SL Huang - Up and Coming - Stories by the 2016 Campbell-Eligible Authors

I can’t help it. I start laughing.

“What?” you say, narrowing your eyes, frowning.

I wave my hands in the air, unable to find an answer. “It’s just kind of funny,” I say. You don’t buy it.

You hold the container in your hands, reverent. “When I was a kid, before Steve was born and Mom went on her sugar-free power trip, this was my life.” I put my spoon down. This is a moment of your Secret History. Even as the world dies, I’m still learning so much about you.

“Yeah?”

You nod. Your beautiful, blonde curls dance. “Every week, one flavor. I’d devour chocolate first, because it’s an immediate satisfaction sort of thing. Then, I’d tackle strawberry the next week, because it grew on you, and was harder to love. And then—”

“Vanilla.”

“Vanilla.” You sigh with relief, like sighting an old friend in a crowd, or finding a lost, lucky penny. “Vanilla was the hardest to love, and I loved it for that.”

“Best for last, yeah?” I say.

“Yeah.” You bite your lip.

An explosion rocks us to our cores. If the shaking doesn’t stop, something will be knocked loose. But it does. The smell of oil and cordite and ash is heavy on the air. It is very still.

“Better eat your vanilla, love,” I say. “Because it doesn’t look like there’s going to be a next time.”

You kiss me on the cheek, before digging straight to the vanilla within. I wait a moment, wait for the susurration of moans and wails and metallic rattling to die, before I turn back to my own container of vanilla.

“Think about it. Some day, hundreds of years ago, someone realized that freezing a combination of dairy, ice, salt and sugar could give you something delicious. And then, they added vanilla! Before that, ice cream was just frozen milk! My god! And then all these other flavors start coming out, and everyone forgets about poor little vanilla! Too boring, some say! Too bland, others say! One guy even told me it was plain. Plain! You know what’s plain? Frozen fucking cow milk!”

I sprawl on the grass, laughing from the insanity of it, and crying from the insanity of that other thing, that whole end of the world thing. I can feel it coming this way. “Vanilla is sublime. And it only took the end of the world to realize its worth.”

You snuggle into the crook of my shoulder. We eat our vanilla ice cream, this beautiful simple little flavor that no one loves but us.

“We never did get married,” you say.

I look at you, feeling the brightly burning, beautiful taste of vanilla slide down my throat. “Did you want to?”

You shrug.

I gesture with my spoon to the growing cloud of debris and smoke coming towards us. “I’m sure there’s an Elvis down there. If you’re of a mind.”

I can see your brow work. You really think it over. And then you smile. “Nah.”

A few hours go by. There are more explosions, more screams and more ice cream. We’re down to our last container of vanilla when a woman runs up the hill. Her clothing is scorched. There is a bloody gash down her face. She almost runs by us, when she sees the ice cream.

I offer the container. “Want some?”

She tells us we’re crazy. She begins to cry, about how her family is dead and there is no one left. When she mentions the fleet of killer androids sent here by so-and-so, you and I throw our hands in the air, groaning.

“Knew it,” you say, shaking your head.

“This is lame,” I say. “Now I really want the world to end.”

She’s gone when we look back. The thumping and thunder and lights are getting closer now.

“She passed up some perfectly good vanilla,” I chide.

“And she thinks we’re crazy,” you say. Our mouths find each other in the darkness. We taste like freezers, and long summer nights, and plastic spoons, and precious vanilla, a vanilla so strong; it drowns out the taste of smoke on the wind.

“Don’t know where she’s headed,” you shout, above the howling wind, the roar of nearby gunfire. I can barely see you. “Doesn’t do any good to run from the end of the world.”

“Yeah,” I say, coughing on ash. I cup your cheek and we kiss for a final time. I put my forehead to yours, our noses almost touching. Our lips smell of vanilla. “But we don’t have to run towards it either.”

Your smile cuts through the gloom like a shining sword. “One more for the road?” you ask.

We both take one last bite of ice cream and hold it in our mouths. We let it melt, holding each other tightly in the darkness that is the end of the world, letting the brightly burning, beautiful taste of vanilla lead us away into the night.

Originally published in Phobos Magazine, Issue 3: Troublemake

When his bribe had not been delivered a full ten minutes after the deadline, Jasper Montgomery sighed and shut off the banking app on his phone. He had honestly tried to be reasonable; Fuamnach’s Fine Dining looked to be a genuinely good restaurant, and it would be a shame to give it a scathing review. But business was business, and if Fuamnach couldn’t be bothered to make the suitable contribution he had requested, he would have to make an example of her. Otherwise, other restaurateurs might withhold their donations as well, and then where would he be?

Jasper settled back and adjusted his suit as a waitress arrived with his dishes. He wondered if Fuamnach would next try to beg him, threaten him, or even post employees to forcibly prevent him from entering, but whatever she tried it would be too late. He had already done his homework, looked up reviews to find the worst dishes, even sent in his employees a week earlier to spy for him. All that remained was to record a few off-the-cuff criticisms to post on his website, and she might as well close her doors that night.

"Food doesn’t look anything special," he said into his phone while taking a few discrete photographs. It was too bad that Michael, his waiter plant, wasn’t there; he could have told Jasper whether the ingredients were local (and thus inauthentic) or shipped to Philadelphia from Ireland (and thus not fresh), as well as any other problems Jasper might want to taste in the food. But they could just meet up later when Jasper wrote his review, and besides, after the brilliant job Michael had done staging a cockroach infestation at the otherwise flawless Morelli’s Italian Bistro, he was entitled to a little slack. Jasper continued, saying, "In fact, it looks rather plain. You could get food like this at any cheap Irish pub…but at $20 an entree, with the menu promising upscale Irish cuisine, I expect a little more." He picked up his fork and pushed it into the shepherd’s pie, making sure his phone recorded the soft crunching of the crust. "Still, to be fair, it might taste better than it looks. Let’s see."

In truth, the food looked and smelled delicious. The crust on the shepherd’s pie was wonderful—flaky, crispy, and a beautiful golden brown—and now that he had cut it open, Jasper could smell succulent lamb and fresh roasted vegetables. The coddle next to it, with its gleaming potatoes and juicy back bacon, as well as the side of smooth, creamy colcannon, also looked perfect. Even the soda bread smelled like it had finished baking within the last five minutes. It was too bad it all had to go, Jasper thought as he picked up a forkful of his main course. He said, "I’ll start with the shepherd’s pie," he bit down, and…

His eyes widened at the most delicious food he had ever tasted.

The meat wasn’t just juicy; it was so tender that it almost melted in Jasper’s mouth. As for the potatoes, they were incredibly light and fluffy on the inside of the pie, but crisp on the outside, making an excellent contrast to both the meat and the vegetables. The rich, deep, and wonderfully savory seasoning was unlike anything he had ever tasted before. It was the perfect shepherd’s pie.