Unidentified Funny Objects 3

by Alex Shvartsman (Ed. )

  She smiled, a very tiny smile, and her eyebrows wrinkled, and she asked, “Isn’t there any good news in the world today, Mr. Newsboy?”

  Perhaps it was all his friends had gone to war and he’d had to stay behind since he was the only one that could read, or maybe it was the chill of standing on a newsstand all day, but as I said, I believe it was because Jane herself was so perfectly disheveled that Romulus paused.

  He read the next line of print without really seeing it, and when he went to announce the line, what came out in his great, booming voice was: “Cotton candy cart tomorrow, all day. No charge.”

  Jane, her eyebrows now unwrinkled and quite high on her forehead, gasped and grinned.

  Romulus felt very bad just then, because even though it was nice to see a smile, he knew that tomorrow she’d be even sadder for it. But he couldn’t undo what he’d done and she was happy now, so he left the line hanging in the air.

  She stood up on her tip-toes, extending a slightly wilted white daisy up to Romulus, her whole body pointed and straight in the effort of reaching something that was entirely beyond her reach.

  For his part Romulus knelt down and took the flower and gave her a sad smile and watched her run back across the street. And even though he had another line of news, it was sad, so he called it quits for the day and went home. He put the daisy in a jar of water and ate his cake from the bakery (yes, the bakery, not the cakery) and went to sleep.

  The next day, Romulus shouted the bad news and tried very hard not to notice that Jane was aflutter with expectations on the corner across the way. This was difficult because it seemed the rest of town was also buzzing about the good news, and Romulus was a bit worried that when the cotton candy never came he’d lose all credibility.

  But then a very unexpected thing happened. (Well, truthfully everyone was expecting it, just not the newsboy.)

  The candymaker came dragging a handcart down the cobbled way. He parked it right next to the newsstand. And when he pulled the yellow and red-striped tarp away, there in the cart was a cloud of pink cotton candy. He set to the task of distributing it all away, and every person in town stopped by for a taste, and since everyone was nice and took no more than they could stand without getting a bellyache, there was enough in the cart for everyone to have some, Jane first and Romulus last.

  When the day was done the candymaker packed away his cart and mentioned to Romulus, quite casually, that the next time it was free cotton candy day he hoped someone would warn him in advance. When he’d gone, in his place stood Jane, her basket all sold except for one crumpled bluebell.

  Yesterday she’d seemed quite sweet, in a sad sort of way. But today was even worse, with her beaming smile, pink sugar in a film from cheekbone to chin. Poor Romulus really didn’t stand a chance when she looked up at him and asked, “Mr. Newsboy, have you gotten all the bad news out? Is it time for the good yet?”

  Now, Romulus knew he’d learned his lesson. He’d lucked out with the gullible candymaker and he most certainly wasn’t going to risk a second false line. He read the newsprint and in his great voice announced: “Tomorrow’s battles canceled for International Jellied-Toast Day!”

  Which wasn’t what the newsprint read at all. In fact, the newsprint very sullenly pointed out that the primary forces would arrive shortly, and he’d be up to his newsstand in bayonets in two days’ time.

  Romulus grimaced. Pressed his stupid lying lips tight together. Ventured a glance down at Jane.

  Jane, of course, was about to burst. “Oh, I didn’t know tomorrow was a holiday! We haven’t had a proper holiday since before Christmas was canceled last year! That’s, that’s, that’s—”

  “Incredible?” Romulus supplied.

  “Yes!”

  Perhaps no one else had noticed? Romulus dared a quick look-see and found to his chagrin that absolutely everyone had heard. (Even, it seemed, the old deaf hound that spent his afternoons begging for scraps from the taxidermist three doors down.)

  When Romulus, shoulders hunched, turned his face down to hide behind his newsprint, he noticed that Jane was extending the last (purple) bluebell his way. He probably shouldn’t have accepted it, since it was earned on falsehoods, but he was eager to be home (and out of everyone’s immediate gaze) so he took it and hurried off to bolt his door and leave the bluebell in the jar with the daisy.

  The next day the newsprint warned Romulus that the sound of cannons from the West would likely be audible in town as early as brunch, even downtown where his newsstand creaked in the cold wind. He ought to have led with that line, really, to clear the air and prepare everyone. But it was so awful and little Jane, who seemed to have washed her browned apron for the holiday, was positively vibrating with excitement. So he started with the glum news about the town’s dart team (the Verdant Rams) losing to their longtime rivals (the Cyan Harts).

  And in that sliver of time just past breakfast, but not yet brunch, the baker started stacking baskets of sliced bread on the tables outside his shop window. Thin sliced, thick sliced, rye, wheat, sunbleached white, cinnamon swirl, pumpkin, squash, and potato bread—all lightly toasted on each side.

  Romulus forgot about shouting the news as he watched three carts loaded with clinking glass jars amble up the intersection from the North, East, and South respectively. The first was proper jelly distilled by the jaminator, the second was jam from the marmateer, and the third was a veritable rainbow of preserves from the ladies of the Scarlet Hat Society.

  The crowd gathered; jellied-toast was had by all.

  But something unexpected happened. (Or perhaps you, at least, are expecting it.) From the West-end road came soldiers. In trickling clusters of threes and fours and then raucous bands of tens and twenties. And there was, in fact, enough toast for everyone to have a bit without becoming greedy and eating too many carbs.

  By now, for the first time in three-thousand two-hundred and ninety-one days, Romulus had forgotten all about the news and was enjoying a spiced pumpkin tea with his toast. Once the tea was gone and the toast was just about run out (though, admittedly, there was still a great deal of fruit-spreads left) a small detachment of soldiers came down the West-end road.

  But these were not autonomous collective soldiers. They were self-perpetuating autocracy through and through.

  The carnival grew very quiet. And it seemed the bayonets which had been left on their slings all morning were suddenly at the ready.

  One of the gnarly-looking antagonists stepped up, chest puffed out, and said very clearly, “We’re ‘ere for Jellied-Toast Day.”

  Whispers broke out among the villagers, and there was a bit of a trend (I’ll give you a hint—they weren’t keen on sharing). Until it was Jane who piped up, tiny voice above the crowd, “Well. It is International Jellied-Toast Day.”

  The rumble of dissent rippled back on itself, and everyone was eventually certain that it was shameful to break their much-loved, longstanding (recently invented) tradition.

  The Baker, looking a bit pale, pointed out that there wasn’t any toast left. So naturally, the Caker (who’d been waiting the whole time for the Baker to run out of bread and was a little bit irritated that it had taken so long into the day) rolled out a wheelbarrow of freshly baked, sliced, and toasted cakes. Banana, pound, snicker doodle, strawberry swirl, triple chocolate—the entire cookbook, no doubt. And things went as you’d expect into the afternoon. (Cherry preserves and triple chocolate being a favored pairing, and the autocracy types seeming less and less gnarly.)

  By the time everyone was full and the mess had been cleared away and the soldiers had begun trickling back to their various encampments outside of town, the sun was nearly gone.

  Just as Romulus was realizing he hadn’t read a line of news since the bit about the dart tournament, Jane appeared next to him. She had grape jelly smeared, with the skill of a genuine eight-year old, between her eyebrows. She didn’t speak this time. Her eyes aglitter, she waited to hear what the good news would be.

/>   Romulus nodded. Climbed the scaffold. He tried very hard to think of what he might say. He’d completely given up on the newsprint. By now he realized he wouldn’t be able to stick to the script. He wanted only, this time, to not be surprised by his own news. Perhaps another holiday?

  When he cleared his throat to announce that tomorrow would be Pudding Pie Day, every eye in town was on him. “Tomorrow, town hosts treaty talks. End of war in sight.”

  The townspeople and the lingering soldiers clapped or cheered (though a few just nodded, knowingly or uncertainly, I’ll let you decide). And although Romulus would really have liked to have had pudding pie, he had to admit that it was probably better news this way.

  Once he’d gotten back to the sidewalk from his scaffold, Jane was waiting for him with a yellow rose that was far too expensive for an eight-year-old to handle and certainly too posh to be a gift for a newsboy. At first, Romulus didn’t take it. Not until he saw the florist, the baker, the caker, the taxidermist, and the maramateer, all watching, giving him looks of approval.

  The next day, Romulus had little reason to doubt that the treaty talks would start. It seemed ridiculous, but, sometimes life is worthy of ridicule. Still, he was uncertain how it might play out, and he seriously considered staying home (he’d accumulated quite a bit of sick-leave being the only newsboy and working every day for years). But he knew that Jane would probably still show up, and while she wasn’t likely to earn the ire of any visiting generals, he’d best be on hand, just in case.

  Right at dawn he gathered up a number of things he suspected he wouldn’t need: the newsprint delivered to his front stoop, his boxed lunch and, for good measure, the jar with the three flowers. The streets were already packed with villagers and, when they spotted Romulus, the crowd parted to let him pass. But before he could make it to his newsstand, he came upon two lines of soldiers, and right in the middle of the street there stood three people. Two generals that looked very unhappy to see each other and Jane.

  “...and it always happens just as he says,” she was saying. “Oh, here he is now.”

  The autonomous collective general asked, as they both turned to look at him, “You’re the newsboy?”

  “This is what passes for a newsboy in this gods’-forsaken land?” said the autocrat general, the foreigner, though he wasn’t really asking.

  Romulus shrugged. “It’s only news if it comes true.”

  The autocrat eyed him suspiciously.

  Romulus cleared his throat, sweating under his collar despite the brisk morning air. “So . . . do you like bread?”

  The collective general asked, “What madness is this?”

  Romulus gestured with the hand holding the flower jar. “I just thought . . . we have a nice cakery, if you wanted a slice of butter bread?”

  The autocrat looked from the child to his rival to the newsboy to the flowers. His eyes fixed on the flowers.

  Romulus tilted his head to one side. “Do you like them? Uh. They’re for you.” And he thrust the jar at the general.

  It was very still in that moment. Then the autocrat general took the flowers in both hands and said very soberly, “As our tradition demands, I accept your gift of daisy, bluebell, and rose, and agree to discuss the terms of your treaty.”

  The collective general said, “Really?”

  Romulus said, “Really?”

  Jane tried to hide her giggle behind her apron, but did a poor job of it.

  The autocrat eyed each of them. “Of course. I respect that you have researched our customs. Now. Tell me more about this butter bread.”

  It took more than a day—six months, two weeks, and four days longer than a day—to come up with a treaty that ended the war entirely. And it wasn’t one that made everyone happy. But it did make everyone equally inconvenienced, and that’s really the core of a good compromise, don’t you think?

  Once things were settled, Romulus gave up his spot on the newsstand, adopted the deaf dog three doors down, and opened a halfway house for slightly-used/gently-worn pets. The school reopened and Jane was able to attend and became the first new newsboy in nearly ten years. Since the war was finally over, the news she shouted was almost entirely, mostly, more or less, good news (except when the Verdant Rams were playing).

  There now, isn’t that nice? So the moral of the story is.... Well. I’m not quite certain. In fact, there probably isn’t a very good conclusion to draw from this story—and I should hope you don’t start lying to children all over town just because things aren’t going your way. And please don’t try to solve your problems with food. Though flowers are always a nice gesture. And it never hurts to be nice. Even in the harshest times.

  ***

  Krystal Claxton writes speculative fiction in the sliver of time between raising a four-year old with her unreasonably awesome husband and being a full-time computer technician. She enjoys attending Dragon Con in costume, science magazines, and feverishly researching whichever random topic has just piqued her interest. Keep up with her at krystalclaxton.com or @krystalclaxton on Twitter.

  The Full Lazenby

  Jeremy Butler

  The cardboard box held fewer books than I expected. Sartre was safe but Neitzsche ended up in the trash. I wanted to cry.

  Dwight burst into our room, still in last night’s clothes. “Dude, you should have come out. I hooked up with this chick, a two-thirds Anaïs Nin. It was dirrrty.” He noticed the empty shelves, the box of my prized books. “No scholarship, then?”

  “Nope. No one wants to subsidize philosophers.”

  “You could switch majors. That girl last night said poetry has good backing. Some software developer found out he was 64 percent Ezra Pound and now he’s throwing money at anyone who can rhyme.”

  I shook my head. No wealthy industrialist would foot the bill so I could read Camus.

  “Then get tested,” he said. “Find out who you are. Maybe you’re a 90 percent Dostoyevsky. I bet State would drop tuition for that.”

  I paused. “Schools do that?”

  “For sure! Look at Peterson next door, she’s a ninety-plus Beethoven. She got a full ride and I heard she’s tone-deaf.”

  “That’s so not right.”

  “It’s your only hope, buddy. Roll the dice. I’ll pay.”

  “Yeah, but what if I’m a Caligula?”

  “They haven’t got him. I’ve checked.”

  “Goebbels?”

  “Ach!” He grunted. “Let’s skip the ‘What if I’m Hitler?’ talk. Just read the pamphlet.”

  ###

  Dwight asked the woman at the testing center to run my sequence but not release it publicly until we screened it. She left us alone in the waiting room where I paced like an expectant father.

  The centers boasted a database of millions of talented and/or famous individuals. Phenotypy and genealogy were weak indicators of similarity, or so the homology quotient supporters claimed.

  If Betsy Rowling, only 13 percent her great-grandmother, boasted a million pre-orders for her unwritten first novel then a 95-plus percent JFK match running for senator was easily considered the real thing. Cue headlines, cue interviews, media coverage, excited electorate.

  Everyone loved a dynasty, even a scientifically dubious one.

  Dwight had four weak matches. For a directionless trust fund kid, his quotients defined his world. Because of his 45 percent William Shatner quotient, he studied drama. His 32 percent Henry Kissinger had him in political science. Jane Austen, creative writing. Carl Sagan, astronomy.

  Full matches were sufficiently rare that outside of twins there had never been living duplicates. Dwight still pined for a match with some yet-to-be-sequenced celebrity, preferably a minor Borgia or Jesus.

  The woman returned. I couldn’t read her expression, only its intensity. She held out the envelope and Dwight snatched it away, pulling out the paper within. His eyes scanned back and forth. The girl stared at me, then winked coyly.

  “So,” I said. “Who am I? L
et me guess. Henry Winkler, Ringo Starr . . .”

  “Am I reading this right?” Dwight asked.

  The girl nodded.

  “A 99.7 percent match?”

  Panic gripped me. “Who? Oh god, please don’t say Dahmer.”

  “George Lazenby.”

  I searched my memory and came up blank.

  “James fricking Bond,” Dwight gushed. “Do you know what this means?”

  My phone rang from my pocket. Dwight stared, expectantly. I answered.

  “Is this Lazenby, George Lazenby?”

  “What? No. I’m sorry, my name is—”

  “Agent 007, your presence is requested at once!”

  ###

  There were four Bond Houses, each on a different continent. The North American one was an extravagant mock-European affair with crystal chandeliers, baccarat tables, and wall portraits of the sixteen Bond actors. Its revenue was supported largely by weddings, conferences, and weekend getaways.

  The facilities kept the character alive, thereby feeding the film and television franchises, which in turn fed the facilities and their staff. It was an integrated media experience that crossed the boundaries between amusement park, movie, and family to the tune of billions annually.

  “We expect our Bonds to be men and women of education and manners, first and foremost,” my guide said. The man, a 92%- Roger Moore, was of Middle Eastern descent and spoke with a posh English accent. “We will, of course, ensure that you are taught self-defense, weapons, and foreign languages. You speak Russian at least?”

  I shook my head.

  “That’s okay. Any military service?”

  “Afraid not.”

  “My dear boy, not to worry. There is plenty of time. We are just happy to have you. Our last Lazenby died in a skiing accident. For thirty years, all we’ve had are false alarms to . . . address.”

  “Address?”