Charity

by Trent Walters

Grimmy’s fingertips nervously tapped the keyboard on his first day as a communications specialist. Mr. Boss put his mind at rest by spreading his arms to take in the small blue cubicle space, nearly knocking down one partition. “See? It’s simple. Nag until they give, so you have no twinge of conscience if you press the disconnect.”

Grimmy adjusted his headset to give his hands something to do other than tap the keyboard. “Oh, sir. I have no twinge of conscious about asking money for charities.”

“Great! Then you’re ready for your first call.” Boss had spread his arms wide again, which made Grimmy blink a few times until he suspected the Boss’ gesture was a symbol for what the company did: gave people second and third chances to be generous souls.

Grimmy hit the call button. A man answered, “Hello?” and his name appeared onscreen. “Hello, Mr. Walters. Every year, thousands of children die due to faulty deflector shields. You and your beautiful children may be next, resulting in death, deformity, or agonizingly painful disease. All proceeds from your donation to the deflector shield repairman’s bilge are tax-destructible.”

“I’m sorry,” said the voice that was purported to be Mr. Walters’, “but I don’t give over the vidphone. Put me on your do-not-call list.”

Boss whispered into the ear of Grimmy, who might have otherwise remained frozen in unbelief. Grimmy repeated the whisper: “What amount can we put you down for?”

“We must have a bad connection. I said I don’t give over the vid. You don’t even display your face. How can I scan it to know if you’re legitimate?”

“Trust me. We’re too legit to quit. What amount can we put you down for?”

“Maybe you’re hard of hearing. I’ll trust you to put me on your do-not-call list. Thanks!”

The dial tone buzzed in Grimmy’s ear. His eyelashes restrained brimming tears. Why would the man’s heart be so hard after Grimmy had been so earnest and eager? His finger hovered over the disconnect button that glowed, “Lower deflector shields in this man’s neighborhood.”

“It’s okay.” Boss squeezed Grimmy’s shoulder. “Last week, this same soulless bastard forced me to press the ‘Straight to Hell’ button when he refused to donate to the religious fund for demon-possessed toe-fungus in West Africa.”

Sky-Watching

by Rudi Dornemann

You can almost see, under the cover of decades of vines, the tower, its brickwork inset with tiles decorated with a pattern of vines. The tower, whose stair treads sag with a creak under every footstep. The tower built precisely on the migration route so that, from the top, on certain late summer evenings as determined by consultation of multiple star charts, you can, if you lie flat on your back on the boards that are both musty and splintery (remember to bring a blanket to lie on, preferably a thick one) you can see the dragons flying overhead.

It’s always a moonless night when they pass by, so you see them mainly as vast silhouettes. You feel the muggy heat of the breeze that’s their wake, and see the occasional underbelly-embedded jewel streak by like a shooting star as it catches the light of a distant town.

After you watch a while, the dragons may seem to be almost close enough to touch, as if they’re skimming along under a sky as low as the ceiling back in your home.

No matter how tempted you are, do not stretch out your hand. Do not try to touch the dragons. The rushing friction of the gem-crusted underbelly will burn. The sky will tremble as if with heat lightning. The claws, when they catch you, will nearly crush the breath from you.

Worst, when you return, dropped back a year later, on the same roof (you’d better hope it’s been an easy winter and spring while you’re gone, or the tower might have crumbled to rubble), you won’t be able to find words to describe the wonders and terrors you’ve seen: the fiery fields that blaze on the moon’s dark half, the vast and silent cold of the migration ways, the draconian cave-citadels that drift among the furthest comets. No one will believe your stories, and no one will heed your warnings — if you do find words for them, they will do more to intrigue than to dissuade, and future summers will bring new crops of freshly-returned travelers. At least they’ll believe you then.