"We are NOT taking the wizard."

"Ugh," Clara groaned, her eyes almost as sharp as the dagger currently twirling through her hands.  "I can't believe we're bringing this guy."

Maria glared at the female rogue, although she could sympathize a bit with the complaint.  Clara was tough to get along with, her personality almost as pointy as the dozen or so blades secreted about her person.  But even for Maria, the man was quickly wearing thin.

"We need a wizard," she brought up, for what felt like the millionth time.  Her white cleric's staff was shifting a little as it leaned against the tree beside her, so she brought it down to prod at the fire.  "And he's the only one in town.  We're lucky to have him."  The words even rang true to her.

But what else could they do?  It was true - they needed a wizard.  The eight-legged corpse that the damn man was currently squatting upon was proof of that...

The Regression Chambers

I stared up at the board, looking at the different times available.  How long did I want to enter the chamber for?  An hour?  A day?  Maybe even longer?

The robot attendant, a faceless white automaton, was somehow still watching me.  I could feel its gaze on me, that kind of implacable patience that can only be fueled by silicon circuits.  I ignored it.  I was used to being watched by robots.  They were only there to serve, after all.

I knew that some people went in longer.  My friend Lev had once entered the chamber for an entire week.  When he had staggered out, limping and bloody, he insisted deliriously that it was the best experience of his life.  But he also had to get immediate attention from the med-bots, fixing up his injuries before he bled out.

Lev was hardcore, there was no doubt about it.  I knew that, deep down, I aspired to be like him, but there was no way that I could manage to survive an entire week.

I stepped up to the counter, finally making up my mind as much as I knew I ever would.  The robot had its face on me.  "Have you made up your mind, sir?"  it asked.

All of the robots had a slight but unmistakable British accent.  No one really knew why; Lev insisted that it was the quirk of a long-dead programmer.  It was a quirk that we were prepared to live with.  No one was able to fix it. No one made things any more.

Lev insisted that this was the problem.  I didn't know.  I didn't think that I was ready to make any decisions like that.

"I have," I replied to the attendant.  "One day, please."

The robot didn't respond, but there was a slight clicking from behind it, as the electronic circuits in the chamber rerouted themselves to the new pattern.  A few second later, the heavy, pressure-sealed door beside the attendant slowly opened with a hiss of released piston steam.

I took a deep breath.  The location and the time was always randomized; there was no way to tell where I would pop up.  I quickly ran through my preparations, my skills that I had mastered, hoping that they would be enough.

Lev's lessons once again rang in my head.  We realized too late that we were stagnating, he insisted.  He loved to give these sermons, stomping around and waving his arms.  We didn't know that, by giving ourselves everything that we wanted, we were stopping our forward momentum!

I wasn't quite sure what this meant, but Lev was really insistent on this part.  We had lost our innovation, he claimed.  We were content, and so here we stopped.

And this, he went on, was why our ancestors had built the chambers.  It was a way to escape, to get to a time and place where we were no longer protected, no longer cushioned by attendants to provide whatever we needed.  It was a chance to return to the fire, the crucible in which we had been forged.  I didn't know what this meant, but Lev loved to repeat it.

I could almost hear his voice now, as I stepped up to the huge, heavy door of the chamber.  "Return to the crucible," he would say, his aged voice cracking slightly.  I was returning now, as I had done so many times.

My heart in my throat, I stepped through the door.  There was a hiss immediately behind me as it closed.  No retreating.

I stared around at my new surroundings.  I was on a beach, I saw.  There was no sign of man.  The surf was gently lapping at the sand, and I could see palm trees nearby.  The air smelled of fresh salt.

I grinned.  This, I could deal with.

Remember, I thought to myself as I picked up a stick and began sharpening it on a rock.  No safety net here.  No med-bots.  No one to help if I got into trouble.

This made me feel alive in a way that I'd never felt before.  And I couldn't get enough.

"We are just simple farmers."

Of course, we didn't put up much resistance as the raiders came rolling into our little town.  They didn't even need to fire off a shot, although they did so anyways.  One of those idiots was leaning out the side of their stripped-down Jeep, firing an AK-47 up into the air like he was Rambo or something.

What an idiot.

We, of course, instantly had our hands up.  What are we going to do, fight back?  We're farmers, not mercenaries!  And it might be the Wild West out here, society collapsed and every man for himself, but we have a healthy respect for many things still.

For example, none of us is much inclined to replace our internal organs with chunks of hot lead...

Events In Mirror Are Closer Than They Appear

Sure, I'll admit it.  The car is a gift to myself.  It's not a necessary component of my daily life.  No, it's a moving declaration of my mid-life crisis.

And hey, I deserve a mid-life crisis!  Come with me.  As I roll down the streets of my memory, let's examine all the places that I've royally botched things up.

Ah, here's college.  The good ol' alma mater, where I spent every night partying.  Which, as it turns out, probably wasn't the best idea.  My grades were all right, sure, but I still lagged behind my classmates, and not just from the resulting hangover.  They went off and got jobs at fancy law firms.  I ended up back home, pulling double shifts to afford my crappy apartment.  Hah.  More like compartment, if you managed to squeeze inside.

Of course, then I met Jill.  Love of my life, from the moment I laid eyes on her.  If I hadn't been back at my home town, back working at the front counter of that little shop, I never would have met her when she came strolling in.

I can see that some of you in the audience are perking up.  "Maybe this is a love story," you say.

"Maybe this will all turn out smiles and happiness in the end," you whisper to each other.

"Perhaps he's just showing us how far he fell so that we can see how high he rose," you exclaim hopefully.

Sorry, folks, no such luck.  We're still dropping.

Cinderella, Ever After

I had just settled down on the couch, a copy of my favorite pulp novel on my lap, when I heard Charming come in.  I rolled my eyes, putting the novel aside.  No reading for me, it seemed.

How could I not hear the man come in?  He insisted on riding that damn white stallion everywhere, and its hooves always left dirty tracks over the marble floors of our palace.  Sure, we now had servants for mopping all of that mess up, but I still felt bad for them.

A second later, the Prince himself came sweeping into our room, his sword rattling in his scabbard, his boots clicking across the floor, and his hair probably perfectly in place.

You know, I suggested some carpets?  "They might brighten up this place, make it warmer," I had said.  I hadn't added that they'd also muffle the Prince's imperious striding everywhere.  He wore spurs on those boots, you know that?  Click, click, click.  Drove me nuts.

A second later, arms swept around me, and I felt the man kiss at my neck.  Okay, he wasn't all bad.  He had some good points.  That made me feel even more guilty.

The Urban Escape, Part IV

This story is a continuation. Start here.

The doors open once again.  My worst fears are realized.

Donaldson.

The boss.

My boss.

I'm pulling hooky and my boss is in the elevator with me.

Shrink back.  Hold briefcase.  Don't make eye contact.  I'm just grabbing an early lunch.  Not feeling great, hoping some OJ will be enough of a pick-me-up.  Don't want to infect the office.  My shield feels flimsy.  I don't know if it will be enough.

The boss is in.  Doors close.  Tick, tick, we drop through the floor.

Three floors down, and he clears his throat.  "Barry."  It's not a question.  My gut's in knots.

"Headed out early?"  This is a question.  No, it's an interrogation.  I lift my eyes, and he's locked on like a laser sight.

"Just an early lunch, sir."  That quiver in my voice is good.  Shows I'm being truthful.  I just wish it was on purpose.  "Not feeling so great, hoping that some fruit might help prevent any sort of flu, nip it in the bud."

Narrowed eyes.  Is he buying it?  I can't tell.  "Flu."  He wants an explanation.

I scramble to give it to him.  "Had a couple late nights, sir.  Might be coming down with something.  Don't want to affect office productivity, though.  If it's bad, I'll push through and work from home."  There.  Good work ethic.  Promote that man.  Or at least let him out of the building.

"True," he nods after a minute, and I have to fight to hold in my sigh of relief.  "Want to keep the herd safe."

He leans in.  I try not to lean back.  "By the way, on the topic," he adds, his voice dropping.  "Have you heard about this ebola thing?  Just caught a whisper of it.  Bringing doctors back here, I heard."

"Sounds quite nasty, yes sir."

"I might duck out a bit early, stock up on supplies.  Caught a whisper that there might be shortages, maybe even riots.  Don't want to deal with that.  Working from home's a good idea, Barry."  A nod, a nudge from an elbow.  "Good man."

We're slowing down.  The doors open.  Sweet, sweet freedom awaits.

Let Donaldson out first, though.  Watch him stride across the lobby in his suit.  Keep the downcast expression.  Keep on thinking about being sick.  Gotta play this right.

...and he's gone.  Step through those big doors.

Breathe in fresh air.  Arch back.

Freedom!

The Urban Escape, Part III

This story is a continuation. Start here.

"You must have heard the news.  I can't believe they're doing it now.  Those poor people, and with the holiday right around the corner."

I don't want to look.  But I feel myself caught.  The gravisocial field is too strong, and I don't have enough managerial thrust to escape.  I turn, sigh, and nod.

"Hi, Bertha.  What are you talking about?"

She's still in her chair, but I can feel that tugging field rolling out like waves from her.  She doesn't stand much, but she doesn't need to.  She's like a small mountain, pumping out ever-present clouds of sadness.  Whenever someone has a balloon of happiness, she's always ready with a pin.

"Marketing," Bertha repeats, as if I should know.  "They haven't hit their targets.  Half the division's being laid off."

Didn't know.  Don't care.  Need to get away.  "Well, I'm sure that they'll be hired back soon enough," I say, putting on a fake smile.  "Besides, they make a ton.  They'll be fine."

"It's a bad sign," the cloud of sadness insists.  "Means more layoffs are coming soon.  Might hit our department.  Someone will be going.  And probably someone new, or someone close to retiring."

My teeth hurt.  I keep them clenched.  "I'm sure we'll be fine," I say.  But it's not enough.  I can't fight sadness with optimism.  Gotta try a different tack.

I flick through my options.  Ebola?  No, blew that already.  Other sad things?  I'll just be caught forever.  Happiness isn't enough.  I've got one more card left.

Time to play for shock value.

"Actually, Bertha, there's a video I've been meaning to show you," I say, trying to lean around her to reach her keyboard.  I don't think I can make it around.  There's too much 'round' to make.

Instead, I wave at her keyboard, and finally, she passes it over.  She's a little confused, but with me for the moment.

Pull up YouTube.  "Sail Cat."  Awolnation.  This might be my ticket out.  Bertha's over the hill, she doesn't watch viral videos.  Not even the old ones.  I've had this bullet ready in the chamber for a while.

Play.  Video's going.  "Aww, stray cat?" Bertha rumbles, but she's still watching.

Music's building.  Here it comes.  "SAIL!"  Off goes cat.  Gasp goes Bertha.

"Oh my gawd!  I can't believe it!  How do I watch it again?"

"Just click right here.  No, here.  No, this button.  Look, just let me."  Video's playing again.  Bertha has all her attention on the screen.  The field lessens.  This is my chance.

Sprint away.  From behind me:  "SAIL!"  "Again, again!"  I'll have to find some more cat videos for next time.

The elevators are ahead of me.  Jam the button.  C'mon, c'mon.  Ding.  Yes!  Through the line, into the room, and I'm free!  The doors are closing!  The doors are closing!

The doors are... caught on a hand in them.

I've got a bad feeling about this...

The Urban Escape, Part II

This is a continuation. Story starts here.

The man is already striding towards me, one hand up and waving back and forth, as if there's any chance I would miss him.  "Barry!  Yoohoo!  Hey, what's happening, mister early lunch?"

I feel my hands tense, clenching.  No.  Stay calm.  I can handle Gossip Gary.

"Oh, just feeling a little under the weather," I reply quickly, stepping forward to cut the distance between us.  The man's still loud, but maybe this will bring him from deafening down to just piercing.  "Think I might work from home this afternoon."

"Under the weather?  I don't see any rain clouds over ya!"  This is accompanied with a braying guffaw.  I want to knock his throat in.  No, stay calm, keep it cool.  Think sick thoughts.

Shrug.  "Well, you know there's a bug going around," I say.  I need to throw this dog off my scent.  A thought occurs, a possible way out.  "I mean, you heard about the ebola, didn't you?"

"Oh, sure, I heard all about it!  What exactly are you talking about?"  He has no idea.  He can't admit ignorance, however.  He's hooked.

Lower my voice.  Look conspiratorial.  Play this right.  "It's all over Africa, you know," I let on.  "Spreading around.  Even the doctors are sick - and they're coming back here!  Bringing it with them!  There might be an epidemic here, but all the news outlets want to keep it quiet!"

Oh, there's the light in his eyes.  "But don't tell anyone about it," I go on.  Hook is set; time to reel in.  "We don't want a panic, right?  People rushing the stores, riots, all of that."  Tap nose.  Too much?  Nah, just enough.  "Know what I mean?"

The man is nodding - too fast.  He is caught, snared in my net.  Hook?  Net?  Whatever, I don't fish.  He's already itching to dash off and spread the news.  "Remember, keep it quiet, Gary," I add, and then move past him.

I don't think he even notices me leaving.

One down, and the exit's ahead.  Go, go, go!  I put on a burst of speed.  One turn.  Two turns.  Just one more...

"Oh, Barry.  It's terrible, isn't it?"

Oh no...

To be continued!

The Urban Escape, Part I

Author's note: Consider this a replacement for Monday's lack of a post.  More to come tomorrow!

Ugh.  I can't stand this any more.  I have just got to get out of here.

Sure, it was nice when I first took the job.  Decent pay, a cushy office chair, a cubicle of my own to decorate with pictures of all those places I hope to someday be able to afford to go, and a computer with unfettered internet access.  What could be better?

Fast forward a couple of months, now, and that's all gone sour.  The pay never lasts as long as I want, my chair makes a super annoying squeaking sound, my cubicle feels more like a prison cell, and my computer faces the entrance.  I go on a site not related to the company, and anyone who walks by my office can see it.

And oh, those people.  My god.

You know what?  I'm taking a half day.  I've decided, just now.  Feel that chill in the air?  No?  Maybe it's just me.  My throat is just really scratchy today.  Ugh, I just feel like I need to cough, but I don't, you know what I mean?

Yep, definitely getting out of here early.

Computer's shut down.  Files in briefcase, so I can claim to be "getting work done from home while recovering."  Hah, like that's gonna happen.  Coat.  Keys.  Make sure little African Violet plant has enough water.  Check.

Now, for the escape...

Peek out the cubicle.  Left.  Right.  Okay, coast is clear.  Time to move. Remember, keep low.  The walls are low enough so that I'll be spotted if I straighten up.  Keep my back bent, head down like a good drone, and I'm invisible.  Coming up on the corner.  Turn left-

"Oh, Barry!  Where you headed?  Getting lunch already - it's a bit early, isn't it?  Are you meeting someone?  Who is it?"

Crap.

To be continued...

No post today - MOVING

I am currently moving homes, and am thus unable to have a post up in time today.  So sorry, loyal readers!

I may have a post completed by later today, and there will be a new little story up on Wednesday as usual.

The universe is a simulation. Only grapefruits know the truth...

My first thought was "oh, that's weird."

The offending fruit was sitting in front of me, still on my cutting board.  The knife I had used to slice it in half lay beside it, set aside as I examined what had been originally slated to be my breakfast.

The whole thing is because of that darn newspaper article.  "Eating a half of a grapefruit for breakfast is only ninety calories, and gives you a burst of vitamins to start the day off right!"  It had popped into my mind as I wandered up and down the aisles of my corner supermarket, and I figured it was worth a shot.

The article had included a lovely picture of half of a grapefruit, sliced open.  The thousands of little tiny packets of juice inside the open grapefruit had seemed to glitter in the picture beneath the headline of the article.

And I had to admit, I'd been looking forward when I woke up this morning to taking a big spoonful of that grapefruit in my fridge.

I leaned forward, poking at the two pieces of fruit on my cutting board.  I was cautious, worried that something would happen to my finger.  The outside of the grapefruit had looked totally normal - yellow-pink, covered in little dimples, slightly squishy beneath my fingers.

The inside of this fruit, however, did not look like the picture in the article.

It looked like some sort of black and white mesh.

And it got worse.  As I tilted the fruit back and forth, rolling it around on the cutting board, that mesh shifted, and I realized that the whole fruit was hollow; that mesh was curved to the inside of the two hemispheres.  There was literally nothing inside this grapefruit.

But it had felt right!  It had been heavy, cold, a little wet with condensation!  What in the world was going on?

I picked up the knife, slowly lowering it down into the open grapefruit half.  The knife didn't seem to encounter any resistance as it entered, no pressure as it slid into what should be the interior of the grapefruit.  I kept on lowering the blade, closer and closer to that stark black and white mesh.

The tip of the knife touched the mesh.  And then the whole knife flashed into nothing but an outline of white lines.

I dropped it with a gasp.  The thing still felt like a knife in my hand, still hit the cutting board with a clatter.  But it no longer looked like a knife.  It looked like a knife-shaped black hole in the world, outlined by lines of white that showed its curves and ridges.  And it wasn't changing back.

Over the next half hour, my work forgotten, I cautiously touched other things to the inside of the grapefruit.  Car keys.  A carton of nearly expired half and half.  A rather rusty whisk that I had managed to free from where it was holding a drawer shut.  My refrigerator.

Each item instantly blinked into a black-and-white frame.

I sat back on the kitchen table, staring down at the half of a fruit that was causing me so much consternation.  I had set it on a plate, perhaps in a vain hope that it would transform back.  It wasn't doing so.  I reached up and scratched at the back of my head.

My thoughts were interrupted by a meowing sound.  I glanced up, and cursed under my breath.  The neighbor's damn orange tabby had somehow climbed into my apartment again!  The dang thing kept on sneaking in, where it would go running around knocking over all my things.  I would have to catch it, probably enduring several scratches in the process, and then would haul it back upstairs, where I wouldn't even receive a thank-you for my actions.

My eyes flicked from the cat, to the grapefruit, and back.  An idea began to form in my mind.  A wicked, brilliant idea.

"Here, kitty kitty kitty..."

Prompt: The world's best oncologist finds out he has cancer.

The first nurse who saw the test results couldn't hold back her tears.  Her companion had slightly more control, but we all could see the tremble of his lip as he quickly perused the file.

In the hospital bed just inside the room beside us. Doctor Marcus Annoma slept soundly.  He was a big man, in all respects and attitudes.  Even his snoring, the regular sounds muffled slightly by his bushy mustache, sounded like the product of pure testosterone.

We had all been overjoyed when he agreed to join our consulting staff. He had trained in the military, perfected his skills at a top research institution, but he always managed to spend most of his time in a hospital - like ours. We were, of course, one of the top hospitals in the country, if not the world.  We served royalty, the rich and the famous, those who could afford the best.  Our rooms were exquisite and well-decorated, with plenty of natural light and none of the antiseptic green usually seen in hospital rooms.  One patient, an aging rock star, even remarked that the bed was far more comfortable than anything he had at home - and he purchased his own hospital bed to be brought to his mansion.

Dr. Annoma almost immediately became a fixture of the hospital.  He would stride through the hallways, his six-and-a-half foot tall frame towering over the other doctors and nurses.  His deep, booming, hearty voice would echo up and down the halls- especially when he burst into rolls of thunderous laughter.

The man was an instant hit.  He would pause at the nurses' station and drop a ridiculous dad joke, adding a bald-faced wink to make them all titter in delight.  He'd invite the other doctors out on manly activities like hiking or rock climbing, and would make sure to thank them for any consultations, making them feel wanted.

He was more than just a great oncologist, possibly the greatest cancer doctor in the world.

He was a great man.

Dr. Annoma had never showed concern, fear, or worry, even when patients were on the brink of death.  He would merely ruffle his mustache, nod, and then confidently declare that he'd "have this damn thing licked in no time at all."  Patients would draw on that utter, unshakable confidence, replacing scared expressions with shaky smiles.  And it always somehow seemed to help.

The nurse brought the chart to me, holding it out like a live snake.  She didn't have to tell me the results of the biopsy.  Her face betrayed the answer to my unspoken question.

I took the file from the nurse, took a deep breath, did my best to steady my own nerves.  I had known Dr. Annoma for his entire time at the hospital, had grown close to him.  As had we all.  I had volunteered to be the one to deliver the news.

To my surprise, the doctor was awake when I entered the room.  He was sitting up in the bed, gazing down at the morning paper.  A cup of steaming coffee sat on the small table next to the bed, a little vapor trail rising up from the porcelain.  The man was dressed in the typical hospital gown, but he had insisted on wearing his doctor's white coat as well, making him look almost as if one of the doctors was playing a joke by sitting in the bed.

Dr. Annoma glanced up at me as I stepped in.  I was doing my best to keep my face straight, but I could feel my expression cracking.  He set the paper down on his lap, his gaze fixed on me.

I nodded to him, but didn't waste any time on small talk.  The man didn't deserve that.  "The test is back," I spoke up, holding up the folder, opening it up to confirm the diagnosis.  "And I'm afraid it's bad news.  It looks like the tumor is cancer; it's likely metastasized by now."

I didn't know what I had expected.  Perhaps I was thinking that the man would crumble, or shut down at this terrible news.  But Dr. Annoma just gave me a single brisk nod, a military nod.  He reached out and picked up his coffee cup, his big hand wrapping around the entire cup.  He took a sip, careful not to dip his mustache into the hot liquid.

"Ah," he said, after lowering the cup from his lips.

"Finally!  A real challenge."

Welcome to Heaven! Now what?

Something definitely wasn't right.  I just couldn't quite put my finger on it.

I stared around.  It was really bright here, I noticed.  Everything seemed to be pure white, glowing and radiant.  There wasn't even any graffiti.  They must be constantly repainting.

Everything seemed to be curved, too, and slightly squishy.  It felt a bit as though I was standing on a floor of marshmallow.  But that wasn't what was off.

I looked at the man standing in front of me.  Well, he was kind of standing.  His feet didn't seem to be quite touching the floor.  Was that what was off?  No, I don't think so.

My eyes roamed up from his feet.  He was wearing some sort of white robe, somewhere in between a toga, a monk's robe, and one of those Snuggie blankets with the sleeves.  Just like everything else, it was pure white.  I wondered how he kept stains out of it.  But that wasn't what was bothering me.

My eyes kept on going up, reaching his face.  He had blonde hair, trimmed fairly short, and a chiseled jawline that would probably make most movie stars fall to their knees and weep.  His eyes were big and luminous, his pupils looking like they were shaped from burnished gold.

Was that what was off?  No, that wasn't it.

My eyes kept on moving up.  Something above the man's head was glowing, hurting my eyes something fierce.  It looked like a ring, a disc carved out of the sun itself, shining out in all directions.  It was about the size of a salad plate and was bobbing about six inches above the man's blonde hair.

That was it.

"What the heck?" I said out loud, raising up one hand to shield my eyes from the glowing halo.  "That's so bright!"

The man floating in front of me (man wasn't the right word, was it?) jumped, as if I'd just revealed a secret to him.  "Oh, my apologies!" he said quickly, his voice melodious and musical.  "Here, let me turn it down."  The brightness dropped by an order of magnitude, and I could open my eyes all the way again.

"What's going on?" I asked him, now turning and looking around at the sea of white marshmallow-ground.  "Where the heck am I?"  I paused.  "And why do I keep on saying 'heck' instead of 'heck'?  I mean, heck.  Heck!"

The man (yeah, there was another word.  I just couldn't quite remember it.) winced.  "Er, you're dead, I'm afraid," he said, quite apologetically.  "This is, well, Heaven."

Angel!  That was it.  "Dead?" I repeated back.  "Are you sure?  I don't think I'm dead."

The angel waved one hand vaguely in the air, and a screen shimmered into existence, floating in space.  On the screen, I could see a man who looked suspiciously like the man who stared back at me in the mirror every morning, standing at an intersection.  The footage was slightly grainy, as if it had been shot by a security camera, but I could still recognize myself.

I was jabbering into a phone, bouncing on my heels at the edge of the intersection.  The light changed, and I strolled quickly and confidently out into the intersection.

An instant later, I was gone.

"Let me play that a little slower," the angel said, and waved his hand again.  This time, as I watched the footage in horror, I was able to see the semi go barreling through the intersection before splattering me across its grill like an insect.  Even the angel winced at the impact.

There didn't seem to be much arguing with that.  "Okay," I agreed.  "So I'm dead.  Now what?"

The angel clearly had been waiting for this question.  "Now, you're in Heaven!" he announced, the screen blinking out of existence beside him.  He turned and gestured grandly at the marshmallow landscape, and from some unseen location, trumpets and horns blared out in fanfare.

I looked out at the landscape without much excitement.  "It looks kind of dull."

This was not what the angel was expecting.  "Dull?" he repeated.  "But it's heaven!  We made it just like in all the movies and things!"

I gave the marshmallows another look.  This didn't seem quite right.  I had only a vague idea of what Heaven was supposed to be like, but I thought that it was a huge party of some sort.  Piles of cheeseburgers, pools of jello to swim in, sexy supermodels lying on the cheeseburgers, things like that.

"Okay," I finally let on.  The angel looked so downcast, I had to say something to cheer him up.  "This is Heaven.  Do I get a tour or something?"

This made the angel blink a couple times.  "Well, I suppose so," he said, his tones full of uncertainty.  Follow me..."

The Bechdel Test

"Oh, hey!  Over here!  Honey, you're late!  I'm already on my second cosmo!"

"Yeah, sorry.  Traffic was crazy.  Valentine's day, you know.  All the panicked husbands rushing out at the last minute to buy up any remaining flowers and chocolate."

"You know, hon, you're always so pessimistic.  I know you've been single for a while, now, but isn't it time to get back on that horse?"

"Look, could we talk about something else?  Isn't it kind of a cliche for us to be here, two single gals getting drinks, and to just be talking about men?"

"It's still a point, hon."

"Yeah, I know.  I just haven't met anyone yet."

"Ah, but I've got the perfect guy for you!  He's a little bit older, and one of his eyes tends to roll around a bit, but he's totally a sweetheart..."

"Please, no.  Just - okay, have you ever heard of the Bechdel test?"

"Isn't that a type of sauce?"

"No, that's bechamel."

"Ooh, yeah, it's really creamy!  I love getting that with pasta, even though I always end up hating myself for it later when I'm on the scale."

"Er, sure.  No, the Bechdel test.  It's a way of analyzing movies."

"I usually use IMDB."

"Shut it and drink your cosmo.  No, the Bechdel test is supposed to check whether a movie is balanced in terms of gender.  To pass the test, a movie has to have a conversation between two named female characters that isn't about a male character."

"Well, that's easy!  I bet most movies have that."

"No, you'd be surprised.  A lot of them either don't name enough female characters, or all the female conversations are about men, and nothing else."

"Okay, hon, I'll believe you.  But what's your point?"

"My point?  I feel like every conversation with you fails the Bechdel test."

"I don't-"

"I mean, every single conversation is about men, or dates!  Maybe we'll chat a little about our work or something, but we basically just get together and gossip over men."

"But you gotta look at the situation, too!  Where do we meet up?"

"Well, at a bar..."

"That's right.  And has anything interesting happened at work?"

"Well, no..."

"Uh huh.  And even more than that - what day is today?"

"It's Valentine's Day..."

"Exactly."

"Fine.  So you're saying that it's the circumstances causing us to fail the Bechdel test right now."

"Dear, I'm saying that if you had a man in your life, maybe you wouldn't be so hung up on tests and such like this!  And that's why I think this guy would totally be perfect for you.  Just let me set you two up."

"Ugh, fine.  If it will get you off my back."

"Ooh, I can't wait!  Now here.  Drink up."