The wrench flies from the engine, close enough that I taste flecks of rust. Grandfather yells, a balding series of spheres in the front seat. I already know I'm worthless, thanks. I wipe the grease onto my ruined shirt, he dabs a pressed handkerchief at his forehead. The wrench and my hand slide back in. It - he won't identify it - must be held just so. The key cranks, washing the smell of exhaust and gasoline over me. The car roars to life. He lumbers inside, shouting how he fixed the car. The wrench smashes a beautiful music through the windshield.

Going Down with the Ship The sirens Rang out all over the ship. "What the hell is going on?" The captain asked over yet another explosion. "Sir, we seem to be having some problems," The engineer answered with a sheepish smile on his face. "I'm getting that feeling, can you be a bit more specific?" "Well sir, that is a problem, see the book does not mention anything like this." "What book? What are you talking about?" "The book, the one that I get all the ideas from." "Show me this book," he pulled out an ancient looking magazine. The title barely legible, 'Popular Mechanics.

Chaketo Chirapa was reading an edition of Popular Mechanics. It amused him how human technology resembled early Chirapa technology, but failed to capture some of the essence that was the heart of that technology. He was especially amused by Jay Leno's Garage. The view of the famous television show host seemed to be especially distorted and misinformed. The laws of mechanics would bent in his column into a new shape altogether. Chaketo Chirapa had no illusions about Chirapa technology though, and he often mused in his podcast about the way Chirapa science and technology would advance in the foreseen future.

The Saga of the Carson Brothers Body Shop Fred and George Carson were the most popular mechanics in the tri-state area. They weren't the kind to fix automobiles, or even young ladies in low budget pornos. They fixed bodies. The dollars rolled in as their fame grew. The rich, the very rich, and the damned, sought the young brother's services: limb augmentations, neural transmitters, ocular replacements. Everything was coming up roses, albeit genetically enhanced ones. Eventually, the enhancements stopped working and people started dying, realizing too late the energizer bunny doesn't live forever. Quietly, the brothers flew to Cancun and retired...sorry, but richer...a lot richer.

Cleaning out grandma's attic was like going back in time. In the corner was a Popular Mechanics from 1902! Inventions: -The Vacuum Cleaner: Will it lead to uppity home-makers? -The Submersible: What leviathans of the deep await? Opinion section: -Alternating Current- a death-trap in every home –T. Edison Interviews: -Robert Falcon Scott on new Horse-Based Vehicles vs. primitive dog sleds in the race to the South Pole -Roosevelt's Gun Cabinet: The president guides us through his collection from the Winchester Moose Whacker to the ladylike Beretta Butterfly Blunderbuss And slipped between the pages? An article rejection letter! Poor Grandpa Tesla.

She gets crazy sometimes, with these machines; like you couldn't drag her away, but what's to do? She made this little robot with pigtails and a bright bunched up face just like hers, and took it to school for show and tell, and the thing told the story of it's life, which was like two days long, beginning with it's slick metal brain being screwed, finally, into place. I guess everybody loved the thing, because Sarah came home, alone again, and without a word went back to her tiny pink laboratory, the door closing smoothly, ending with a "snick".

Lenny fixed everyone's car. The competitor, Charles, had to close shop because Lenny's such a popular mechanic. Charles is still bitter. Lenny used to swear constantly. Even a slight bang on his knuckles would get him cursing. When his wife gave birth to their baby, he made the promise to stop cussing as best as he could. He still cursed at work sometimes when something really bad happened. One day while Lenny was working under a car, Charles knocked the jack out from under with a sledge hammer. The car fell, crushing Lenny's legs. "Aw Charles, still peeved are you?"

POPULAR QUANTUM MECHANICS Uncertain about your uncertainty principle? Then you need Popular Quantum Mechanics… The magazine that explains the unexplainable. Learn how to play the ponies in a parallel universe and win! Surfing tips for finding the break in your wave formation. Bonus Blueprints! Diagrams for decks using Planck's Constant! Popular Quantum Mechanics. Where it doesn't count until you're out of options. Looking for something a little lighter, try the subsubcompact "Nanotech News", where smaller is bigger and a thousand copies fit on the head of a pin. Popular Quantum Mechanics and Nanotech News, available at W.H. Smith, in all the finer Cosmodromes

As he lay there, all he could think of was the initiation that was to happen tonight. It was an exclusive group, almost a secret society. Only the best of the best got an invite, he'd worked his entire life to prepare, to be the best so that one day he could be part of the elite. His father was a member, and his father before him, to fail wasn't an option for him, he'd disgrace the family if he failed. Was he ready? Yes, absolutely. It's time..... after tonight, he'd be a member of the Brotherhood of Popular Mechanics.

When I was a kid I used to go over to my Grandfathers house and he had a whole stack of Popular Mechanics magazines from the 50's and 60's. I used to spend hours and hours reading them. I especially liked the articles on the flying submarine, and how to build your own 30 foot sailboat. And then there was the article about the what future would be like in the 21st century, the time we're living in now. It didn't get much right, except for the clothing, that they got right. Too bad, I really wanted a flying car.

Mrs. Manicotti complained about a gurgling sound in the back end of her car. Mrs. Genivalce keep hearing a sound sort of like a screaming cat coming from her trunk. Mrs. Leonie hadn’t an idea where the noise was coming from but Rudy of Miracle Automotive always listened politely to the old women’s explanations, went about the task at hand. With a 100mm spanner rapped in a towel Rudy or one of his sons successfully ending the noise. In Little Italy they were very Popular Mechanics. On the way to the Jersey landfill Rudy thought how threemorsongatastic his job was.

Break time! No, I’m not gonna hang out with the losers in the metal shop and the geeks in the datacenter. Ugh! I’m gonna hang out with the popular mechanics in the repair shed. Oh, Johnny, the way he sets that oscilloscope. Make my heart beat faster! Faster! Bobby’s got the coolest flip-top googles. Brings out the blue in his eyes. Totally rad. And Dave… oh, Dave… the way he strips and degreases an engine. I wish he’d do that to me some time. What? It’s two? Break’s over. Oh well. I hate work. This place is so high school.

• The text of your story so I can post it on the site. Just post the text of the story in the body of your email message. Do not put it in Word, Word Perfect, Sun Office, or any other document format. Just copy-paste the text into the body of the message. This will save me the hassle of firing off another program to read it and it will reduce the chances that gmail will flag your message as Spam.
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The last eight undergrads hovered near the TA. Only two of them would by merit of the final exam be fasttracked into Stanford’s master program. Professor Marquette wasn’t on campus but the old man’s presence dominated the Art complex. His finals were brutal 600 to 1000 question an all day affair frown on by administration but gladly endured by the student body. Ruby handed out the bound envelopes with the test. To the horror of the codray a single sheet of paper with a single line of type. Takashi Murakami’s My Lonesome Cowboy art or not?

The dampening field was playing havoc with my cochlear implant. You would think the Bar would be more trusting of it’s future paying members. The #2 pencil/transmitter was barley getting my signal out. Three days of trying to gleam answers through the static was driving me crazy. Last night I thought I had figured out a work around, but now I realized I should have spent the time studying orbital property rights, or getting a stronger amp. However, after two prior legitimate attempts, I needed an edge. This time I was going to pass and become an honest lawyer.

The exam meant the difference between freedom and life long imprisonment. The problem, no one knew what it was. So we stood there in line and waited our turn while our imaginations ran wild. I watched men as hard as rocks melt, blubbering before the questioner. In all my time in the line I had only seen one person volunteer for the test. The door opened and shut, and he was gone. Then it was my turn, "Take the exam?" "Yes." he point to the door. As it shut behind me a voice said. "You are free to go."

I‘d been dreading and looking forward to this day since I had turned sixteen. Sleep the night before, I made sure wasn’t an option thanks to my insanely expensive 13 shot venti soy hazelnut vanilla cinnamon white mocha with extra white mocha and caramel drink. I obsessively studied over the driving manual like my Grandma and her monthly subscription of TV guide. Keeping, in mind not to miss anything really important, I hadn’t realized how deadly of a mix my drink was and on the morning of the exam, I ended up in the emergency room instead of the DMV.

Marshall stood before the searing gaze of the Pyrogenic Magus Council. He had tested twice and failed, this time he had to pass. He needed to be a pyromancer. He spread his arms. His hands blackened and fused, (proof of his earlier failures), burst into flames. He worked the twelve forms of the Incendiary Codec, with ease. A smile passed over the half of his face that still had muscle control, after acing the oral examination. Grimacing, he started the Technique du Mastere. Marshall formed a majestic golden flaming serpent, which coiled around Marshall reducing him to ash. Three strikes...

It was time for our exam. Our teacher seated himself and watched silently, patiently as we snuggled and kissed, preparing ourselves. I slowly slipped my hand down, to fast? Our teacher was stoned faced. I couldn't discern from his expression if I was going the right way, so I continued down my partner's body looking for the right spots. She moaned. I found it. Clothes started shedding, as we got more and more excited. We forgot our teacher and dove into ecstasy. Much later, when we where completely relaxed in the afterglow, our teacher said we did well. We passed.

Max whistled tunelessly to himself, grinning as he leapt over the bike rack and raced up the stairs. "I'm home!!" he shouted, throwing his knapsack on the couch and settling in front of the TV. "Those losers" he thought to himself. Scottie and Jimbo were still at school, for a study session for the exam. Pfft. Max had used his after school time more wisely weeks ago; the cupboard doorlock was easy to pick, a quick snick with his cell, and all the multiple choice answers were his! It hadn't even beeen that hard to memorize the answers; ABADCADAFABFADABADDADAACC; piece of cake. Maybe best to get one or two wrong, just to be safe. The next morning Max winked at his buddies as the papers were being handed out, face down. He picked up his pencil smiling...A.B.A.D... " Alright class, you may begin." Max flipped his paper and stared, his face falling as he read: For this year's exam, please compose a one hundred word narrative on the following topic: "What would you do if you found yourself face to face with a dragon and all you had was a boyscout handbook and a piniata costume?"

She collects the fee from the nightstand. He rubs his ring finger, counting ribs as her shirt slides over them. "I gotta run," she says. "I have a exam in biology to study for." "I had an exam at the hospital yesterday," he blurts. She giggles. "What grade did you get?" He remembers the scan full of unexpected metastatic dots. "They don't give grades." He hopes his smile seems natural. After she leaves, he rolls upright, lights a cigarette - why stop now? - and stares at the door. He opens the nightstand drawer, removes the book, and desperately begins to cram.

She stood in his office, looking hopeful and impossibly young, exam clutched in her hands. "Professor Newman, I just can't fail this class." When he didn't respond, she leaned provocatively over the desk, "I'd to anything for a A," she breathed. He leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers, "Anything?" A sly smile far beyond her years curled her lips. "Anything." "Try studying." In an instant the smile turned sour. After she left he tapped her name into the university computer, out of curiosity. Last quarter's grades: C-, C, D, A He laughed. The A was in Ethics.

James stood bare-chested and barefoot in front of the monk. The snow turned his feet nearly purple. A dark, angry wound glared red from his shoulder. He neither shivered nor flinched. His eyes were red-rimmed and his skin was loose, showing the effects of the monthlong test of solitude on the harsh mountain. "You have done well phyi rgyal," the monk said flatly, using the Tibetan word for foreigner. "All that is left is the written exam. You will be one with our spirit." "Exam?" James said incredulously. "Screw this. I'm not taking any written test. Those things are hard."

Mr. Johnson it’s a good thing you finally came in for your exam. You know Prostate Cancer kills a handful of men each year. Now there’s nothing to be alarmed about. I’m going to demonstrate the whole procedure before we begin. First you’ll pull down your pants like this and then bend over. Now you reach back and take each cheek in one hand and pull. Now do you see how open that is? You can see Tierra Del Fuego from here. See? It’s ok to look. Now you just take one of these and then… Hey come back here!

Ok, let's see here, a podcast where anyone can submit a 100 word story. Hmm, an entry exam? Let's see... Can you count to one hundred? Yes. Do you have a computer microphone? Yes. If no, go buy one you cheap jerk! Rude... Check all that apply: Are you Sick, demented, a zombie, have a hard to pronounce name, or tasteless. Uh... One more. What would you do if you were face to face with a dragon and all you had was... what the crap? Heck with this. Maybe I'll try ipodjacker podcast. Maybe it's not done by a retard.

“Mr. White.” “Yes.” “Mr. White, are you ready?” “Yes.” “Mr. White, did you bring with you a number two pencil?” “Yes, I brought two of them just in case, and please, call me Jerry.” “I am so sorry, Mr. White, you score will be reduced by 15% for not following instructions” “What do you mean 15%, that's not fair!” “Mr. White, you were given full and complete instructions.” “You were to bring one number two pencil.” “One more infringement of the instructions and you will be dismissed with a grade of zero.” “Mr. White.” “Yes.” “Why are you naked?” Scream..........

Carl worked the women alone, especially the pretty ones. They couldn't talk back, or complain… Outside, the sun was setting… "Jayne Doe, Caucasian female, aged 25 to 30" "Skin, pallid and cool, …Cause of death… Possible exsanguination? … No apparent gross body injury ." "Lovely", he murmured, stroking her marble white cheek. "Heh… small puncture wound on the neck… make that 2… With the jab of the measuring probe, Elenas' eyes flash open. She grabs the examiner, dragging him near. "So you like dead girls? Exit solus, dear doctor." she thinks, sinking her razor sharp teeth into his neck.

The call is full of static. I barely hear the account and password, but after a few tries I type them into the system and look up his trouble ticket. “What does this 'exam' mean?” he says in a thick Arabic accent. “Why broken?” I swear, I can hear... gunfire? “It's 'exim' not 'exam,'” I say. “cPanel uses exim as a mail handler.” “I know not comptuers!” he shouts “We pay you! Fix it! Fix it no-” I hear an explosion, and the line goes dead. Goddamned terrorist. I guess that fucker didn't know the safe handling of explosives either.