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Fifty Shades of Gnocchi

I scowl with frustration at myself in the mirror. Damn my hair-it just won't behave-and damn my jeans. Jeez, I look like ten pounds of meatballs in a five pound sack. My inner goddess is sad. I should be studying for my final exams, which are next week, but I'm tired. And hungry. Mainly hungry. I tried sleeping with my professor for an "A," but he told me he was gay. "I didn't know you were gay," I commented, trying hard not to offend the LGBT by overusing the G-word. Maybe I'll use the word "dancer" instead. "I'm not," he commented back, "but in your case I'll make an exception." So here I am. Trying to stretch these jeans into submission. In frustration I rip them off- traitors! -and go into the kitchen for a snack. Nothing like a whole ham to make a girl feel pretty. My subconscious drools at the thought. Seven pounds of pork later, I'm standing over the sink daintily washing my hands and wiping the excess...
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If We Live Long Enough

My wife has been sick and in bed for the last few days. She thought she'd do the smart thing by getting her flu shot early and, sure enough, she got the flu. Don't get me wrong, I'm not against inoculating yourself against the various bugs and viruses that will save the Earth when space aliens come to conquer our planet. In fact, every year I get the flu shot, too.  My wife makes sure I do. "I don't get sick," I tell her. "But what if you do?" she'll tell me. "I've never had the flu in my life." "What does that have to do with anything?" And she's right.  I've never had the flu in my life, true, but maybe the shots had something to do with that. I've never had polio, either. Or whooping cough, or any number of childhood diseases, and I can thank my parents for making sure I got my childhood vaccinations.  The generation before mine wasn't so fortunate.  Ask FDR. I'll eventually give my wife credit, but ...
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Anthea's Hope

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  The desert stretched endlessly before Thomas Jerome Newton. A cracked and desolate expanse that mirrored the fate of his home planet, Anthea. He stood atop a dune. His thin frame cloaked in a tailored suit that seemed out of place against the barren landscape. His eyes, hidden behind dark sunglasses, scanned the horizon. Not Earth’s, but a simulation he’d built in a Nevada warehouse. It was a desperate attempt to feel something of home. A planet dying of drought. Its inhabitants reduced to dust and memory. Newton had come to Earth decades ago with a mission. Amass wealth. Develop technology. Save Anthea by bringing water back. He’d succeeded in part. His patents had made him richer than King Solomon, but the planet’s bureaucracies, wars, and petty squabbles had delayed him. Now, time was running out. Anthea’s last transmissions had ceased months ago. He feared he was too late. But there was one man who might understand his vision. One man who dreamed as big as he did. One man who...
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