A major toy retailer almost made an incredible discovery.

Hidden scales and microphones were installed beneath the chairs of mall Santas in demographically similar locations across the country.  By subtracting the weight of the chair and “Santa,” researchers could calculate the heaviness of each lap-faring child.  Recordings were made of the children’s wish lists.  If any correlations emerged between weight and requested toys, the company could more effectively market to children discretely weighed in their stores.  On the verge of identifying one such trend, an elated research team failed to notice that one mall Santa in Nebraska weighed nothing at all…

He sat on the bed and leaned close to her.  Her breathing sounded regular.  Gently, he ran his fingers over her hair.  Warm.  Sound asleep; good.   She would need her rest tomorrow.  Quietly he went to her dresser and opened each drawer, scanning the contents.  In the third, the room’s second-hand moonlight disclosed small, glittering objects.  Ah, she was lucky: he’d found what he wanted.  Then tomorrow would indeed be a big day for her.  Police reports.  Press hounding her for details.  At last, the killer had spared another victim; someone to tell a story.  He left with his prize.

Thank you, Erin, for the inspiration.

Headlights after headlights after headlights pass; comets in the dark.  Someone next to me is screaming, trying to tear my hands from the wheel but I am lost in a private philosophy lesson.  Today’s topic?  Power and consequence.  The stuff of Machiavelli.  Machiavelli would have known not to pass judgment on someone who wields power, not to “fail” someone who controls the outcome of fate.  They mustn’t be told they “cannot have their drivers’ license” because they “lack discipline.”  Discipline?  It takes discipline to navigate this one-way highway, dear instructor.  Headlights after headlights after headlights.  Which will be the last?

This week a book made the New York Times Best Seller list.  I’d call it “my book,” but that would feel dishonest.  I wrote the words, yes, but I cannot remember writing the notes from which I worked.  I find outlines—extensive ones—scrawled in my own handwriting on paper scraps or my bedroom wall.  Brilliant stuff.  But among the plot twists and story arcs I find messages:  “Bury it,” one reads.  “Hidden beneath the straw,” says another.  “Pray,” advises a third.   Needless to say, I enjoy the fruits of my royalties from my home and no longer venture into the barn.

First Hillary and Norgay climbed Mount Everest and now this: another historic event.

The expedition left base camp at slack tide and continued up the northward ridge.  The change in atmospheric pressure had long become deadly for the climbers, who wore pressurized, solar-shielded suits only tested at elevations thousands of feet below their current position.  Finally, on a warm June afternoon, the party transcended the last layer of breathable atmosphere and emerged, triumphant, into the brave, new world above.

Hikaru screamed; just yards away what looked like large, robotic centipedes were crawling out of the ocean onto the Japanese shore.

Harold set sail from England aboard the merchant ship Caribdis to follow his dream of studying puppetry in Venice.  Just hours into the voyage he began to notice the crew’s strange behavior: no one ever spoke (not even to each other), no one ever strayed more than a few feet from his post, and each man’s body moved queerly, as if he lacked control over his head and arms.  Only when Harold went below and saw the large tentacles rising through holes in the hull and main deck did he realize he had witnessed the greatest puppet show ever performed.

Nobody imagined that Aten might fall in love, but he did.  Each morning he burned for the Pharaoh’s daughter as she watched the clouds.  She’d never look directly at Aten, for her delicate princess’ eyes would find him uncomfortable to behold.  Yet when she gazed skyward, neck craning, Aten felt himself turning to stone for want of her.  Sometimes a petrified piece of him fell to Earth.  Once it cooled, the people would stand it outside the palace, its tip pointing toward Aten.  And each morning the princess would stand in its shadow, for she knew it had fallen for her.

Inspiration

Merlin couldn’t find his goddamn quill anywhere.  He’d searched all morning.  Blessed with the gift of foresight, he knew exactly where he’d leave it tomorrow.  Fat lot of good that did.  Shouldn’t he be able to predict where he’d find it five minutes from now?

“Looking for something?”  A voice purred.  Merlin turned to see a beautiful, naked woman at his bedchamber door.

“Sorry,” said Merlin.  “Long story short, my memory works in reverse.  Who are you?”

“Niviane.”

Merlin looked into his future and saw she would bring him darkness, betrayal, and eternal suffering.

“Ah,” he sighed.  “We’re married, huh?”