Starfall

“The night of Starfall is upon us again even as it has been foretold!” cried Many Points from his pulpit at the top of the hill. “Even as our parents told us, as they heard from their parents, and theirs on unto our ancestors before the men of sticks and stone lost their hair and created their own mountains, the new judgment is upon us!”

The other animals looked on in awe as Many Points spoke, the burning sky behind him silhouetting him against the fierce glow, his antlers a burning bush atop his head.

“What can we do?” cried Farleap Long Ears as she clutched her children close, trembling like the earth beneath their feet.

“We must do even as our ancestors did when the stars crashed to the earth to punish the great lizards,” he replied. “We must seek out the dark places. We must hide in the caves and in the deep burrows until the sky is dark again, and then we must stay warm for it is our warm blood and fur that saved us from the first judgment, for it will be a world cold and without mercy. We must change and adapt as we did in the past. Eat not of the sickly, neither plant nor neighbor, for so shall it be your undoing, even as we have been taught since time immemorial.”

“But how can we survive this?” cried Nutfur Tinysqueak. “Some of us are so small, and have such little strength.”

“Know this,” said Many Points. “Each and every one of you, no matter how great or how small, is descended from those who survived the first night of Starfall all those years ago. I ask you, how can you not survive?

The animals agreed that this was wisdom, and so they bid their farewells until they should meet again, after the stars ceased their assault, after the earth no longer shook and the fires in the sky went out and the Long Winter had begun.

- Originally mailed to M. Haley of Lake Orion, Michigan

The Glenndale Seven

The Glenndale Seven thought they planned the perfect crime. They would break into the gold vault at Fort Knox using techniques a court injunction has barred me from describing on a post card, leave with seven hundred gold bars, and lay low at a local church while waiting for a fence to restamp the gold and sell it to buyers waiting in Eastern Europe and Central and South America. One member of the Glenndale seven was a federal agent who used his understanding of FBI investigation procedure to avoid detection, and another member served as custodian for the Greater Life Baptist Church of Glenndale which gave him both 24/7 access to the large building and an thorough understanding of which rooms were never visited, and thus ideal for gold storage. Their plan would have worked flawlessly, but for one thing. God took none too kindly at being made an accomplice in this daring crime. Of course, the age of miracles had long since past, and God, being older and more mature, decided the somewhat subtle approach would be best. He waited patiently for a detective with a fondness for Irish folklore to pass the church, and He set a rainbow in place above the building, knowing the detective would remember that the gold is found at the end of the rainbow.

- Originally mailed to W. Murphree in Rosenburg, Texas

The Dark Defender

Rupert Graves, alias the Dark Defender, felt a calling from the time he was a child to don a mask and serve his community as a vigilante crime fighter. Where as other boys and girls saw comic books as escapist fantasy, he viewed the role of caped crusader as a viable career choice. He spent his teens and early twenties honing his body and mine, trying to stay sharp, to be at his peak when criminals struck. Unfortunately, he lacked the powers of Superman or the Flash, and thus he could not quickly run from one side of town to the other, let alone to the other side of the world. He lacked Batman's resources, so he couldn't invest in a fast car to get him to distant crime scenes, and he had no super computer, no super hearing to let him known where mayhem was afoot. Because crime fighting paid so poorly, he didn't even have a police scanner. Still, a calling was a calling, and so he accepted his limitations and made do. He couldn't defend the whole city, but the five thousand block of Mayfair Avenue from the post office to the tire shop and the grocery store in between were under his protection, and he would fight to the last breath to keep those five hundred feet safe.

- Originally mailed to R. Cox of Biloxi, Mississippi

Counting Palettes

The Crate and Palette, a shipping store, first opened their doors for business, there was one question they had never thought to ask. When receiving a shipment of palettes, does one count the palette the palettes come on? It seemed logical that one would. After all, why add an extra palette and the extra shipping weight just to create a flat surface to stack goods on? After all, the product itself was a flat surface for stacking and shipping goods. Naturally they took it on good faith that when nine palettes arrived stacked on a palette that their order of ten palettes had been fulfilled. A quick call to their supplier confirmed the practice. Then other products started to come in. The crates came on their own palette, as did the boxes and bubble wrap, and as far as they could tell, those palettes didn't need to be purchased or even requested. Further, though they ordered ten palettes, only the top nine were new. Having been used for shipping, the bottom palette was often scuffed and sometimes broken, and thus couldn't be sold as a new palette with the rest of them. It was obvious their distributor had been ripping them off. However, after some number crunching, management at The Crate and Palette decided to let it go, for though they were getting cheated out of a new palette, gently used ones sold for only ten percent less, and with the free palettes that came with the crates and boxes and bubble wrap, they turned a higher profit than they might if they confronted their supplier and risked having him ship their goods using some other medium of transportation.

- Originally mailed to M. Bennett from Plano, Texas

Plans for Doomsday

Another world war was inevitable, and it going nuclear only slightly less so. Experts across the globe forecast virtually identical doomsday scenarios. What would set off the war and when. Who would go nuclear first. Who would retaliate and where. When it would finally end. Fallout levels and how long the resulting nuclear winter would last. So precise were these myriad independent predictions that many, including the generals themselves, admitted defeat before even starting, and proceeded with the war anyway for they felt they no longer had a choice in the matter. People were so caught up in the “this is what will happen” part of the message that they completely overlooked the “unless we do something about it” bit at the end. Nations readied themselves for war just as predicted, even though they knew they would lose. Everyone, philosophers and laymen alike, bemoaned the death of free will if indeed it had ever existed at all. It had a strange effect on the psyche of the world, for though everyone knew the end was nigh, nowhere in the predictions-turned-prophecies was there mention of panic or rioting. No mention was given to the civilian masses at all except in terms of casualties and collateral damage. People assumed this meant that they would carry on life as normal until the end, and so they did. Only a few people deviated from their day-to-day existences, and even then only in small ways. Women didn't wait for men to propose as often, for instance, and some restaurants in the rural areas outside of major cities began to include in their advertising that their patios would have the best views for the end of the world.

- Originally mailed to J. and L. Stillman of New York City, New York

Bottle Party

The after party at the end of the water bottle convention was the stuff of legend. All of the bottles would gather together in the Magnolia Ballroom and dance the night away, letting loose all the frustrations of work, the pent up energy from sitting in dull meetings all week. They would rant about their bosses, rave about the good speakers, and mercilessly joke about the presenters who clearly had no idea what they were talking about. They schmoozed. They networked. On the whole, everyone had a pretty good time. But the after party at the end of the 2008 convention almost ended it for everyone.

It started typically enough, but when the usual DJ, an oldies and slow jams kind of fellow took ill, his replacement DJ Dubstep had to fill in at the last minute without warning. From the moment the bass dropped, every bottle present knew things were different. The booming beats vibrated them down to the very liquids of their souls. The bottles rippled and sloshed like never before, and the laser lights reflected through them, turning each into a glorious, gyrating kaleidoscope, a prismatic wonder unleashed.

In the morning, the hotel staff found the whole lot of them undressed and passed out, piled atop one another on the floor. There were awkward apologies. Nervous glances toward the ground. Excuses about intoxication. Everyone accepted the story, but no one believed it. After all, it was pretty clear that no one had gotten drunk the night before.

- Originally mailed to Karen Murphey of Chicago, Illinois

Integrity Day

Every first Monday in November, the people of Williamsburg, Louisiana would celebrate Integrity Day and the coming of the Thin Man. People would dress in costumes and carry large puppets to walk the streets admitting their mistakes and shortcomings in exchange for candies and cakes. It was a day when people could quit their jobs or break up with a boyfriend or girlfriend with no hard feelings, so long as they were honest about why, for that was the nature of Integrity Day. It was a chance to be honest with others, to come clean about being no good for someone, and to step away before causing any more problems. Originally, the holiday was celebrated in June, for the story goes that the Thin Man, a top hatted gentleman tall and twig skinny, would come out of the woods and whisk away anyone who thought to enter into a marriage or business arrangement with secrets or ill intentions. As most marriages happened in June and many business deals centered on the coming crops, the beginning of summer seemed the logical time to celebrate Integrity Day. However, as elections became more heated, the holiday gradually shifted to the day before elections in the hopes the Thin Man would come and take away any scheming politicians before they could be elected, or at least force the politicians to come clean before any ballots were cast. It did virtually nothing, as politicians would simply make some trivial token confession and then use their presence on Election Day as evidence that they were trustworthy and morally upright individuals.

- Originally mailed to M. Hendry of Davenport, Florida

Pyromancer's Opera

The question of how to best share the beauty of music with the deaf has long been a matter of debate. Some believe that as music is something felt in the soul, music should be conveyed physically through vibrations and the like, much the way Beethoven cut the legs off of his piano so he could feel the music he composed. As such, their clubs tended to emphasize overpowered basslines so the deaf could understand the rhythm, the pulse, and the visceral joy that a good song captures. Others felt that since man's two primary senses are sound and sight, music should be portrayed visually. Size conveys volume and color is pitch (or vice versa) and it can throb with the rhythm to provide a much more layered representation of sound. The latter school of thought typically found more success, for it allowed the deaf and those with hearing to enjoy together without risking the sense of sound of anyone present. Still, LEDs and iTunes visualizers lacked the primal power that many felt music should have. To remedy this, a collection of singers and dancers banded together to form the Pyromancer's Opera. They performed the works of Wagner and Verdi, Rossini and Bellini, and everywhere inbetween. The music itself was traditional, but the staging was far more theatrical. They lined their stage with fire dancers, each of whom would move to the rhythm of one voice or instrument, casting their flame high or low for general pitch, bold or elegant for volume, and with flames of various colors to indicate whether the the singer was an alto, soprano, tenor, or bass. For the most part, the Pyromancer's Opera was a great success, though it was very weather dependent. Few indoor venues trusted all that open flame, and a fire dance in the rain did not go over well. This, however, was a small price to pay for the joy of sharing your favorite song with a friend who couldn't hear.

- Originally mailed to K. Valencia-Bravo in Olathe, Kansas

The Bunker

Paranoid by nature, Jeb Woosley of Rock Springs, Montana built his fallout shelter in September 1945 at the age of twenty-five. He knew early on that if we could develop the bomb so would other nations. So he prepared. He built a large bunker five yards below ground with three foot thick concrete walls. He had a fully stocked pantry. He had a pump that pulled water from a subterranean spring and filtered it for him. He had a pedal powered dynamo for electricity and exercise and more fuel than one could imagine needing just in case. The entertainment room had a reel-to-reel player, a projector, a small library of music and film, a shelf of how-to books and novels. In time, he made the bunker more comfortable than his own home, and for added safety, hid the entrance beneath a large plastic boulder.

Every time a crisis arose, he would warn the town that the end was night, mock them for not preparing, and then retreat until his secret safehouse. The Berlin Blockade, the Korean War, McCarthy, Sputnik, the Bay of Pigs, the Cuban Missile Crisis, the Apollo moon landing, Vietnam, the death of Mao Zedong, Afghanistan, the Berlin Wall, the Gulf War, 9/11, the Gulf War again, Afghanistan again, the Arab Spring, and every election since Carter. By the time the big one came, he had long since become the boy who cried wolf. The blast leveled the near by cities and the fallout slowly killed whoever was left standing in the small town of Rock Springs.

But not Jeb. He had enough food to feed a man for ten years, clean running water, and seeds to start a farm when everything settled. What he didn't have, however, was time. He died of old age two weeks after the war went hot. In the irradiated aftermath, people scoured the country side, bandits and families alike, looking for safety, for food, for a way to rebuild, but none ever found Jeb's hidden treasure trove beneath its large fake rock.

- Originally mailed to J. Knight from Pascagoula, Mississippi

The Actor

The life of a animal actor is not as glamorous as that of a human actor. They do not receive lavish salaries or fancy homes or media attention. Their own species is often utterly indifferent to their chosen profession. For this reason, animal actors are often far more dedicated to their roles than any human could imagine. If an animal becomes an actor, he does it entirely for the love of the craft. So it was with Colin, who in his youth played Babe in one of many direct to video sequels and got to be Young Wilbur in a production of Charlotte's Web. As he got older, he played Napoleon in a remake of Animal Farm, Habeas Corpus in a Doc Savage webseries. He played a pequinino in one of the Ender's Game sequels. He came full circle and portrayed Grown Wilbur in Charlotte's Web again, and critics agreed he was “some pig.” As he got older, he had fewer roles to choose from. After all, there weren't many stories about old pigs, as most were eaten before then. Still, he did get to play Old Major in a made-for-TV version of Animal Farm. But that was the last role left for him. Or so he thought, for one day, someone approached him to play the title role in a film called The Lord of the Flies. He was excited to play a title role again. Even when he read the script and saw what the part entailed, he still took the job, for as he always said, “I'm an actor until the day I die.”

- Originally mailed to J. Schwartz in Keller, Texas

Plant Invasion

Aliens had invaded Earth. Our industrialization attracted them, and they needed the resources of our planet. They were strange and terrifying. Their bodies were green and lumpy and grotesque. They spawned offspring left and right, leaving their softball sized spores all over the countryside to grow into the next generation. We fought against them as best we could, but their bodies, more vegetable than animal, resisted all of our traditional attacks. Their diffused internal organs were hard to mortally injure as they were spread out so much. Most chemical attacks did nothing to them, but still we fought. We tried pesticides, which were effective, but they harmed our own food supplies. Still, we warred on against them. Not until they left our world, exhausted by the endless struggle. Not until we finally purged the last of them could we analyze what they had done, what lasting impact they had on our world. Earth was overflowing with resources they craved, resources we had in abundance since industrialization. We thought they came for our technology, our oil. We were wrong. They came for our greenhouse gasses and toxins. Food in abundance, which would allow them to thrive, which would allow our environment to stabilize. Their excretions and later upon their deaths, their bodies, created a super fertilizer that could improve food production by over three hundred percent. We could have lived in perfect equilibrium to one another, but each side responded with fear, our fear they would destroy us and their fear they would they would starve to death, we never sat down to speak.

- Originally mailed to Leoni Caljouw from Oud-Beijerland, the Netherlands

Walking Censorship

Steve Niles never cared much for social norms. He cursed out teachers in kindergarten, he fought and bit and made crude gestures. For this he had made a few friends and many enemies, but he was still free to do mostly as he pleased. When he had one of the most offensive swear words tattooed to his forehead and had his cheeks adorned with images of two women doing things they ought not do in public, the Decency Police were forced to step in. The judge found himself in a tricky situation. They could not force him to remove the tattoos, for he had freedom of expression. However, this only granted him the freedom to say and do as he pleased. Others were not obligated to hear or see him. The judge ordered a booth of mobile, soundproof two way mirrors would be Steve's sentence. When he went into public, he had to step inside his wheeled cell in which he could see others, but none could see him, in which he could hear others. Many thought he would rebel, and thus they could put him away in prison proper. However, Steve loved his new box, for finally he could say and do as he pleased. He could shout obscenities at the top of his lungs, tell everyone exactly what the thought of them with no repercussions. He could dress as he pleased or not dress at all. He could make rude gestures and perform obscene actions and no one would harass him. His censor booth was the best thing that ever happened to him.

- Originally mailed to T. Danley of New Orleans, Louisiana

Petra Fan

Sue McDaniels loved the Ender's Game series, particularly any parts dealing with Petra Arkanian, the only girl in Ender's jeesh. The character represented all that women could accomplish, being the commander of an army who can stand on her own, who could stay strong when others crumbled around her. She possessed the keen sort of intellect that could help mastermind an escape from a virtual prison. She was everything Sue wanted to be. Every year for Halloween, she would dress as Petra in one form or another. Salamander Army Petra. Dragon Army Petra. Launchie to Command School and beyond into Bean's Shadow books. Sue served in the air force and married a short guy named Julian. She named her seven children appropriately. She lived her life as Petra. Many told her she was obsessed on the verge of insanity. They teased and mocked, but she didn't care, for on reflection at the end of her days, she looked back and saw that like her hero, she had not lived a life of fear. When times of crisis came, she rose to the challenge, she faced adversity head on, and fought to protect the people and the nation she loved. She lived a life she could be proud of. There were worse role models to have.

- Originally mailed to C. Townsend from Hattiesburg, Mississippi

Most Hardcore

The punk community of San Pedro, California, in a rare moment of organization and concern for status, took a vote on who was the most hardcore. The rockers campaigned, told stories of their legendary antics, their epic acts of rebelliousness, the amount of contempt they had for authority. Deep down, however, most people accepted that the winner would be Trashcan Dave, who once camped in a trash can for a week rather than live in a house where he had to turn his music down. Trashcan Dave, who then used that trash can to beat down some snot nosed dirt stain who tried to start something. Trashcan Dave, who walked the whole way from LA to San Diego once to catch a Shinsplints concert. Trashcan Dave, who even in his sleep was more angry, more metal, more hardcore than most were in their most wakeful hours. The day of the vote came, and to no one's surprise, Trashcan Dave won the popular vote, but district lines being what they were, he lost when the electoral college went with Nosebleed Dan, who as a dare once ate a half-eaten In-and-Out burger someone found on a park bench.

- Originally mailed to R. Morris in Cambridge, Ontario in Canada.

Inflation

When the bottom of the economy finally fell out, inflation kicked in with a vengeance. Being an intelligent guy, Hans Mauer immediately took all the cash he could find and went to a store, knowing that goods would always be worth something, whereas his money might not. By the time he arrived, the price of candy had already almost doubled, so he bought the whole box. Candy was a luxury good, after all, so those lucky few who had wealth would pay a hefty sum for it later. When he arrived home, the same candy was selling for five dollars. A pack of Reese's Peanut Butter Cups came to more than fifteen by lunch, and by the end of the week, inflation has spiraled so wildly out of control he could have bought a brand new car with the money he made, presuming of course that the price of automobiles had not also skyrocketed. But nothing lasts forever, and Hans knew this. When it looked like the economy could take no more, when the neighboring nations would have no choice but to intervene, he sold every scrap of candy he had. He made hundreds of thousands of dollars, and exactly as predicted, the government stepped in with a new gold standard currency. The old money was virtually worthless. As a sort of kindness, the treasury allowed for the old currency to be traded in for pennies of the new stuff, but Hans didn't take the deal. Instead, he waited for all the old cash to die away, to be collected and burned. Then, two years later when he had one of the only supplies of the old dollar bills, he sold his hoard off to museums and collectors one bill it at time, on average getting twice the printed dollar value. In the end, his box of Reese's Peanut Butter Cups netted him a cool million goldbacks. He retired early, all over a little candy and a lot of patience.

- Originally mailed to J. Ransom Raper in Batesville, Arkansas.

Hot Lava

Almost every child at some point has played a game with many names, interchangeable even within the same household, in which they pretend the floor is made of lava and they must therefore avoid stepping on it at all costs. Cats play this game, too, but take it much more seriously, for cats not only have nine lives and an unquenchable curiosity, but they also have imaginations so potent that while wrapped in the throws of a fancy, their thoughts may as well be real for them. Hot lava, whether made of molten rock or a thick shag carpet, burns. This is why your cat prefers to sit on chairs or the keyboard of your computer, why he leaps to the top shelf, climbs your curtains, or sinks his claws into the couch when you try to move him. The floor burns, and he wants nothing to do with it.

Of course, the burn is entirely imaginary, and thus can be dispelled with the greatest of ease. Cats are curious creatures, so one need simply change their minds about what the world is. A laser pointer will make him forget about the wood tiled lava and become instead, the brave cat scientist out to save the world from tiny red devils, and a spray of water will make him imagine a hurricane and he will seek shelter in the caves under the table or behind the entertainment center.

- Originally mailed to L. Bourlet from Biloxi, Mississippi

Cake Die

Sonya Novaski was a devout gamer, so naturally when it came time for her birthday, she requested her cake be in the shape of a die, a six-sider out of consideration for the baker. This consideration did nothing to save the poor baker, however, for as serious as she was about her hobby, she insisted the die had to be fair and true.

“What?” asked the baker. “You intend to roll the cake?”

“Of course,” said Sonya. “It is a die, isn't it? And I expect a random result.”

The baker slaved for days, weeks, trying to find a cake that would be sturdy enough to be rolled hundreds of times but still soft enough to eat. He fretted over the icing and how to keep it from smudging and smearing. Finally after more hard labor than he was being paid for, he created the perfect cake. Six sides that, while uneven, produced a statistically perfect spread of numbers over one thousand rolls. It was a masterpiece of baking, a work of culinary and engineering perfection.

Sonya loved it, rolled it several times, and gave the baker a nod of approval. After playing a game of Settlers of Catan with the cake and another die (“Why didn't I order two?” she thought), she and her guests cut in to enjoy their delicious randomizer. It was chocolate, which Sonya hated. She couldn't complain, though. She had never specified the flavor, she realized. Besides, it was never really about eating the cake.

- Originally mailed to S. Donohue from Allen Park, Michigan

Alzheimer's Trucker

 

Wendy Phillips had been with United Shipping for thirty seven years by the time she developed Alzheimer's disease. The diagnosis devastated the small company. They couldn't let her go. She was one of the first five employees. She had an amazing driving record. She'd run the same route for fifteen years. Her customers knew her, loved her, trusted her. She was practically family. Even so, these days she would often forget where she was going and all the perishable goods in the trailer ran a very real risk of spoiling. What could they do?

But where there is adversity coupled with people who love and support one another, there is hope. Her friends, co-workers, and clients set tracked her route down to her parking space. Then, over the course of a week, they vandalized road signs across the tri-state area. Words, phrases, sentences, all spray painted along her route so that should she have an episode, she could still make her way to where she needed to be.

“Exit here, Wendy.”

“This is the path we take.”

“Park here and honk four times.”

When she arrived at her stops, she didn't always know what was going on, but those around her did, and they always made sure she had warm food, good company, and a place to stay until she became lucid again.

- Originally mailed to C. Procenko from Toronto, Ontario in Canada.

DUI Fawns

To the surprise of absolutely no one at all, fawns and satyrs loved to drink. They weened their children on wine, poured bourbon into their cereal, and celebrated literally every occasion down to the opening of a door with a libatious toast. Small wonder, then, that there were so many drunk driving incidents each year involving these mythical men and women. Police had a hard time doing much enforcement, however, as their unique biologies made Breathalyzers unreliable and they were experts at every example of proving sobriety while utterly sloshed. They could walk in straight lines, do acrobatics, say their alphabet backwards and forwards, even rub their heads and pat their shoulders at the same time. Still, the highway patrol repeatedly posted soaring numbers of fawn related deaths each year. ATF statistics likewise indicated the average satyr consumed two point three gallons of alcohol per day. Despite all of this, police couldn't prove on site that the creatures were intoxicated behind the wheel, and to arrest any who operated a motor vehicle on suspicion would be racial profiling. To help curb the problem, police stations all across the country began receiving statues of fawns engaging in “sobriety-proving” activities with statistics about their drinking habits, and a reminder that even if they couldn't be charged with a DUI, they could always be arrested for reckless driving.

- Originally mailed to C. Merritt of Juneau, Alaska

Advertising Cthulhu

 

 

 

 

Cthulhu's followers were a secretive bunch, but it seemed the harder they tried to conceal their existence, the more problems they had with police, private detectives, academics, and pulp writers doing everything they can to delve into their mysteries and throw monkey wrenches into their schemes. Not that these daring individuals could help themselves. Man was by a nature a creature of immeasurable curiosity and insatiable discontent. He wants nothing more than to have what he has been told he cannot possess or to learn what he is not meant to know. For centuries the cultists presumed the answer was more secrecy. After all, if the rest of society knew nothing of the Old One's existence, how could they pry? But then jealous wives wondered where their husbands went when they claimed to be bowling and meddlesome police inquired into the disappearances around town.

In 1987, when the stars were almost right, they stumbled upon the answer. The old truth held that the more man was told he should not have something, the more he wanted it, but so too was its unspoken reciprocate. Man wanted nothing to do with anything required of him. The cult began to publicize their activities, to print books and games about their dark lord. They merchandised action figures and vests and Franklin Mint commemorative plates. They preached door-to-door. They made Cthulhu so ubiquitous that cultists could now freely do as they pleased, for the last thing anyone wanted was to learn a fellow was into the Great Old One and be forced to spend the rest of the night listening to him prattle on about how glorious it would be when Lord Cthulhu rose from his slumber and devoured the world.

“What are you doing?” police would ask cloaked men holding knives to a bound man's throat.

“Making a sacrifice to Cthulhu, who-”

“Enough!” the police would cry. “I don't need to know all that.”

And he would then fake an important call from dispatch to extricate himself from the ensuing lecture.

 

- Originally mailed to J. Tahon of De Haan, Belgium