Mrs. Wilson, an unhappy librarian, was frustrated with the unending collection of people her desk.

"Where do I get a 1099-Interest form," a patron asked.

"I'm sorry," she held her voice steady as the anger built up, your banking institution sends those forms," She busied herself moving papers around her desk to deter further questions.

The tax season cut into her usual evening of patrons quietly reading.

A demanding, confused lot of people confronted her.

"Can you help me do my taxes," a questioned asked ten times in the last six hours.

"How do I file my taxes?"

"Do you know what this form means?

She started pointing to the tax form table without saying a word when people approached.

"I need help," a gentleman said. He was unusually tall and tilted his head to one side as if contemplating a great thought.

"Yes," she said and extended her finger towards the table while calculating the minutes left until this night was over.

"I want to cheat on my taxes." His words caught her as funny and she let out a nervous laugh.

"Please come in," said Mr. Vujavich with a flourish of his hands.

Wanda obliged, strolling out of the rain and into the premises with her satchel and umbrella clutched tightly against her prim business suit. She passed through a sitting area and into a living room that resembled a history museum. Antique vases housing antique brass roses lay on antique furniture surrounded by antique picture frames showcasing very old paintings. It seemed as if time itself had paused for a very long moment.

"Mr. Vujavich," she began, "I appreciate you not trying to avoid me. Usually when an IRS auditor calls..."

"Don’t apologize for being late, my dear Mr. Berger. Studies show there is no such thing as absolute time," said Dr. Franz. He walked stiffly toward the observation deck. It was hard to believe that a man of such refined manners and natural eloquence could have such a common history as to have been wounded in a war.

"Nevertheless, Dr. Franz, I said I would meet you at 9:00am and it is in fact 9:15 by my watch," the younger man said. "I am a man of numbers."

"Yes, you are. There was a time in my youth when I would have dreaded a visit from a tax collector. But these are more enlightened times, are they not?"

"Indeed they are. Just think, sir. If earth had achieved one world government in your youth, you would be moving much more quickly and we could have had this meeting at 8:30."

"But I wasn’t the one who was - Oh! I see! It’s a joke! Good show!" Dr. Franz laughed hollowly. "I walk slower because of my bad leg so I am the reason we are starting late. Ah, yes. The fortunes of war. Ha ha."

"But seriously, can you show me Amarillo?" the tax collector said. He smiled but there was a coldness in his eyes. Pluto was friendlier.

"How lovely!"

Rustling her skirts and batting her long, perfectly curled lashes at Simeon Clark, second son of my master, the Duke of Shem, the court lady points a slender finger at the golden flowers in the special cultivating bed.

They are a rich yellow, the hue of the sun's reflection at midday. Every floral part: petal and sepal, perianth and corona, pistil and stamen is a deep gold, without hint of redness or pallor. The corona, or trumpet as it was once called, at the center of each blossom is twice the length of the surrounding segments, of which there are six: three sepals and three petals. All six are identical in every way: spade-shaped, with only a hint of bluntness at the very tip. The stems supporting the blooms are exceptionally long--almost the length of my forearm--and just as sturdy. Were the plants rooted outdoors (Stars forbid!), even the strongest wind would not topple them. And the fragrance...! Five of the blooms together have turned my family's greenhouse into Paradise; even one bloom will certainly send the Emperor reeling with pleasure.

"Their beauty pales in comparison with yours, my love," says the young nobleman to his companion, brushing his hand down her silken sleeve.

"Oh, Simeon. Don't be silly," she giggles. "They are perfect."

"Slug, Wart, Belch . . ." The Queen enjoys the names she gives us. She has to suppress a grin, inappropriate to the occasion of sending forth her Tax Trains.

After roll call, twenty-one trolls bow ponderously and prepare to turn massively away from the face of the Most High Indwelt of the Supreme Trait, Her Sovereign Ilf Majesty.

Our new contest is a timely one.

Here in the USA, April is tax time. Yes, for us it's time to fill out our annual tax declarations and for some, time to write that check to the government for all their help over the past year.

So this contest is about taxes, who we pay them to, how much they are, what medium we pay them in or even if we pay them at all.

Your characters conflict is paying the tax, filling out the forms or anything else that could be related to taxes in a science fiction, fantasy or horror genre.

(1040 words or less - contest closes April 15th 2009)

This contest has closed. Stay tuned, a new one will be announced soon.
Don't forget to vote for your favorite story!!