by Anthology
“Best for last, yeah?” I say.
“Yeah.” You bite your lip.
An explosion rocks us to our cores. If the shaking doesn’t stop, something will be knocked loose. But it does. The smell of oil and cordite and ash is heavy on the air. It is very still.
“Better eat your vanilla, love,” I say. “Because it doesn’t look like there’s going to be a next time.”
You kiss me on the cheek, before digging straight to the vanilla within. I wait a moment, wait for the susurration of moans and wails and metallic rattling to die, before I turn back to my own container of vanilla.
“Think about it. Some day, hundreds of years ago, someone realized that freezing a combination of dairy, ice, salt and sugar could give you something delicious. And then, they added vanilla! Before that, ice cream was just frozen milk! My god! And then all these other flavors start coming out, and everyone forgets about poor little vanilla! Too boring, some say! Too bland, others say! One guy even told me it was plain. Plain! You know what’s plain? Frozen fucking cow milk!”
I sprawl on the grass, laughing from the insanity of it, and crying from the insanity of that other thing, that whole end of the world thing. I can feel it coming this way. “Vanilla is sublime. And it only took the end of the world to realize its worth.”
You snuggle into the crook of my shoulder. We eat our vanilla ice cream, this beautiful simple little flavor that no one loves but us.
“We never did get married,” you say.
I look at you, feeling the brightly burning, beautiful taste of vanilla slide down my throat. “Did you want to?”
You shrug.
I gesture with my spoon to the growing cloud of debris and smoke coming towards us. “I’m sure there’s an Elvis down there. If you’re of a mind.”
I can see your brow work. You really think it over. And then you smile. “Nah.”
A few hours go by. There are more explosions, more screams and more ice cream. We’re down to our last container of vanilla when a woman runs up the hill. Her clothing is scorched. There is a bloody gash down her face. She almost runs by us, when she sees the ice cream.
I offer the container. “Want some?”
She tells us we’re crazy. She begins to cry, about how her family is dead and there is no one left. When she mentions the fleet of killer androids sent here by so-and-so, you and I throw our hands in the air, groaning.
“Knew it,” you say, shaking your head.
“This is lame,” I say. “Now I really want the world to end.”
She’s gone when we look back. The thumping and thunder and lights are getting closer now.
“She passed up some perfectly good vanilla,” I chide.
“And she thinks we’re crazy,” you say. Our mouths find each other in the darkness. We taste like freezers, and long summer nights, and plastic spoons, and precious vanilla, a vanilla so strong; it drowns out the taste of smoke on the wind.
“Don’t know where she’s headed,” you shout, above the howling wind, the roar of nearby gunfire. I can barely see you. “Doesn’t do any good to run from the end of the world.”
“Yeah,” I say, coughing on ash. I cup your cheek and we kiss for a final time. I put my forehead to yours, our noses almost touching. Our lips smell of vanilla. “But we don’t have to run towards it either.”
Your smile cuts through the gloom like a shining sword. “One more for the road?” you ask.
We both take one last bite of ice cream and hold it in our mouths. We let it melt, holding each other tightly in the darkness that is the end of the world, letting the brightly burning, beautiful taste of vanilla lead us away into the night.
Aaron Canton
http://aaroncanton.wordpress.com/
Dining Out(Short story)
by Aaron Canton
Originally published in Phobos Magazine, Issue 3: Troublemake
When his bribe had not been delivered a full ten minutes after the deadline, Jasper Montgomery sighed and shut off the banking app on his phone. He had honestly tried to be reasonable; Fuamnach's Fine Dining looked to be a genuinely good restaurant, and it would be a shame to give it a scathing review. But business was business, and if Fuamnach couldn't be bothered to make the 'suitable contribution' he had requested, he would have to make an example of her. Otherwise, other restaurateurs might withhold their donations as well, and then where would he be?
Jasper settled back and adjusted his suit as a waitress arrived with his dishes. He wondered if Fuamnach would next try to beg him, threaten him, or even post employees to forcibly prevent him from entering, but whatever she tried it would be too late. He had already done his homework, looked up reviews to find the worst dishes, even sent in his employees a week earlier to spy for him. All that remained was to record a few off-the-cuff criticisms to post on his website, and she might as well close her doors that night.
"Food doesn't look anything special," he said into his phone while taking a few discrete photographs. It was too bad that Michael, his waiter plant, wasn't there; he could have told Jasper whether the ingredients were local (and thus inauthentic) or shipped to Philadelphia from Ireland (and thus not fresh), as well as any other problems Jasper might want to 'taste' in the food. But they could just meet up later when Jasper wrote his review, and besides, after the brilliant job Michael had done staging a cockroach infestation at the otherwise flawless Morelli's Italian Bistro, he was entitled to a little slack. Jasper continued, saying, "In fact, it looks rather plain. You could get food like this at any cheap Irish pub…but at $20 an entree, with the menu promising 'upscale Irish cuisine,' I expect a little more." He picked up his fork and pushed it into the shepherd's pie, making sure his phone recorded the soft crunching of the crust. "Still, to be fair, it might taste better than it looks. Let's see."
In truth, the food looked and smelled delicious. The crust on the shepherd's pie was wonderful—flaky, crispy, and a beautiful golden brown—and now that he had cut it open, Jasper could smell succulent lamb and fresh roasted vegetables. The coddle next to it, with its gleaming potatoes and juicy back bacon, as well as the side of smooth, creamy colcannon, also looked perfect. Even the soda bread smelled like it had finished baking within the last five minutes. It was too bad it all had to go, Jasper thought as he picked up a forkful of his main course. He said, "I'll start with the shepherd's pie," he bit down, and…
His eyes widened at the most delicious food he had ever tasted.
The meat wasn't just juicy; it was so tender that it almost melted in Jasper's mouth. As for the potatoes, they were incredibly light and fluffy on the inside of the pie, but crisp on the outside, making an excellent contrast to both the meat and the vegetables. The rich, deep, and wonderfully savory seasoning was unlike anything he had ever tasted before. It was the perfect shepherd's pie.
Jasper realized that he had swallowed without saying a word. After taking a sip of water to clear his head, he repeated, "Shepherd's pie," into his phone and prepared to try again. He could savor the food later, he told himself, but for the moment, he had to eat a mouthful and then immediately complain that the meat was greasy, the vegetables underdone, and that there wasn't an ounce of seasoning in the lot. He fixed that critique in his mind as he took one more bite of the shepherd's pie—but it tasted even better than the first, and all thought of criticism vanished from his thoughts.
Time slipped by in a blissful haze. Jasper devoured the pie, his critique forgotten, and no sooner had he finished than he realized how good the colcannon and coddle smelled. He only needed a single taste to confirm that they were at least as delicious, if not more so, as the shepherd's pie, and he gobbled them down without a second thought. It was only when he dropped his fork and stared in dismay at the empty plates in front of him that he realized that over an hour had passed…and that he hadn't said even a single sentence for his review.
Jasper shifted in his seat, thinking that he had to be completely full, yet finding himself wondering how long it wou
ld take to order a dessert course or two. After a few moments he pushed that thought aside and tried to come up with something negative to say. "Well, that was…I mean, all in all, I thought…"
"Excuse me, sir?"
Jasper turned to see his waitress smiling down at him. She had long, dark hair and green eyes that didn't quite seem to reflect her pleasant smile. "The chef-owner would like to speak with you. If you would please follow me?"
"Why?" Jasper asked, but the waitress was already darting away towards the back of the restaurant.
The critic hesitated for a moment. Rationally, he knew this could only mean one thing: he'd been identified, and nothing good could come from confronting the chef that he'd just tried to extort. But at the same time, the waitress was heading towards the kitchen. His stomach rumbled at the thought of obtaining samples of a few more dishes. After all, the owner had said she wanted to see him, surely the chefs would want to make him happy…
Jasper found himself hurrying after the waitress.
It was an ordinary kitchen; chefs were cooking and plating just as Jasper had seen in dozens of other restaurants, though the food smelled a hundred times better. He looked for his chef plant, Karen, but she wasn't anywhere to be seen. That did annoy him; as far as he was concerned, she still owed him for hushing up that she was fired from a major steakhouse for stealing two years ago. He expected her to be in the kitchen, observing any health code violations—and creating a few of her own—and reporting the results to him. He expected—
A cook crossed the room with a pot of mashed potatoes, and as the scent wafted past his nose he was struck by such a pang of hunger that he could think of nothing else.
The waitress smiled and nodded through a large door. "Please hurry, Mr. Montgomery. We wouldn't want to keep Mrs. Fuamnach waiting." And then, when Jasper instead found his hand slowly drifting towards the pot, she seized it in an iron grip and yanked him towards the door. "Don't worry. I'm sure she'll have a snack for you if you're hungry."
"What?" managed Jasper, before he was dragged out of the kitchen.
His first thought when the wind blew past his face was that the waitress had taken him into a back alley or side street. But then, as he felt the grass crunching under his feet and saw tall, dark trees pressing in on the small clearing, he realized that he couldn't possibly still be anywhere near downtown Philadelphia. He looked over his shoulder and saw that several of the chefs had followed him, but as for the door he had taken—or the restaurant itself—there was no sign. There was only the forest.
Turning forwards again, Jasper saw two people in rough brown robes kneeling at the foot of an ornate wooden throne, upon which a tall woman with bright red hair, gray eyes, and a cruel smile was sitting. She wore a dress that seemed to shimmer and sparkle despite the sky being overcast. The waitress approached her, bowed, and then moved off to the side, no longer bothering to hide her smirk. Jasper would have demanded an explanation if not for his painfully empty stomach. "Do you have any food?" he managed.
The woman on the throne grinned. "We'll get to that," she said. "First, it would be proper to introduce ourselves. You may know me as Fuamnach, wife of the demigod Midir. And you are the famous Jasper Montgomery, no doubt." She nodded down at the two people kneeling before her. "These two you know."
Jasper looked again and realized that it was Michael and Karen kneeling there. Threads of silk were wound around their ankles, wrists, and necks, and the lines led back to the throne. "Michael, Karen, tell me what's going on!" Jasper demanded, but the two made no response.
"I haven't decided to let them talk yet," said Fuamnach. "Maybe in a couple of decades…but anyways. I'm so glad we've met at last. I have so many servants and servitors already, but none with quite the…platform that you do." She rose to her feet and swept her dress behind her as she stepped down onto the grass. "You'll be a big help."
"Listen, you're going to tell me exactly what's going on—" Jasper stopped talking for a moment as Fuamnach burst into laughter, but then made himself continue. "Do you know who I am? I could ruin you! People listen to me, and I could destroy everything you have!"
"Yes," said Fuamnach. "You could. You could say anything you like about me. Or…" She snapped her fingers and the waitress stepped forwards, scattering a bag of what looked like breadcrumbs on the forest floor. "Or you could eat."
Jasper's mouth watered as soon as the first crumb left the waitress's hand. The scent was intoxicating, and his stomach felt emptier than it had ever been before. He had dropped to his knees and begun gobbling up the dirty crumbs before he any idea of what he was doing.
"You see?" asked Fuamnach. "I knew you didn't want to stop me from cooking."
"You…I don't know what you've done to me," yelled Jasper, around the crumbs and dirt he was cramming into his mouth, "But you have no right! You can't do this!"
"Well, it's true that I'm not really supposed to," drawled Fuamnach, "But let's just say I was offered a 'suitable contribution' to bend the rules." She pointed over Jasper's shoulder, and the critic found himself turning to look at the chefs who had followed him. Now that he examined them more closely, they looked vaguely familiar. The first one in particular was a short man with a dour face…
It was Morelli! The man whose restaurant Jasper had last ruined was standing in the clearing, a pleased smirk on his face. Behind him were Yi, and Anderson, and a half dozen others. All of them had the same eager expressions. None showed even a hint of pity.
"You all may start your terms of service tomorrow," said Fuamnach. "For now, my handmaiden will show you out. As for you, Mr. Montgomery…" The critic found himself looking back to the woman on the throne. "You'll be entering my service as well, though for a rather longer period. Please, do put these on." She tossed several silken threads at him. "Just like your friends, if you would."
Jasper tried to keep his face still. Between his terror and his raw, animal hunger, it was almost impossible, but he felt he managed fairly well, all things considered. Marshaling up all his anger and every bit of resistance he could muster, he yelled, "Why would I do that?"
"Because, if you do, I will pay you." Fuamnach opened her palm, though Jasper couldn't see what she was holding from where he was kneeling. "I think you'll find it's a…'suitable contribution' of my own.'"
She turned her palm over and let a single breadcrumb tumble to the ground. Jasper's eyes locked on it as his stomach screamed that he had to eat that crumb, that it was the only thing that could satiate him, and that if he didn't eat it he would starve to death right there. Drool began to spill out of his mouth.
"Well, Mr. Montgomery?" asked Fuamnach. "You have ten seconds—"
Jasper got the silken chains on in five.
A Most Unusual Patriot(Short story)
by Aaron Canton
Originally published in Tales of Tellest: Volume 1
Light and laughter spilled out from the Sapphire Square and over its patio, extending all the way to the edge of the Spirit River. Clusters of people moved through the inn’s backyard, some having stepped outside to enjoy the flowers and the cool breezes, while others were about to return to the inn to revisit the buffet tables and—more likely—the open bar. Nobility mingled with merchants, tradesmen laughed at the jokes of gladiators, and even the servants seemed willing to chatter with their esteemed guests. It was, truly, a perfect night.
One of the putative servants, unable to stifle her grin any longer, put down her tray of drinks and turned away from the crowd to hide her smile. Jadie Rivers had never visited Atalatha before; her whole life had been spent in Westwick, studying at the hands of stern, unyielding masters, and having little to do with her moments of leisure save watching pigs scampering around their market pens. But now, at last, she had completed her apprenticeship. She was a full member of the Westwick Thieves Guild, out on her first mission ever, ready to do her city and her teachers proud. How could she do anything but smile?
But she did have a job to do, and so, afte
r a moment, she got herself under control and turned towards the next table. Jadie’s ultimate target was the Lady Trefaer, whom rumor had indicated would be wearing her famous set of diamonds—a personal gift from the Duke himself—at the party. She had not yet arrived, but several other specimens of the wealthy-and-hapless variety were there, and as her teachers always said, there was never a bad time to practice her skills. The very next table, for instance, held three people with empty glasses and more jewelry than was good for them. Jadie smiled to herself and approached.
No sooner had she reached the table than she took stock of her targets. The first, a Maquis by the looks of his robes, was wearing several large gemstones of poor quality, likely the victim of an unscrupulous jeweler and his own ignorance of what such stones were truly worth. The merchant next to him wore a dozen cheap rings on her fingers as if she was trying to show off wealth through sheer quantity. But the third, Baron Orthlo, flashed an expensive emerald on a bracelet as he gesticulated. Now that was a stone worthy of Jadie’s attention. The thief—unable to stop her smile from returning to her face—moved near him.
“…I’m just glad they finally worked out the treaty,” Orthlo was telling the others. “Warus isn’t even a nation, not really. Just a mob of competing tribes. Completely impossible to settle; you put up a city one year, some band of gnolls or kobolds razes it the next.” He shook his ale mug in protest. “But now that we have some allies over there, I think we’re finally on track to start stabilizing that territory. Maybe adding some of it to our own.”
The Maquis frowned. “I heard a bunch of feral kaja overran a human settlement in western Warus,” he said. “It might be more difficult than—”
“Mere rumors.” Orthlo laughed. “Even if they’re true, our ambassadorial delegation will include a full complement of soldiers. They’re more than a match for a few half-crazed kaja. No, I’m certain things will be easier, at least in the political sense.”