Felicia
###
From: Stef Jones-Tanaka
To:
Subject: COME TO THE PRESCHOOL NOW
Um, I think anyone who’s not at work better get down here ASAP. Every single kid at this preschool is now a super. One kid is cloning himself. One kid is turning into a monkey. One kid is turning into a giant grilled cheese. I… don’t even know. Rocket has tied up Teacher Stacie with his legs, Zoë, and is using his hands to lift the other preschool helpers up onto the roof. Another girl is making walls of water around the roof and Denzel is freezing them. Isabel is running around screaming ISABEL SMASH. The road is torn up.
HELP.
Live each day like the planet might turn into an orange and be eaten by Captain Giant-Man tomorrow. Who knows, right?
###
From: Zoë Wallis
To:
Re: COME TO THE PRESCHOOL NOW
Stef, I’m here but I can’t see you through the cloud of squid ink. Can you whistle? My only talent is speed reading, and that’s not doing me much. Also if you see a stretched-out limb that would be my son.
OMG those are SO not helping hands.
Tiffy, I hate to say it, but I think we need your calming powers. Where are you?
Zoë “Knows When to Call for Reinforcements” Wallis
###
From: Alícia Marquez
To:
Subject: New Supers
I am terribly sorry, but I am in the middle of a board meeting. I have asked my secretary to drive over on my behalf. She is a black belt and is also bringing Starbucks. I have texted Alexandra-Maria to remind her that now would be a good time to form alliances with the other girl children, such as Isabel and Beatrix, in order to bring Rocket and Denzel and so on to justice.
With the perspective that comes with distance, I am wondering: does it not seem peculiar that all these new supers started appearing just after Amherst started working there? And that some of their new powers may correspond to Amherst’s highly fertile imagination? I would explore the possibility that Amherst is a super after all: I believe her talent is that of creating supers.
Stef, as a biologist, is such a thing possible?
Best, Alícia
alt.email: [email protected]
###
From: Stef Jones-Tanaka
To:
Re: New Supers
Not only possible, but highly likely. Beatrix has looked through the walls to the classroom and says that Amherst is huddled under the craft project table, screaming “Turn it off! Turn it off!” I’m currently watching Isabel smash our way in so I can try to talk Amherst down. It’s possible she might be able to get through to the children.
Tiffy, we need you now!! Are you out of coverage or something? Do you have a bat signal? Look, if we get through today, we really need to all have bat signals, okay? It’s not helicopter parenting, just good common sense.
Live each day like a pack of cards might come to life and wipe us out in a game of War tomorrow. Who knows, right?
###
From: Zoë Wallis
To:
Re: COME TO THE PRESCHOOL NOW
Rocket found me! Grabbed me & retracted me onto the roof. Am up here w/bunch of frightened and/or tantruming mini-supers and pissed-off Teacher Stacie. (Not sure we’ll be allowed to continue being Little Darlings, frankly.) Can calm down Rocket, but not all these others.
Oh thk goodness. Woman in spandex w/baby Bjorn must be Tiffy. Gonna have Rocket bring her up… .
Zoë “Texting Champeen of the World” Wallis
###
From: lindsey morgan
To:
Subject: Can You explain this please
Hi i heard sirens and then logged on and found this. drove right over and i see You people have a lot of nerve can you explain what sort of devil magic you have sucked my child into. trooper is a Good kid and now she is flying around and around the school like a tetherball. oh wait everything suddenly got really calm and i feel really good about everything. this will all be all right won’t it.
lindsey
###
From: Alícia Marquez
To:
Re: New Supers
I’m out of the board meeting. What’s the status? Did Tiffy make it?
Best, Alícia
alt.email: [email protected]
###
From: Zoë Wallis
To:
Subject: Update Everything OK
Don’t worry, Alícia, it’s all under control. Tiffy calmed everybody—I mean EVERYBODY and we all feel really good now. Rocket lowered everyone down from the roof and I think he really had a breakthrough. He said “Oh, THESE are my helping hands” as he put everyone gently on the sidewalk. Tiffy is in there with Amherst who is in the hiccupping stage of crying. So is Tiffy.
Zoë “Rooftop” Wallis
###
From: Tiffy Turner
To:
Subject: Thank you
Moms, thanks for all your help yesterday. I admit when Stef started this group I didn’t understand the point. I thought I had it all figured out. But now…
When I got to Little Darlings yesterday I saw Zoë up on the rooftop helping control a bunch of frightened and inexperienced super kids. (My Williamsburg said he was about to summon a flash flood to help get them off the roof, until Zoë talked him out of it.) I calmed down the toddlers and then made a beeline for my poor Amherst. I found her sniffling with Stef, who was explaining to her very rationally about genetics and superpowers and how none of this meant she was a bad person—she just needs to learn how to control it. It seemed to be sinking in. (She might even unfoil her room.) Alícia’s secretary had lattes for everyone while we cleaned up the mess. Even our newest members, Deiondre and Felicia and Joseph, were helping, and they’d never encountered super tantrums before. It really does take a village.
And as for me… I never realized that my own talent’s appearance was due to my daughter. Tom and I must both have a recessive somewhere way back to produce Amherst, and baby Amherst needed me to calm her. Odds are, my three younger kids probably owe their talents to Amherst, too. Amherst and I are going to go away for a special girls’ weekend and then… I think I’m going to go back to being Anti-Riot Grrrl again. While we were huddled under the table, Amherst told me a story about a mother minivan who could be anything she wanted to be. I think it might be time to do that.
xo Tiffy
“I want Amherst to tell me the one about the glittery fire truck again” – Hazel, 4
###
From: Stef Jones-Tanaka
To:
Subject: New Members
Hi, So Very Many Super Moms and Dads! I’ve sent out invites to all the parents at Little Darlings, so we’re about to get an influx of, oh, forty new members or so. Maybe eighty if both parents join in. Don’t be shy, new parents! We’re all in this together. Teacher Stacie says she can’t kick us all out, but that we’d better band together and be on the ball. I think with your help we can do that.
hugs, Stef
Live each day like your children might destroy the preschool tomorrow. Who knows, right?
***
Tina Connolly lives with her family in Portland, Oregon. Her first fantasy novel, Ironskin, was nominated for the 2012 Nebula, and the sequels Copperhead and Silverblind are now out from Tor. Her stories have appeared in Lightspeed, Tor.c
om, Strange Horizons, and Beneath Ceaseless Skies. She narrates for Podcastle and Beneath Ceaseless Skies, runs the Parsec-winning flash fiction podcast Toasted Cake, and her website is tinaconnolly.com.
The Choochoomorphosis
Oliver Buckram
As Gregor Samsa awoke one morning from uneasy dreams he found himself transformed into Neville, the Crime-Fighting Locomotive. Neville was a funny little blue engine with six small wheels and a stumpy smokestack. He lived in the Big Station with the other steam engines of the Happyville Railroad, and spent his days cheerfully bustling up and down the railroad tracks, solving crimes and getting into mischief
“I wonder what mischief I shall get into today,” thought Neville curiously. Just then his two anthropomorphic animal friends, Ringo the Dingo and Felicia the Sexually Suggestive Ferret, came bounding into the Big Station.
“G’day, mate,” exclaimed Ringo in a broad Australian accent, smiling broadly and displaying his Vegemite-stained teeth. “I wonder what sort of mischief you’ll get into today, you silly little bugger.”
“You’re always welcome to get into my mischief, Neville,” giggled Felicia suggestively.
Neville, being a cheerful blue engine, lacked the necessary anatomy to get into Felicia’s mischief, an obvious fact that nevertheless eluded the participants of this particular discussion.
“I shan’t get into anyone’s mischief,” declared Neville. “Today I feel like fighting crime.”
Fortunately, the preponderance of criminal activity in Happyville occurred in the immediate vicinity of the railroad tracks, allowing Neville to examine clues and on occasion merrily smash into the perpetrators at high velocity.
“Oi,” ejaculated Ringo. “In that case, I know just the thing. There’s a horde of zombies shambling straight towards Happyville! Perhaps I should have mentioned this earlier! They’re coming right down the tracks!”
“Choo choo!” whistled Neville. That was his funny little way of telling his friends to climb aboard and assist him in killing the horde of zombies that was shambling straight towards Happyville.
Neville went chugging down the tracks at top speed while Felicia suggestively straddled his stumpy smokestack and Ringo shoveled coal as fast as a wild dog that is found mainly in Australia could shovel coal.
“I think I can kill zombies, I think I can kill zombies,” chortled Neville as he bloodthirstily anticipated plowing through the rotting flesh of the undead with devastatingly gruesome effect. You see, he was keen to prevent the horrid zombies from reaching Happyville and tearing the good little boys and girls limb from limb and eating their brains.
But as Neville cheerfully went puff puff toot toot down the tracks, what he failed to realize was that his funny little friend Ringo had made a funny little mistake. The grotesque, shuffling figures congregating on the tracks were in fact not zombies, but rather extras from a zombie movie that was being filmed nearby.
Yes, in a tragic yet wacky case of mistaken identity, Neville was about to cause the most horrifically awful train accident in the Happyville Railroad’s long, blood-drenched history of horrifically awful train accidents. The only silver lining in this whole frightful situation was that the extras were already in full zombie make-up so that killing them would not greatly change their appearance.
Fortunately, seconds before this dreadful tragedy transpired, Gregor Samsa awoke in his bed and realized it was all a dream. He further realized that during the night he’d transformed into a gigantic insect. And he lived happily ever after in the Prague Institute of Entomology.
***
Oliver Buckram, Ph.D., lives under an assumed name in the Boston area. While he has many publications in academic journals, his unambiguously fictional work has appeared in Beneath Ceaseless Skies, F&SF, Interzone, and other places. He urges you to keep watching the skies. Find out more at oliverbuckram.com.
The Fate Worse than Death
Kevin J. Anderson and Guy Anthony De Marco
Lying in the dark in a perfectly restful daytime nap, feeling sated with fresh warm blood (Type O Negative, his favorite), Vlad sensed the intruding presence even before the silent alarm triggered his vibrating watch. The watch buzzed against the mahogany wall of his cozy coffin, warning him.
Always interruptions! Someone was trying to break into his fortress, probably up to no good. “Rest in peace” was harder to achieve than he had ever imagined.
Vlad was a light sleeper, had been for centuries, and even modern sleeping aids like Ambien or Lunesta didn’t help. But even with his powers, it was good to remain alert. Careless vampires didn’t stay immortal for very long.
He hit the snooze button on the annoying vibrating watch and sighed, not willing to crawl out of the snug coffin just yet. After all, why did he have all those defenses? The intruder should be taken care of without him needing to lift a sharp fingernail.
Vlad couldn’t remember the last time someone had bothered to track him down with evil intent, so he doubted this would be a vampire hunter. It was broad daylight, but his mansion was quiet, apparently unoccupied; it was probably a common burglar trying to score some quality electronics. People didn’t realize most burglaries happened during the day. And burglars didn’t realize how much trouble they would be getting into if they tried to steal from Vladimir Dracul! Especially if they woke him up during daylight hours.
Eight hundred and eighty-two years of existing among those who feared his presence had jaded him. The burglar would be inept, with no idea of the disaster he was about to face. Vlad sighed again and stretched as far as the confines of the coffin would allow. Too bad, he thought, I actually feel depressed that there’s nobody left with the guile and fortitude to challenge me.
He wriggled to a more comfortable position and began to doze. The electric blanket kept him toasty, even though his blood remained cold. The blanket reminded him of his childhood, and he stifled an urge to suck his thumb, remembering the embarrassing previous time, when he’d painfully impaled his thumb on a sharp tooth.
Just as he was drifting off, the alarm watch buzzed again—more urgently this time, to inform him that the intruder had eluded the expensive paramilitary guards and breached the second perimeter of his fortress. Vlad woke further. That was interesting, but the paramilitary guards were flash and dazzle, rather than substance. The intruder was in for an even bigger surprise.
He smiled as he imagined the look of fear and despair that would spread over the hapless thief as he came face to face with one of Vlad’s true guardians. Still feeling sleepy, he settled deeper into his comfortable memory-foam. He listened carefully, sure he would hear the sounds of rending and feeding any moment, accompanied by a few delightful screams.
The thought of so much blood and raw meat made him contemplate breakfast after sunset. He didn’t always drink blood; that was just a special treat, and—with his vampire metabolism—could actually be fattening. Pork chops, he decided… yes, he would have pork chops. Maybe with some apple sauce and a nice baked potato. He felt blessed that he never needed to worry about high cholesterol. Blessed! The thought made him chuckle, which sounded especially loud inside the coffin.
Minutes went by, and he heard no sounds of a struggle, no shouts or growls, no wails of despair. Vlad frowned severely enough that the tips of his fangs protruded from his lips. How had the intruder gotten past his hellhounds? The creatures of the night that prowled his middle sanctum were hungry, fast, and angry at being locked indoors. The three monstrous beasts were the second, third, and fifth most dangerous beings within a mile in any direction (the fourth being the bloodthirsty and sadistic mafioso who lived three estates to the north). Humming the Jeopardy theme song, he cocked his ear to catch any hint of noise from outside his coffin.
Then the lid began to creak open, slowly, tentatively. Startled, Vlad jumped and whacked his head—fine mahogany was definitely a hard wood. Calming himself, he lay back and settled, trying to appear dead and harmless, while he kept his eyes open a slit. The groaning
hinges of the lid droned on with painful slowness, and Vlad had to stifle an urge to shout, “Get on with it!” or push the cover open himself.
“Good afternoon, sir,” said a lone figure looming over the coffin. “Sorry to interrupt your nap, but we have important business, you and I.”
Giving up his slumbering ruse, the vampire sat up to look at his guest while rubbing the small knot growing on his forehead from where he had hit the coffin lid. The intruder was a thick-bodied nerd type with round glasses and a faded Jethro Tull T-shirt. He held a black Evangelion anime backpack in his left hand and wore a black leather belt full of pouches emblazoned with yellow Batman logos.
So, Vlad thought, not a typical burglar—or vampire hunter.
“Good afternoon to you,” said the vampire in a thick Transylvanian accent. He had lost his accent over the centuries, but sometimes it seemed appropriate. “Why, may I inquire, are you in my bedchambers at this ungodly hour?”
Usually, when an intruder broke into his fortress, subdued his defenses, and pulled open his coffin, the routine involved sharp sticks and mallets.
The pudgy young man shifted nervously, swung his backpack to one side, and backed away to let the vampire to swing his legs out of the coffin. Vlad knew he was intimidating as he stood up to his full six-foot-eight height. He slapped dust from his black tuxedo jacket while observing the intruder.
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