The Switches You Have To Search For

by AlexM

Pieces of furniture hide their switches inside.

If you can find its switch, hidden in whorls and rings and knots, your table will shake off its ornaments, tear off its clothes–its paint or wax or finish–and dance naked for you, limber like a contortionist.

You did not think its pose was its natural state, did you?

Watch your cabinet dance, its drawers pounding the earth like athletes’ feet, swirling its frame like a discus. Watch your wardrobe break-dance on its doors. Watch your bed serenade your floor, watch them recount sordid tales to one another, watch them make love–a shifting labyrinth of planks and slats.

You could get lost watching them.

And if you do not hunt again for their switches, if you do not dash in with your shield and turn them back off, you could stand motionless, staring, until they take hold of you and swing you into their dance. They will weep resin and glue while they do it, but they will not stop; their compulsion runs deeper than pity, so deep they cannot know its motive. Your bones will clack against one other like drawers sliding shut.

Embalmer

by SaraG

Butler scampered through the brush, zigzagging to avoid the slingshots. A sharp pebble nicked his ear and blood trickled down his neck. A mistake? He didn’t think so.

The villagers were getting nervous. He knew he shouldn’t count on the hour that the law gave an embalmer to escape before he could be hunted down. The corpse had been a young girl’s–emotions were running high. They’d begun play-shooting with their slings only seconds after he’d been paid. He suspected they’d unholster their lasguns soon.

He hid behind a tree and peered out. He hoped the pay was enough to make this worthwhile. He hadn’t had time to check the purse before they’d started to shoot.

It was bad luck to cheat an embalmer and the family was usually generous. Why else would anyone risk their lives to embalm a corpse?

The next stone nipped the bark. No use avoiding the slings when the lasguns were due. He swore and tore off in a straight line. The money bag swung against his chest.

There!, the river. He dove in without thinking and let the current take him through the rapids, away from the villagers and their lasguns.

He was dumped unceremoniously into the Triptican lake. It took him a second to realize that he had surfaced. He was breathing. Lying on his back, he pedaled towards the shore.

Butler opened the pouch. Instead of money, he found a stone. It was round. Tendrils of gold were set into the carvings. He read the history of a family, in the stone. On the side, filigree letters spoke an ode to the death of the only daughter.

He laughed madly. The old man had placed his family-stone in the purse. He had to be mad! This stone represented the old man’s family honour. Butler could use it to get money for credit and the stone
would testify for his honesty.

He stopped laughing abruptly, and felt a pang of guilt. It was too much. The law required fair compensation, but not this. For a second, he thought of giving it back. But the lasguns would be legal now. He got up, dusted the stone reverently with his hand and went home.

End