Bargain Tombstones

A dream:

I was riding a horse along a forested dirt path. Occasionally, I passed people selling things on the side of the road. Particularly I noticed the tombstone sellers. I stopped at one -- a very short man -- and picked up one of the tombstones. They had been laying face down, so I turned it over and saw that the engraving was only partially done. I looked at the back again for a second, and when I glanced at the front again, it was complete. It was a simple, stylized image of a flying hooded figure with a scythe chasing a ghost. It was almost cartoonish. I picked up the second tombstone and again saw an incomplete engraving. More deliberately this time, I turned the face of the stone away and back again quickly, and again the engraving was complete when it came back into my view. The scene was similar to the first.
At this point, I knew that tombstones are engraved by Death Himself. (I've been reading too much Terry Pratchett.) The tiny salesman told me I could have them for very cheap, since they were his last two stones, and it was getting late.

I strapped them to my back and rode off. A short while later, I looked back and saw the dark shape of Death following me -- very cinematic. I pushed my horse into a full gallop, my goal to reach the ferry before it left. With Death slowly gaining on me, I made it to the tiny village, flew through and toward the dock. I could see that the ferry was just about to leave. But I was going to make it. As my horse ran full-speed toward the water, I realized that we weren't lined up with the dock. My horse jumped, and the people on the ferry watched us pass several yards to the right. As we began to fall toward the black water, I kicked myself up off the horse, pulled my bag off my back and tossed it away from me.

As I hit the water, I realized that I still had two tombstones strapped to my back.

The Threat of Annihilation

"I'm going to beat you to death with your own asshole," he said. He spoke so quietly that I might have though he was talking to himself if he hadn't been staring me in the face. "I mean it."

He had been standing in the middle of the dark sidewalk, but I hadn't seen him until he spoke. My heart thudded as he seemed to appear directly in front of me. His clothes, skin, and hair were the faded color of nothing.

I blurted out an expletive or two in my surprised and jumped back a pace. He simply stood there with an unreadable expression, his unblinking eyes studying me. For a moment I was at a complete loss.

Since he didn't seem moved to threaten me any further, I moved to step around him. He followed me with his eyes, but remained otherwise motionless. I continued past him, failing in my attempt to act unruffled. I was afraid to look back, but I felt him watch me leave.

She Melted Into The Biomass

I watched her as she crossed the street, throwing off unconscious vibes of attitude and sex. She wore black, tattered rags, artfully draped. I wasn't sure whether she had fashioned them herself from junk or paid a fortune for them to some inscrutable fashion designer. As she moved, the dark fabric offered glimpses of pale, smooth flesh.
She strode down the street confidently, almost boldly. Her intense presence made her strangely conspicous in the drifting sea of anonymous faces. Still, she seemed utterly unaware of the impact she had on nearly everyone she passed.
She stopped briefly at flashing garment display, and I caught her expression. Her brow wore a slight crease, and she bit her bit her lip. She seemed deep in thought, absorbed in the glittering showcase.

I was looking right at her. She turned her head slightly and shifted her weight. A large businessman in a long coat stumbled, looking slightly startled. Suddenly, she was looking right at me, a terrible awareness in her eyes. She glanced at the man, and my eyes followed. He had stopped. He leaned against a storefront, looking confused, and sat down hard on the sidewalk. I looked back, and she was gone. She had melted into the biomass with an ease I would have thought impossible just seconds before.
Dropping the sneaky facade, I ran to where she had just been. On the worn cement were three small drops of blood, smeared by passing feet. I heard concerned voices, and looked up. People were talking to the man sitting on the ground, asking him if he was alright. He still wore a puzzled expression, his staring eyes focused on nothing. On my way back to the transit station, an ambulance flew past, full of light and noise.

On Vulcans

Decades of study have shown that testosterone can impede concentration, reduce motivation, and slow learning. Many drugs exist that can either counter some of the undesirable symptoms caused by the hormone, and others directly reduce the generation of testosterone in the body. Those commonly known as "Vulcans" however, take a different approach. The man's testes are the source of all (or nearly all) of the testosterone created in the male body. While drugs invariably have side effects, the complete removal of the testicles has been found to sharply reduce the volume of annoying hormones in the system while causing relatively few problems.
The medical world calls them Voluntary Castration Patients. The term shortened to Vol-Cas in colloquial use. The term "Vulcan" quickly replaced Vol-Cas due to the similarity in sound and the Vol-Cas Patients' tendencies to be stone-faced, humorless, emotionless, and highly intelligent -- much like the pointy-eared race of beings in the fictional Star Trek universe. Vulcans are also generally pale and thin both due to their hormone deficiencies and because they spend so much time in windowless labs, workshops, and offices. For reasons not entirely understood, Vulcans live 24 years longer on average than men who keep their testicles.
The procedure is hardly popular, but those who choose this path are almost invariably men with an insatiable desire to accomplish more and learn faster -- and who have no patience for or understanding of the more delicate emotions. These men devote their whole lives to their intellectual passions and forever abandon the unstable sex-driven emotions of the inferior majority they laughingly call "Humans."

The Alien Memory of Warmth

I dreamt of the Sun again last night. The acceleration of the rockets presses me into my seat, and I can't move. The unbearable noise of liftoff is absent in my dream. As we climb above the eternal sphere of cloud, dust, exhaust, and smoke, the tiny windows of the shuttle become almost unbearably bright. Until this moment, I've only seen Sunlight as it looks filtered, diffused, and refracted through miles of filthy air. I watch a pure, warm circle crawl across my hand. The light, obstructed only by the rare upper atmosphere and a couple inches of glass, burns almost too hot on my hand. I've never felt the sun before.

We use sun lamps to keep our skin from turning pale an translucent in the darkness, and that's how I'd always assumed the Sun of ancient clear skies must have felt. Now I hate the sterile bluish light of the lamps -- the weak light that always fails to impart any meaningful warmth. My skin dutifully produces melanin and vitamin D, yet remains cold.

As we left our home forever, I stared at the intense dot diminish on the viewscreens and knew that I would never feel that warmth again. I could only watch its pale reproduction on the monitors as it faded into the starfield behind us, my face illuminated by the screens' faint glow, feeling nothing.

It's been 3 years since I've seen the Sun, and the alien memory of its warmth haunts me still. I can no longer remember what jolly insanity convinced me to spend 10 years in this windowless can. Sure, life on Earth couldn't offer much more than hunger, illness, and destitution. And maybe I'd seen more of the sun in my climb into space than most remaining inhabitants of the planet will likely see in their lifetimes. But these motivations seem insignificant in the freezing darkness of space.

My Own Personal Universe

Slumped against the wall of the capsule, I wait. The air's ratio of oxygen to carbon dioxide drops with every breath. Nothing to do but wait.

The plan had seemed like a good one. Nobody would expect the utterly insane act of riding one of the shipping barges down to the planet. Stowing a pressurized capsule in one of the mining containers seemed like a perfectly reasonable solution. Sure, the acceleration would be a bit high to begin with, but I'd experienced worse -- though not for so long.

While it was extremely uncomfortable, I made it through what I thought would be the hard part. Now I just wait. The receiving yard hadn't dropped a shipment in years. They're too expensive. I'd be fine, I told myself. Then there was the collision. I felt more than heard it. A deep, short vibration and a slight lurch that knocked my weightless head against the side of the tube -- exactly the sort of thing that should never happen on an unpowered barge.

That was 2 days ago. I'm 18 hours overdue now. I have no way of knowing what happened or what's happening now. I probably only have a few hours left. I'm panting in the thick, humid air.

I try to remember the training. Every moment, every possibility is a split where every possible outcome becomes a reality. Every time someone flips a coin or decides what to have for dinner, their own personal universe splits, and every outcome is realized. It's hard to think about these things I feel doomed.

I try to focus on the future. I know at this point that in many eventualities, I will be dead soon. Presumably, there exist a large number in which I will be saved. Even after all these years, it's hard to suppress the thought that I don't want to die. But in a sense, I already have died many, many times. But the me who's sitting here in this universe hasn't experienced death and doesn't want to.

This line of thought can be calming if you're not slowly asphyxiating. Those bastards had better get here soon.

"Walkway is slippery when wet or icy conditions exist."

These signs piss me off. "Floor may be slippery when wet."

Many companies are just permanantly installing these things now. They want to be covered in case someone falls and breaks their head. They can't rely on their minimum-wage janitors to swoop in with these orange signs and cones every time a drop of liquid hits their tractionless waxed floors, so they just keep them out all the time.

Car washes permanently install signs on the street warning of ice. They'd be a bizarre sight in the middle of sweltering August, but nobody even sees them anymore. They've become invisible -- just part of the noise.

These signs exist not because they help anyone, but because the first reaction of most Americans is to cast blame. These companies want to be able to say, "We told you! You should have been careful!"

Because you're going to slip anyway. How many times have you tripped over "watch your step" signs cracked your skull on "watch your head?" Most of the time, these hazards are obvious. It's raining outside, and you head into a grocery store. Should you be stunned to find that the floor is slippery? A carwash leaves a big wet slick of water trailing into the street. It's below freezing. Should you be flabbergasted that ice has formed?

What do these signs really mean when they warn you about the potential existence of ice, and the possible effect on traction?

"Ice is slick, idiot."

Watch our for yourself.