painting. Winds whipped leaves into Mahmood’s face. Something was burning. Impossible. Nothing could stay lit in this rain. Branches whipped his arms. Vines slapped around his body. The charred smell followed him. He tugged and tore to get away. At a large rock slimy with lichen, he stopped to catch his breath.
Rain streamed cool over his head, his face, his legs...
Thunder boomed.
Mahmood opened his eyes. How long had he been standing there? He continued through the forest.
“Wh-what?” He stared at the clearing. “I-I—”
He took another step. His shoes sunk into wet soil. He laughed. How did he lose his way? He lived here his whole life.
“I need a good curry.” He laughed, and made his way across the clearing again.
Something golden moved. Hantu? Mahmood squinted.
“Ahhh!” Mahmood reeled backward.
A rock, flashing golden, flew at him, barely touching his nose, then dropped into the ground.
Mahmood fell on his knees.“No, no, this is not good,takbagus!”
Where was the rock?
Wind whipped around him, as if admonishing him for his incompetence.
The girl, she wouldn’t stop talking, it was her fault, Chuck was right, she was a troublemaker. Where was the rock?
Children and women screamed. Men’s voices grew loud.
The villagers were shouting. “What is happening? Our new home in the forest, you promised us…”
Women and men jostled around Mahmood.
“It’s the rock!” Mahmood fell to his knees. He scattered rocks. “We must find the rock!”
Hands dug like spades into the ground. A small hand pulled away.
“Yes, yes!” Mahmood smiled. “Good boy, Ali, good!”
Men and women parted. Ali sprang away. A woman began to chant.
Mahmood sat on the ground. Why was the Sender staring at him? He wanted to close his eyes and rest. Why was everyone smiling at him?
The chanting rose.
Leaves fell on him, layering him, cool and wet, soothing as hands washing away the aches in his body, the pain in his -
Something flew above his head.
Whoop!
THE BEST OF ALL POSSIBLE WORLDS
by Tara Maya
Personal Paradise Inc. did not buy ads in the Chicago Tribune or post notices on the Internet. They relied strictly on word-of-mouth. Their clientele were ubiquitously as discrete as they were rich.
The office of Personal Paradise Inc. reflected the nature of the company: quietly opulent. The halls carried the whiff of affluent men, of cologne, leather and mahogany, but it was the art on the walls that drew his eye. Exquisite and unidentifiable masterpieces of famous artists graced the walls, boasting silently: We were made in another history. Glass shelves framed Declarations of Independence to start nations that had never existed, and Treaties of Perpetual Peace to end wars that had never been fought. Photographs showed cities where all the cars had three wheels and the pedestrians wore fashions subtly wrong. Despite himself, Dean was impressed.
Klaas Smit was a white-haired man with a florid face and immaculate suit. His office was dominated by a large photographic mural of Manhattan: a Manhattan with a skyline not quite right, a nude Statue of Liberty, Dutch flags.
"So," Dean said without preamble, as he seated himself across from Smit. "Have you found me a world where I am richer and more powerful than I am in this dump?"
"We have found the best of all possible worlds for you." Smit leaned forward over steepled hands. "You’ll be the happiest man on Earth."
Dean reflected on his life: his company, once his baby, now his slave driver; his parents, to whom he had not spoken in years; Colette, grown more and more distant. None of it made him happy.
Smit displayed a map of the alternate Earth that the company had identified as Dean Vanch’s personal paradise. The map of the other Earth looked like a three-day binge of Risk. Outlandish politics resulted in familiar landmasses with unfamiliar borders.
"France won the French-Indian wars," Klaas Smit said affably. "Among others.
Rain streamed cool over his head, his face, his legs...
Thunder boomed.
Mahmood opened his eyes. How long had he been standing there? He continued through the forest.
“Wh-what?” He stared at the clearing. “I-I—”
He took another step. His shoes sunk into wet soil. He laughed. How did he lose his way? He lived here his whole life.
“I need a good curry.” He laughed, and made his way across the clearing again.
Something golden moved. Hantu? Mahmood squinted.
“Ahhh!” Mahmood reeled backward.
A rock, flashing golden, flew at him, barely touching his nose, then dropped into the ground.
Mahmood fell on his knees.“No, no, this is not good,takbagus!”
Where was the rock?
Wind whipped around him, as if admonishing him for his incompetence.
The girl, she wouldn’t stop talking, it was her fault, Chuck was right, she was a troublemaker. Where was the rock?
Children and women screamed. Men’s voices grew loud.
The villagers were shouting. “What is happening? Our new home in the forest, you promised us…”
Women and men jostled around Mahmood.
“It’s the rock!” Mahmood fell to his knees. He scattered rocks. “We must find the rock!”
Hands dug like spades into the ground. A small hand pulled away.
“Yes, yes!” Mahmood smiled. “Good boy, Ali, good!”
Men and women parted. Ali sprang away. A woman began to chant.
Mahmood sat on the ground. Why was the Sender staring at him? He wanted to close his eyes and rest. Why was everyone smiling at him?
The chanting rose.
Leaves fell on him, layering him, cool and wet, soothing as hands washing away the aches in his body, the pain in his -
Something flew above his head.
Whoop!
THE BEST OF ALL POSSIBLE WORLDS
by Tara Maya
Personal Paradise Inc. did not buy ads in the Chicago Tribune or post notices on the Internet. They relied strictly on word-of-mouth. Their clientele were ubiquitously as discrete as they were rich.
The office of Personal Paradise Inc. reflected the nature of the company: quietly opulent. The halls carried the whiff of affluent men, of cologne, leather and mahogany, but it was the art on the walls that drew his eye. Exquisite and unidentifiable masterpieces of famous artists graced the walls, boasting silently: We were made in another history. Glass shelves framed Declarations of Independence to start nations that had never existed, and Treaties of Perpetual Peace to end wars that had never been fought. Photographs showed cities where all the cars had three wheels and the pedestrians wore fashions subtly wrong. Despite himself, Dean was impressed.
Klaas Smit was a white-haired man with a florid face and immaculate suit. His office was dominated by a large photographic mural of Manhattan: a Manhattan with a skyline not quite right, a nude Statue of Liberty, Dutch flags.
"So," Dean said without preamble, as he seated himself across from Smit. "Have you found me a world where I am richer and more powerful than I am in this dump?"
"We have found the best of all possible worlds for you." Smit leaned forward over steepled hands. "You’ll be the happiest man on Earth."
Dean reflected on his life: his company, once his baby, now his slave driver; his parents, to whom he had not spoken in years; Colette, grown more and more distant. None of it made him happy.
Smit displayed a map of the alternate Earth that the company had identified as Dean Vanch’s personal paradise. The map of the other Earth looked like a three-day binge of Risk. Outlandish politics resulted in familiar landmasses with unfamiliar borders.
"France won the French-Indian wars," Klaas Smit said affably. "Among others.
Similar Books
Night Visitor
Melanie Jackson
Blowing It
Kate Aaron
3 A Brewski for the Old Man
Phyllis Smallman
King Cave
Scarlett Dawn
From Where You Dream
Robert Olen Butler
Naero's War: The Citation Series 2: The High Crusade
Mason Elliott
The Heart of Memory
Alison Strobel
Out of Range
C. J. Box
Scare the Light Away
Vicki Delany
Outcast
Rosemary Sutcliff