Microstory 1933: Idiot Dies in Desert

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Idiot: Are you serious? What the hell is this damn thing? Is it supposed to look like that? I don’t even know why I popped the hood. I don’t understand any of this stuff. I should have paid attention when my uncle tried to teach me. Ugh! It’s so freaking hot; I hate this freaking place. If I had only just—argh! Great, it’s not like I keep a first aid kit in the car. Oh wait, I do. This just isn’t my car! *sighs* No one’s gonna stop. I’m gonna die out here. This is it. I can see the headline now: Idiot Dies in Desert. They’ll make a movie about me. Someone much hotter and younger than I am will play me. It’ll win awards, and people will say, that was based on a true story? Nah, it was so contrived. No one’s gonna stop. I haven’t seen anyone for miles. Where the hell am I? [...] There’s a slight hill up there. Maybe I can find a signal. I’m certainly not doing any good trying to fix this piece of crap. Oh, hello. Finally, someone to talk to. Are you lost too?

Turtle: *growls* *hisses*

Idiot: Yeah, I hear ya. I was minding my own business, just like you. I even carry my house everywhere I go. Well, it’s my second house. No, actually, it’s my first house now, isn’t it? I have a real house, but I was sick of being in one place all the time. Is that why turtles are always walking around? Do they just get tired of their surroundings? Probably not. You’re probably always just lookin’ for food. Do you have any I can spare? Do you keep it in your shell? Is that a thing? If I had a shell, that’s where I would keep my food. Whatever, what was I saying? Oh yeah, my house. So it belonged to my parents, so it’s all paid off. I thought it would be a great idea to move in, but after a year, I just couldn’t take it anymore. It reminded me of my childhood, and...well, I won’t get into that, but basically my parents hated me. They didn’t hate me, but I’m such a screw up. Case in point, right here. Oh wow, that hill looks a lot slighter the closer I get. It’s probably not going to be any better. Still no signal. So anyway, I sold the house. That was this whole thing. They wanted me to spend all this money to fix it up first, and I’m like, I don’t wanna do that. So I did some math—I’m not good at math, but I spent time on it. I did the math, and really, what I got for it without renovations was barely less that I would have gotten with the renovations. So I just skipped it, and accepted the lower bid. Like I said, it was paid off, so it was pure profit. But it fell through. It was a done deal, and now it’s dead. But I didn’t know that when I bought a new RV. I was gonna explore the continent, but then I get a notification that my smoke alarm is going off. I have these speakers—whatever, it doesn’t matter. But I have to go back and see what the problem is, but there is no problem. It was literally a false alarm. So I left again, and two days later, I’m halfway across the country when another notification comes through. So I just ignore it. As it turns out, there was a fire, and the house practically burnt down. Can you believe it? I mean, it’s not as bad as it would be for you. If it were you, you’d be dead. So I turn around and head back, then my RV breaks down, and also catches on fire. FML, right? I’m in a small town, and the rental selection is for crap, so I take what I can get, and you can guess what happens next. I ain’t stopped on the side of the road for my health. I ain’t holdin’ a desert turtle, walking to a hill in the hopes of getting one bar so I can order pizza. What? What the hell is that? Oh my God! Aaaarrrrrgggghhhh!!!

Microstory 1880: Promovere

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I don’t wanna talk about my work. People are always asking me about it, like isn’t that so sad? I can’t go to a party, or the bar, without having to discuss it. Like, it’s the first thing they ask. I just think that’s so sad. It’s my 25th anniversary there. Same place, different jobs, but it’s just nothing. Really, I’m not going to talk about it. And you know, my boss is such an asshole. He’s always giving me these looks, like, I know what you’re thinking, buddy. He’s one of those guys who thinks the world of himself, and everyone wants to be like him. That smug look on his face when something right happens, and he gets the chance to take credit for it, whether he had anything to do with it, or not. Oh, I just want to rip it off his face. But I’m not going to talk about work. That’s a promise I’m making to myself. My job does not define me. My final thoughts can’t be of the 45 hours a week I spend in hell. Man, 25 years. That’s not how long I was in the workforce, just here, which only makes it all the more depressing. They gave me a certificate, isn’t that nice? My boss handed it to me so delicately, like I was to cherish it. Others proudly pin theirs to their cubicles. They legitimately seem to love what they do. I don’t want to die, but at least I won’t ever have to come back here. No, this isn’t about work. This is about my whole life, and that is only a small part. Is it small, though? I mean, at the bare minimum, it represents a quarter of my time, and that’s not counting all the time I spent stressing about it. I remember the day I was promoted to exempt status. This is it, I thought to myself. I’ve made it. Sure, more promotions would be great, but a salary is a benchmark of success that they can never take away. Nope, stop. Stop that.

Stop talking about your meaningless job. Everything’s meaningless, though. Your life, that was meaningless too, though maybe a little less meaningless, because at least you had the chance to help people. Did you help anyone, though? When you really get down to it, were you a generous and good person, or was that just always something you aspired to be, but you were too busy with your terrible job that you hated? I said, stop talking about your job! Hobbies. Surely you had hobbies. Knitting? Why is knitting the first hobby you think of when you think of hobbies? How is that the default? Because I’m a woman? Because I’m older now? I’m not an old woman. Plenty of younger women like to do arts and crafts, don’t be an ageist. A what? An ageist; you know what that word means, because you’re talking to yourself. I guess that’s true, I guess I just normally hear it in the form of ageism, or maybe age discrimination. Whatever. Yeah, whatever to you too...me. Wow, you really light up a room with your attitude, don’t you? Oh, ha-ha-ha. They say, it’s not the fire that kills you, it’s the smoke, but it’s the pointlessness of it all. I didn’t do anything with my life. I could have taken control, but I just kept tripping down the steps. Most people go up the stairs of life, but I went right down, and not to say I was never privileged. I recognize my privilege, I really just mean it always felt more like falling, because I didn’t control it. That’s what a promotion is, isn’t it? You don’t apply for it, it’s given to you. Sure, you probably did something to earn it, but you couldn’t take it. You can go get a new job, but you can’t be the agent of a promotion, unless you’re promoting someone else. But does that feel any better, giving other people promotions? I think not. And look at you now, you’re stuck in the break room with everybody else, and you’re gonna die with everybody else, except that it’ll happen to you first.

Microstory 1746*: Heart of a Lion (Excerpt)

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The crowd gathered and whispered as Cordelia prepared herself. Chris tried to step up and stop her a few times, but Clay always held him back. Neither of them wanted her to get hurt, but Chris could not bear to see her in pain; not even for only three seconds. She lifted her hand, and everything stopped. The whispers, the mindless fidgeting—even the howl of the wind was waiting for her. She placed her palm on the handle, and wrapped her fingers around it. She cringed, but did not scream. One second passed. Chris lunged forward, and again Clay pushed him back. Two seconds. Chris was starting to feel a pain in his heart; empathy for a loved one. Three seconds. She had beat his record. Four seconds. Five seconds. She had beat the world record. Six and seven, still holding on, but the baton stayed in place. Chris made his most valiant effort to reach her and pull her back, but Clay still would not let him. It didn’t matter how strong she was. She wasn’t going to be able to do it. Even without the pain, it was in there too deep. Only the owner could remove it from the stone. That was their true mission, to find the owner and kill him. Had it been anyone else, they might have asked for help. But Chris realized who the owner had to be. Only one both had lived long enough, and possessed a soul twisted enough, to construct such a sinister trap. He didn’t know where to find the evil telepath, but at least he knew what he looked like. How many seconds had it been? Too many to count. The crowd stared in both fear and awe. She was doing the unthinkable, but could not quite make it all the way. That was the sickest part. It would be one thing to torture a hopeful wielder with pain, but another to cause that pain and still not reward them with what they deserved. Chris thought his empathy was growing stronger as the heat reached his face and stung his eyes, but he was wrong. It was real.

The heat from the burning baton was expanding. With it came powerful gusts of wind, which drove the onlookers back. A few persisted to show support for the elf who took the brunt of the flames, but most gave in. Chris and Clay were one of the steadfast. Even the rain felt like it was at a boil. They squinted, put their hands up in pointless protection, and struggled to walk forward. “Let go!” They took turns yelling to her. If she could hear, she was not listening. “Let go of the baton! It’s not worth it!” They reached her, and what they saw was more horrific than they could have imagined. Smoke dribbled out of her pores, and faded up into the air. Her hands, which were both now pulling on the handle, were literally on fire. It was the hottest Chris had ever felt. With Clay’s help, he tried to pull her away by the shoulders, but she was as stiff as the statue—petrified, at least for the moment. Chris quickly realized what he had to do. He took a few seconds to prepare himself before cupping his own hands around hers. He could feel her blisters as his own skin began to bubble. Clay tried to help as well, but he was unable to get closer than a few inches. The baton slid a few millimeters out. But only a few. Then it slid out a few more, each one easier than the last. More and more it gave as Chris felt a scream at the top of his lungs. He would later be told that he had not uttered a sound. Centimeters more, and it was just about free. Time froze. The pain went away. No blisters were on his hands. The whole world turned a purplish-blue. He could recall seeing this before, but could not place where. The fire was gone, but everyone else was still there. Next to him stood Cordelia, just as confused as he was. Their former bodies lain at their feet.