The Ironic Fantastic #2

by Ironic Fantastic

  Daniil Ivanovich Yuvachev could not find his book.

  “My book bag,” he said. Daniil Ivanovich Yuvachev suddenly remembered leaving his book bag by the front door. He left the washroom and went to the stairs. He looked down the eighteen steps and sure enough, he saw his book bag by the door. He felt a bit foolish. He went down the steps. He went at a fairly brisk pace, but never seemed any closer to the bottom. He continued down the steps, periodically checking his watch. After fifteen minutes he was still exactly seventeen steps from the bottom. Confused, Daniil Ivanovich Yuvachev turned around. He took a single step and was back at the top of the stairs. He looked back down the staircase. He counted the steps, eighteen in total, between the second floor and the first floor. He went down the steps again. He descended the small staircase for precisely one hour. Exhausted, he sat down and wearily counted the seventeen steps between himself and his book. Gripped by frustration, Daniil Ivanovich Yuvachev turned and took the single step back to the second floor. He slowly walked to the end of the hall, stopped, and turned to face the staircase. He ran. When he reached the top of the steps he launched himself out and over the eighteen steps.

  Daniil Ivanovich Yuvachev was never seen again.

  The Telephone Call

  Jason E. Rolfe

  Daniil Ivanovich Yuvachev answered the telephone.

  “Is this Daniil Ivanovich Yuvachev?” the man on the other end of the line asked.

  “Yes,” Daniil Ivanovich Yuvachev replied.

  “No it isn’t.”

  “Yes it is!”

  “No, it isn’t,” the man on the other end of the line shouted. The line went dead.

  Moments later the telephone rang. Daniil Ivanovich Yuvachev answered.

  “Is this Daniil Ivanovich Yuvachev?” the woman on the other end of the line asked.

  “Yes,” Daniil Ivanovich Yuvachev replied.

  “No it’s not.”

  “It is!”

  “No, it’s not,” the woman on the other end of the line screamed. The line went dead.

  Seconds later the telephone rang. Daniil Ivanovich Yuvachev answered.

  “Is this Daniil Ivanovich Yuvachev?” the child on the other end of the line asked.

  “Yes it is,” Daniil Ivanovich Yuvachev replied.

  “Is not!”

  “Is!”

  “Isn’t,” the child on the other end of the line cried. The line went dead.

  Five minutes alter the telephone rang. Daniil Ivanovich Yuvachev answered.

  “Is this Daniil Ivanovich Yuvachev?” the man on the other end of the line asked.

  “No,” Daniil Ivanovich Yuvachev replied.

  The line went dead. Daniil Ivanovich Yuvachev no longer existed.

  Misanthropes

  Kristine Ong Muslim

  Jerome asked to be left alone many times each day, but Craig, the old man inside him, would endlessly nag him to mind his manners, to chew with his mouth closed, to not call just about any woman a “bitch,” and to say “please” when asking for something.

  Back when he still had to go to work, needed to talk to people, and had errands that forced him to step outside the house, he never opened his mouth wide enough for fear that the old man inside him would end up escaping. He could feel Craig excitedly scramble for foothold along the slippery sides of his throat. Jerome swallowed fast to keep Craig back down where bile and stomach acids churned. Jerome did not know what would happen if Craig got out, but it scared him nonetheless.

  Gene was the youngest and the angriest of them all. But he had not grown any hands yet so he could not do serious damage. Gene gave them all—him, Craig, and the silent one, Matthew—several bad dreams, the kind that made them wet the bed. Strange how the dreams never unfolded in colour; the scenes were always in black and white, like in the old films they showed in the now-demolished cinema house south of Outerbridge.

  The doctor was a bore; she kept asking him how many windows he had in his childhood home.

  To indulge her and to keep her talking, Jerome said that there were five windows in all. He did not include the hole through the kitchen he had plugged with saw dust after witnessing his mother measure out rat poison into his father’s soup.

  Gene insisted that there were only two.

  Matthew, the quiet one, declared that there were no windows at all. He said that he grew up in a room that was always dark. He was also the one who implanted the idea that whenever you emptied yourself, parts of you might grow weak and fracture in some places. Something else might slip in between the cracks. Then one summer, something did slither in. Gene.

  “Can we talk to Matthew?” the doctor asked.

  “He’s busy, Doc.” Jerome said in his distinctly accented tone. He had the Southern twang that Gene, Matthew, and Craig did not have.

  “Do you know where he is right now, Jerome?”

  “Matthew was here when you weren’t looking, when your hand was up rubbing Dr. Mulholland’s cock every time his wife was not looking. Nasty, nasty. ”

  The doctor did not show any hint of emotion.

  Jerome coughed and gagged as if he were choking. “Shit, it’s Craig.” He recovered his composure after a few minutes. Red-faced, he said, “He never gives up. I hate that old man.”

  Silently and without looking at him in the eye, she switched off her portable recorder and walked out of the room. She was tired, hungry, and looking forward to a nice quiet evening at home.

  An elderly entered the room and wheeled Jerome away.

  No one noticed the tiny hand emerge from Jerome’s mouth. The back of the palm was wrinkled and the skin was marred with liver spots—noticeable against the backdrop of pale skin. The liver spots and wrinkled skin brought to mind the hands of someone who was very, very old.

  Crab Apples

  Lou Antonelli

  Anyone who’s ever lived on Terra — “Earthside” as the old-timers say — gapes at the landscape when they arrive on Battaglia's Planet.

  The new “Mayor” was no exception.

  The same amino acids which created life on Terra had been shuffled backwards on the distant planet. The ecological niche for plant life was filled with “flora” that had obviously evolved from protozoa. The “trees” looked like crinoids— sea lilies— the shrubs looked like barnacles, and the groundcover had evolved from sponges.

  The “animals” had evolved from blue-green algae. The members of the dominant species of “fauna” were derisively called “cukes” by the first settlers, a snide reference to a similarly shaped and colored terrestrial vegetable.

  The joking stopped when the “cukes” began to attack and eat humans.

  The conflict between the two species halted after a year, when joint communications were established. Each species acknowledged the intelligence of the other and that there had been a mutual misunderstanding based on the role of plants and animals on their respective home worlds.

  The “Walkers”— the natives’ term for themselves— apologized profusely, too profusely, some thought— for the misunderstanding. They voluntarily granted humans colonial settlement rights, and in the ensuing twenty years often said they admired and were impressed by the energy of the humans in tending their enclaves.

  Battaglia’s Planet was considered a less-than-desirable outpost. The appearance of the role reversal of plants and animals seemed to create an underlying unease in the human mind. When occasional nervous breakdowns occurred, the victim was said to have gone “Batty”...

  But nearby colonies benefitted from the trade in cheap protein. As the outpost became more settled, it was decided to hand over its administration to civilian control.

  The new civilian administrator, the “Mayor” of Battaglia's Planet, stared as he looked out the window on his first day. He turned to face the colony's executive assistant.

  “Well, I've met the base commander,” he said. “And I’ve met you. Now I want to meet who really runs this place.”

  The exec forced a smi
le. “Why, you do, now, sir.”

  “'Don't give me that, I've been in the service a while. Who’s the fixer, the guy who gets things done?”

  The exec's smile faded. “That would be Pettis, Astrid Pettis.”

  “I want to meet him.”

  “Her, sir, and she is on a trading trip right now. She won't be back for three days.”

  The Mayor sat down at his desk and pulled his chair behind him. “I'll be here.”

  “I'm sorry I wasn't here to greet you when you arrived.” Pettis extended a firm calloused hand. “I came here first thing when I could.”

  They shook hands and sat down on opposite sides of the desk. “I'm impressed with your tenacity,” said the Mayor. “I've read your records. You came with the first crew of prison workers, were pardoned after five years, and have been here ever since. You've done very well for yourself.”

  “I was convicted of embezzlement,” said Pettis. “I put my business background to the best use possible.”

  “Yes, and people like you are a vital part of the economy,” said the Mayor. “Look, I'm not a reformer, and I am not interested in disturbing ongoing operations,” the Mayor said.

  “But...?”

  “Your official business with the colonial service is hauling off the waste water, and recycling the sewage,” said the Mayor. “That's very low-profit, it doesn't seem to make sense for a sharp person like you.”

  “I see it more of a public service, supplying the fertilizer for the greenhouses that grow our own terrestrial plant life.”

  “Yes, and there is little demand for that,” said the Mayor. “You can't be using all the sewage. Are you dumping it somewhere illegally?”

  “No, it is all being put to good use. Trust me.”

  The Mayor drummed his fingers. “I walked by a waste collection truck yesterday. Two of your men were talking, at least until they saw me come around the corner. I overheard one mention ‘crab apples’.”

  Pettis stiffened in her seat.

  “We don’t grow any terrestrial fruit here,” said the Mayor. “They seemed to be cheerful about getting money for 'crab apples'. What are they talking about?”

  Pettis looked the Mayor in the eye and saw she wouldn't be able to bluff him. She sighed.

  “You know what happened when humans first arrived on this world?” she said.

  “It was touch and go for a while there.”

  “Do you know the real reason hostilities ceased?” asked Pettis.

  “We battled them to a standstill.”

  “They wanted a truce, they had an ulterior motive. Although they recognized us as animal life, and a potential food source, they found we don't taste so good to them,” said Pettis. “Speaking of fruit, what would you rather have to eat — the tree or its fruit?”

  “The fruit, of course, but what has this got to do with anything? Animals don't produce fruit.”

  “Don't we?”

  The Mayor stared at Pettis, and then his eyes grew wide. Pettis nodded. “You misheard, what my men were saying was, it was ‘crap apples'. Turds.”

  “That's disgusting!” said the Mayor.

  “Is it? Animal waste has always been food for plant life.”

  “You've been selling human waste to the Walkers!”

  “Very profitably. In fact, I brought a packet of credits for you,” said Pettis. “I think it is only fair to share some of the windfall with you.”

  “If word gets back of this trade to the colonial administration, there'll be all sorts of trouble, and what a public relations nightmare!”

  Pettis smiled. “Nobody needs to know, off-planet.” She waved the packet. “It's a mutually beneficial business transaction.”

  She leaned forward with the packet of credits. “Take a whiff. It doesn't smell.”

  The Mayor leaned back in his chair, put his chin in his hand, and closed his eyes. After a long while, he spoke.

  “Thanks for the courtesy call.” He nodded towards the door.

  “Drop the packet in the drawer of the table by the door on your way out.”

  Black Stuff

  Jonette Stabbert

  “Don’t pick your nose, for God’s sake,” my mother hisses. “Show some respect.”

  I wasn’t picking; I was scratching. There on my finger is some black stuff. It came out of my... nose. What the hell??

  There’s no time to ponder further; Auntie Ann is bearing down on us. She grabs hold of Mama first and gives her a bear hug and keeps snuffling into her neck. “It wasn’t time. He wasn’t that old — only seventy-nine. He had years ahead of him.”

  Mama pats Auntie Ann and gently slides out of her embrace. Auntie founders like a blind woman, arms out, feeling the air until she touches me.

  “Oh James,” she cries, and crushes me to her. I will suffocate between her enormous breasts. To save myself, I bite. She springs away, her shocked wet eyes framed in mascara explosions. Auntie hurries away, casting one more appalled look over her shoulder at me. Perhaps I’ve discovered the perfect method for keeping nuisance relatives at a distance.

  “James!” Mama glares at me. “There are things you just do NOT do at a funeral.”

  I am fated to vex her.

  A beautiful girl catches everyone’s attention as she enters. Her looks make all the men take notice, and the red dress sets off a cacophony of tsk-tsking among the women mourners. I thread my way through an obstacle course of aunties, cousins, uncles and friends of my grandfather just in time to catch the girl’s arm as she stumbles. She’s wearing four-inch fuck-me heels and a matching smile. “Thank you,” she says, then says how stuffy it is and would I like to get some fresh air.

  In my most impossible sexual fantasies, I have chance meetings with sex goddesses who find me irresistible, but at Grandpapa’s funeral dreams come true. The wardrobe witnesses our lack of respect and the wooden hangers clack like old wives’ tongues.

  Dressed again, the nameless beauty (in my dreams, they are also nameless) brushes off her skirt, releasing a small cloud of black stuff that reminds me of my itchy nose residue.

  “Flea shit,” she says, in answer to my questioning look. It drops off my cats every time I pet them. You’d be amazed at how much of it there is about.”

  Her words stay with me, clearer than the memory of frantic, disrespectful sex. On the way home, I furtively scratch my nose again, and sure enough, there is fine, powdery black stuff on my finger. I think about the black stuff that is used to make mascara. And later, I sneak a look inside my grandfather’s urn.

  Flea shit? There could very well be a lot of it about.

  The Iron Age

  Rhys Hughes

  The men sprawled on the sand in the sun. The beach was vast, a curve of gold that bracketed an emerald sea; and although the sunlight was fierce, the shadows of the coconut palms were sharp: there was no heat haze, no shimmering mirages. It was a perfect coastline, an elegant fragment of a scene from a daydream turned into reality by some benign cosmic force, a segment of paradise, tropical, munificent.

  Viewed from above, the men lay between the shadows of the trees like prisoners emerging from cages whose bars were spaced too far apart. And it was possible to gaze down on the men this way. Hang-gliders spiralled overhead, just a few of them, taking care never to block the sun, never to come between the blazing source of all life on the planet’s surface and the men who worshipped it flat on their backs.

  The men continued to absorb the rays into their taut skin. Slowly they ripened, acquired the sheen of ancient shields, and there was no danger of sunburn here, no risk of cancer, for this was an earlier era, a period before humankind had damaged the atmosphere, before industrial fumes, factory emissions, aerosol pollutants. The hang-gliders had wicker frames, wings stitched from leaves. Nature was in balance.

  The pilots of the gliders were women, the mates of the men. While the men did what they had to do, basking in the sun and darkening their skin, the women played. They f
lew or surfed the waves or dived for treasure in the shallows near the reefs or climbed cliffs and sea stacks without ropes. Intrepid, fearless, curious: the females were the active ones. That was the rule of this culture, the way things had to be.

  A tiny figure appeared at the far end of the beach and began shuffling through the sand towards the men. It was hunched and muffled in a cloak and used a crooked stick as an aid to walking. The men did not notice the stranger until he was almost upon them. The women stopped playing and watched, standing in the surf or circling in the sky, as the ungainly figure finally paused and noisily cleared his throat.

  One of the sunbathing men sat up, blinking at the new arrival. He saw an old face framed by the hood of the cloak, a long white beard and skin that was horribly pale. Unable to comprehend the character of the visitor, bemused by his peculiar garb, the man continued to blink, saying nothing and not even opening his mouth to gape. His companions also sat up and they all waited, slightly sleepy but uneasy.

  The hooded figure cleared his throat again. “I have news. My task is to bring this news to every community on every beach in the world. Nothing lasts forever, that is the miserable truth.”

  “What do you mean?” cried the men together.

  “My friends, it gives me no satisfaction to make this announcement. I am merely a messenger, nothing more.”

  “Very well. But what is your message?”

  The hooded figure raised his stick and made a sweeping gesture with it that encompassed everything in existence.

  “The Bronze Age is over. It’s over, I tell you! Over!”