Magic Pants

by Luc Reid

The thing was, Dave had never known Grandpa to lie–not even little white lies. There was no one you could trust like you could trust Grandpa. And before he’d died, Grandpa had said the pants were magic.

“Magic pants?” Dave had said, trying to figure out the joke Grandpa wasn’t telling. “What do they do?”

“Honestly, I couldn’t tell you,” Grandpa had said. “It’s funny …” Then Grandpa had staggered, and when his mouth opened, no words came out. It was a stroke, it turned out, and from the stroke until he died four months later, Grandpa’d never said another sensible word.

Dave doubted the pants would kill him. Because why would someone make murderous pants? On the other hand, why magical pants at all? Without the answer to that question, there was no way of guessing what the pants might do.

Grandpa wouldn’t have given him something he knew to be dangerous–but then, Grandpa had confessed he had no idea what the pants did.

Dave had a good life. He had a girlfriend who rocked his world and didn’t mind that he was a little on the chubby side; he was graduating with honors and proceeding directly into his dream job at a game development company; even his no-good brother seemed to have fallen into a crowd that was turning him around. As long as there were cheese fries, margaritas, love, and high-quality graphics cards in the world, Dave honestly had nothing to complain about. Even if the pants were something miraculous, who needed magic pants? That was why they’d been stuffed in an old duffel bag high on a shelf in his closet since Grandpa had his stroke, and why they’d stayed there after Grandpa died.

He took out the pants again and looked at them. They were dull gray, made of some kind of heavy, soft material, with a button fly. Maybe he should burn them. Or he could give them away. Drop them off at the Goodwill store. Tell his brother to try them on.

Finally, he unsnapped, unzipped, and peeled off his jeans. The pants slid onto his legs like water flowing over dry rocks. He buttoned them up and looked in the mirror. Well, they weren’t magic that way: he was still fat.

But then he felt a giddy sensation, and as he began to drift up into the air, he thought he heard Grandpa’s voice, calling his name.

Happyglasses

by Edd

Nathalie lives in the same apartment building and works at the same office as Odette and Michèle. All she knows of them is their names.

Odette wears riskyspex most of the day. She tightrope walks across intersections, dodges computer-generated avalanches, battles pirates down city sidewalks. She arrives at work exhilarated.

Michèle prefers busylenses. They deliver emails and rss feeds. The sides of buildings become spreadsheets and letterhead for her invoices. The journey is just an extension of her job.

Nathalie puts on happyglasses first thing. An overlay of singing bluebirds and bobbing balloons is just what she needs. If she is about to walk into a tree or building they will direct her around the danger.

(It’s just as well cars drive themselves. All the drivers are wearing glasses of one kind or another.)

Nathalie goes to a new café for lunch. Animated vegetables blur around the edges, pixelate, then blink out altogether. An announcement whispers over her earpieces.

“This café is a no-augment zone. Please enjoy the company of your fellow patrons.”

Her happyglasses are transparent for the first time in, well, ever. Nathalie looks around, discombobulated. She bumps into a chair, and pauses. This would not have happened if her glasses were working.

She turns, about to leave, when she sees the two other diners. Odette sits in a corner, keeping a wary eye on Michèle, on Nathalie, on the waiter, out the window, then back to Michèle, who is drawing something complicated on a napkin. When Nathalie walks to an empty table she sees it appears to be a production schedule.

Salad. Sandwich. Nathalie is eating a last sliver of carrot when the other two rise to leave. None of them have said a word beyond ordering. “Wait,” she calls.

Odette spins. Michèle turns more slowly, looking up from the napkin she still carries.

“Let’s walk back together,” says Nathalie. “It could be fun to talk.”

“Why?” says Odette, backing toward the exit. Her glasses opaque as she stands in the doorway. She spins, dodging imaginary projectiles, and darts down the sidewalk.

Michèle just glances at Nathalie, then shakes her head slowly and leaves. Once outside, she moves numbers here and there with practiced fingers.

Nathalie looks around at the empty café. She has never felt lonely before. She pays, and leaves.

When the waiter cleans her table, he finds the glasses she has left behind.