07/'08 – Where Have all the Spoons Gone? Post by kailhofer » October 19, 2008, 06:06:02 AM The challenge was to explain the reported disappearance of 18 million spoons annually from the city of Melbourne, Australia. Example story: 1000 Words Wanting By: N.J. Kailhofer Harold was a spoon. He spent most of his days in a drawer, away from public scrutiny, and he liked it that way. Harold didn't want anyone to know about the rough nick all down the back of his handle. That flaw hurt most people's hands when they held him and prevented him from stacking quite right, so he usually sat at the bottom of the pile, year after year. He didn't mind the lack of use, but he couldn't stand the snickers and aloof attitudes of the other spoons, calling him a second. Still, the spoons that came back to the drawer boasted of their experience: warm teas, bitter coffees, yogurts… In spite of his fears, Harold longed to try these things. *** Barry Levovich stole spoons. Swiping the odd spoon from work now and then didn't really seem like much of a crime to Barry, at least at first, so he went along with it. He'd never seen his shadowy "extra" employer clearly, but he knew his name was Stapleton. In the end, Barry didn't care what a man who paid for spoons—obtained legally or not—looked like, as long as the money paid to him was always in focus. To that end, he took a number of part–time jobs across Melbourne that afforded him broader choice. *** Harold felt a gentle nudge when the drawer opened. He observed the spoons above him lifted out then heard the clatter as they were tossed into the drawer's other compartments. He saw the hand reaching for him, and felt himself lifted from his resting place. He'd been out of the drawer before, but had always been put back. "Vinecrest stamp," Barry mumbled. Shortly after taking on his mildly illegal task, it became obvious his employer was looking for a particular spoon, but didn't know which it was. Incorrect spoons paid a little. Some paid more. However, the tremendous compensation for the right spoon had been made very plain, so Barry became a spoon expert. Harold's proverbial heart was in his throat when Barry flipped him over, for a person so versed in flatware would surely be aghast at a flaw as obvious as his. Harold steeled himself for the toss back into the drawer or even the waste bin. He felt small. He felt unwanted. He felt like everything the other spoons had said, mocking him, was true. He felt… wet. Harold realized that he had fallen into a cup of coffee. He could scarcely believe it. This person, this expert, had chosen him, despite the gash in his finish. And the flavor! He never imagined how good it was to take in the coffee, to feel it throughout, to be warmed by it. It was heaven. *** Sunset painted muted tones across the dark park. Stapleton stood in the shadow of a Eucalyptus tree, a black silhouette to Barry. There were no lights near the picnic bench where Barry waited with his garbage bag of spoons. Harold lurked near the bottom. "My finest huntsman," Stapleton croaked, "the others have failed miserably this week. What do you have for me?" Barry sat upright. "What others?" Stapleton's retort was raspy. "It has been years, and still you have not obtained it for me. I was forced to widen my search. Open the bag and step aside." Barry moved back. Stapleton lurched to the bag as he always had, grabbing a handful. He examined each of them. One he set on the table, the rest were tossed on the ground. He reached for another handful, then another, until the bag was emptied. Ten spoons lay on the table, the rest on the ground. "Not there," Stapleton moaned. "I'll give you ten dollars each for the ones on the table, and twenty for the rest and your trouble." Barry nodded. Not bad extra income for the week. He grabbed the bag to pick up the mess. Harold trembled at the bottom of the bag. Forgotten. Unwanted. Unwelcome. "Wait!" Stapleton shouted. "There's still one in there." His dark employer came close enough for Barry to see his face. It was twisted, marred by a jagged white scar that ran diagonally across to his empty eye socket. Barry gasped. Stapleton glared. "Now you know. Give me the bag." Harold felt rough fingers yank him from the plastic. Stapleton paused, running his fingers quickly over Harold. "Vinecrest. Yes, that was one of ours, I remember. New Excelsior modern. I worked on that line. Did we do those that day?" Barry thought Stapleton said it oddly, as if discovering the truth as he said it. Stapleton stroked Harold's flaw. "The fash!" "What?" "Fash," Stapleton replied. "Fitzhume was removing the fash from the blank with his lynisher. He was nearly done when a shard cut his face. I stepped to help him. He lost his balance. The machine came up into my face and hands. The blank fell into the pile for the dies that make the bowl of the spoon. The only one I missed." "How's that?" "I was the inspector. Old Penberthy promised that if I could catch 100% of the seconds in a half million run, he'd leave the factory to me in his will. He watched it happen." Barry gaped at him. "He still wouldn't leave you the factory even though another worker injured you?" "Ha! He wouldn't pay the medical bills and fired me, but the lawyers saw to that. In the end I got the factory and his fortune, too." Stapleton held Harold in front of his face. "But I didn't have the one that got away, and I couldn't let go of that. I spent half that fortune on this. I had to have it, to find it." Harold was flabbergasted. He had never once thought of himself as wanted. Stapleton handed Barry five thousand dollars. "This spoon is exceedingly comfortable in my mangled fingers. I think I shall never need another." Harold felt warm and loved… and always would. The End Last edited by kailhofer on August 01, 2010, 03:39:02 AM, edited 5 times in total. Hardcover, paperback, pdf, eBook, iBook, Nook, and now Kindle & Kobo! Image A cooperative effort between 17 Aphelion authors. No part of any sales go to Aphelion. Top User avatar kailhofer Editor Emeritus Posts: 3245 Joined: January 01, 1970, 11:00:00 AM Location: Kaukauna, Wisconsin (USA) Contact: Contact kailhofer 07/'08 – Where Have all the Spoons Gone? Post by kailhofer » October 19, 2008, 06:06:43 AM Von Neumann By: Casey Callaghan "Gleeble fitzwallop." "Gleep–glorp chunchoo?" "Pickle–worp to turn the universal translator on, you lamebrained, addle–headed idiot!" "I thought the batteries had gone flat." "No, they had not, some moronic lunkhead hadn't put them in, that's all. Now, what do you have to show me that's worth dragging me all the way out of the solar system for, you witless imbecile?" "Nanites." "Nanites? Is that all? Nanites are old technology, you –" "Not just any nanites. Self–replicating nanites." "You. You – the sort of person who forgets to put the batteries in the universal translator and someone actually let you get within fifteen point seven five metres of Von Neumann machines? Do you have the slightest idea what happens if self–replicating nanites get loose on the world, you –" "Von Neumann's Doom. Yes, I know. The nanites use up all the nanite raw materials on the planet, start feeding off each other, sooner or later an error occurs when copying, and an evolutionary scenario sets in, with the life form that evolves from the nanites eventually taking over from the original inhabitants of the planet. Yes, I know. That's why we're outside the solar system." "Hmph. So perhaps you have some slight modicum of sense after all. But you can't weaponise Von Neumanns without risking the Doom, so –" "Actually, you can, that's what I wanted to show you. You see, these nanites are what I call 'fussy replicators'. Before they will accept a surface as suitable for raw materials – which can be almost anything containing iron and manganese, by the way – it must be at least point six three metres squared in area. On top. Look, if I put a few on this sheet of metal; you will notice that the sheet is only point three one five metres square. Note how they run in a large pattern? If the surface is at least point six three metres square, they don't fall off. But if it is less, they reach the edge and fall, like so, which –" "You addlebrained nincompoop, the floor is an iron–manganese alloy with hard vacuum on the other side!" "Oops. Quick, there's plastic spacesuits in the airlock! It'll take them a few minutes to dig through the floor…" The nanites drifted through space for centuries. Three thousand nine hundred and thirteen years after their original loss in the deeps of space, a small group of them came across – and landed on – a ball of rock, ice and dust, commonly known to the inhabitants of a nearby solar system as Halley's Comet. And thirty–two years after that, a few, blasted off the comet by the emissions of a nearby star, drifted to a landing on a small, blue–green planet. ——————— "James?" "Hmm?" "Why, exactly, and I realise I might not like this answer, why are you staring at that spoon?" "What? Oh, sorry. Just one of those weird things that happens. There's a piece of dust or something moving around on the spoon. Must be blown around by air currents. It looks almost as if its trying to get out, but it can't handle the slope and keeps slipping back." James shrugged and put the spoon down. "So, how do you think tomorrow's game is going to go?" "Ah, we'll win easily." "You always say that." "Is there anything wrong with optimism?" "No, but if you look at the lineup…" A few minutes later, once the nanite had convinced itself that the spoon was at least point six three metres square, it slowly began to self–replicate. And when James reached down to pick up his spoon – it was gone, leaving nothing but a strange, silver–grey dust that scattered on the breeze. A few grains found their way into the spoons drawer, and the rest eventually drifted out on the breeze, spreading across Australia, and eventually across the rest of the world as well… The End Last edited by kailhofer on August 01, 2010, 03:39:28 AM, edited 1 time in total. Hardcover, paperback, pdf, eBook, iBook, Nook, and now Kindle & Kobo! Image A cooperative effort between 17 Aphelion authors. No part of any sales go to Aphelion. Top User avatar kailhofer Editor Emeritus Posts: 3245 Joined: January 01, 1970, 11:00:00 AM Location: Kaukauna, Wisconsin (USA) Contact: Contact kailhofer 07/'08 – Where Have all the Spoons Gone? Post by kailhofer » October 19, 2008, 06:07:36 AM "Spoons and Forks" By: J. B. Hogan "Spoons," Detective Senior Sergeant Ian Carroway said, "are disappearing from Melbourne at an alarming rate." "Spoons," Detective Inspector Ayers asked, "what the devil are you talking about?" "Utensils," Detective Sergeant Hash, Carroway's partner, explained to the inspector, "hand–held, sort of elliptical and dug out on one end, used for consuming foodstuffs – in particular soups, sir." "I know what a spoon is, you idiot," Ayers bellowed at Hash. "I want to know why they are bloody disappearing and why anyone should care." "Sorry, inspector," Hash replied meekly. "We don't know why they are disappearing, sir," Carroway said, "but over eighteen million spoons go missing every year here in the city." "I suspect the communists," Hash suggested. "A plot." "Hash," the inspector said, turning towards Carroway's diminutive and newest partner – his others having gone on to bigger and better things: one to waste removal, the other to hotel doorman. "Hash, do you realize that the cold war has been over for nearly twenty years. It's not a communist plot!" "We have some theories," Carroway stepped in to protect Hash, "not involving communists." "Space aliens?" Hash suggested rashly. "Beings from another dimension." The inspector turned a fierce eye on the little detective sergeant. "Anyone else feel like coffee?" Hash asked sheepishly. "Let's hear your theories, Carroway," the inspector said, shaking his head as he watched Hash hustle away for coffee, "and they better not sound like an episode of Dr. Who." "No, sir," Carroway replied evenly. "Sir, I believe it's a ring, a gang if you will, of women stealing the spoons." "Women!" the inspector snorted incredulously. "What sort of blather is that?" "Reasonable blather, sir," Carroway said, trying to finish with the inspector before Hash returned with the coffee. "We received an anonymous tip to that effect just before you arrived." "You didn't tell your mini–partner?" "Would you, sir?" "Point taken." "We're tracking down the caller as we speak, sir. I expect to have a suspect in custody within the day." "See that you do," the inspector said authoritatively. "And keep your munchkin away from me from now on." "Yes, sir, will do." * * * Casey Bryn was a tough nut to crack. Or so she seemed to Hash, who felt that with her purply–pinkish spiked hair, nose ring, dirty jeans and dirtier T–shirt, Casey was in fact the space alien perpetrator that he had suggested to Carroway and the inspector. "Why did you do it?" Hash grilled the young punk girl, who only snarled a smile back at the junior detective and seemed on the verge of hocking a gob in his face at all times. "Why just spoons, why not knives and forks." "It ought to be bleedin' obvious," Casey growled, "even to a couple of right dills like you two." "Now, Miss Bryn," Carroway tried the nicer cop approach, "we're just trying to get to the bottom of this, uh, situation." "Sity'ation, you call it," Casey laughed. "You're a pair of brown–eyed mullets if I ever seen ‘em." "Enlighten us, then, please," Carroway said, mulling over what he and a mullet had in common. Whatever it was, he was none too pleased with the comparison. "It's simple really," the girl explained to the two cops as if they were new arrivals on planet Melbourne, "us Shielas have a thing about spoons. Knives are sharp and nasty and irrelevant. Forks are for ratbags like yourselves." Casey's words went over Hash's head like little laser bolts fired from an inaccurate laser death ray. The junior detective looked up pleadingly to his more–worldly partner. "Okay," Carroway played the straight man, "we give you the irrelevance of knives and whatever it is about men and forks, but why all these spoons and why just women taking them?" "Because it's gender–genetic and –specific," Casey sniffed, giving Carroway a new look that mixed mild interest along with some level of sexuality. The senior detective felt his stomach muscles involuntarily tighten as if the girl might drive a hard right hand into his solar plexus rather than give him the vaguely sweet smile that played around the edges of her curled lips. As for Hash, Casey's words caused him to tilt his head towards her as if he were a dog attempting to understand a garbled command from his master. "That's all there is to it," Carroway finally managed to ask, "women just like spoons?" "You shonky blokes must've just come in on the first boat," Casey told the detectives, barely suppressing a laugh. "Humor us," Carroway said. "Give us the last word." "The word," Casey said, leaning towards the detectives – causing Hash to lean away from her and Carroway to lock his knees tight to keep from falling forward – is really quite basic, you know." The detectives waited for Casey to speak as if they were penitents waiting for redemption from the Inquisition. "We women," Casey pronounced grandly and finally, "just want to spoon, but you men, all you want to do is fork." The End Last edited by kailhofer on August 01, 2010, 03:39:48 AM, edited 1 time in total. Hardcover, paperback, pdf, eBook, iBook, Nook, and now Kindle & Kobo! Image A cooperative effort between 17 Aphelion authors. No part of any sales go to Aphelion. Top User avatar kailhofer Editor Emeritus Posts: 3245 Joined: January 01, 1970, 11:00:00 AM Location: Kaukauna, Wisconsin (USA) Contact: Contact kailhofer 07/'08 – Where Have all the Spoons Gone? Post by kailhofer » October 19, 2008, 06:08:08 AM The Master By: Kerry Callaghan "Coffee," he muttered from the shadows. Then, a little louder, in his voice which was like a gurgling snarl and made my skin creep, "That's the answer – coffee." "Ummm… sorry sir," I acted like I was barely able to stammer the words out. The Master expected us to think that speaking in front of him was almost certainly suicidal, but then I had found out months ago that the only frightening thing about him was his growl of a voice, so I took the risk. "Sorry, sir, but what exactly does coffee have to do with achieving world domination?" Yes, I know it's a cliché, but like so many before him, the Master was seeking world domination. I had thought that all I was getting into was a major worldwide crime syndicate, a way to make some money fast so I could retire early. But before long, I had to admit that the master was not all there – alright, well he wasn't there at all. But by then, it was too late. Once you were in, you stayed in, or they took away what you loved most – I wasn't afraid of death, and I had no family, but I had had my teddy since I was a baby and I couldn't imagine life without Teddy. So, I had to help a power–crazed creep in ridiculous missions for world domination. Sometimes, it could actually be quite fun… "IDIOT!!!" he roared, and I jumped out of my skin. Embarrassed, I quickly pulled it back on while he explained. "I know it might be a bit higher–grade for you, Appleseed, but if you hadn't noticed, most of the population is unable to function without coffee. So, if we stop them from getting their coffee, they will turn into mushy blobs. They will be forced to surrender to my POWER!!!!!" Oh, great. This would be even worse than the time, when I had just entered the organization, when we had to streak at the national rugby game due to his theory that the world would surrender to the threat of having to see that sight again. Needless to say, it didn't work. We got more cheers than the game, which had been a bit boring until halftime. You cannot even BEGIN to imagine how embarrassing it is to an aspiring criminal to appear in the newspaper as a ‘new daring performance artist.' "Sir, HOW exactly will we stop people from drinking their morning cups of coffee?" I asked with a resigned sigh. He grunted, and explained his ridiculous scheme. After I was dismissed, I almost cried with exasperation. He didn't want us to burn the plantations, or sabotage the factories. He didn't want us to chemically alter the drinks to contain no caffeine. He didn't even want us to simply steal coffee from the supermarket shelves so that nobody else could buy any. No; he had a theory that the rest of the world's population were all as stupid as he was. So, he theorized that without a spoon to stir it properly, people would simply not drink coffee. Yes, ridiculously, appallingly, he wanted us to steal spoons. After three months the city of Melbourne was blissfully unaware of a secret warehouse holding over four million silver spoons, stainless steel spoons, desert spoons, sugar spoons, teaspoons, soup spoons, and breakfast spoons. We even had one or two wooden spoons. Hardly anyone had even noticed anything. I was no closer to my early retirement; I was becoming desperate. Somehow, I had to either knock some sense into the master, or knock him out of the top position. That was when I had the Idea. Months ago, after I had realized the idiocy of the master, I had followed him home once to see where he lived, just in case I ever needed to know. As I had expected, he was stupid enough to have only a few dozen secret bodyguards outside of headquarters, despite the fact that he was the head of the stupidest crime syndicate in the world. He seemed to have forgotten that I was the ultimate master of stealth – on the other hand, maybe I was so good that he had never even found out. By now, I knew his whole routine. The next morning, at 10 am, I was concealed in the bushes of a children's park across the road from his home. Sure enough, he left in his Mercedes after a few minutes – he went to gym every day, without fail. I snuck in to his unguarded house and stole every single spoon. The next morning, he buzzed me for an urgent emergency meeting. When I arrived half an hour later, he was already at headquarters. His usual snarling voice had become a whimpering squeak, and he was indeed the most blob–like man I had ever seen. "A–Appleseeeeed…" he moaned, "I give in. You win; I retire as Master. Here, take the badge of office, you are now Master. Just – please! – give me a spoon… and a very big cup of coffee!" "You will serve faithfully?" "Anything, anything!" "Good," I grunted. He could be a good criminal, and I was glad not to have to kill him. Later that day, I drove to the warehouse to review my resources. At the sight of the six million spoons we already had, I finally realized that my early retirement would never be enough. With the kind of manpower behind me that could achieve this, I could rule the world… So this was how it felt to be Master. The End Last edited by kailhofer on August 01, 2010, 03:40:23 AM, edited 2 times in total. Hardcover, paperback, pdf, eBook, iBook, Nook, and now Kindle & Kobo! Image A cooperative effort between 17 Aphelion authors. No part of any sales go to Aphelion. Top User avatar kailhofer Editor Emeritus Posts: 3245 Joined: January 01, 1970, 11:00:00 AM Location: Kaukauna, Wisconsin (USA) Contact: Contact kailhofer 07/'08 – Where Have all the Spoons Gone? Post by kailhofer » October 19, 2008, 06:08:39 AM Our Tribute for the Suzerain By: J. Davidson Hero Colonial Governor Bizroy's head pounded as the sunlight glared in his eyes. His aide–de–camp, Quin, turned from the now opened blinds. Bizroy scratched the floor with his hand searching clumsily for the probably empty bottle of brandy he had been working on. For a moment it was at his finger tips and then it shot away rolling under his desk just as he tried to tame it into his hand. "It's almost time Sir. The Suzerain will need to be dealt with. We have to keep him happy or you know the consequences." Bizroy looked for a moment at the aide through half–opened eyes and considered the implications of his statements. What fascinated him more than the implied complexity of Bizroy's own situation was the fact that the aide had actually come to share the governor's worldview. "Yes, yes Quin. I suppose I'd better get myself ready. Have my dress uniform laid out in my room." The governor thought for a moment, and then noting his dry mouth added, "And have the commissary send up another bottle of brandy." The aide bowed and left immediately. Bizroy fumbled through some papers, then fiddled momentarily with the blinds. Outside a seemingly endless arid land stretched out and away. Was he finally growing tired of this? After all these years? Surely the inane chatter of the natives long ago lost its quaint fascination. Surely the climate had taken its toll on his delicate complexion, and to have to walk around daily in this infernal getup. The entire scenario had worn thin. But what was Bizroy's alternative, return home? No, while he wasn't yet a misanthrope, he despised his own culture with a passion. That is why he had joined the Foreign Service to begin with. It wasn't supposed to be like this, of course. The entire occupation had been boggled right from the beginning. The first governor, Bizroy's then superior, had chosen Australia because of a misunderstanding concerning the phrase "shrimp on the barbie." In addition they had experienced endless technical difficulties. The governor, unstable to begin with, couldn't handle the pressure, and after months of making excuses to the Suzerainty, Bizroy finally concocted the plan. And now twenty years later, maintaining the plan had begun to make Bizroy unstable. Still, to let it all go… while it would likely mean death for Bizroy, at least after some lengthy investigation by the bureaucracy, he was more concerned about the natives. It would mean something horrible for them, and though difficult to admit to himself, he did like them. They would surely be eradicated when the Suzerainty discovered that his entire colonial government was a sham. *** An hour later Bizroy was sitting in the conference room. He was in his dress uniform and flipped nervously through his notes. At the other side of the room a huge screen was secured to the wall. Currently the screen was black, but occasionally an empty chair would flicker into view in a dark room. In the background behind the chair were banks of lights, panels with buttons, and tiny screens. Further back a large window could be seen and beyond that, endless dark unfathomable waters. Shortly Quin appeared at Bizroy's side. "How long?" Bizroy asked feeling agitated. "Should be any minute now Sir." Bizroy knew that transmissions from the capital were seldom on time. A lack of punctuality was representative of his species' mind–numbing lack of organization, which was ironic considering the levels of bureaucracy that attempted to mask that fact. They tended to make up for these shortcomings with shortsighted brutality though. Bizroy continued to stare at the screen. It flickered to black once more, then when the image returned, the Suzerain was there. Bizroy was almost shocked by the image. Perhaps he was ‘going native' or perhaps it was just the hatred of his own species. The Suzerain was immense, a bloated purple head, constantly filling and emptying as he breathed. Below the head a passel of tentacles swirled about in what seemed a mindless dance. A razor–sharp beak, gilded and decorated, opened and closed repeatedly, and buried deep in his head, the Suzerain's eyes looked unblinkingly. "Governor Bizroy, your report," the Suzerain commanded with a long exhale. "Gidday Suzerain, how's the capital?" Bizroy asked. "Shrimalla B'be is beautiful this time of year Governor. The grinal–fish are spawning and if you remember, they are delicious." The Suzerain gave a wicked chuckle, and Bizroy knew he had him distracted. "You really should take some time off and return for a while," he continued. Bizroy felt more at ease now, knowing the Suzerain was in a relaxed mood. "No Suzerain, I couldn't leave my post here. It would take years for me to travel all the way home. Besides, the colony is much too busy." "Yes, yes, I suppose, governing an entire planet takes some effort." The Suzerain seemed to wink, which Bizroy knew was anatomically impossible. Bizroy did wink back though using one of the artificial eyelids that he wore and somehow it made him feel vastly superior. "Well then, on with your report," the Suzerain said returning to his officious tone. "As tribute then the humans have again this year provided…" "More trinkets and baubles I suppose?" the Suzerain interrupted with conspicuous disgust. "As I've stated before Suzerain, the humans prize these things above all others in their society. For them to provide such a tribute is for them to honor us highly." An image flashed across Bizroy's mind of what would happen if the humans knew they were actually under the rule of a colonial government from a far off planet. Violence, bloodshed. It was easier this way, and no one needed to know. So long as Bizroy had the energy to keep the ruse up and had the manpower to continue to secretly collect a passable tribute. "So Suzerain, as last year the humans have given in tribute, 7 million pairs of socks, 1 million left sneakers, 18 million spoons…" The End Last edited by kailhofer on August 01, 2010, 03:40:42 AM, edited 1 time in total. Hardcover, paperback, pdf, eBook, iBook, Nook, and now Kindle & Kobo! Image A cooperative effort between 17 Aphelion authors. No part of any sales go to Aphelion. Top User avatar kailhofer Editor Emeritus Posts: 3245 Joined: January 01, 1970, 11:00:00 AM Location: Kaukauna, Wisconsin (USA) Contact: Contact kailhofer 07/'08 – Where Have all the Spoons Gone? Post by kailhofer » October 19, 2008, 06:09:08 AM Ten Thousand Spoons When All You Need Is A Knife By: G.C. Dillon Desi Costello ran into work, rushed to the register, and began to punch her id into the keyboard in order to clock–in. Marisol, her shift supervisor, stood next to her. "You know you are supposed to be ready to work when you punch in." "I know, I know," Desi replied, and began twisting a ponytail holder around her long, black hair. "But the bus was running late. It's not my fault." She pushed her small, octal–shaped glasses back upon her nose. "Yeah, but Lori's still here. Get your apron on and hurry." "She's here. Still?" Desi's nose wrinkled and her eyebrows furrowed. "Quarterly paperwork, I think. Or she's having a fight with her husband and doesn't want to go home." Speak of Shiva, and Shiva appears— Lori came out of the backroom, a stack of papers in her left hand and a giganto sized in–house cup of coffee in her right. "Where's Bob? I'm going to kill him," she asked. 'We can't blame it all on Bob,' Desi thought, 'though we do try.' "I know this sounds like makework," Lori said, "but some company accountant wants an inventory count every year. And Bob! He can't just make up numbers wily nilly. I have to answer for these figures." "Why? What's the problem?" "We have more spoons than we've ever ordered." "That can't right. I mean people aren't bringing in their own spoons and leaving 'em for us". "What is the accelerated depreciation on a spoon, I wonder," Desi asked. "Why do we even have spoons?" "Real spoons are more Green. It's part of the socially minded life style our guests enjoy here at Café du Jour," Lori stated. "Except for the hot water in the power wash sink," Desi added. Marisol's eyes told her to keep quiet. "I'm on Drive–Thru?" Slipping the headset over her head, Desi said,"Welcome to Café du Jour. How may I take your order?" * * * At closing, it was just Marisol and Desi. Desi was getting a ride from her co–worker, and though she wanted to leave, she waited while Marisol had her last cigarette of the night. They settled onto the floor of the office. "Spare a cigarette?" "I thought you quit." "I'm quiting unless I have to stay up all night. Cigaritto por favor." Marisol passed one over. Marisol was pretty much dedicated to the job when on the clock, but she became chatty when the work was done. "I felt like such a witch," Marisol confessed. She and Desi sat on the floor of the coffeshop's office. Desi's eyes strayed to the flat screen monitor. The security camera showed them a dark, yet still clear, view of their dining area. The pale illumination streamed in from the lights of the parking lot that the shop shared with other stores in the mall. "I was showing a new hire around. We came to the daily use bins, and I asked him to sweep up all the coffee beans that were on the floor. You know from the broken bags and all… " "Yeah, we get a lot of them. More than statistical probability should allow for." "So he put the beans from the floor back into one of the bins. I lost it. I screamed, 'What are you doing!'" "There! There. What was that?" Desi asked. Marisol ceased the recounting of her story, and looked to the monitor. "Nothing. It was a spot on the screen. Could even have been a fly." "No, it was something. This time it's not just a fly. Let's go." Desi pushed herself off the office floor, and ran for the dining area. She flicked on the lights. And… The something stood by the condiment bar. "G'Day mate. Or nite since you're antipodean," it said. It was ugly, brutal, and short. Long pointed ears swung like bats' wings from its head. Prickly fur covered its body. It smiled through large carnivorous teeth and fangs. "What was in that cigarette!" Marisol said. "What are you?" asked Desi. "I'm a Gremlin." "Like in the Twilight Zone? But what are you doing here?" "Oh a little mischief. Have to sabotage your coffee bags to spill all over the floor. I've done a few other things 'round here that I like to check up on, too. Such as the fact that your town name prints out wrong on the receipts?" "My God! It's Palinfield, not Plainfield. He – it's right." "And to deliver a supply of spoons, of course. These are from Melbourne. Oh! You should see the utensils from Adelaide." "Spoons?" Desi sputtered. "Why are you leaving spoons here?" "Where am I to be putting 'em? A pot o' spoons at the end of the rainbow!" "Why do you have to be so rude?" "I'm a Gremlin., sugar bosoms." "Okay, now I know I'm offended." "Took you long enough, baby. Look, I know, it's a let down from drinking motor oil and antifreeze from combat squadrons and WWI flying circuses. But a Gremlin does what a Gremlin can. A torn bag here, a missing spoon there. Say, you're a nice Sheila." 'I don't know what that means, but I don't like the sound of it,' Desi thought. Desi lifted her middle finger. "I like you," the creature said, guffawing. "I've a memory gleas about me someplace. Oh, yes. You won't remember anything tomorrow." * * * Desi Costello rushed into work. The bus was late again. She paused at the Condiment Bar. She glanced at the napkins embossed with the company logo, ran her hand along the packets of sugar, sugar substitute and honey. But she stopped at the small cup for the spoons. It was overflowing. Again. She picked up two of them. 'The company could at least buy the same design,' she thought. 'I know times are tough, but did they get these at a garage sale. No, but there was something about where the spoons came from… Something she couldn't recall clearly. "Hey," yelled Marisol, "time to punch in." The End Top User avatar kailhofer Editor Emeritus Posts: 3245 Joined: January 01, 1970, 11:00:00 AM Location: Kaukauna, Wisconsin (USA) Contact: Contact kailhofer 07/'08 – Where Have all the Spoons Gone? Post by kailhofer » October 19, 2008, 06:09:36 AM – Co–Winner – Spoons By: Robert Moriyama The shinyroundonstick was the key to everything. It made digging easier — with patience, one of the People could carve a whiskerwide hole through materials that tooth and claw could barely scratch. And by some magic, when the stick–end was wedged into a crack and one or more of the People pushed on the roundthing, their strength was magnified many times. Chktaqueep had first dragged a shinyroundonstick with him to a nest of the People many generations ago. He had spent much of his life learning to use his prize as an extension of his teeth and forelimbs, and had tried to pass on what he had discovered to other People. Sadly, it seemed that only Chktaqueep's own offspring were able to absorb their father's knowledge; other nestmates only sniffed the shinyroundonstick, perhaps tasted it to see if it was food, or had food on it, then skittered away. But the shinyroundonstick gave a big advantage to those who understood its magic, and Chktaqueep's descendants prospered and spread from nest to nest. Better fed and more intelligent than any People they encountered, they soon dominated any group they met — and at the first opportunity, they set out to acquire more shinyroundonsticks… #### Jake Willard stared down at the flatware tray in consternation. "Honey, why are there only three teaspoons? Didn't this set come with eight place–settings?" From the next room, Amanda Willard replied, "I think the kids keep taking them out in the yard to dig. Thank god we keep the real silverware out of their reach!" Jake sighed, closing the drawer. "I'll pick up another set at the dollar store. No sense in paying a lot for something that's just going to disappear overnight." "Pick up some mousetraps and another box of steel wool while you're there," Amanda said. "I found another hole in the wall under the sink." Jake knelt, opening the cupboard door and peering into the shadowy space under the sink. "No," he grunted, "that's the same hole. I think the little blighters have figured out a way to push or pull the steel wool out without having to taste it or cut their paws." "Lovely. We have smart rodents," Amanda said. "I wonder if it would help to get a cat?" "Allergies, Mandy," Jake said. "I'm allergic to cat fur, and I like Angie is, too." "How about one of those hairless cats — what are they called? Sphinxes!" "I think I'd rather live with the mice, or rats, or whatever this is. Those things creep me out." #### "Twenty–six seconds — a new U. Melbourne record! Maybe even All–Australia!" Bill Disney clapped his hands and danced a clumsy jig as he read the latest results from the computer–timed maze run. "That's only the second time Number 43 has seen that layout, right?" Jennifer Dillon shook her head in astonishment. "Maybe we didn't clean it well enough and he's just following his own scent trail." Bill grinned. "No scent trail. This is the same layout as Maze Variant — uh, 214B — but it's brand–new — built from scratch." Jennifer whistled. "Then Number 43 is one genius of a rat. The cerebral enhancement gene therapy is really working." "That it is," Bill said. "But according to Doctor Gigio's lab notes, Number 43's great–great–great–grand … uncle, I think — one of the first subjects of the treatment — might have been even smarter." "Great–et cetera–granduncle? Didn't they use the super–rat for breeding before they cut him up to study his little brains?" "They never got to autopsy him. He got away." Jennifer shivered. "And the enhancements seem to breed true. Can you imagine how hard it would be to control the rat population if they were all that smart?" #### Chktatreekachrr sniffed at the wickedly pointed end of the old shinyroundonstick, his sensitive nose detecting the musty odors of old wood and soil and mildew, tantalizing hints of redfruit and crumblesweet, and under it all, the sour tang that only shinystuff carried. This one had been used many times to dig and to pry, and had worn down until its tip was as sharp as the teeth of one of the People. He poked at the tip with his forepaw, chittering in pain and jumping back as it pierced his flesh. Dimly, he saw images of a bigfur pouncing on one of his nestmates in a raid that had ended badly. Bigfurs had teeth and claws larger and sharper than those of the People to go along with their much greater size. But now this shinyroundonstick was like a tooth even larger than a bigfur tooth. People could use a shinyroundonstick like this one to dig and pry not at soil or wood, but at flesh. Rival nests could be bitten into submission. Even bigfurs could be driven away, or even killed… #### "Mommy! Tom is dead! Mrs. Barbera's cat is all dead! He's lying in the garden all dead!" Amanda Dillon cursed under her breath and rushed out through the kitchen door. This was not the way she had planned to teach her youngest daughter about death. Probably the King's dog got him, she thought. They're always letting that beast run loose! But Tom, the Barbera's venerable old cat, hadn't been killed by a dog, not unless dogs were carrying shivs these days. There was something shiny sticking out of Tom's side. One end was rounded. The other end was buried deep in Tom's blood–matted fur. "What the hell?" Amanda gasped. "Who could have done this? And what is that thing in poor Tom's ribs?" Before Amanda could pull Angie away, the little girl had dropped to her knees to take a closer look. She poked at the shiny thing, frowning, then looked up at Amanda and asked "Is that a spoon, Mommy?" THE END? Last edited by kailhofer on August 01, 2010, 03:41:45 AM, edited 1 time in total. Hardcover, paperback, pdf, eBook, iBook, Nook, and now Kindle & Kobo! Image A cooperative effort between 17 Aphelion authors. No part of any sales go to Aphelion. Top User avatar kailhofer Editor Emeritus Posts: 3245 Joined: January 01, 1970, 11:00:00 AM Location: Kaukauna, Wisconsin (USA) Contact: Contact kailhofer 07/'08 – Where Have all the Spoons Gone? Post by kailhofer » October 19, 2008, 06:10:34 AM – Co–Winner – Science On a Budget By: Bill Wolfe In order to use the low–bid, third–rate teleporter towers, they required a supply depot that was surrounded by nearly–empty countryside. It also needed an astonishing variety of the sampling devices to use as replacements. In the end, there was only one choice. The sampling devices would be teleported to the ship, altered, and then dispersed to every consumption establishment in the world. This way, if the device didn't exactly match the other cutlery, it was unlikely to be noticed. Of course, because the survey was underfunded, they could only process about fifteen million of them per orbit around the system's Primary. The comprehensive survey would take nearly twenty orbits, which—entirely by coincidence—was just short of where the contract's overtime clause would kick–in. Of course, there were always individuals who never visited consumption establishments, so samplers were dispersed to individual households on a case–by–case basis. One device could sample as many as one thousand individuals, so once the entire household was sampled, the device was retrieved, immediately. The data was read and the device sent somewhere where it may sample as many as twenty individuals in a single day. Martha closed her eyes as she stepped–up on the scale. She was standing in her too–bright bathroom, completely naked. She took a deep breath as she listened for the electronic beep which meant that the red LED readout had stabilized. She knew from long experience that she could easily discern it over the sound of the toilet tank, refilling. "No use weighing the contents of a full bladder," she whispered to herself. It was one of the many mantras that had helped her through these last, tortuous few months. Aboard the Galactic Survey Ship, Subassistant–Second–Class FrdBXX, was watching the scene with such concentration that—due to lack of attention—two of his/her eyestalks lay flaccid against his/her cephalic node. He/She had just been assigned this being who hadn't yet been sampled for the Genetic Database. The creature simply never seemed to use a sampling device.. Martha opened her eyes. "DammitDammitDammitDAMMIT!" She stomped off the scale, scrupulously avoiding so much as a glance in the large bathroom mirror. "How can I possibly weigh a pound more than yesterday? How?" She continued her solitary tirade as she yanked–open drawers and slammed them shut after rifling the contents. "Six months of rice cakes and raw vegetables and fruit and popcorn–without–butter and black coffee in the morning. . .AND FOR WHAT? At this rate, I'll never loose weight!" FrdBXX had always had doubts about the cheap translators they were using on this survey, and the recalcitrant being's last statement only added to them. Was this creature attempting to nullify gravity by consuming certain foodstuffs? He/She knew of at least three ways to achieve antigravity using a domestic animal, ventilation conduit repair adhesive, and a plasma torch. But trying to do so using organic foodstuffs just sounded silly. He/She decided to query the linguistic database for an explanation. As he/she read the true meaning of the words, an idea dawned. Perhaps a little more research was required. He/She wouldn't want to take too much. Their internet supplied bounteous ideal templates. On Saturday morning, Martha woke–up two hours late, and thin. She bounded–out of the bed with an energy she hadn't felt in years. And then stood astonished, staring downward as her pajama bottoms fell about her ankles. In low–earth orbit, NOBODY noticed when fifty–three pounds of human adipose tissue and extra skin briefly flared, as it was burned–up upon reentry to the atmosphere. For the first time in a decade, Martha stood staring at her naked body in the bathroom mirror. It was a miracle, at least. She'd never heard of anything like it. She glanced at the scale, and decided it didn't matter what the damn numbers had to say. What she was looking at said it all. "I think I deserve a treat." Her hand shook so badly as she reached for the dusty–topped sugar bowl, she had to put her steaming cup of coffee on the counter. It had been a long time since she had even allowed herself to look at the thing. "A spoon–full of sugar helps the medicine, go down." She sang softly to herself as she opened her cutlery drawer. She was a little embarrassed to realize that her mouth was watering. Like anyone, she took the first offered from the slot. Had she noticed that it felt unfamiliar in her hand, no doubt she would have chalked–it–up to the fact that she hadn't touched one in months. It took her two tries to break through the semisolid crust. "Humid here," she mused. The chunky white crystals piled much higher than normal. She considered dumping it back into the bowl and then decided that it would do. It was still much less than her pre–diet, six–per–cup. She kerplopped the overladen spoon into the black liquid and slowly stirred, savoring the slow, circular motion and the diminishing gritty scraping she felt at each revolution. With careful deliberation, she raised the spoon to her mouth and sensuously placed the warm metal to her tongue. The bittersweet combination momentarily overwhelmed her near–atrophied taste buds. The slight tingle she felt melded with the rapturous flood of sweet, satisfying sensation. She placed the spoon down and—using two hands—embraced the warm mug. Her ears registered the slight pop as the spoon was teleported out, but her mind was focused elsewhere. A rough translation would be: "Got'cha!", if FrdBXX spoke any language even vaguely resembling English, that is. But for now, he/she dutifully logged the data from the sampling device, placed it in the redistribution queue, and turned to his/her next assignment. This one had lost its upper appendages, and—though it seemed impressively dexterous with its feet—obviously wasn't quite steady enough to use a sampler. He/She watched its frustrated efforts to consume dead animal broth, and wondered if it would cause too much consternation if it grew two new arms, overnight. The End