. The pink ray caught the corner of the mirror Thomas’ mother had moved from its usual spot just the previous evening, reflected at a queer angle, and found its resting spot. Right in the middle of Thomas’ forehead.
“Aaaaah! What the hell!” screamed Thomas. “That really hurt!”
“Whoops! Sorry ‘bout that!” Jesus snickered. “Oh man, lucky it bounced off the mirror. That could have done some serious damage!”
A bright pink welt was forming where the ray had struck.
“What do you call this?” yelled Thomas.
“I’m sure it will heal…” said Jesus, but he looked far from sure. “You’re not going to waste your last WISH on healing it, are you? ‘Cause that would be pretty lame, and I’ve got a great idea for the last one.”

Thomas’ forehead was really starting to hurt, and he was getting angry now. The angriest he had been since his cat had fallen in love and ran away.
“Just wait a minute, Jesus! These were supposed to be my WISHES, not yours! And they’ve been pretty selfish if you ask me.”
“My son…” Jesus looked genuinely hurt.
“I’m not finished! Maybe the other people you visit let you get away with this, but I’m not going to! No more WISHES! I WISH it!”

There was a blinding flash of light, then silence. Thomas blinked, and saw Jesus standing before him. Something was different, more real than before.
“Thomas. My son. You did it. You passed the test.”
“Test?”
“Yes, my son. You see, I had to see if your heart was pure. If you could stand up for what was right, even if it meant going against me, then you were worthy.”
“Worthy… for what?”
“Why, for your real WISHES, of course.” Jesus smiled. “Now tell me. Have you ever heard of a jet pack?”

K: Fucking amazing. I don’t know where to start with the lines that were contained here. There were so many laugh out loud moments, I don’t know where to begin. The capital letters! Sitting next to The Christ. Where’s my Paramore t-shirt? Our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ sat on the living room couch like he owned the place. This is one of the funniest things I have ever read – here or anywhere. This has to be Shawn, right? If not, I’m not sure who goes this far. 5

DK: I laughed my ass off the whole way through this one. The one that really got me was the line about the cat, but man, this was really as funny for me top to bottom as any submission this season. Nicely done. 4

—

I don’t know what else to say. Great job, guys. It’s never been tougher to use a forced curve.

SPOILER ALERT!: 2.5/2/1.5/2.5 = 8.5/4 = 2.13
nibbish and his Vogons: 2/2/1/4.5/4.5/4.5 = 18.5/6 = 3.08
I’m With Stupid: 2/4.5/2.5 = 9/3 = 3.00

The Vogons start another streak…just barely. SPOILER ALERT!, who have been pretty adept at not losing people lately, are now stuck having to vote someone out. Ties will be broken according to all-time head-to-head; that is, which of the tied people has outscored the other in more weeks?

Remember, no voting for David, because he has the Immunity. Not that you were planning on it, right?

Votes are due by Tuesday at noon Central. And damn, I’m sorry to see someone go.

Cheers, Survivors. I love this game again.