Short Stories by MLockridge

The Woodcarver and the Minotaur King-

2011-12-12T19:19:00.000-08:00

Geppetto stood nervously by the door to his shop, watching the King's man search the premises. Most people had little trouble with the King's regulations. Growers of pumpkins and brewers of beer were no threat to the King. Carpenters were watched closely, but not as closely as Geppetto. A carver of wood must watch his every cut and chip to keep his own head.

Sweat glistened on the upper arm of his visitor, who was searching thoroughly through every cabinet and bin. The tattooed image of a Minotaur glistened on the man's bicep. The only image of the King permitted in the kingdom. Conrad, the Minotaur King. A burly man, the King, but more than that. The King was a real Minotaur. His bull head was enormous, and his long horns sharp. He had the temperament of a bull, but for all of that was cunning and wise.

"Stephen, you search every week." ventured Geppetto. He had grown up with Stephen Smith, the third son of the town blacksmith. The man was alone this evening, and Geppetto risked talking to his childhood friend. "You know I make only toys and a few useful household tools. See, I have nothing with which to make a wooden man. Nothing so large as could not be fitted into the hand of a child."

His gruff visitor glanced at a small bench at the back of the shop. "You have enough of those, Geppetto." he said, waving a hand at the carved figures littering the work bench. "True, they are small. Still, the King fears only one thing. The telling of the wandering witch woman, declaring that he would be conquered by an army of wooden men."

"Those are but toys, Stephen." said Geppetto. "I make a lot of them because a toy army cannot be but one figure. I sell them by the half dozen or dozen. I keep them small like that to appeal to children, and to keep the order of the King. I make them of scrap from other work, and whittle them late in the evenings as I watch the stars appear."

"I know, my friend." said Stephen. "And I still consider you my friend, even though the King frowns on his men fraternizing with the people. Were I not the third son, and a burden to my family, I would not have taken this job. There is only so much smith work available in the region, and I had to do something."

"I understand, Stephen." said Geppetto. In the presence of other soldiers the man was quite gruff. It was expected, and Geppetto did not mind. "Come. Let us go get something to drink at the inn."

"I would like to, Geppetto, but I cannot be seen with you." said his visitor. "It looks fine here. Keep to the rules, my friend." With that the King's man let himself out through the heavy door to the shop. Geppetto watched through the window as his old friend made his way down the street and out of sight. When he felt himself safe he closed the curtain and barred the door.

He went to the bench at the back of the room and lined up the six finished soldiers. He made sure their paint was dry, and checked once again for any defects. The only thing missing was a bit of wood bored from the chest of each little man. That would be corrected, soon. From a box beneath the work bench he withdrew several little spikes of wood. Geppetto handled them respectfully.

Into the waiting hole in the chest of each wooden soldier he pressed one of the precious little spikes. They had been formed with care, and pressed neatly into place. Each soldier was returned to his place in line once the final bit of the making was finished. Geppetto sat back and watched them, knowing what would happen.

Each of the soldiers began to tremble, then convulse like little men suffering from some kind of seizure. They writhed on the bench for several minutes, and looked pitiful in their struggles. Eventually each one of them lay still. A few more minutes passed before they one by one got up and stood again in line.

"Welcome, my little wooden friends." said Geppetto in a quiet voice. "I have placed a bit of wood from the magic tree into each of your hearts. Wood given me by the dryad, the Blue Lady. She called me one night while I sought good wood in the forest. She called me when the light of the first star of the night touched the tree that was her home.

"She told me that Cornelius was an evil spirit, given flesh through the vile practices of his mother and her people." continued Geppetto. His little audience stood gazing at him. "He has troubled the good spirits of the woods, and they are being driven out. He must die, my little wooden soldiers. Go, join your brothers in the Cave of the Minotaur. Stay hidden, and stay safe. His annual sacrifice is only three months away. He will have to visit his cave again on that day, and be alone to offer the required blood of a virgin. There should be enough of you, by then."

The little soldiers climbed down from the work bench and made their way to the back of the house. A cat's door allowed them to exit, and soon Geppetto was alone. He took down his precious wormwood cup, another gift of the Blue Lady, and filled it with rich wine from a dusty bottle. He took a sip, and then another. Then he got out a fresh piece of wood and began to whittle yet another soldier.

Geppetto sat and drank and whittled for quite some time. He heard a sound behind him, but did not turn around. He continued to whittle. Gentle hands settled on his shoulders. He glanced at one, so pale and tinged with a blue light. Geppetto took up his cup and drank again.

"They are almost ready, your little warriors." said a soft voice. "You do good work, Geppetto. Your deeds will be remembered for many generations, once the Minotaur King is dead."

Geppetto drank again. The faint bitterness of the wormwood complemented the wine. Where had the vintage come from? He could not remember.

"Come, Geppetto." said the soft voice. "Dryads have special rewards to offer their servants. Come."

Geppetto smiled, and set aside his cup.

Another Day at the Office-

2011-09-24T15:42:00.000-07:00

Thomas Whitman Moore stretched in his lounge chair and reached for his coffee. He savored the aroma for a moment and then took a sip. Excellent! The sun was just peeking above the wooded hills in the distance, lighting the broad valley below his deck. The sky was mostly clear, and a fabulous shade of blue. Though he had his newspaper folded on the table beside him, Thomas elected not to read.

"News of war on such a fine morning would just put me off of my stride." he said to himself. Stretching again he stood from the lounge and took his cup into his house. It was not overly spacious, but he didn't mind. His was a single life. His work was challenging, even demanding. It involved most of his being when he was working. It also involved a lot of people working under stress. He enjoyed his little home in this quiet valley, far from the office.

"Time to shower." he said out loud. He often spoke out loud here in his own space. And why not? He dropped off the cup in the dish washer and headed into the bathroom. Again not wanting to spoil his mood with news of war, he elected to not even turn on the radio he kept in the bathroom. He focused on shaving and showering and attending to a few other personal matters.

Soon, in his warm robe, he made his way into the bedroom to change. He opened the closet and removed the clothing for the day. Though many different suits and quite a variety of casual outfits hung within, Tom took down the familiar uniform of the office. It was required, dressing like everyone else. With a sigh he donned the simple and rather uninteresting costume.

It was time. He took one last look at the lovely day developing outside of his window, sighed, and headed for the front door. His front door was of oak, a wood polished to a deep shine and displaying the depth of the natural wood growth. It was one of his favorite design features on his home. It had cost him a lot of time and a bit of money, but it was worth it.

Opening the door he stepped out into a hallway. It was wide and tall, and sadly utilitarian. The door across the hall opened just as he was locking his own. He looked that way and observed a dark cavern within. Deep in the dark recesses he could see raging flames of a sullen red cast. Out of the shadows stepped a creature at least nine feet tall, with dark red skin, tight over formidable muscles. The creature had two huge legs, four massive arms and a head that looked to be simultaneously insectile and reptilian.

Tom waved and said, "Morning, Joe." The creature closed the door to his own living space and turned to Tom.

"Morning, Tom." it said. Tom knew the creature was not named 'Joe,' but had chosen the name since nobody he associated with could pronounce his real name. "I really do plan to have you over for dinner, soon."

"I would like that." said Tom. "I just think the temperatures are a bit extreme in your environment for me."

Joe made a sound that was intended to represent laughter. It missed by a large degree, but was a valiant attempt. "I could always reduce the temperature, Tom. The flames are largely illusion. I would, however, have to contain my skin-cleaning symbioses. I am afraid they would scour the flesh from your bones. That would make for a less than pleasant evening."

"Well, let's head for work." said Tom. "I didn't bother with the news this morning. Just not in the mood. How about you."

"Just a quick briefing from the computer." said Joe as the two began walking down the hallway. "Pacification of the primary continent and major island chains is going well. Still a bit of resistance. We have a bit of work to do today, I am afraid."

They reached the lift and stepped inside. "Gunnery deck seven." Tom said. The lift began to move.

"Another day at the office, eh, Joe?" said Tom as the lift halted and the doors opened on the gunnery station. The planet lay below them, filling the view plates and dominating space on their side of the ship. They walked to their respective stations and prepared to begin the day's work.

Holyland-

2011-03-26T12:58:00.000-07:00

Malcolm Jacobs could not remember how he had gotten here, wherever here might be. He looked around, and was not much informed by his surroundings. It seemed to be an alley way. Pretty clean. Just the back side of some buildings. An opening with a restroom sign above. Some guy in a white uniform sweeping up a bit of litter into one of those dust-pan-on-a-stick things. Some foot traffic on a street nearby.

He shook his head and looked around again.

"You alright, buddy?" said the guy in the white uniform. A janitor or something.

"I think so." said Malcolm. "How did I get here?"

"Same way most people do." said the janitor. "What do you remember?"

"Driving late at night. Headlights. Blurring."

"Yep. Heard that one a million times." said the janitor. "Actually, a million two hundred and seventeen, counting you. I do this a lot."

Malcolm looked more closely at the man. Just a guy. Janitor. "What's this that you do?" he asked.

"Greet new arrivals." said the janitor. "I'm Amos. The prophet Amos, to be exact. I wrote one of the books of the Bible. Did you read it, by any chance? The Book of Amos, Old Testament?"

"Not that I recall." said Malcolm. "I mostly read the New Testament. Not as often as I felt I should have, but I was kind of busy."

"Figures." said Amos with a sigh. "Doesn't matter that much, I guess. You got here. That's what is important."

"Where is here?"

"Oh, yeah." said Amos. "This is Heaven. You died. Traffic accident. Driving tired is dangerous, you know."

"Apparently so." said Malcolm, looking around again. "It doesn't look like Heaven."

"Been here before, have you?" asked Amos, smiling.

"Well, no." admitted Malcolm. "But you know. Pearly gates, streets of gold."

"Oh, we got those." said Amos. "Different section. It was a very popular arrival point for the Victorians. No, the Boss likes to ease some of the post-moderns into the program. I use this alley, since I do a lot of my work in this area."

"The prophet Amos. Janitor?" asked Malcolm.

"What can I say? I like to keep the place clean." said Amos. "Come on, let me show you around."

He guided Malcolm out of the alley into a busy street. It looked a lot like most streets Malcolm had seen before on Earth. He mentioned that as Amos got him seated in a little utility vehicle parked near the alley.

"Well, people bring bits of their old lives with them when they come to Heaven." said Amos. "Some people feel especially comfortable in this section. They spend a lot of time here. A lot of time. Eternity and all of that."

Quite a few questions came to Malcolm's mind, but they got all bunched up and he decided to just wait and see what Amos had to show him. They drove down the street and turned left. Malcolm noticed a large hotel complex on the right and commented on it. "Looks restful."

"Yes, it is quite restful." said Amos. "That section is reserved for the folks that believed in the doctrine of the Sleep of the Dead. They believed that they would remain asleep in the grave until Christ's return. That's not the actual case, but the Boss had that place set up to receive them. They snooze away, awaiting the trumpet and all of that."

They turned down another road and Malcolm could see the streets of gold to his left. The Pearly Gates were just down at the end. There were quite a few people wandering around the street, admiring the gems and the glitter of the gold. "Victorians and some of the folk that got all into bling and such." said Amos, driving on by.

They drove past a huge theater. "That looks like an IMAX theater." said Malcolm.

"Yep. Story of Creation playing twenty four hours a day." said Amos. "Funny. Nobody got it right, so the Boss put that up to save time explaining. There is a coffee house around the corner where a lot of people gather to discuss the movie and their own theories they had while on Earth. Fun place, but I prefer it in small doses."

They rolled on down a road that led to what looked like Beverley Hills only far better. Mansions, huge mansions, stood by the thousands along tree lined roads running off into the distance. The architecture ran the gamut of styles. It was magnificent and overwhelming.

"Lot's of people expected those." said Amos. "The Boss actually meant 'rooms,' as in places to stay and do things, but the whole mansion as an edifice caught on and got so lodged in the minds of millions that the Boss ran with it. Of course, He foreknew all of that, but we don't want to open that particular can of worms right now. There's another coffee house dedicated to that whole 'predestination' thing."

"Quite a few coffee houses here, I suppose?" asked Malcolm, thinking about the vast history of religious and philosophical discussion that attended human culture on Earth.

"For sure." said Amos. "Of course if you are a serious scholar there is the Celestial Library. That's it down there. The big building made of crystal and other stuff. Shiny stuff. Lots of stone and wood and other materials, finely crafted by the best hands throughout history. Lot's of love in that building. I go there a lot. I even do some lectures now and then. That, and a lot of dusting."

"If it's Heaven why is there any dust?"

"Some people enjoy cleaning. Enough people cleaning so that the dust doesn't bother anyone who doesn't like it." said Amos.

He pulled the little vehicle over to the side of the road, in front of a pleasant looking structure. "Here you go, Malcolm. Orientation center. I would love to stay and chat, but I have a concert I want to attend." He offered his hand and Malcolm shook it.

"Will I see you again?" asked Malcolm.

"Sure. As often as you like." said Amos. "They will explain how, inside. Don't worry about the forms. You only have to fill those out if you like that kind of thing. Gotta go, kid. See you around!"

He pulled away into the light traffic. Malcolm looked around. All sorts of buildings, but it didn't seem crowded. Lots of people, too, but again no hurrying and no real crowds. A great many groups here and there, laughing and talking and often singing. The place seemed to go on forever.

He turned toward the open door of the orientation center. The bunched up questions in his mind began to fall in line. There would be time to answer them all, Malcolm realized.

Plenty of time for everything.

Knowledge Shall Make You Free-

2011-02-25T11:28:00.000-08:00

Robert Daily sat in the crowded assembly room. Everyone had gotten their uniforms, found their assigned bunks, and now were assembled to be addressed by the administration. This was a supposedly alternative jail for non-violent offenders. Chronic misdemeanants. Naughty boys.

The man who stood at the podium did not look particularly impressive. When he began to speak Robert was not compelled to alter that first impression. By the second word the man was already boring. That boredom is what caused Robert to drop out of high school and led to his current lifestyle of periodic incarceration.

"Gentlemen, if you would please quiet down." said the unimpressive man in the cheap suit. "Really. Please. I guess that is good enough. Welcome to the Big Mesa Institute for Alternative Incarceration. This won't take long, if you would all just quiet down."

The man waited a moment. When it was obvious that he wouldn't go on and get this over with the noisy idiots in the back finally fell silent. "Thank you." said the man. "This is an educational institution, gentlemen. An experiment. You were flown here on helicopters for a reason. There is no road in or out of this place. Indeed, we are surrounded by cliffs on all sides."

A screen lowered from the ceiling, and an image formed on the screen. A view from the air. Sure enough, the institute was built on a mesa surrounded by drops of hundreds of feet. The nearest adjacent mesa was quite a ways away. Much more than just a jump.

"I will be leaving, soon." said the unimpressive man. "I am the only official remaining on the mesa. Everyone else is gone. Oh, except for my helicopter crew."

Two men stepped out through a door behind the unimpressive man. They had automatic weapons. Pretty mean weapons from Robert's perspective. The man behind the podium became a lot more impressive, all of a sudden.

"You have a lot of building materials here." said the rather impressive man. "And computers. Also, limited Internet access. Educational materials have been bookmarked on your computers to aid you in learning. You see, repeated incarcerations have been linked to a lack of education. We are providing you the resources to educate yourselves, and the motivation to do so.

"Food and water will be air-dropped to you every week. For six months that volume of food and water will be constant. After that it will begin to diminish. We call this 'motivation.' Engineers have determined that we have provided you with the things you will need to safely get off of this mesa. Should you manage to get off of the mesa and return to society, you will be free. No further obligation to serve time. Your records will be clean.

"Unlike the maximum security desert prison that is patterned something like this one, we won't be flying gun ships around and shooting anything that tries to escape. We want you to escape. Of course, you will have to learn some skills in order to do so. We have given you the tools. The rest is up to you."

With that he turned and walked out through the door behind him. The men with guns followed him, and closed the door. The crowd of young men stood in stunned silence.

Robert started to look around. "I think I need a study partner." he muttered. "Preferably a really big study partner." Suddenly an education seemed like a very valuable commodity. A commodity in uncomfortably short supply. School had seemed like prison. Now prison had become a school.

He was pleased that at least he had learned enough in school to recognize irony.

Cotton Candy World-

2010-12-08T10:13:00.000-08:00

Thomas Horton Henderson III was a man proud of his heritage. A fifth generation confectioner and purveyor of sweets and treats to the people of the venerable town of Boston, Massachusetts. His father had retired some years ago, leaving the family business to Thomas and his brother William.

Thomas continued to run the family storefront business. William had studied science, with advanced degrees in chemistry and food science. They both held positions on the board of directors of the major corporation, but preferred the hands-on of making candy and other treats to simply the management of a business. Others were better suited to those tasks and had been brought on-board for that purpose.

This day in the store should have been a day like any other. Thomas liked to arrive early and get things started. He always began with warming the kettle corn kettle, and then got the cotton candy machine going. It was the original machine, purchased in the distant past by a previous Henderson and in constant operation since. It required a bit of tinkering these days to keep it going, but Thomas didn't mind.

At least he didn't until this morning. He started the machine, and it seemed to be running fine. He made up the morning batch of cotton candy, and hung the finished cones of sugary goodness up to be bagged and made ready for sale. After all, a business called Cotton Candy World had to have cotton candy to sell. Everything seemed fine until he determined that he was done spinning the magical confection and tried to turn off the machine.

He flipped the switch. It kept spinning. He flipped it on, then off. It kept spinning. It was nearly out of sugar, but the cloudy substance kept spinning out into the big bowl. He started collecting the spinnings onto cones as he contemplated what to do. He had quite an addition to the morning's scheduled production before he noticed that the cotton did not appear much like candy.

Thomas examined the most recent cotton candy cone. The spun material had a metallic sheen. He pulled at it and found it felt like metal. He leaned over and examined the central unit where spinning took place. There was obvious erosion to the metal components. He could hear the internal parts, such as there were, grinding a bit.

"Perhaps the old girl is going to cash it in. Buy the farm. This may be the end." he muttered as he played with the switch again. Nothing. It kept spinning. Then a horrible screech, and the sound of mechanical parts rending themselves into scrap. He looked into the bowl. The spinning was still going on.

Grabbing another paper cone, Thomas gathered some of the most recent product. Other metals and plastic were spun into the cotton fibers around the cone. He was perplexed, going on frightened.

"Time to call William." he said aloud to himself. He did so. "William? Yes, Thomas. There's something wrong with the cotton candy machine. Yes, I know I have repaired it for decades. This is strange. Something is really, really wrong. Can you come over?"

Thomas continued to gather the spinnings from the machine that continued to work in spite of no longer having any works to work with. The mess of broken bits at the center of the machine continued to erode as the vortex grew to consume them. A half hour later William arrived.

William examined the spinnings that were definitely not cotton candy. They were cotton steel and cotton copper, a bit of cotton Bakelite from the older components and some cotton plastic and rubber from the newer replacement bits that had been added over time. He looked into the bowl and watched the spinning vortex in the middle. He played with the switch.

"Did you try unplugging it?" he asked. Thomas looked sheepish and did so. The vortex continued to spin.

The two brothers sat near the machine, thinking and wondering what to do with the strange thing sitting in the middle of the room. Employees arrived and were apprised of the situation. Thomas decided that the store would open, but for the first time in decades the Cotton Candy World would not be selling cotton candy.

If any metal or other contaminants had entered into the cotton candy made that day it could be a huge liability to the business. No, there would be no cotton candy this day. The store opened and went about normal business, working around the brothers and their strange anomaly sitting in the back room.

"We need to move it, while it is small." Thomas said.

"How?"

More thinking, then some phone calls. A dump truck full of sand arrived at the rear loading dock. The brothers and the truck driver, a friend named Mack Elroy, loaded the anomaly into the back of the truck and nested it into the sand. The three men drove the spinning vortex out to an old quarry, parking the truck in an isolated area. They then sat on the sides of the dump bed and watched the spinning vortex continue to expand and consume the metal bowl. The vortex was now eight inches across.

Periodically Thomas would use some of the paper cones he had brought with him to sweep the spun metal from the eroding bowl away from the vortex. He didn't know if it was necessary, but it gave him something to do.

"What could we do with this?" William asked. "It seems like it could be useful, but we don't really know much about it."

"It would be great for processing scrap metal." said Mack. "Or used for demolition. Or processing recyclable materials that could be spun out and made into thread or yarn."

"I wonder if it could be some kind of energy source?" speculated William. "Can we contain it?"

"Maybe we should just dump it out, bury it and walk away." Thomas mumbled. He didn't like the responsibility. He didn't like the impact it was having on his day. He cherished the regularity of running the shop.

"I don't think that would work." said William. "That probably wouldn't stop it, and eventually it would get big and be out of control. Not that we control it right now." He looked at the vortex slowly spinning out the metal of the cotton candy machine's big bowl. William began punching keys on his calculator.

"There's got to be some way to make money with this thing." said Mack. "What happens when it finishes spinning out the bowl and gets to the sand?"

He and Thomas contemplated that idea, as William continued to calculate. Finally Mack felt the need to do something. He grabbed the shovel that was part of the trucks kit and began shoveling sand into the bowl.

"Hey, stop that!" said Thomas. Mack continued.

"Actually, that may be a good idea." said William, looking up from his calculator. "That way it will work mostly on the sand, leaving the bowl intact to contain the spinnings. I don't think it can hurt anything to add some sand."

Thomas shrugged, then reached out with one of his paper cones and began gathering the spun sand. "Looks a bit like fiberglass. More brittle, but similar."

"Got it." said William. "Good news first. If it progresses in a linear fashion, it will probably remain within the bowl as long as we feed it and pull off the spinnings."

"That will give us time to figure out how to make some money with it." Mack said. "I would hate to just have to give it over to the government. No profit in that, and who knows what they would do with it."

Thomas used another paper cone to begin collecting more spun sand. The first cone he had tossed over the side of the truck. "What's the bad news?" he asked.

"Well, if the progression is non-linear, we have no idea how much time we have." William answered. "However, ultimately it would be a big problem. Cotton Candy World would be more than the name of a business."

Thomas sighed, threw the paper cone of spun sand away, and started on another one. "Having the fate of the world in my hands is a bit more than I had planned for when I opened up the shop this morning." he said, turning the paper cone slowly at the edge of the vortex.

A confectioner's life shouldn't be so hard.

The Survival Minimalist-

2010-11-11T19:58:00.000-08:00

Jackson Quill was not an ambitious man. He wasn't a strong thinker. He was just a guy who tried his best to get by. He hadn't been one of those who planned and put things aside and got ready for the collapse of society. Survivalists were inherently paranoid, resourceful, and willing to work hard preparing for what might well not happen.

It happened, and it caught Jackson a bit short. Indeed, he had made only one preparation for the apocalypse, and had not even exercised that option. Not yet.

The first weeks weren't hard. Scavenging the stores for what he needed, keeping on the move, maintaining a low profile as he moved out from the town to more rural surroundings. He had an idea where he would go. He was aware of one of those extreme survivalists out there, living alone and probably snickering in his sleeve about being right.

A lot of people died those first weeks. The haves, as in those who had guns, were killing off scavengers and each other. Jackson figured the ones that thought bigger than "have lot's of guns" would be the eventual winners. They would eventually become the leaders of feudal colonies. The few who had cultivated anachronistic skills would find themselves valuable craftsmen. The rest would be surfs, peons, even slaves.

Jackson had another plan. His one provision. He was almost there, and would put his plan into action. It was pretty much a one shot option. He would succeed, or he would die. It seemed fair to him.

His target was ahead, a carefully built compound held by a retired gentleman with some funds and a hobby of preparing for the end of civilization. Jackson move to the edge of the clearing around the compound and found himself a suitable stick.

To the stick he attached a large white handkerchief, which he immediately began waving as he stood and stepped out from the cover of the brush. He tried to look dumb, desperate and innocent. Two of those were close to the mark, so it wasn't a big stretch.

"Come forward and talk." he heard from a high point ahead. A glint at the corner of one building indicated a likely location of his hoped-for benefactor, looking through a rifle scope. Jackson tried to be unafraid, but the prospect of a high velocity round passing through his head made the hair on the back of his neck stand up.

He moved forward, hands in the air, and waited.

"What do you want?" came the voice from the building. Jackson assessed the perimeter fence ahead, noting that it was serviceable for defense of the small compound. The high point on the building was not bad, but covering the whole compound with only one gunman was not possible.

"I want to serve you." said Jackson. "You need hands to help. You can't be watching for invaders and do the work necessary around your place all at the same time. I am tired of running and hiding. I want to serve you."

There was silence for a time. "Come forward to the gate." Jackson sighed in relief. This might just work.

He waited several minutes in front of the formidable gate. Iron and heavy wood, not impervious to explosives but still formidable in most foreseeable scenarios. The gate slowly opened. A voice from within called out, "Come in."

Jackson stepped through. His benefactor stood a couple of yards away, a large caliber hand gun trained on Jackson. It was steady in the man's hand, and Jackson figured he practiced quite a bit with the deadly thing.

"Turn around and bar the gate." the man said. Jackson did so, noting that they were in a sally port. Behind the man was the inner gate, a large affair in which a smaller door was hung. Having barred the gate, Jackson stood where he was with his benefactor at his back. He held his hands high and sought a quiet frame of mind. It was hard to find.

He could hear the man approach and felt the one hand carefully begin patting him down. He checked carefully, wrists and arms and legs and ankles. He patted every pocket, checked the tops of shoes and socks, and gave his crotch a nudge or two with his one hand. Jackson noted that the other hand probably held the gun close to his kidney. The gun did not touch him, which raised Jackson's estimate of this man a bit.

Not knowing just where the gun might be prevented Jackson from confidently spinning and blocking the weapon as he might fight for control of the deadly thing. Not that Jackson even considered that idea. Such a move would be dangerous and require some combat skill. Still, the man knew better than to touch him with the weapon during the search.

"Not even a pocket knife." the man said. "I guess you are safe enough. Let's go inside and discuss our situation."

When the man stepped around in front of Jackson he had already holstered the weapon. "Put your hands down, and follow me." The man stepped toward the door in the inner gate, pulling a ring of keys from a pocket and sorting through them. He was just reaching for the lock when the shot rang out. He probably didn't hear it, since most of his head was now painted on the inner gate.

Jackson kept the two-shot derringer pointed at the man as he collapsed in front of the inner gate. Leaning forward he put the second round through the man's heart, even though the level of damage to his head was probably sufficient to insure he was already dead. Jackson scooped up the man's handgun and the keys, and opened the inner gate.

The rifle he had expected was leaning against the wall just inside. Jackson locked up the gate, leaving the body where it lay. He figured it would serve as an object lesson when petitioners came to seek service in his compound. He picked up the rifle and hung it by the sling over his shoulder.

His compound. Minimalist survival-ism seemed to be working. He had planted that little .44 derringer behind his belt buckle a long time ago, figuring to simply take the wealth of some more enterprising survivalist if the need should arrive. Need had arrived, opportunity presented itself, and now he was indeed wealthy.

Jackson kept his handgun ready, just in case. He had followed this guy and several other locals on the Internet, watching them share and develop plans to create safe compounds against the eventual fall of modern society. Jackson knew that this guy was alone and a loner, and so there was probably nobody else here. Still, he proceeded with caution.

As he explored his new home Jackson reviewed the recent events. He wanted to get to a vantage point, soon, after learning his way around. He had to watch for invaders, and potential servants to help run his little kingdom.

"One thing is sure," he mumbled as he continued his exploration. "Anyone I let in gets strip searched. I can't be the only one with this idea."

Bitter Green, revisited-

2010-11-05T14:02:00.000-07:00

It was several years ago I learned the tale I am about to tell. The song, "Bitter Green," comes to mind whenever I think on what I learned that day. This is a true tale, a tale gleaned from one of my many journeys in distant lands. I am in the habit of occasionally making my way to a land far away, and taking a walking tour of the rural lands there abouts.

On this day I happened into a little country tavern in the late afternoon. Time for some refreshment, but enough day left for my strong legs to cover some more miles before finding a bed. This was an old land, a land that remembers the times when men made their way from place to place on their own two legs. Villages and taverns and hostels abound in that land, and it is one of my favorites for walking tours.

Besides the barkeeper there was but one man in the place. He had been in his cups for a bit, I could tell, and I thought he might be open to talking. I liked to learn something of the lands through which I traveled. I purchased two pints of whatever he was drinking, carried them to the table, and asked if I might sit down. He eyed me with an obvious distrust of strangers, not uncommon in rural lands. He eyed the pint I offered with considerable warmth, however, and welcomed us to join him.

His previous pints and the one I added didn't open him up much. I learned something about the local apple industry. Growing apples and making apple related products is apparently just a way to stay mere inches above abject poverty. I was about finished with my own refreshment and contemplating departure when another local gentleman entered the tavern.

As he entered he walked slowly by an old coat hanging on a peg on the wall. I had noticed this coat when I came in. It was heavy, dark blue in color, and of an old military cut. The man passed a hand along one sleeve, then stepped up to the bar and ordered a pint. He stood at the bar, sipping contemplatively at his brew and glancing occasionally at the old coat.

My reticent rural friend sat in his usual silence, watching me glancing at the coat and the man at the bar. I turned to him and drew a breath to speak. He waved me to silence. "I will tell you about it, later." he said in a low voice, and took a pull from his pint. I remained silent, and did the same with my own pint.

Soon the man at the bar finished his pint. He turned to the old coat, took it down and put it on. As he turned toward the door he noticed me and my silent host. He nodded to the man with whom I was sitting, gave me a puzzled look, and exited the tavern.

My host drained his glass and said, "Follow me." I finished my own pint quickly and followed. He turned to the left as we exited the tavern, no question as to which direction to travel. The man in the old coat was far ahead, walking toward the edge of the small town and the orchards in the distance. Apple orchards.

I attempted a few questions directed at my companion. He waved them off, and continued to walk in silence. His eyes were on the other man. I could not read the emotion there. His feelings seemed to be complex and jumbled. I continued to walk by his side, growing more and more intrigued by the mystery of the coat.

As we rounded the corner I saw a young woman sitting on a stone fence. She was staring down the lane, gazing off into the distance. The man in the coat drew along side her and said something. My host halted, and so did I. The young woman jumped up and embraced the man in the coat as if he were long missing and only now returned. He kissed her, gently, and taking her on his arm walked her down a path into one of the orchards.

My host gazed at them as they walked, watching until they vanished into the trees. He then sighed, and turned to me. He glanced around, making sure we were alone.

"I must tell someone." he said, as much to himself as to me. "You are a stranger, and soon gone. I shall tell you. The coat is shared among several of us farmers and merchants here abouts. Along with the coat we share a small cottage, it's contents and the responsibilities associated."

He sighed again. "We also share the young lady." he whispered. In a louder voice he continued. "She was to marry a rich man from a neighboring community. He had pledge his troth, and then been called away to some military duty. She last saw him in a coat like ours. The news of his death overwhelmed her, and broke her mind. Day and night she sat where you saw her sitting, awaiting his return."

"Several of us recognized her madness, and came up with a plan to aid her. Her health was suffering, and she did not respond to the attempts of the women folk to care for her. She was wasting away. I don't recall who came up with the old coat, but one of the men donned the garment and approached her where she sat. She responded warmly, and he took advantage of the situation."

I was appalled. It must have showed on my face. The man shrugged and appeared to have a sense of guilt. Well he should, to my way of thinking.

"Aye, he took advantage of her." he went on. "The sense of guilt was heavy, and he shared it with a friend. So arose the plan we continue with today. He brought in other men. Men who loved their wives, but found the spark of old passion had grown cold. Men who could appreciate the opportunity."

"Yes, we took advantage of her and her madness. We also provided her with a cottage, and food, and clothing. She wants for nothing. None of us could have afforded this, alone. Together we can provide for her in her disabling madness, as none of us could have done alone. The shared cost goes unnoticed by our wives and their friends."

"Your wives do not know?" I asked.

"They do and they do not, if you take my meaning." he replied.

"This arrangement troubles you, or you would not have felt compelled to share it." I said. "Even with a stranger. Why continue to take advantage? Why not simply take care of her, as a charity?"

"It occurs to each of us, from time to time." he replied. His gaze was again directed through the trees. I presumed the cottage was in that direction. "But you know not what it is like. My wife has been loving and devoted, and I cherish her. Still, never has she displayed the passion that I find in those arms of madness. It is not a thing easy to give up. I don't know that I can."

I looked at him, first in judgement, then in pity. I was overwhelmed by the complexity of the human heart, and the things it drives humans to do. I, too, stared through the trees toward the infamous cottage of stolen love, madness and assumed responsibility. Complex, indeed.

I clasped the man on the shoulder for a moment, then turned from him and continued on my journey through the country. I did not look back as I walked away, but I have looked back often at the memory of that time.

Especially whenever I hear the song, "Bitter Green."

Three Inch Philosophy-

2010-10-23T10:25:00.000-07:00

Gastro was self-aware, and self-aware enough to know he was not supposed to be self-aware. Well, supposed to might not be quite right, or so he thought as he moved along in his sluggish manner. Sluggish in the most literal sense. Gastro was aware that he was a gastropod, a relatively common slug. Specifically, he was a Banana Slug. He wasn't sure quite what a banana might be, though he suspected that he might well have come into contact with a banana here or there in his constant feeding forays.

It was on such a foray Gastro was currently schlumphing along. Schlumphing is not a particularly rapid mode of transportation, something you would know if you had spent any time watching a snail or slug progress across any surface. If you have ever spent more than a few minutes watching such progress you are probably either a scientist or a stoner. Nobody else has the patience or that level of interest in the movement of gastropods

Gastro was progressing, albeit slowly, toward a field in which people often walked their dogs for the purpose of exercising and emptying the dogs. Gastro had discovered that the molds that grew on the doggie doo-doo was particularly tasty, and worth the time and effort to travel to the field.

Additionally, it gave him time to think while doing something useful. As he often did, he reviewed the time when he became self-aware. It had happened in an abandoned house, as he crawled across some things he later identified as books. When he had entered the decaying domicile he had been blissfully unaware of his own existence. Some event, or series of events, in that place was responsible for his transformation.

While negotiating a new gopher mound he recalled the delicious new mold he had found on the surface of what he later learned was a book. It happened to have fallen to the ground, and fallen open to an entry on "gastropods." Consuming the mold had caused immediate changes as he crossed and recrossed the image on the page and the words related to the image.

At first he thought it was the delicious flavor of the mold that compelled him to keep feeding on the book. Eventually he recognized that he was also feeding on the words printed on the page. Eventually he moved on to other books that littered the floor. He grew rapidly over the following days, and changes took place inside of him. After all, the brain of a gastropod was not quite the thing needed when it comes to thinking.

Unable to physically examine his own physiological changes, Gastro speculated that he had somehow co-opted other parts of his body for use in the process of thinking and storing information. This mode of thinking brought Gastro to consider himself a philosopher rather than a scientist. Scientists have rules and procedures to guide their thinking. Philosophers are not so constrained. Philosophy seemed to suit his particular condition better than science, so he contemplated in three-inch chunks of thought.

Yes, it was probably the mold in some peculiar combination with diverse bacteria that had caused him to change. It was only chance that caused this particular combination to occur on a book just so situated as to impart the necessary nutrients, mutagens, and information to make a slug self-aware. That, or divine providence. Gastro was not willing to discount the idea of a God who intervened in slug affairs.

He was just beginning to entertain that particular line of reasoning when he came upon his target. Oh, yes! It was a particularly abundant deposit of doggie waste material, still moist and sporting a delightful coat of growing molds. From his sluggish perspective it was a mountain of deliciousness. He set-to immediately, and slowly worked his way over the convoluted mass of excrement. It was gastronomic heaven!

"Hey, Jon! I found another one!" shouted Jimmy. "That's thirty or so. I'll put him in the pile."

"OK." said another voice, presumably Jon.

Gastro felt himself whisked into the air and shortly deposited in a slimy pile of soft bodies. Stupid human children, thought Gastro. He was self-aware enough and sufficiently informed regarding gastropod sexuality to know that these boys had unwittingly initiated an orgy of genetic exchange. A thought occurred to Gastro, and he began working his way purposefully through the pile of soft bodies. If his physiological changes were transferable, he would endeavor to pass on his new intellectualism to as many slugs as he could.

Visions of world domination inspired Gastro as he worked among the lesser slugs. Given time, who might guess what gastropods made self-aware might accomplish! Elimination of these humans would be only one small item on a list of potential glories!

"I think that this is enough, Jon." shouted Jimmy. "Go get the salt."

Oh, oh!

Of Humble Vegetables and Pompous Regals-

2010-10-21T18:04:00.000-07:00

Philip K. Chesterton sat in his favorite pub, pulling contemplatively on a pint of ale. His long-time companion in this pastime and (several times removed) cousin Ralph Chesterton sat with him at the bar, sipping on a Bud Light. The pub itself was endeavoring to appear dark and oaken and at least vaguely British, generally only succeeding in the dark element of the illusion.

"You ought to at least try a real beer." mumbled Philip. "That crap is made of rice. Light beer is generally offensive on so many levels I can't even begin my usual tirade. This amber ale I am drinking has body, is full in flavor, and has a malty finish."

"You always pick on my choice of beers whenever you get bitchy after that writer's meeting you go to." Ralph said. "Why do you even keep trying at that word slinging? What kind of literary bur did they put under your saddle this time?"

"I have to write a story about cabbages." replied Philip. "Lowly cabbages. It's like trying to rhyme something with the word 'orange.'" Philip waved two fingers at the bartender, who promptly delivered two pints and collected far too much money for them. The pseudo-intellectual pub atmosphere barely made the inflated prices of tapped beer worthwhile to the aspiring word-smith.

Ralph stared blankly into space for a time, then shook his head, finished his pint and started in on the new one. "Orange. Hmph."

"Lewis Carroll commented on cabbages, briefly." said Philip. "'Let us talk of other things.' You know. Cabbages and kings." Ralph grunted, so Philip went on. "Kings, of course, are the pinnacle of social order. Cabbages are common and not much thought of. The phrase refers to a broad range of topics for conversation."

"We're in a bar." said Ralph. "We should be talking about women, sports, guns and beer. At least talk about hops and barley."

"Your beer is mostly rice." said Philip. "That being said, I am quite fond of all of those subjects. However, it is on cabbages I must think."

"Is there any liquor made from cabbages?" asked Ralph.

"Not that I know of." Philip replied. "I remember something in a role playing game, but that may have just been made up stuff."

"You are a geek." said Ralph. "You may even be gay. Does your wife know you are gay? Why do I even hang out with you?"

"Because I pay for your poor excuse for a beer."

"Oh, yeah. Thanks."

Philip took a sip from his amber ale, relishing it's complexity and the lack of rice in the making of the lovely brew. Ralph threw back the second half of his pint of Bud Light, relishing the beer buzz and the fact that it was truly less filling.

"I recall something by Alton Brown on cabbage." Philip said. "You know, the food science guy. Humans have been eating this plant in one form of another for centuries. It has been cultivated, bred, and made better over thousands of years, yet is common enough to be the symbol of commonality."

Philip noticed that Ralph had killed his pint, and ordered two more.

"Cooked properly, it is tasty and extremely nutritious. Cooked poorly and the stink reeks of functional poverty and lousy culinary skills." Philip continued. "It is sometimes fermented or pickled for preservation. Recipes for such forms are common in a vast number of cultures."

Ralph stared into his beer, not even being sure where polite grunts were appropriate. Suddenly, he lit up with a rare idea.

"Hey, Phil. You can write a story of somebody talking about cabbages. That way you could get your story done, and then we could talk about something interesting. You know, like that hot cousin of ours that is so far removed that the cousin thing doesn't matter. I think she is even legal, by now."

"You mean like that Short Story Guy on the Internet does when he gets stuck?" said Philip. "That would be just lame. I'll think about it, though, just the same. Now, which cousin are we talking about?"

Ralph regaled him with his lustful description of the barely legal and hardly related vision, while Philip sipped on his ale and contemplated the impact of inbreeding in isolated populations on human evolution. With enough time, it seemed to him, cabbages could be kings.

Slowly, a story formed in his fertile mind.

Nook and Joseph Conrad-

2010-09-01T19:33:00.000-07:00

I have never read anything by Joseph Conrad until today. Thanks to my nook, I now have. Barnes and Noble offers free books to read with their ereader. I have the reader software on this computer, and recently got a Nook ereader machine. I had finished a free novel recently and was looking through my growing library of free books resident in my Nook for something new to read.

Heart of Darkness by Joseph Conrad looked interesting. It was just the sort of thing I wouldn't have gone looking for. Hence, a likely new reading experience. Heart of Darkness is in itself a novella by Conrad. It is also a sequel to the short story Youth which was included in the book titled Heart of Darkness along with the novella itself and several other short stories. It is Youth that I read today. It is a nautical tale set in the era during which the world transitioned from commercial sailing vessels powered by wind to steam powered ships of commerce.

Youth reminded me of the black and white movies I viewed on television in my childhood. Not all of them were black and white, of course. My own youth began in 1953 and continued for quite a number of years from then. Our television was always a black and white. My parents did not get a color set until after I left home. So, my childhood movie experiences were almost exclusively in black and white.

Those movies were filled with tramp steamers heading to exotic ports all over the world. Adventure had to sought via that mode of transportation most of the time. It was an image familiar to me. So, Conrad's pregnant prose brought forth offspring of vivid images in my mind. He proved to be a most capable writer.

The biographical information in the introductory portion of the book proved interesting as a precursor to the first tale. Conrad tapped into the memories of a twenty year career at sea, as well as experiences in distant and exotic ports. Experiences in ports less seemly and exotic, as well.

Having read Youth I am prepared to move on to Heart of Darkness. More than a high seas adventure, this novella explores the depths to which humans can sink in the quest of wealth at the expense of other peoples. It is a tale taking place in an era of imperialism and economic expansion. It exposes, to a degree, the underbelly of the wealthy nations of the world at the end of the nineteenth century as they pillaged the then dark continent of Africa.

Exposes, but does not necessarily condemn. Conrad was not possessed of sufficient wealth of his own to risk offending his readers, many of whom supported and benefited from the system of Empire. His works have been recognized as great works, often studied and analyzed. Sometimes over-analyzed, and apparently due for additional analysis from a post-modern perspective.

I suppose Conrad wouldn't mind. Of greatest importance to him, I suspect, was a sufficient income to finally overcome his debts and to live out his later years in comfort. That, and he no longer had to get his bread by going to sea.

I wonder what he would think of contemporary television programing like Deadliest Catch?

My Nook shall provide me with a wealth of similar reading experiences. Free books and a whole library I can carry with me just about everywhere makes expanding my reading horizons that much easier. Love my Nook.

Blatherspider

2010-08-30T11:07:00.000-07:00

Mel Patterson felt the love of Jesus. He had been saved for eight months, and he felt the love of Jesus every day. It was glorious, and Mel wanted to share it with everyone. That's the way it was with the love of Jesus. It was the love of Jesus that brought Mel to the Sunshine Home that very morning.

Mel knew that showing the love of Jesus through good works was how he could express that love and maybe bring others to Jesus. He knew that old people had many needs, and his general lack of experience in the world was not an obstacle in finding good works to do for them. At seventeen years of age Mel was quite aware of his lack of useful skills. However, he could do little tasks, useful tasks. And, he could listen.

Moving up the steps of the Sunshine Home Mel spotted an old man sitting on the porch. The old man had claimed a nice spot of morning sunshine, and appeared to be planning to make a day of it. He looked surprisingly like the old man character in the movie "UP."

"Quit staring, boy." said the old man. "I am not Ed Asner, or his damned cartoon character."

Mel halted in his ascent of the stairs, goggling at the old man and wondering if he was psychic.

"I don't have to be psychic to know what people think, boy." the old man said. "I've been around, that's all. I've seen everything. Twice. I wouldn't go in there, if I were you."

"Uh, why not?" Mel asked.

"Blatherspider." said the old man.

"Huh?"

"Education hasn't improved much in the past eighty years." mumbled the old man. "Blatherspider." he said more loudly. "Talks excessively. Lays in wait for any pair of ears. Hunts for sympathy. Tells the same stories over and over. Not interesting stories, either. The Blatherspider will drain the life from you, boy."

Mel smiled. "Are you talking about one of the ladies living here?"

"Ladies?" queried the old man. "Oh, most of them will talk your ear off as well. Nothing like the Blatherspider, however. The ladies don't cast an invisible web over you, binding you to your fate. No, she may look like a lady, but she's a spider. A Blatherspider."

"I guess I will just have to take my chances." said Mel. "For Jesus sake."

"Better pray to that Jesus of yours, boy. Pray for strength to endure."

Mel smiled and nodded his head as he walked past the old man and began to open the door to the Sunshine Home.

"Oh, and if you survive would you bring me a lemonade?" said the old man.

"I would be happy to, Sir." said Mel, as he stepped inside.

His eyes adjusted to the gloom. It seemed a bit darker inside than he had expected. Looking about he saw nobody in the large guest lobby. Then he detected a shift in a distant corner. Something small and white. A face came up out of the gloom. It was a lady.

Her eyes locked on him from the depths of coke bottle glasses. She smiled and gestured toward him. "Come in, young man. Come in!"

He moved toward her, a growing trepidation waring within him with the love of Jesus. He reminded himself of why he was here. Putting on a smile of his own he moved more resolutely toward her in her dark corner.

"Good morning, ma'am. My name is Mel. I am from the church just down the street."

"Oh, a good Christian boy." she said, looking up at him. Mel nodded. "Would you care for some tea?"

Mel said he would love some tea.

"The tea things are over there." she said, gesturing toward a kitchenette near the back of the lobby. "It is a bit hard for me. Would you mind making the tea?"

Mel said he wouldn't mind at all, and moved to the kitchenette. As he began she started to reminisce about her church experiences and her sainted husband. Mel worked, responding where appropriate. He brought her a cup of tea. She tasted it and requested a bit of sugar. As he got the sugar she moved on to another subject. Someone from her past, someone who had not treated her well.

He returned and assisted her in getting a bit of sugar in her cup. She was frail and her hands shook. Her eyes were steady, however, behind those coke bottle glasses. She moved on to someone else who had done her dirt as he settled with his own tea. He attempted to interject from time to time, but she had the bit between her teeth and was running fast and hard with the conversation.

Mel wanted to tell her about the love of Jesus, but every turn in the conversation led back to her and her well rehearsed stories about nothing. Most were laced with bitterness and deep longing. He knew that the love of Jesus could cure bitterness and fill that longing, but he could never get in a word to share that good news with her.

Eventually he realized that he was just there to respond to her conversational needs. In the name of Jesus he settled in for the duration, replying with a polite sound whenever it seemed appropriate. His tea grew cold, and his butt began to feel like it was going to sleep. It was going to be a long morning.

It was close to noon when he stepped out onto the porch with two glasses of lemonade. He handed one to the old man, who accepted it without comment. Mel sat next to him, sipping at his lemonade and watching the nothing happening on the street.

"She must have needed to go to the bathroom, or I wouldn't be seeing you here." said the old man. "Pumping her full of tea is you best defense. She must have a huge bladder, though. She can go on and on and on..."

He expected the old man to gloat, but he just drank his lemonade and watched the same nothing. The nothing was eventually broken by a young woman walking up the path to the Sunshine Home. Mel recognized her. Jennie from the church youth group.

She bounced up the steps, waved to Mel, and put her hand on the doorknob.

"I wouldn't go in there." Mel said.

"Why not?" she asked, holding the door partway open.

"Blatherspider."

"Oh." she said with a smile. "You met Mrs. Loomis, did you?"

"You know her?" asked Mel.

"Yes." said Jennie. "That is why I knew that Jesus wanted me to do the good work of serving meals. I don't know if I could have stood another hour listening to her. Jesus loves her, but she sure makes it hard for the rest of us."

"Gives you a pretty good idea of what Hell is all about." muttered the old man.

Jennie bounced on into the Sunshine Home, skirting the lobby and avoiding eye contact with Mrs. Loomis. Apparently her webs only covered her dark little corner of the lobby.

"You know, boy." said the old man, "Jesus might just be calling you to clean toilets. The staff does alright, but mine could use a little extra attention. No spiders, there, either."

"I'll think about it." said Mel, sipping at his lemonade.

Can Suicide be Painless?

2010-08-26T07:22:00.000-07:00

Former correctional officer Matthew Kershaw knew something about suicide. Twenty eight years in jail can give a person some insight into such things. The question came up with every intake. There were constant classes in the subject dealing with indicators, inmate management, and dealing with the aftermath. Matt had participated in suicide preventions, interventions and debriefings.

He had seen numerous attempts by various techniques. Slashing, diving onto hard surfaces, hoarding medications and subsequent overdoses, and most often attempted hangings. Few were successful. He was of the opinion that most were messy and inconvenient calls for help. The correctional and medical staffs did their best to provide that help, but most of the time the clients were definitively screwed up human beings. The point at which help might have tipped the balance was long past in most of those messed-up lives.

Matt knew of messed up lives. Following his retirement he had lost his only daughter in a car accident. A drunk driver, like one of the many he had clothed, fed and accounted for in the county jail. It had hit him hard, but his wife harder. Her drinking got out of hand, and the only way Matt could save himself was through divorce. The end of their marriage left him with a profound sense of failure, which spiraled into a deep clinical depression.

He sought help, and it worked for quite a while. Then came news of his wife's death. She had not been drinking hard long enough to suffer from the alcohol related debilitations Matt had observed in chronic alcoholics who washed through the jail on a daily basis. No, she simply got very drunk one night, vomited and drowned in her own puke.

Though he had left her in order to save himself, he still loved her deeply. The vague hope of some kind of turn around, a miraculous reconciliation, died in a pool of vomit. He stopped taking his meds, and stopped going to see his counselors. He began spending a lot of time down on the wharf, looking out to sea. He took a lot of his meals at the restaurants there, and became pretty well known to the wait staff in several emporiums of the Crab Louie and clam chowder.

He had thought about this a lot, when dealing with botched suicides in the jail. They lived next to the biggest suicide machine Matt could think of. The Pacific Ocean. Huge. Cold. Unforgiving. Just step into the water, begin swimming for Japan, and let exhaustion and hypothermia do the work.

Matt felt pretty good walking down the wharf that foggy morning. He had determined that foggy was the way to go. That way, if the swimmer changed his mind, nobody could find whoever it was that was calling for help until it was too late. If the goal was successful suicide, help had to be kept at bay.

He turned down the stairs that led to the platform at the water level. There were no sea lions on the platform this morning, which was good. The sound of a gun being fired would probably drive them off, but it would attract attention. No intervention was the goal, so the less attention the better.

Matt stood on the platform and looked into the water. Relatively calm. A ladder into the water allowed for an easy entry without the noise of splashing. He stripped off his clothing quickly, and laid his glasses on the pile. He wouldn't need them. The icy water hurt his foot as he stepped onto the ladder. He climbed down quickly and struck out toward the West.

He began shivering almost immediately as he swam toward the end of the wharf and the end of his days. The shivering passed surprisingly quickly, followed by a numbness and then a sense of warmth. He could still feel the cold just beyond the phantom warmth, but feelings were feelings. A mild euphoria came upon him as he moved past the end of the wharf and headed out to sea.

He rolled onto his back and swam slowly toward the Orient. Gentle rollers occasionally broke across his face, causing an occasional sputtering return to awareness, but for the most part he was able to lose himself in the fog that permeated his brain. It was like the fog sitting on the sea was seeping into him.

The first time he faded from consciousness and went under, his instincts brought him struggling back to the surface. He calmed himself, picked a direction he thought of as West, and struck out again. The next time he was less aware, and could not recall just what it was he was doing. Only for a moment did he think of turning back, but he couldn't recall where back might be. Back to what?

He swam. He swam forever. Angels swam with him, barking angel barks. The fog and the sea melded into one gray mass, an ocean sky filled with barking angels. A suicide sky. A theme song from a long past television show played somewhere in the gray.

This time when Matt came to himself he was deep under the water. The sense of invasion caused by inhaling that first draft of the sea caused a momentary panic. The panic caused a brief struggle for life, but Matt had insured his failure in that struggle. No gestures. No botched suicide. Matt relaxed into the darkness as the sea claimed him.

There was only darkness. Only darkness.

8888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888

Little Bobby Trenton was playing near the water's edge. He could hear his mother calling him, and he intended to respond. However, something was laying on the wet sand with the waves lapping around it. The object had peaked his curiosity. It was covered with kelp, whatever it was.

Bobby padded across the wet sand, reveling in the feel of it and in the warmth of the sun on his shoulders. He wanted to see what was there on the beach. Soon, he did see, and in seeing planted the seed for an endless crop of nightmares and his own pending suicide in the year 2028.

Bobby responded to his mother's call, but it was too late.

I am an ebook reader-

2010-07-05T19:03:00.000-07:00

I downloaded the Barnes and Nobles ebook reader last week, and began reading Dracula, by Bram Stoker. It is a free book I got with the reader. I have also downloaded about a half dozen free ebooks from B&N, offered on their website. I plan to buy my Nook as soon as I have a little spare cash. The price has dropped into the range I consider plausible for sustained ebook reading.

The biggest selling point for me was not the convenience of online shopping, or the nearly instant access to a great many books. It was the convenience of carrying a huge library in an object about the size of my hand. Additionally, I can do my reading on my Netbook computer. I am currently reading there, since I don't yet have my Nook. Indeed, I can read my books on any computer onto which the B&N reader has been loaded.

My most recent reading has been Stephen King's Under the Dome. I got it for Christmas, along with several other books. The book is a huge hardback. I would have thought little of the burden of carrying and holding such a massive lump of paper even weeks ago. Now it seems barbaric and backward to read in such a mode. The Nook would be so much more convenient. I am anxious to go ebook as much as 80% of the time. 100% is not reasonable, at least not yet. This is a transition period.

Even paperbacks have drawbacks. Several I have read have fonts too small. I can adjust the fonts on an ebook reader. Several had margins too small, and I had to bend the book back inconveniently in order to read. Ebook readers have flat screens, which are very much like paper as far as the reading goes. Nothing to fold back at all.

Why Barnes and Nobles? Why Nook? Well, B&N stores offer a free reading feature in stores, and I have always found their stores rather comfortable. The Nook, the B&N exclusive ereader, is comfortable to hold, easy to use, and my daughter has one I have had a chance to try out. Long battery life and ease of use sells the reader as an addition to my toolkit. Otherwise it would be cheaper to just read on my Netbook computer.

From this day forth I will opt for ebooks whenever possible. It is not always the proper format, but for most reading it is a very good option. Under the Dome will probably be donated once I am done. Big. Heavy. So yesterday. Yep. Ebooks.

Assault on Washington-

2010-04-17T17:45:00.000-07:00

Brian Wilson imagined himself in a tank as he bore down on Washington, D.C. He was responding to a call that went out over the Internet to all American Veterans. He was really just chugging along in his Chevy Gladiator conversion van , an oldish vehicle that was still in reasonably good shape, much like Brian himself.

Brian held the title of Viet Nam Era veteran. He held the title with a combination of pride and embarrassment. He had some notion of what real Viet Nam vets went through, having lived among them in the Army and hearing many stories. He had lived among them long enough to also hear the stories they never told. The ones that invaded their sleep, causing them to awake screaming or shivering or just laying in the darkness that seeped into their souls.

The vision of driving a tank toward the nation's capitol was a bit silly, as well. Brian had been in stock control. Missile repair parts. He had been assigned to Germany, and had "fought" the Cold War during the waining years of the Viet Nam conflict. Still, this was a real assault. The call had gone out to all living vets of every war in recent history. Too many lives and bodies and minds had been wrecked in too many conflicts, and too little had been done to compensate for the sacrifice.

Brian had been to Washington from time to time over the course of the years. Often enough to recognize that the traffic seemed normal enough. One concern of the organizers was raising so much concern in Washington that the veterans would be prevented from reaching the National Mall. The assault was intended to be sudden and so entrenched so quickly as to be impossible to dislodge without a huge media uproar.

Soon enough Brian was motoring past the Lincoln Memorial, and turning toward the side street recommended by his Internet contacts. He looked up and saw Wanderwolf parked near the edge of the Mall. Mike, the veteran who lived in the RV named Wanderwolf, must have been pretty pissed off to uproot from Ajo, Arizona and make his way here. Brian had read Mike's blog and knew that the lack of real care for veterans was near to Mike's heart.

Brian found a parking space not too far from the Mall, with a clear view of the Washington Monument. He secured his humble road home and got out onto the sidewalk. He shouldered the gear he had been directed to bring along, and made his way toward the Mall.

He noticed a lot of converted vans, as well as box trucks and other vehicles around that could be used as living spaces as well as vehicles. They were scattered around, not being too obvious. Many other people were making their way toward the Mall, each carrying enough gear to get the job started, but not so much as to draw too much attention.

Here was a young man with an artificial leg, trundling along. There a young woman with a prosthetic arm. One old veteran had a hat celebrating his participation in three wars. World War II, Korea, and Viet Nam. He walked with a cane, and had two younger fellows in attendance, but he made his way toward the Mall on his own two feet.

Brian wiped a tear from his eye. Tears came often, over the years, when he saw a brother or sister who had given much for the United States. Most still believed the country to be great, and worthy of their service. Still, too much sacrifice had been demanded over the years, and it was time to do something.

Finding a place that was not too crowded, Brian sat on the grass and waited. Others were finding places to wait, as well. Brian hoped that they were scattered enough not to draw the eye of law enforcement too soon. Nobody wanted a conflict, especially recognizing that many veterans had found their way into continued service wearing the badges of cities, counties, states and Federal agencies.

There were a lot of police cruisers in the area, most with two officers on board. Still, none were out on foot, and the Mall seemed surprisingly clear of blue or black uniforms.

A trumpet sounded somewhere across the lawn. That was the signal. Hundreds, perhaps thousands of veterans stood and moved quickly onto the lawn. People holding up little American flags began directing the flood of men and women. They all followed direction and fell into their assigned areas, for the most part. There were a few arguments, here and there, but no fights broke out.

Once sufficient order was established, the trumpet sounded again. Three long blasts. As one the army of veterans sprang into action. In a very short time tents were erected and a well-ordered camp sprang into being. The old veteran of many wars sat in a chair as his young attendants set up a nice sized tent for him. Most were the recommended dome tents, which were light and quickly assembled.

With that the Assault on Washington was begun. Brian sat on his patch of the National Mall and watched as the tourist cameras began the informal documentation of the event. He could see the first news crew setting up, their satellite dish pointed toward the sky and the men and women milling about.

The police finally began arriving. No big lines of cops with shields and sticks as in the days of the protests in Washington during the Viet Nam war. Just some crews unloading perimeter barricades and establishing some kind of perimeter. Perhaps the sympathies of the police ran deep.

It was a loose perimeter, Brian noted. Veterans moved in and out of the camp unhindered. Some were bringing in supplies and additional gear from box trucks nearby. A porta-potty service was unloading portable toilets and setting them up on the sidewalks on the edge of the camp.

Brian was not politically savvy. He was not part of the planning, and certainly not part of the more political body that would eventually present demands and make negotiations to end the siege. He was just there as a body, to swell the numbers and establish a presence, much like his primary purpose as a soldier in Cold War Europe.

He thought wistfully about his van. Brian was pretty sure it would eventually be impounded. He hoped that he might be able to trek back to the old beast and gather a few more of his things before that happened. Glancing at a legless fellow veteran sitting nearby in his wheelchair, Brian considered the old van to be a small sacrifice for the cause.

The beachhead was established. Now it came down to waiting. Summer was just around the corner, and Brian knew it would grow hot. By then, if they were still in place, their numbers would swell. Brian hoped that they would have things wrapped up by winter.

It didn't matter, really, how long it took to get some kind of justice for the years and years of sacrifice. This battle would demand one of the greatest skills instilled in the nation's warriors.

No matter what branch of their service, soldiers knew how to wait.

The Hand of God-

2010-02-17T15:00:00.000-08:00

Charles Taylor sat rather uncomfortably at the conference table, watching his host probe the Internet at a monitor built into the surface of the table at which they sat. Charles also had a monitor in the surface of the table right in front of him. His was blank. His hosts monitor blinked with changing screens. The mouse and keyboard also appeared to be part of the flat table surface. Impressive technology, tastefully applied.

"You can go ahead and ask questions." said his host. Bertram Felix Underhill. Man of mystery, a shadow in the Christian underground. Controversial. Frightening, in the flesh. The man radiated confidence and authority, a charisma that bordered on madness, or so it seemed to Charles.

"Well, Mr. Underhill...." Charles began.

"Whoa." said his host. The man looked up at him, the first real look since a quick glance when Charles was escorted into the room. "Call me Bert. We don't like to stand on formalities here." His eyes quickly moved back to the monitor, reflecting the changing light as the screens flickered within the table surface.

"OK. Bert. A friend at my church knew that I was seeking a new position. Some kind of ministry. He put me in touch with some people, who hustled me onto an airplane and now here I am. Wherever 'here' might be."

Bert nodded, tapped a few of the places on the table that served as buttons, and looked up again. This time the light of the monitor faded. "Yes. We have to keep a few things secret, even in a ministry. We are a mission with a mission, and not everyone would understand our work."

His words, and the fervor of their delivery, did nothing to put Charles at ease.

His host tapped another button, and a man in a dark suit appeared out of the shadows.

"Leonard, Charles. Charles, Leonard." said Bert in an off-handed manner. The man in the suit nodded, and Charles nodded in return. "Leonard, do we have a novice cell in Omaha?" The man nodded once again. "I have emailed a little matter to you. Have it take care of by our newbies. It's a chance to cut their teeth."

Leonard nodded again, and faded once more into the shadows.

"I have been going over our prayer network." explained his host. "I have a number of people who read most of the prayer requests around the world. At least, those that get posted onto an Internet site."

Charles leaned forward. This was more like it. Up until this moment he wondered what he had gotten into. Prayer, ministry, taking care of people. Being like Jesus. Yes. That was what he wanted. Christian men of action.

"Leonard is going to see to a woman's needs." continued Bert. "She is apparently being beaten by her husband, though she has never expressed that outright. Her husband is a prominent businessman in Omaha, and a pillar of their church. However, her frequent prayer requests for healing have flagged some of our first level operatives. Our front line prayer ministers, you might say."

"Someone is going to see to her medical needs?" Charles offered.

"Oh, no. She has access to that, and insurance better than most people." Bert said. "No, our newest cell is going to help her husband adjust his attitude. He seems to fail to understand his responsibilities. They are going to make a very clear argument for a significant change of behavior. A very real repentance. He should be able to walk again in about six weeks. My people are very well trained."

Charles had to close his mouth consciously. It had gaped open at this statement.

"He will hardly miss the one finger." his host mused. "Just enough not to forget, after the leg heals."

Charles tried to swallow, but found he was running a bit dry. Rather parched. His host made a gesture, and another man appeared out of the shadows. There seemed to be quite a few shadows, and a surprising number of men waiting in them. This man placed a glass of water in front of Charles, and faded again into the darkness.

Charles looked at the glass for a moment, then shrugged and picked it up. It was cool and refreshing, and cleared his head a bit while quenching his thirst. He was in a bit of shock, then. That made him feel better, knowing that. A bit better.

"Your friend recommended you to us for several reasons." said Bert. "Your zeal for the Lord. Your frustration with small opportunities for real ministry. Your skills in computers applied to satellite telecommunications. All fine qualities, and qualities we can use here."

"Where is here?" Charles asked again. "I was brought in a private jet with covered windows. I came out of the plane after several hours of flight, and went straight into a limousine. A limousine in a hanger, a limousine with windows so dark as to render no view. I haven't seen any sign of where you have brought me. It is starting to make me uncomfortable."

His host smiled. He looked.... patient. Patient, in the same way a crocodile is patient. "We have reasons for our secrecy. Most especially for the level of work I have in mind for you. I will show you the mission, and you can decide how you would like to proceed."

Charles sighed. He was in deep, and that made him uncomfortable. He was also curious, perhaps a great deal more curious than frightened. There was also a sense of excitement. A notion that he might be able to make a real difference in the world. A hope to really be like Jesus, to follow Him in a mighty work.

He nodded. Bert touched a few of the buttons in the table top. The screen in front of Charles came on, displaying a map.

"Somalia." said Bert. "Years ago aid for Somalians, humanitarian aid, was captured by warlords and used by them to secure to cooperation of starving people. A gift of generosity, much of which was in the name of Christ, was turned into a weapon and a mode of torture and domination."

The screen flickered. Another part of the Earth was presented to Charles.

"Uzbekistan." said Bert. "The recent earthquake caused a great deal of death, injury and deprivation. The government of Uzbekistan has refused the entry of humanitarian aid, claiming they can care for their own people. However, that particular part of the state has been in partial rebellion for the better part of the last year. The man managing the government aid is dragging his feet, manipulating resources to starve out the people who are seeking greater freedom."

Charles nodded. He had heard a bit about this on television. He felt a moment of shame that he had paid only the tiniest bit of attention to the problem.

"I have resources in place to remove this man." said his host. "Him, and his little army. I have everything but the eyes in the sky that the big boys have."

Charles looked up. He felt a thrill, and a moment of guilt. "You plan to kill him?"

"Oh, more than him. There is some risk, however." said Bert. "To remove him and his forces, and make a large enough impact, we will probably destroy most of a town."

"Everyone?" asked Charles.

"Yes." said Bert. "Men, women, and children. Churches, Mosques, and schools. Our prayer warriors are already praying for them."

"And you want me to hijack a satellite to aid in this?" asked Charles. He could not keep the incredulity from his voice. "Why a satellite? You said you had your resources in place."

"Accuracy." said his host. "Precision. And, to let the world know we can do it.You can do it, can't you?"

There was something dangerous in the way he said it. Charles nodded, and took a long drink from his glass. Suddenly he wanted something much stronger than water.

"I thought you could." said Bert. Bertram Felix Underhill. "The question, of course, is will you?"

Charles could not lift his eyes from the screen in front of him. Twisted and burnt bodies, many of them small and delicate, danced across the screen. No, that was his imagination. It was just a satellite image of a distant land. Mangled little bodies. Charred. Broken.

"I need time to think." he said. He could hardly hear his own voice.

His host, his captor, made a small gesture. Charles was aware of a man suddenly standing by his side.

"Show our guest to his room." ordered his host. "See that he is not disturbed. He needs to pray, and wait upon the Lord. See that his meals are brought to him, and that his needs are met."

Charles stood, and followed the man from the shadows toward the door.

"We are praying for you." called his host, as he stepped from the room.

Praying for you. It had never sounded like a threat, before.

The Price of Vengeance-

2010-02-02T11:18:00.000-08:00

Ziggy Dunbar was sitting in his cell, just "kickin' it." He had done time before, though this was just his second visit to the joint. State prison. No harder than his life on the streets. Ziggy knew his place here. He had protection, and he needed it. He wasn't particularly strong, and he knew he wasn't very smart. His place in the prison gang that protected him was not very high at all.

Still, the favors he provided for the boss prevented others from preying on him. Ziggy didn't like to think about those favors, but they did sometimes haunt his dreams. He didn't like to think about those dreams, or his crappy family or his sucky life. He mostly liked getting high, and just "kickin' it."

Ziggy was just too low on the food chain to have dreams, other than nightmares.

A shadow crossed in front of Ziggy. The hairs on the back of his scrawny neck stood up, and his bowels felt like they were full of water. He didn't move. Sometimes the predators passed on, if you didn't move.

"Hey, Ziggy." came a voice from the other side of the cell. "We need to talk."

Ziggy had heard that one before. It really meant "You have to listen." There was usually pain involved. Ziggy held on one moment more, and then looked up.

Cocoa Johnson sat on the bench in front of the small desk that made up the furniture in his small cell. Ziggy had felt lucky to be assigned to a cell too small to convert to double occupancy. He didn't feel so lucky, now. Cocoa made the room feel crowded. His lieutenant, Pepper Jones, stood just inside the door, and made the room seem like a tomb.

Standing just outside the door was another member of Cocoa's gang. Ziggy couldn't see much more than hunched shoulders and a bald head. That one was the look-out. Ziggy's spinning brain named him Paprika, a moment of cleverness born of desperation. Ziggy knew himself not to be clever, and so missed his own joke. He didn't know who the guy was, and didn't care.

Cocoa was rooting through a small paper bag that had been sitting on the desk. Ziggy's few little treats, purchased from the commissary. Ziggy didn't have much, and Cocoa confirmed it by not even bothering to steal anything. He dropped the bag back onto the desk, and then looked right at Ziggy.

Somehow, it would have made Ziggy feel better if the eyes looking at him were threatening. Angry eyes. Eyes filled with fury. These eyes were cold, looking at him with little interest. The eyes of a man with a job to do, and determination to do it.

"I don't know what in the hell you did on the streets, but you really pissed somebody off." said Cocoa. "We got orders to hurt you. Not kill you. Just hurt you. And when you heal from this hurt, we have to hurt you again."

Ziggy swallowed. His mouth was dry, but he worked up enough spit to croak out a question.

"How long?" he asked.

"Until this sucker stops paying for our 'service.'" answered Cocoa. "Whoever it is, he knows how things work here in prison. He knows, and he is pissed at you."

Ziggy tried to swallow, but could not. His one question used up all of the available liquids in his mouth, and he could find no more. His bowels felt like he was trying to keep in the contents of a lake, but his mouth was as dry as a desert.

"Getting to you this time was easy." said Cocoa. "Your boys don't know we have a contract on you. Next time might be harder. If it is, I suspect our visit might hurt that much more."

Ziggy's mind tried to race. Unfortunately, the track was short and he simply lacked the horsepower. He knew he was about to be injured, and he wouldn't be able to tell his boys anything. He had no idea how to keep them from figuring it out. Thinking was not going well, and Ziggy fell to hoping that they would just get this over with.

"Your friend from the street sent you a message." continued Cocoa. "He said for you to watch what you pick up from now on."

Pick up? What? The only thing that connected in his mind was his job, the one that got him into prison. Snatching purses for an identity theft ring. He only knew his contact, who paid him in drugs. Ziggy had been thrown to the police when they were closing in on the ring. Ziggy, his contact, and a few other nobodies went down for the crimes. As far as Ziggy knew, the big bosses were still out there cashing other people's checks.

"I will leave you to Pepper, now." said Cocoa, standing up. "He will definitely spice up your life."

Cocoa pressed past Pepper and exited the cell. Ziggy did not have to wait long. The pain began almost right away.

Carl Bergson finished his drink and pushed the empty glass toward the bartender. He counted out a few bills and paid the man, with a decent tip on top. Carl had regular habits, this drink in the evening being one of them. Same bar, same time, sometimes even the same stool. Carl stood and walked toward the door.

As he exited the bar he made brief eye contact with a young thug standing on the corner. The thug hid his momentary surprise pretty well, but Carl had been dealing with this type for quite some time. He recognized a tail when he saw one. The gang was already keeping tabs on him, and the deal was only a month old.

Carl walked quietly toward his apartment building, enjoying the dubious satisfaction of vengeance. That weasel Ziggy had really messed up Carl's life, stealing that purse. Carl's wife had one moment of inattention, and the identity theft that resulted was still causing them enormous grief. It was unfortunate for Ziggy that Carl ran in the same circles as his bosses. Granted, Carl's job was more legitimate, part of the system. Still, such grief from so small an act.

As he made his way up the stairs, Carl wondered just what he would do when they came. He knew they would come, those criminals with whom he had made the deal. So much a month to one of the inmates in the prison. Probably one of their up and coming leaders. In exchange, Ziggy was always going to be healing from one injury or another.

That had been the deal. Carl knew it would not end there. Someday the thug he made eye contact with would show up with a message. Him, or one like him. Some favor a gang boss required. It was the real price of vengeance.

Carl opened the door and was greeted by his wife. Together the went and sat down at the computer, with the phone at hand. They still had a terrible knot to untie, and little hope of being done soon. It may never really be over. Carl cursed Ziggy under his breath, and relished the knowledge that the nasty little man was about to receive another visit.

Carl would put a check in the mail first thing in the morning.

American Terrorist-

2010-01-17T15:26:00.000-08:00

Tommy Carlos stood on the darkened rooftop, overlooking the village square. Born Tomas Ignacio Carlos, he had assumed many other names over the years. This, however, was a night for reflection. Tonight he was Tommy Carlos, an American in a foreign land.

He gazed at the darkened village square, with the well in the center. The well tapped the aquifer that supplied nearly two thousand rural Pakistani people with water. This well was the target, and tonight was the culmination of seven months of work. Possibly the culmination of Tommy's whole career, as well. He had lived a lot in his twenty seven years, and knew that he might not have many years more.

The government of the United States had not been hesitant to use Tommy's facility with language. He had grown up in a family that valued both English and Spanish, and he had shown a knack for using those languages. The government had valued his genes, as well. Tommy had an appearance that would let him blend in. He could appear Middle Eastern, Asian, or Hispanic with little more than changes of clothing and hairstyle.

At this point in his life Tommy knew English, Spanish, two dialects that served him in Iraq, and a dialect that had opened doors in Afghanistan. He had been trained by the Army to assist special operations teams in quite a number of places. He had applied those skills for the government of the United States through two tours in Iraq and one in Afghanistan.

When he separated from the Army he had been offered jobs by the CIA, the FBI, several specialized Homeland Security teams, and half a dozen "private contractors." A number of less legitimate offers had come his way, as well. It was an obscure little group with a small presence on the Internet that had captured his attention.

Several shadows separated themselves from the dark walls surrounding the village square. Right on time. They moved into position, and all was quiet for a time. Tommy returned to his musing.

It had taken him months to get to this village. He had to contact drug dealers. He had to contact smugglers. He had to pay off petty warlords and a few politicians. He had learned who grew the opium poppies and who controlled the sales. Months of work had netted a nice little stash of the raw materials for making opium in a small warehouse just a stone's throw from where he stood.

That had all been a cover. Once he had most of his stash established his unnamed contacts had hidden tightly sealed containers in the warehouse. It had amused him that opium, a substance that was usually hidden in something else to be shipped, was itself a hiding place.

Twice since the containers were put in place his warehouse had been inspected by local authorities. They had not looked twice at the poison he was collecting to ship out of the country. They would have been quite troubled at the more immediate death that hid within the bundles.

Men began moving back and forth across the square, from his warehouse to the well and back again. They were silent, and hard to see, but Tommy knew that they were emptying the containers into the waters below. It would not be long, now.

The opium dealing was actually just a cover for this operation. A way to hide in plain site, a way of doing what needed doing for a higher end. His drug dealing connections would probably be hunting him, after this night was over. Quite a number of people would be hunting him.

The men appeared to have finished, blending back into the darkness. The night was very dark in this part of the world. Tommy climbed down from the roof and gathered his pack and other gear. He began the long trek toward the border. Afghanistan was a long walk away, and he was already adopting his next persona.

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Arnie Kendricks sat at his computer, probing the Internet. He had really enjoyed his new career, reading and reporting on Internet activities for a branch of Homeland Security. He really didn't know just what branch, or how it fit into the scheme of things. He just liked the job. It was almost like his period of extended unemployment. He had done a lot of the same things, but didn't get payed.

Now, however, he was not so sure about his sweet gig. The website was a terrorist website, that was for sure. However, these were Americans conducting terrorist acts in foreign lands. Oh, and what acts! Twelve hundred Pakistani villagers killed by some kind of poison. The images were horrific. Men, women and children who died a slow and painful death.

Moving past the images was hard, but he had to read further. The group gave their name, and claimed responsibility. They promised more of the same, unless Pakistan delivered the leaders of Al-Qaeda to American authorities and drove Al-Qaeda out of Pakistan and into Afghanistan where American forces could deal with them openly.

Arnie could already visualize the reprisals that would come from this. He checked the links and found several other sites showing the same images and what he assumed was the same text in other languages. Tracking the links he could see that this was going to go viral.

He linked the site to his boss, whoever that really might be, with a quick note indicating that this was important and advising that his report would follow. Arnie wondered just how secure his homeland might prove to be, after this.

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Out of the hills of northern Afghanistan a lone figure walked. He looked harried, as if the ghosts of innocents dogged his heals. Another figure arose from concealment and greeted the lone walker. The two turned and walked down a path, far from quiet American streets. They made their way to a cave, and entered without a word.

Inside they joined two dozen expatriates, to plan together and see if small actions by a few dedicated people could change the course of nations.

A Knight's Tale-

2010-01-11T11:17:00.000-08:00

Sir Claudus of Humbleshire awoke, his head ringing and rather filled with pain. He checked himself, finding he was a bit singed and rather bruised, but generally all there. His sword lay several feet away, broken in two and useless. He could not find his mace.

Looking up he could see the dragon. Long and sleek, with shiny scales glinting like fine silver and gold. The woman Claudus had tried to rescue was held in one great claw. The dragon’s eyes were upon him. Meeting those eyes, Sir Claudus glared his deepest hate. The dragon snorted a bit of smoke, nodded his head in seeming satisfaction, and leaped into the air.

The woman dangling from that great claw did not scream, or call for help. She looked up at her captor with mingled fear and awe. It almost looked like love to Sir Claudus, but that could not be right. The beast had held her captive for years, and over the years her letters begging for rescue had been circulating in the hero trade. “Save me from the dreaded dragon. Princess Mallow.”

“She does this all the time.” said a voice from behind him. Claudus turned, still on the ground, to face the source of the voice. His bruises screamed, but he used his knightly discipline to force his bruised body to respond. It was an old woman, sitting on a rock. He did not let down his guard, such as it was after his bruising, and eyed the strange creature.

“Who are you?” he inquired. His head hurt, and the sound of his own voice was like thunder between his ears.

“Her Fairy God Mother.” replied the old woman.

“If she has a Fairy God Mother, why does she sneak missives out of the dragon’s lair begging rescue from knights?” asked Claudus. “Why haven’t you just whisked her out of there? She has the Heroes Guild in a tizzy, I must say. Longest damsel in distress case on the books.”

“I have, several times.” said the FGM, with a sigh. “She always sabotages rescue attempts. She has issues. You know, psychological problems.”

“Eh?”

“Oh, sorry. In the future they have this thing called psychology. I have been studying it in my spare time.”

“In the future?” asked the knight. “What are you talking about?”

The old woman whisked a crystal ball out of her sleeve, holding it up to catch the morning light. “It’s a part time gig.” she said. “County fairs, carnivals, that sort of thing. Being Fairy God Mother to a confused young woman who won’t be rescued leaves me with a lot of time to fill.”

The knight shook his head, and then wished he had not.

The ball vanished up the old woman’s sleeve, and she produced a pouch from her belt. Extracting a few herbs she rolled them together in a leaf she plucked from a bush next to her rock. She handed it to the knight and said, “Chew on this. It will ease the pain in your head and help you with managing those bruises.”

The knight popped the packet into his mouth and chewed slowly. It was bitter, but he felt a bit better right away.

“I don’t even recall the beast striking me.” he lamented. “Did I even get in a decent blow?” He glanced at his broken sword, hoping that it had been damaged in a mighty combat.

“Nope.” said the old woman. “The girl built up the fire you banked last night when you both went to sleep. She made it bright and smokey. The dragon flew in on this beacon, and sat with his captive until you stirred. He tapped you lightly with his tail, and gave you a hint of dragon’s breath. You went out like a light.”

“My sword?”

“You dropped it. The dragon stepped on it.”

The knight sighed, and stood up. He looked back in the direction of the dragon’s lair. The beast was just a dot in the sky, almost out of sight.

“Will she ever be free?” he asked, as he picked up the broken pieces that had been his sword.

“Perhaps, someday.” said the Fairy God Mother. “Or, she might just be absorbed into the dragon itself. Perhaps, should the dragon die, she shall become a dragon herself.”

“Why the rescue notes?” he asked, as he wrapped the broken sword in his cloak. He was going to have to find someone to reforge the broken blade. He glanced around, looking for his missing mace.

“All part of her illness.” said the FGM. She was really enjoying having the opportunity to talk about the things he had learned, peering into the future through her crystal ball. “She and the dragon feed each other’s deepest needs, in some way. I haven’t studied that far, yet. Crystal balls aren’t easy to read. Anyway, part of her thinks she really longs for rescue, but the dominant part wants to continue the relationship with the dragon.”

“Maybe I’ll just become a monk. You know, one of those hermits.” said the knight, giving up on the mace. “Well, I guess I will be off, to look for a hermitage.” He waved and began wandering off through the woods in the direction opposite the dragon’s lair.

The Fairy God Mother took out the crystal ball, and pulled up her schedule. “Ah, a nice little county fair just two days away. I guess I better get ready.”

She glanced longingly in the direction the dragon had taken her young charge. Shaking her head, she turned away and lifted the edge of her cloak. Spinning the dark cloth around herself, she turned ninety degrees from everything and returned to her home in the netherworld.

The missing mace lay deep in the shadows, under a bush not far from where the knight had been. Having little else to do, it rested there quietly, and began to rust.

Snow Globe Terrorist-

2009-08-05T20:23:00.000-07:00

Jason Willey stood patiently waiting for the basket containing his property to slide down the track. He had removed his belt and his shoes and put them in the basket along with his carry-on bag, passed through the scanner and now waited for his things to pass through x-ray.

He had done this all before, here at the John Wayne International Airport and several others. Jason remembered times of easier travel, prior to the expansion of international terrorism and a catastrophic direct attack on the United States. It was inconvenient, and it made him a bit angry, but the changes in security seemed necessary and he could put up with it all.

This time the basket was a bit slow in exiting the x-ray tunnel. Jason looked up at the operator and noticed the man looking rather concerned, staring at his screen. The man looked up, looked past Jason and waved over another security officer. They consulted for a moment, and then the second officer picked up Jason's basket.

Jason felt some sympathy for the man. He looked haggard, and as he approached he also had a look of apology on his face. A look of apology, Jason mused. Not one of the most common expressions, but that is what he saw in the countenance of the man walking his direction.

"We seem to have a problem, sir." said the security officer. "I will need to examine some items in your carry-on." The officer indicated an open table. Jason nodded and followed.

The man moved a few things around in the basket, and handed Jason his shoes and belt. Jason always wore slip-on shoes when he flew, and these he slipped quickly on his feet. He watched the man respectfully probe through the carry-on items as he threaded his belt through the belt loops and fastened the buckle.

"That's a teapot, from Disneyland." said Jason as the man opened a bag that obviously could have come from no place else. "Alice in Wonderland. I collect Disney."

The man nodded, but did not attempt to open the box. Instead he picked up a paper wrapped item and glanced at Jason.

"Oh, that's just a snow globe." Jason said. He nodded toward the officer, who began to unwrap the item. "Kind of a last minute purchase. I thought it would look cool on one of my shelves at home."

The snow globe was revealed. It had a Pirates of the Caribbean theme, and the "snow" was actually bits of material intended to look like gold pieces. The security guard turned the snow globe over and ran his thumb over a small label.

This item cannot be carry on baggage. Jason's jaw dropped. He vaguely recalled reading about this but it had simply slipped his mind as he made the purchase.

"Throw it away, I guess." Jason said. He sighed and gathered his things from the basket as the officer wrapped the snow globe back up and placed it in a box under the table.

Not looking at Jason the officer said in a low voice, "When is your flight?"

"An hour and a half."

"Which gate?"

"Two."

The officer nodded and said, "Have a nice flight, sir."

Jason made his way to the waiting area adjacent to gate two. He sat and contemplated just what went through the mind of the airport designer who placed so many windows facing the setting sun. It was a bit warm and the light of the waning day was too intense, even through the tinted windows between where he sat and the tarmac apron upon which the arriving and departing aircraft sat.

He realized that he was just distracting himself. Though the price of the snow globe was less than ten dollars it angered Jason that some terrorist without a face had cost him his relatively meaningless treasure. Sure, the terrorists probably fought for some obscure ideals of which Jason knew nothing, but that mattered little. They had touched his life and offended him.

Jason went back and forth in his mind for most of an hour before he realized that someone was standing behind him. He glanced up and saw the security officer that had confiscated the snow globe standing there, looking out at the tarmac.

"I dropped a slip of paper under your seat." said the officer. "It has a web site and a phone number on it. Wait until I am gone before picking it up. I shouldn't be doing this, but I am very tired of these people impacting our lives. It's just a small thing, but at least it is something."

Jason nodded, saying nothing. He waited until he was sure that the officer no longer stood behind him. He bent down, adjusted his pant leg, and then swept up the slip of paper. He tucked it into a pocket, not even looking at it.

He felt better, knowing that the officer felt some sympathy for his small loss. The remainder of his wait went quickly. Soon he was winging his way home.

It was late the next morning when Jason remembered the slip of paper. He had been tired when he got home, and had not even fully unpacked his things. He picked up the cast-off pants from the floor and went through the pockets to find the paper.

There it was. A web address and a phone number. Jason took the slip of paper to his desk, sat down at his computer and typed in the address. Soon a rather simple website loaded. It at first looked like a news and opinion page relating to the activities of international terrorists. However, a theme appeared as he scanned the articles. Following a few hints Jason made his way through a couple of linked pages and found what the officer had intended him to find.

There were short articles relating small inconveniences others had suffered as a consequence of the activities of these faceless terrorists. Most writers seemed angry and felt powerless. Here and there on the page were links associated with one question.

"If you could strike back, would you?"

"Yes." said Jason, under his breath.

He followed one of the links. The page was simple. All text. No images. No links. One page address written into the text. The article referred to pieces of paper similar to the one he held. Then Jason came to the critical paragraph.

You can strike back, in a very small way. Somewhere in the world a terrorist is being held, captured by a private security concern. This particular terrorist is linked to the Internet through a remotely initiated electronic device. That device is constructed from a cell phone trigger taken from him as he sought to kill men, women and children with a backpack bomb. Now that trigger sends seventy thousand volts of electricity through his body whenever someone calls.

Jason glanced at his slip of paper. A web site and a phone number.

Jason copied and pasted the web site address embedded in the text of the article he was reading. He hit go. The screen opened on a live video feed. A young man sat in a chair. He was naked from the waist up, and looked quite haggard. Jason had expected a mad man, a representation of every nightmare a child might have. This man just looked like some young guy. Like anybody.

Anybody who happened to carry a backpack loaded with explosives, intent on blowing up a bus or train station or ice cream parlor. Jason visualized the children who would have been dismembered or burned in the explosion, had this man succeeded in his task.

He opened his cell phone and punched in the number. Jason paused, staring at the number on the screen. This man had been acting on a set of ideals. From his own perspective this man had seen his intended actions as noble and right.

Jason looked at the man on the computer screen. Yes, the man had ideals. Jason acknowledged that. In the context of his own world the man was noble. Jason acknowledged that.

His thumb poised over the send button. Yes, he had his own nobility and ideals. But the man was wrong! Wrong, and no longer faceless.

It was not dismembered old ladies that Jason visualized in this moment. Neither was it burned children. It was a snow globe.

Jason pressed the send button, and watched the image on his computer screen.

The Next Level-

2009-07-22T03:45:00.000-07:00

I have been long thinking on how to turn writing into more than a hobby. I would like to get at least some of my income from writing. I have studied a bit about copywriting, a lucrative field preparing copy for advertisements and promotions, as well as writing letters and such for those who need a writer's skill. It is not the creative writing I prefer, but it is an avenue I might follow in the coming years.

More in line with my real interests I have written a novel, and begun a sequel. However, I have not yet gotten my novel published. Having studied the processes of getting published I have decided to go with a print on demand program through Amazon. This form of publication will leave promotion of my book in my hands, and so it will probably not make a huge splash in the realm of adventure fantasy fiction. Still, it will be out there.

How to market my short story writing? I was inspired by my sister Donni to use Craigslist as a tool for beginning my short story project. She promoted her private pre-school using Craigslist, and the results have been far greater than I imagined. So, I have begun to offer short stories over Craigslist.

My purpose is to create short stories for people to present as gifts or commemorations to family, friends and colleagues. Other purposes will come to mind over time, and I can create tiny tales for whatever purpose my client might have.

I have established a separate Google mailing address from which to manage the project, and a PayPal account as a means of receiving payment. Once some revenue is generated I can apply it to getting my novel out into the marketplace, and once that is underway I can reinvest the income to build my writing into a business.

This project will be very low budget, and only time will tell just where it will go.

shortstoryguy@gmail.com

That is the contact address. If you or anyone you know has need of a unique gift, write me at that address.

Meanwhile, the tales I tell here remain free. Invite your friends and neighbors to stop by and visit. Leave a comment, from time to time. Writers love readers, and its nice to know someone is reading.

The Medicine Man's Apprentice-

2009-07-20T22:45:00.000-07:00

The Great Botutsu scrabbled under a low bush, digging at the roots until he came up with a large bulb. Shaking the dirt from his prize he tossed it to Comasa. Comasa caught it and placed it in the large bag hanging from his shoulder.

The bag was heavy. It was Comasa's job to carry for the Great Botutsu. To fetch for the Great Botutsu. To empty the gourd the Great Botutsu kept next to his bed. To cook. To clean. To do what he was told.

In exchange the Great Botutsu would give Comasa knowledge. He would teach Comasa about the plants and animals, about their spirits and how they could be used to help and heal. He would also learn about poisons, or so he suspected. The Great Botutsu never addressed the subject directly, and always deflected questions on the matter.

"That is the root of the Tum Tum tree." said the Great Botutsu. "It brings sleep to those who have a wounded spirit. It heals the mind and quiets the small demons that harbor in the hearts of those who have been long sad."

Comasa nodded. He had seen it used on Mama Kodumba when she had lost her husband to a great beast in one of the hunts. Her heart had been wounded by the beasts spirit, or so the Great Botutsu had said. The beast having eaten her husband, the spirit of the beast had followed the bond of their marriage to consume the mate as well. She had lost the will to live, and was unable to care for her children.

The Great Botutsu had given her the last of his dried root, a bit at a time over the course of two months. With the passage of time she had returned to herself, and the spirit of the beast had been driven out. Comasa had been assigned to the nightly drum rituals to drive out the beast, and after much time the root and drum had prevailed.

Mama Kodumba was again tending to her children, and cooking the wonderful meals for which she had been famous. Comasa had entertained some concern that the fat those meals had put on Mama Kodumba's husband may have prevented him from escaping the beast that slew him, but he knew better than to speak of such things.

The Great Botusu was the one to speak. It was Comasa's job to listen and learn.

Now the Great Botusu was looking at a plant that was unfamiliar to Comasa. Perhaps it was unfamiliar to the Great Botusu, as well. The Great Botusu walked around the plant one way, and then the other. He looked it up from root to tip, and down from tip to root. He then sat before the plant, and held out his hand.

Comasa untied the small bag from his belt and handed it to the Great Botusu. The Great Botusu opened the bag and withdrew a pinch of smoke weed. He dug a small hole at the base of the plant he was studying and burried the bit of weed. Tossing the bag back to Comasa the Great Botusu began to chant.

Comasa sat down next to his master and joined in the chant. As he had been taught he visualized the plant as a seed, falling from the sky and coming to earth in this place. He imagined it growing, putting forth root and leaf and over time coming to be the plant before them.

The Great Botusu got up and cut several branches of leaves from the plant. He dug at the base of the plant and brought forth some of the roots. All of these he wrapped carefully in his prayer shawl, and cradled them as they walked back to the village.

When they arrived Comasa went to work preparing all of the things they had collected for drying and storing. When everything was cleaned and arranged on the drying racks he went in search of his master.

The Great Botusu was sitting by a small fire in front of their hut. He had a clay vessel heating in the coals, and Comasa could see some of the leaves from the unknown plant soaking in the hot water.

"Sit, Comasa." said the Great Botusu. "It is time for the next step in your initiation."

Comasa sat. The Great Botusu used some wooden tongs to remove the hot clay pot from the coals. He poured off a small portion into a little bowl. He held it up, allowing the vapors to enter his nose. He put in a finger and brought one tiny drop to his tongue. This he spit out. He offered the bowl to Comasa.

Comasa also let the vapors enter into his nose. He touched the brew with one finger, and touched it to his tongue. He did not spit it out, but let it rest there. He waited, holding the warm bowl in his hands.

The Great Botusu watched and waited with him. Then he took up his rattle, and began to shake the rattle first to the left of Comasa, and then to the right. Comasa drank from the bowl. He waited, watching the fire and listening to the sound of the rattle.

Brighter and brighter grew the light of the fire. The sound of the rattle grew crisp and seemed to take on a strange color. That did not seem right. The light of the fire filled his eyes. The rattle went through his head. There was a sudden pain in his chest and then there was darkness and silence.

Slowly the light came back to Comasa. Rather than rattles his ears picked up the sound of a small bell occasionally struck. He opened his eyes and could just make out the shape of his master above him. Comasa realized he was laying on his sleeping mat, and tried to rise.

The Great Botusu pushed him back down. "Rest. You have been four days in the spirit realm. Fever and sweat, and strange words from your tongue. Four days. When you are strong again you will tell me of your journey."

Comasa expected his head to hurt, but it felt remarkably clear. His body felt worn, as if he had worked long and hard and then run many miles. As he lay there he began to think again about his decision to bind himself to the Great Botusu.

He then recalled the long hours tending the fields or minding the goats. The long trail hunting in the forest, often with little to eat and not always with success.

With the Great Botusu he had plenty of food. The village provided well for the medicine man, and Comasa shared in that bounty. He enjoyed the learning, and mastering knowledge that was held by only a few.

He would rest. While he rested he would try to recall his journey to the spirit realm. Right now he only remembered pain and darkness, but he was sure the truth of the journey would come to him as he rested.

The little bell tolled by his ear. "I will name the new plant for you, Comasa." said the Great Botusu. "You wrestled with demons while the plant held you in darkness. Reach back. Remember. Find the names of the demons. You will one day be the Great Comasa."

Comasa hovered on the edge of sleep. He could now see the demons in his mind. He could remember the battle. Yes. It would be a mighty tale to tell, when he woke again.

Somewhere a bell rang softly in the distance.

The Witch of Wickham-

2009-07-12T23:21:00.000-07:00

John Fortner was old enough to be aware of the war, but too young to really understand what was going on. He stood on the porch with his father, watching the soldiers march by. Word was that the enemy was just miles away. There would be a battle.

A battle! The thought raced through young John's head. Visions of glory on the battlefield, with a vanquished foe at his feet!

"Go muck out the barn, John." said his father.

Far from dreamed-of glory, John did what he was told. He finished, and stepped outside of the barn for a bit of fresh air.

He could see smoke on the horizon, and hear occasional shots and shouts. Rarely a cannon barked and echoed off of the surrounding hills.

John's dreams of glory had faded to cow dung on his boots. He made his way to the porch and sat on the steps. One at a time he removed and cleaned his boots. He often thought his father was stodgy and unimaginative, but he respected the value the man placed on necessary things. John cleaned the boots with care.

He looked up in time to see her come out of the woods, walking along the same road the soldiers had used to go past their small farm. The witch of Wickham. She looked like a ghost in the twilight, gliding along the way and looking neither left or right. He watched her pass, moving in the direction of the battle.

As she faded from sight, John realized that the sounds of battle had also faded away. With a sigh, he finished his task and went into the small house.

His father sat at the kitchen table, finishing a cup of tea. John poured a cup from the kettle, and sat down opposite the older man.

John said nothing. He sipped at his tea, and looked down at his feet. His father had not gone to the war. "Growing food for people to eat is contribution enough." he had said some time ago, when John had asked. "Soldiers have to eat, and we know how to grow food."

"G'night, Dad." John said, getting up.

"Night, Son." said his father. John noticed that he looked much older tonight. Perhaps the light. John went off to bed.

It was late in the night when John awoke. He shivered, even though the night was warm. He got up from his bed and made his way to the front door.

His father stood there, looking out at the road.

John joined him. Moments later he caught a glimmer on the road. It was the witch! She walked back up the road, heading toward the woods and the village of Wickham on the other side. She was singing an unearthly tune, one which made John's heart feel cold and hard inside his chest.

As she drew abreast of the farm another glimmer in the direction from which she had come caught his attention. Slowly, two by two, soldiers were marching in her wake. They were keeping pace with her tune. As they drew closer the chill in John's heart grew colder still. He shivered as he watched.

Some carried limbs in their arms. Legs, arms, bits of themselves or other men. One carried his own head. Some shared the burden of carrying a torn and mangled torso, or unrecognizable pieces of what once might have been men. None carried weapons or gear. John realized that they were beyond need of such things, now.

He drew in a breath to ask his father a question. His father touched his lips, gently, and the question faltered on his tongue. He watched in silence as the price paid for a war he did not understand marched silently away into the woods.

The last stragglers finally passed by and faded into the woods. They aided each other, for few were whole and walking was difficult. When the last one passed into the deeper darkness between the trees, John let out his breath.

"Let's get back to bed, Son." his father said. "They may now be beyond need, but others will be in need of the food we can produce."

A multitude of questions tangled John's tongue, and not a one made it past his lips.

His father looked at him. "That is all there really is to the glory of war, Son." he said, gently. "She will lead them to a place of passing, and they will find peace. The rest of us have to carry on. Get some rest."

John returned to his bed. He thought he would lay there the rest of the night, unable to sleep. Instead the haunting melody the witch had sung threaded itself through his mind. He saw a clearing in the woods, and a path that was lit by an unearthly light. The soldiers were now running up the path and into the light. They were whole and young and shouting for joy.

He fell asleep, and dreamed a dream of quiet days and work well done.

An Alternative to Torture-

2009-04-23T10:45:00.000-07:00

Michael Benson awoke. He was groggy. He was sore. He wondered what had happened.

Sitting up, he looked around the room. It was clean, but obviously a prison cell of some kind. Moving slowly, he tried to remember how he had gotten here.

The convoy. Some kind of explosive tipping his vehicle. Darkness.

Mike realized that he was a prisoner of war.

The door opened, and a soldier stuck his head in.

"Come with me." he said. The accent was strong, but Mike understood. He stood and slowly followed the soldier down a long hall. There were other doors along the hallway. Solid doors. Locked doors.

The soldier opened one of the doors using a large key. He nodded toward the opening, indicating that he wanted Mike to enter.

Mike did so. Inside was a table and two chairs. A man in a dark suit sat in one of the chairs. The man waved a hand toward the empty chair. Mike sat down.

He anticipated an interrogation. Mike reviewed his name, rank, and serial number in his still fuzzy mind. That was all he would give them.

"How are you feeling, Mr. Benson?" asked the man in the suit. "Better, I hope. You were a bit damaged in the accident. We did a bit of surgery, and kept you sedated as you healed."

"Accident?" Mike asked. He recalled the event, and suspected that the explosion had not been accidental. This was, after all, war.

"Are you feeling well enough to go, now?"

"Go?" asked Mike. He was confused. Prisoner of war. They didn't just let prisoners go.

"Yes." said the man in the suit. "You were injured. We helped you. Now you can go, if you want."

"I want." said Mike. He was confused, but not a fool. Of course he would go.

The man waved his hand, and the door opened. The soldier reappeared. Mike was escorted away, still reeling from the unexpected turn of events.

"I have him in my sights." reported the sniper. "He looks like one of ours."

The Commander viewed the man coming across the perimeter through his scope. Another prisoner, coming home.

"Drop him." he ordered. The sniper depressed the trigger, and a piece of death metal traversed the distance between him and the man in the field.

The commander sighed.

"Gonzales, and Johnson. You are with me. Let's get down there and have a look."

Twenty minutes later the commander and a field surgeon were looking into the opened wounds of Michael Benson.

"Tracking and telemetry devices." said the surgeon. He did not like these changes in the mode of warfare. Surgery had been conducted at a distance from the action. Here he was, now on the front lines.

"Leave him." said the Commander. "Bug out!"

The small forward team quickly gathered gear and began moving away from the opened body of their comrade. They were under way only a matter of minutes before the first surveillance drones buzzed overhead. As the drones sought the larger force they were trying to protect the small forward team sought a place of sanctuary.

Someplace else.

The men did not even flinch as an explosion rocked the ground. The body of Michael Benson was now dust and ashes. They kept moving quickly, hoping to be away from the area before the follow up rounds arrived. Not only did they have to worry about stopping the enemy, but now they had to stop returning comrades, as well.

"That one didn't make it very far." observed the man in the dark suit. He was now sitting in a command center, watching the dust settle on the place Michael Benson had last stood. The surveillance drone gave a clear picture.

"Far enough." said the General by his side. "We got a direction and general location. The drones will do the rest. We will find them."

The soldiers at various panels in the command center directed their drones. One directed fire on the team that had stopped Benson. The team had been quick and evasive, and might just get away. They were wisely moving away from the still unknown location of the larger force they had been protecting.

"I miss torture." said the man in the suit. He sighed, fondly reminiscing.

"Not as efficient." commented the General. "So many lies and inaccuracies, just to end the threat of pain."

"It was an art."

"We have moved on." said the General. "Besides, nobody wins a war these days and gets to rewrite history. Torture makes for bad press. How can we be faulted for helping the wounded enemy and sending them back?"

"Yes." said the man in the suit. He smiled. "Making them kill their own is a nice twist. How will they manage that in the press?"

The two old warriors sat and watched the action on the various monitors. The were each lost in thought, wondering what new twists might come to mutate the love of their lives. Fighting wars in the news and on the Internet had robbed their darling of her old glory.

Smoke still wafted from the place that Michael Benson had last stood. There it was, an alternative to torture.

The Shaving Horse-

2009-03-10T00:21:00.000-07:00

Billy Todd sauntered quietly beside his grandfather as they walked deeper into the woods. When he was younger he would tend to run ahead on these walks, dashing between trees and jumping the many small streams as they moved through the shadows of the trees. Billy was ten, now, and had begun to appreciate what a precious gift it was to spend time with his grandfather.

He still felt the urge to run ahead, but refrained so as to stay by the older man's side.

Hiram Todd equally treasured his time with Billy. Billy's father, John, had grown up during times when Hiram had to work a great deal to take care of the family. Hiram had not had the time to lavish on his precious son, and as a result they had grown apart over the years. Hiram was determined not to let this happen with his grandson, so using the free time purchased by his retirement to walk in the woods with Billy was a great reward for the many years of work and sacrifice.

Every once in awhile Hiram would point at a plant or tree, and Billy would call out the name. Hiram made sure Billy knew of the more useful herbs growing in the woods, how to spot them and how to use them. He taught Billy the many little bits of woodcraft that he had learned from his own father. Things he wished he could have passed down to John, had times been different.

Hiram turned them up a ravine they had not yet together explored. There was a treasure hidden there, one he felt it was time to share with his grandson. As they approached the cleft in the exposed stone of the mountainside Billy suddenly stopped. He glanced around, sniffed the air and turned slowly in a circle.

"Something is here." he whispered. He knew that his grandfather had a touch of some woodland magic about him, and had always suspected that he shared the peculiar gift. The way the woods always seemed to welcome him, the way he so quickly learned things about the woods. It seemed more like remembering than learning.

"Around the big rock." said Hiram.

Billy walked slowly around the rock, and spotted the small cave hidden behind several tightly grown bushes. He gazed into the darkness, but did not move forward.

Hiram just watched. Billy stood still, gesturing toward the darkness of the cave but unable to move forward. Hiram continued to watch as desire and something else struggled within the boy.

"Dad doesn't believe in magic." the young man said. His shoulders slumped and he turned away from the darkness at the base of the stone cleft. "He says that you talk mumbo-jumbo, that you pass on old wives tales and make them sound wise."

"Yes, I know he says those things." replied Hiram. "Those things, and many more. He turned long ago from the knowledge that made up my education. He focused on school and career, and making much more money than I was ever able to do."

Billy looked sad. He loved his father, as Hiram also did. However they both knew that John had grown distant from them, holding them away and never quite letting them inside his personal defenses. Billy knew this intuitively, his grandfather by experience. The death of Billy's mother was eight years in the past, but it had broke something in John Todd that time had not managed to fix.

"Your father has the same touch that I do." said Hiram. "The same touch that you feel growing in you. The touch that was my father's, and his father's before him. Where most of the Todd men read the woods, your father learned to read other things."

Billy nodded, looking no less sad. Though he had lived with his father all of his life, they had not really been together. At ten years of age he was just beginning to sense the nature of that loss, that terrible distance.

Hiram had retired a bit early, just to be available for his grandson. The coming years would be hard on the young man if his father continued to fester in his grief. Hiram wanted to be there for both of them.

"Your father has used the touch to gather wealth, and does very well in that." Hiram said. "Rather than herbs and trees he learned stocks and bonds. He can short sell better than most, and his rewards have been substantial. Yet each year he seems to fall farther and farther away from us."

"I miss him." said Billy.

"I do too." said Hiram. "However, there is something here that can help with that. A little."

Billy looked up at his grandfather, and then back to the darkness of the cave behind the thick green bushes. He turned and pushed past the foliage, and waited for his eyes to adjust to the darkness.

At the back of the dry cavity in the rock sat an object the likes of which he had never seen. It was made of wood, and looked much like a long bench. Affixed to the bench was a structure made of wood, configured to work in some unfathomable way.

"It is called a shaving horse." said Hiram, in a quiet voice.

Billy didn't have to articulate his question. He just had to wait.

"A craftsman would cut limbs from trees and affix them in that holding device on top of the bench." his grandfather explained. "See the pedal down below? The craftsman could hold or release the grip of the machine on the limb by pressing on that pedal."

Billy gazed at the machine, trying to figure out how it might work. It was very old, and looked like it might fall apart if he touched it. He was not sure if he wanted to touch it. It was not threatening. He even found it appealing, like some kind of museum piece.

Something inside the thing frightened him.

"The craftsmen would often bring these shaving horses to the woods where they found suitable limbs." Hiram continued. "They would turn the limbs into table legs and chair legs and lots of other things. Using a draw knife they would work the limbs until they were finished and ready to be shipped to other craftsmen to be used in chairs and tables."

Billy could almost see in his mind how it all was done. Without thinking he reached out and touched the device.

He felt the sun on his back as he sat astride the shaving horse, pulling at the handles of his draw knife as he shaped the table leg upon which he was working. The knife shaved away bits of the wood, and as needed he would release pressure on the pedal and turn the work in the jaws of the gripping vice.

Draw and cut. Draw and cut. Release. Turn. Press down on the pedal. Draw and cut.

Karl Shaeffer was his name. He had come to these woods to work. The trees were good and strong, and provided the right limbs for making fine table legs.

Draw and cut. Draw and cut. The blade came against his leather clad stomach as he completed each stroke. Release, turn, press. Draw and cut.

He paused to dress the blade, and then returned to his work. As he drew and cut and sweated, he let his grief flow through his limbs and into his work. Each table leg carried away a bit of the pain. Even more flooded into the shaving horse upon which he worked.

Draw and cut. Draw and cut. Release. Turn. Press.

Draw and cut.

He remembered his young wife, as he sweated in the sun and the shavings piled up around him. He pulled a finished table leg from the jaws of the shaving horse, examining it with a practiced eye. He remembered the sturdy limbs of his young bride, his pride in her beauty. He wiped away a tear absently on his shirt sleeve.

Karl set the finished leg to one side of his shaving horse, and reached to the other side to pull another piece of timber from the stack of trimmed limbs. He set the new piece in the jaws, touched up the edge of his draw knife, and set to work once again.

Draw and cut. Draw and cut.

He remembered the kindling of their first child. The swelling of his bride's form as she made room for their child in her own body.

Draw and cut. Draw and cut. Release, turn, press.

Draw and cut.

He remembered the heat of the fever, the helplessness as he watched his bride and unborn child burn. Tears rolled with the sweat down his face. The past and present were one.

Draw and cut. Draw and cut.

He remembered the dark hole that waited to swallow all of his hopes and dreams. So many said they were sorry for his loss. They placed them gently into the earth, his bride and his child forever within her, and cast earth upon them. Karl felt his heart fall with the fist full of dirt as he said his farewell.

Draw and cut. Draw and cut. Release, turn, press.

Draw and cut.

Karl could not remain on their small farm in their little house. The memories were too much to live with, yet he would not dishonor the love of his family and his loving community by taking his own life. He crafted the shaving horse with his own hands, and when it was done he gave his land to his sister and her family.

He became a bodger, an itinerant craftsman making legs for tables, legs for chairs. He let the sun and rain and wind cleans him as he plied his knife.

Draw and cut. Draw and cut. He poured his grief into his work and into his tools.

This was a good place to work. Winter was coming, but he knew a good place to stow his shaving horse for the winter. He would return when the snows had melted and things had warmed enough for him to come back.

"Draw and cut. Draw and cut." said Billy. His grandfather stood beside him. Tears wet their cheeks, and they were not ashamed.

"You are too young to know such things." Hiram whispered. "But your father needs us, and to help him you needed to understand."

"What happened to Karl?" Billy asked.

"I don't know." said his grandfather. "Perhaps he went west. Many did, in those days. He left the shaving horse in this cave a great many years ago. Few can read the memories that stain this wood. It is a lesson I think you and I needed to learn to help your father."

They exited the cave, and blinked in the sunlight. Slowly they began walking back toward Hiram's house.

"What will we do?" Billy asked. "He hurts so much. What can we do?"

"Perhaps we should build him a shaving horse." suggested Hiram.

It seemed strange, the image of his father sitting astride such a device.

"Draw and cut." said Billy. "I don't know how it will help, but I think you are right, Grandpa."

As the afternoon waned and the two walked quietly through the woods, the shaving horse sat in the darkness of the stone cleft. It had given up its treasure of bittersweet memories to the lad with the right heart and mind and proper touch. With a sigh it collapsed into splinters and dust, as did the bones of Karl Shaeffer in some distant grave.

In the following days other wood would come together, and an anachronistic wooden horse would be born. A shaving horse, a thing from another era to be given to John Todd as an improbable salve for healing a wounded soul and a broken heart.

Draw and cut. Draw and cut. Release. Turn. Press.

Wordsmith-

2009-01-23T05:50:00.000-08:00

Poet, Warrior,
Philosopher, Priest.

World Maker
Dream Hunter
Nightmare's Scribe

Weaver of Shadows,
Sculptor of Lights.

by Michael R. Lockridge

This was a poem I wrote some years ago to (at least in part) describe myself and my relationship to writing. I pulled out the Nightmare's Scribe to title one of my short stories. That story follows this entry. I thought I would put it up here to provide some context for the story.

That, and because I like it.

Nightmare's Scribe-

2009-01-23T04:37:00.000-08:00

Nightmare's Scribe

a short story by Michael R. Lockridge

Tyler Jenkins carried the hot tea pot with care. Once he was out on the front porch he placed it on the small dining table he kept there for evening meals on nice days. This was a particularly nice day. A few fluffy clouds in a deep blue sky, his nicely trimmed yard before him. Tyler sat down at the table and poured himself a cup of tea.

It was Oolong, one of his favorites. Tonight he had ordered Chinese. Tyler was savoring the aroma of his tea when the delivery van stopped at his curb. A young man got out and carried a white bag up to the porch steps. Tyler removed his wallet from his pants pocket and extracted the requisite number of bills to cover the cost of his dinner and a nice tip.

"Enjoy your meal, Mr. Jenkins." said the young man. "I am a big fan of your writing, Mr. Jenkins."

Tyler nodded in acknowledgment and began setting his dinner out on the porch table. The young man remained, which did not surprise Tyler. His horror novels had not become best sellers, but he was making a name for himself in the genre. The nominal fame he had acquired had not yet become troublesome, and he did not mind the moments of awkward adulation.

"Do you live here for inspiration?" asked the young man. He was looking past the house to the large fenced facility beyond. The small yard surrounding the house actually was encompassed by that fence on three sides. It was the only house on the same side of the street as the state mental institution at which the young man was gazing.

"In a manner of speaking." answered Tyler. He stood by his table and sipped at his tea. The food was still quite hot and he could afford a few minutes for this young fan.

"Kind of weird how this house is almost part of the nut house." said the delivery man. "I would think it would give you nightmares."

"It was in that hope that I bought it." said Tyler. "When the mental institution was being built the owner of this little Victorian gem would not sell. They had to build their fence around the place. It did keep the property value down, and I bought it from that owner's estate several years ago."

The delivery man nodded, and then turned and walked to his vehicle. "Enjoy your meal, Mr. Jenkins. I hope you have some wonderful nightmares!" He waved as he got into his vehicle and drove away.

Tyler did enjoy the meal. He gathered the empty boxes and the delivery bag and carried them to the trash can at the side of his house. He looked through the fence and watched as light after light went out in windows in the institution next door. It was almost time.

He picked up the tea pot and his cup from the porch table as he went into the house. He rinsed them and set them on the drying rack. He then went into the room at the back of the house that was nearest to the main institution building.

Tyler turned on his computer. While it went through the start up routines he selected several crystals from a large collection on the shelf behind his writing chair. This was done intuitively. Finding the right stone was a very subjective activity. One by one he touched the stones. Some he held for a moment. Some were rejected at the first touch. Tonight he found three that felt right.

He placed the crystals in a bag and hung the bag around his neck. Yes, they felt right! Tyler sat down in his writing chair and opened a document on the computer. Then he just sat and waited.

Soon the deep anguish of some poor soul in the institution touched Tyler deep in the heart of his being. He felt the tendrils of other hearts and minds touch him, and he welcomed them. Memories not his own, real or delusional, flooded him. One moment he was laughing, the next sobbing uncontrollably. Then he reached out with both hands and found the keyboard.

Tonight he wrote for three and one half hours. Then the waves of agony and ecstasy abated, fading to vague memories of memories. Tyler saved the document without reading any of it and shut down the machine. Tomorrow morning would be the time to read and edit. Tomorrow he would work the nightmares he had captured into stories to be shared with the world.

Tyler carefully put away his crystals.

It had been draining. Tyler went to the bathroom and took a shower. Soon he was ready for bed.

As he drifted off to sleep he wondered who might capture his own dreams.

"Who eats the sins of the sin eater?" he mumbled as sleep engulfed him. Vaguely he recognized that the answer might make a good story. Perhaps, but a story for another day.

Tyler slept soundly. He never heard the chorus of screams that arose from the institution next door whenever he went to sleep. For all he knew, his sleep was always dreamless.

His neighbors might be inclined to disagree.

Is A Quarter Too Much To Ask? -

2009-01-07T23:54:00.000-08:00

Bob Jenkins dug into the left front pocket of his best dress pants. He dug with little hope, but the guy juggling on the street corner really deserved something for his efforts. The guy was good. As a long time amateur juggler Bob knew how much work went into the seemingly simple routine.

The sign at the feet of the juggler read: Is A Quarter Too Much To Ask?

Bob didn't think it was too much to ask, but he doubted that he had a quarter. He largely used his cards, these days.

"Oh, got something." he said. Bob pulled a quarter from the pocket he had thought empty. He dropped it in the basket next to the sign.

He watched a little longer, and then continued down the sidewalk. He had a job interview in about a half hour, and wanted to get to the place on time. He was not yet in dire straits, but he needed to find some income soon.

As he walked along he put his hand in the pocket from which he had retrieved the quarter. He found another one.

"I could have sworn I had no change in these pants." he said, bringing forth the shining coin. If it weren't so far back he would have given this one to the juggler, as well. He looked back down the street, but the juggler was no longer in sight.

Turning back toward his destination Bob continued his walk. Just as he approached the place he was to have the interview he spotted the juggler plying his trade on the sidewalk near the entrance.

Bob absently dropped the quarter into the juggler's basket. He was musing on the juggler and the quarters well into the interview, which did not go particularly well as a result. Coming out of the building Bob resolved to confront the juggler. He at least wanted to find out how the guy had gotten ahead of him on the street.

The juggler was nowhere in sight. Bob checked his pocket again, and found another quarter. He had pulled seven quarters from his pocket by the time he was convinced something very strange was going on in his pants. Pull a quarter, and the pocket is empty. Put hand in pocket, find quarter.

Bob had a vague recollection of a very old story about a man wearing a bear skin that seemed somehow similar to this strange event, but could not recall enough for it to be of any use. Bob pulled out another quarter and then stopped into a quickie mart to pick up a hot dog and soda.

He sat on the sidewalk and ate his meal, thinking about quarters and pants and men wearing bear skins. Bob resolved to go home.

At home he began pulling quarters from his pocket, stacking them in dollar stacks on the table. One. Two. Three. Four. A dollar. He did this for two hours. He had produced nearly a thousand dollars in that time. A thousand dollars, all in quarters, sitting on his table.

Bob looked at the shiny piles, and guessed that he had enough to test this new situation. He was afraid to remove the pants he was wearing, thinking he would break the spell. Did he want to live in the same pants, never taking them off? That wouldn't work, and he could already detect some wear around the pocket from constantly putting his hand in for another quarter.

He changed pants. He added another three hundred dollars to the stack while testing every pair of pants he owned. Finally he had enough. The pile of quarters was going to be difficult to move to the bank to change it into something more portable. He didn't want to do the quarter trick anymore. He was tired.

He ate a small meal, put on his pajamas and went to bed. He made sure that his pajamas did not have any pockets in them. He was tired of pockets.

In the morning he went out to the table, planning to find a box or bag to carry his quarters in and take them to the bank. The quarters were gone! He grabbed up one of the pairs of pants he had tested the night before and rummaged in the pockets. Nothing!

He quickly put on the pants and put his hand in the pocket. Bob sighed with relief. He pulled out a quarter. He had several dollars stacked on the table before he realized that it would make more sense to do this at the bank. That way he wouldn't have to carry all of the quarters.

Bob spent several hours at the bank, standing at a side table producing and rolling quarters. He had almost fifteen hundred dollars worth of quarters rolled by the time he felt he could do no more. He converted them into a savings account and some pocket cash and left the bank.

He dined in a fine restaurant that evening, mulling over his new wealth. He figured he could have enough to pay the rent and buy a new car if he spent the rest of the month doing as he had done today. Finished with the meal he wandered home, excited by his new prospects.

The following day Bob went to the same bank, produced quarters at an obscure side table and rolled them. He just did a few hundred dollars before he wanted to go to lunch. There was a nice restaurant he wanted to try but had never had the money before.

When he tried to put the money in his savings he discovered that there was no record of the previous day's transaction. His money was gone, as if it had never existed! The clerks and the assistant manager investigated, but there was no record of his money from the previous day. For a time Bob was irate, but over time he recalled the piles of quarters that disappeared from his table.

He thanked the tellers, apologizing for his error. He told them it must have been another bank, and that he had become confused.

Once outside, Bob sighed a great sigh. "The money won't last into the next day!" he said out loud.

Still, he had enough to try that great restaurant. Lunch was fantastic! He couldn't recall enjoying a meal quite so much. After the meal he sat over his coffee and thought about his new fortune.

"Though I have money for nothing, I am not a wealthy man." Bob mused. "I can easily take care of my daily needs, but cannot accumulate enough for big purchases. This is going to require a lot of thought."

The next day Bob went to the bank and worked long enough to have several thousand dollars in his pocket. He went out and bought a used van. He took care of all of the details that day, getting license and registration and insurance all taken care of with his cash. He drove the vehicle back to his apartment and parked it in his parking space. He had not used that space before. It looked strange, having a car there.

Bob had a simple meal that evening. He watched a little television, and then went to bed. He slept fitfully, and awoke early. He looked out the window.

The van was still there.

Over the next few weeks he spent part of each day at the bank, getting together enough cash for the day. He got the van running well, and began to outfit it to live in. It was a cargo van, one that would blend in anywhere. He figured he could live in it, parking wherever he could for those nights he didn't want to use a motel or a campground.

Motels and campgrounds would easily fit within the limits of the money he could produce in any given day.

Bob let the landlord know he would not be renewing his lease. He was moving out, hitting the road. He figured the income from his pockets would be enough to cover the day to day expenses of a mobile lifestyle. He wanted to travel, and now he could.

No more job interviews! No rent! The whole world was waiting!

On the day he was ready to leave on his fabulous journey, Bob stopped by the bank to produce some quarters and convert them into some more ready cash. When he came out he started to pass by a young lady holding a sign.

Is A Quarter Too Much To Ask? read the sign. Bob stopped and dropped a quarter in the hat at her feet, and added a five dollar bill. She smiled in thanks, and Bob gave her a wink.

As he got into his well used van and started the engine, he resolved to give away some of his wealth. As long as he was thinking small, thinking day by day, the quarters he could produce would be more than enough. He could afford to share with those in need who might cross his path.

He put the van in gear and pointed it toward the horizon. A whole new life awaited him. He planned to live it a quarter at a time.

Like a Virgin-

2009-01-02T12:21:00.000-08:00

Chet Atwood loved virgins. He was obsessed with them. He hunted them in his youth, and was quite successful in seduction. He gathered photos and biographical information on his conquests, and built quite a library on his little hobby.

It all went well until he finished college. Access to virgins was better in high school, but not too bad in college. Out in the real world, the world of business and adult recreation, virgins began to be in short supply.

Hunting at high schools was out. Chet wanted to dominate his quarry. He did not want to be dominated by some convict after being sent to prison for molesting children.

College would have to do. So, he adjusted his career plans to allow him to work in the field in which he wished to hunt. Junior professor, and then full professor. Romantic poetry of the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries.

His hunting went well into his early thirties. His library of conquests was vast. To protect himself he stored the information in a self-storage facility. The account was in another name, and paid always in cash. Chet wasn't stupid. He was a professor, after all.

In his mid-thirties he began to find the freshest fish were no longer interested in him. He was just too old. It was time to change the game. Chet began studying pornographic videos and visiting emporiums that catered to alternative lifestyles. Extreme alternative lifestyles.

Bondage and domination became his new thing. Not just bondage and domination of women who were into that sort of thing. He became a master of introducing women to this new realm of experience.

They may not have been virgins in fact, but in the ways of bondage and domination they were virginal enough to suit Chet's particular needs. More than a few of his inductees found their ways deeper into the sub-culture. Tattoos, scaring, multiple piercings and the like became the passion of some of Chet's conquests.

That, of course, was long after he had cast them off. He wanted virgins, and so was always seeking innocents.

That is how he found her. A new research librarian in the college library. New enough to not have picked up on the underground opinions about Professor Atwood. He was always careful, but even the greatest care cannot stop the rumors from flowing. Chet had to work fast.

He approached her first regarding a real research problem with which he was dealing. She really did help a great deal, and Chet made it clear that he appreciated her efforts. A few more projects and he was ready to ask her out.

First was dinner. Then dinner and a movie. She really was an innocent, though she succumbed to his charms readily enough to share his bed on the fourth date. Then he suggested a weekend at his cabin.

He introduced her to some light bondage and playful spankings. She responded well. Slowly he edged her from her comfort zone, and she came along. He planned to push her as he had done all of his conquests. Push her to the point she would finally reject him. Most didn't take long. By then they were far from virginal, and he was ready to let them go.

Chet was surprised when she sent him something in the mail. He opened the large envelope and found several photos of her in leather dominatrix garb. "Come to me." said the little note.

He called. She said she was waiting. It was his turn for a spanking, and maybe a little more. Chet found it exciting, and was quickly on the road to her place. He had not been there before, but Google had given adequate directions and in no time he found the place.

Gothic. An old Victorian painted and decorated to be deeply Gothic. Not at all what he had expected from his little librarian. He rang the bell. She opened the door. He leather glistened and Chet felt several things at once. He felt desire. What man wouldn't? He felt a loss of control. He felt just a touch of fear. This last feeling drove the desire through the roof, and he went in.

Soon it was Chet who was bound. Leather and chains. Riding crops and a playful cat-o'-nine-tails. He could not move, she was in control, and Chet was still not sure whether he liked it or not. He began to sweat when she held up something thick made of glass. He might have screamed, if not for the ball-gag in his mouth.

Her expression changed. Up until then she had been smiling and playful. Now that dropped away. She looked at him coldly, as if looking at a dead fish in her bed. Then she turned and went to a closet door. She opened the door and stepped back.

Through the door came two robed figures. They were stooped and moved strangely. At the sight of them Chet tried to scream. The ball-gag held in the sound. Chet struggled but was already heavily bound. They began to unhitch him from the bed, but left most of the bindings in place.

A third creature came through the door that she had opened. Tall, seemingly human but obviously not human at all. It handed her a satchel, which she opened immediately. She hugged the satchel to her breasts as she withdrew from it a vial. Quickly she popped the top off of the vial and downed the contents. An addicts joy flashed across her face.

She glanced once at the former professor being removed from her bed, and left the room. She hugged the satchel as if it were her very life. Perhaps it was.

The tall creature gestured toward the door. It turned and passed through the opening. Chet's robed porters hauled his bound body from the bed and followed. Chet felt like he was being turned inside out as they passed through that doorway.

In that instance he visualized an infinite series of universes joined here and there at minute binding points. He realized that they were passing through one of those points at that very moment.

Down a dank hallway they hauled him. Into a poorly lit room. He was hung upon a hook on one wall, still bound. One of his bearers ripped the ball-gag from his mouth. Chet caught a glimpse of the inhuman face and began to scream. There was no gag to stop the sound. He screamed again, and again.

Perhaps he is still screaming. With an infinity of universes filled with an infinity of possibilities, who might know?

Psycho Chick-

2008-12-17T04:19:00.000-08:00

Jason Ford was a predator. Oh, he didn't think of himself as a predator. In fact, if you could get into Jason's shallow mind you would find he seldom thought of himself at all. Jason led a thoroughly unexamined life.

Jason had enough self-discipline to have mastered the art of driving a truck. He lacked the self-discipline to save his money and buy a truck of his own. Jason was all about his appetites, and how to fulfill them. That is how he came to be an itinerant truck driver, traveling by bus from job to job.

That is how he ended up on Greyhound bus 896, making the milk run to Salem, Oregon.

As soon as Jason stepped onto the bus his instincts brought his head around. He locked onto the young blond sitting halfway back on the right side of the bus. Female, attractive in a desperate sort of way. Obviously not mentally stable.

Did he smell her? Did some scent bring his other senses on track and focus his attention on this potential prey? Or were there psychic elements involved, instincts that went far back into the sub-human source of his genetic substrates? Jason did not care. No part of him questioned the power or source of his instincts.

He had appetites, and this forlorn creature would satisfy them for a time.

Though the bus was not crowded he made his way down the isle and sat next to the young woman. She glanced at him, then returned her gaze to the bus platform outside of the window. To a trained eye that glance would have indicated the disease below the surface. Paranoid schizophrenic? Bipolar?

Jason had no thought there. He knew she was crazy, that she was a psycho chick. Easy pickings.

He settled back and paid her no attention. Her gaze took in whatever scene passed by outside the bus as the lumbering vehicle got moving. Did any of what passed register on her mind, or was she rehearsing some internal hell as the unseen world passed before her eyes?

Jason had no thoughts on the matter. He took in her form, pleased that whatever was happening inside of her had not yet robbed her of youth or beauty. She was a bit disheveled, and there was a lot of evidence that her seams were slowly unraveling. Still, there was enough there to meet his baser needs.

He was not ungenerous. He would give her as much pleasure as he could manage while satisfying himself. If she proved unreceptive, there were other ways. Though by no means a deep thinker Jason had cunning.

"Going far?" he asked. She started, looked at him for a second, and then returned her gaze to the passing countryside.

"No." she said.

He let a few more miles pass before he said more. He was not a man of many words, and he was not seeking conversation. He just wanted to get her used to his voice. He wanted her to become comfortable with his presence.

"Going to see family?" he asked.

She shook her head, and continued her study of the lights and shadows outside of their little world.

"I have a driving job in Portland." Jason offered. "In a few days."

There was no response.

"You look like you might be hungry." said Jason. "I could buy you some dinner later, if you want."

She said nothing, but shifted a bit. He could tell he had touched an important point. She had not eaten for some time. He let the bait sit.

"I'm going to Salem." she finally mumbled. "I'm sick in the head. I want to go to the state hospital. They help me, sometimes."

"We could have dinner in Salem, then." said Jason. She nodded, and continued to gaze out of the window.

More miles crawled by. The bus stopped from time to time. Drop off two. Pick up three. The bus remained always less than a quarter full. Jason relaxed next to his quarry. He anticipated satisfaction, but schooled himself not to show his hand too soon.

Eventually he pulled out his wallet. He opened it with care, allowing the stack of hundred dollar bills inside to catch what little light was in the bus. He counted slowly, silently, being sure that she could see this wealth out of the corner of her eye.

He slipped out a fifty, and put the wallet back in his pocket.

"Are you needing any money?" he asked. "I can spare a little if you do."

She continued to look outside. She shook her head again.

Jason folded the bill and placed it in the breast pocket of his shirt. He settled back and closed his eyes.

"Salem." said the driver. The bus rolled slowly to a stop at the terminal. Jason stood, and waited for the young woman to stand up. Without even looking at him she stood and moved down the isle toward the exit.

Jason followed. She headed right out toward the street, and did not head toward the luggage area. Jason kept by her side. She said nothing, but did not change her pace. She tolerated his continued presence. Jason smiled.

As they approached a small diner Jason stepped ahead of her and opened the door. She went a few paces on, then stopped. Without looking at him she turned and entered. Jason guided her to a booth near the window. She sat and stared outside, just as she had on the bus.

When the waitress came by the table Jason ordered chicken fried steak and potatoes for them both. He ordered two coffees. She said nothing. She studied the street beyond the window without interest.

The food came. They ate in silence. Though she made steady work of the eating, and ate every bite, she displayed no interest in the food. Always her eyes wandered to the window and the scene outside. Never did they make contact with his.

The meal done and paid for, Jason once again held the door for her. She stepped out onto the sidewalk and paused.

"I need to get to the hospital." she said. Her voice was barely audible.

Jason said nothing. She did not move. He gently took her by the arm and guided her down a side street. She did not resist.

He found a motel and soon had them registered. The clerk paid them no mind as he handed Jason the key. She let Jason guide her to the room, and entered when he opened the door. She dropped into one of the motel room chairs and huddled there.

Jason went to the bathroom and got two plastic tumblers. With his back to the room he broke a small capsule and dumped the contents into one of the tumblers. Jason returned to his quarry, and set the tumblers on the table. Fishing a flask from one of his pockets he divided the contents between the tumblers. He pushed one toward the young woman. She took it in her hand.

Still without looking at Jason she said, "Lock the door. Pull the blinds. Please."

Jason turned from her and did so. Returning, he picked up his glass from the table and began to drink. She had already finished her drink, and was busy studying the pattern in the carpet. When her head nodded a bit Jason put down his glass and went to her.

He lifted her chin and looked into her eyes. Yes, the drug had taken affect. She was there yet not there. Clay. Putty. A toy for his pleasure.

Jason got her up and onto the bed. With a little effort he got her undressed. She was not unwilling, but would easily loose track of what they were doing and just stare off into space. Not a big change, in her case.

He took his time. He posed her and took photographs. He was careful with these, as they could serve as evidence if things ever went sour. He used a digital camera, and would soon have the photos uploaded to a safe site and deleted from the camera. It was a small camera, easily cast aside or flushed down a toilet.

When this game grew tedious he had his way with her. Physically she was all there, and responded to his touch. Her will was gone, and she would have no memory of these events. Even so Jason liked to give his victims pleasure. It enhanced his own experience, and if he were a thinking man he might deduce that it offset his guilt to some degree.

He had taken her in as many ways as he could manage before his stamina faltered. Jason then got her under the covers and snuggled in with her. He set the alarm on his telephone to awaken him long before the drugs wore off. He wanted to be far away by the time she was conscious.

Before he fell asleep Jason sensed a shift in his awareness. He was not laying next to her in the bed, but standing by her side as she sat at the table. She was fully dressed.

She asked him to close the curtains. Jason put his drink on the table and turned from her to do so. He picked up his drink when he came back, sipping slowly and watching as she finished hers. He watched for the tell-tale signs that the drug had taken affect.

An instant later he became aware of being on the bed, his hands and feet tied to the bed frame and both of his socks stuffed into his mouth. He was naked, and she was doing something out of sight. He was vaguely aware of his own thought. She had switched the drinks and turned the tables on him.

He found the situation erotic, and felt himself respond. The young woman came into view. She was unclothed, and carrying something in her hands. She glanced at his manhood and smirked. Not quite what he had hoped for, but obviously she had something interesting planned.

She put several items down on his chest. Three or four single edged razor blades, a pair of pliers and a box of course salt. As she pulled a chair up close to him Jason began to doubt the outcome of this new situation.

"Like I told you, I was on my way to the state hospital." she said in a quiet voice. "I need help. Not the kind of help you wanted to give me. Real help." She gave his manhood a disdainful look, and began to unwrap one of the razor blades.

"When I get depressed I like to cut on myself." she continued. "Just a little. To let out the pain." She made a shallow cut on the back of her left forearm. The blood welled and ran slowly down her arm. She smiled.

"Now I have you." she said. Jason began to tremble. "So much pain. In me. In you. I plan to let it all out."

Jason screamed as she leaned forward and began the first cut down the center of his chest. He could tell that she knew what she was doing. The socks in his mouth absorbed the scream admirably. It swallowed up the ones that followed, as well.

Jason felt a shift in his awareness as she opened the box of salt. He was standing by the table, drink in hand. She was sitting next to the table, fully clothed and studying the pattern in the carpet. Her drink sat, untouched, by her elbow.

He picked up her glass and took it into the bathroom. He poured both drinks down the toilet. He came out and sat in the other chair on the opposite side of the table from his intended victim.

His first call on his cell phone was to directory assistance. The second was to a taxi cab company. In less than thirty minutes the two of them were on the road. The cab driver had been hesitant to go where Jason had requested, but two of the hundred dollar bills from Jason's wallet convinced him.

She huddled against Jason in the back of the cab. Jason did not know if it was just some need of hers, or a genuine affection. He was not a deep thinker, and he just held her close to him. When they arrived he helped her out of the cab, and dismissed the driver.

The admitting attendant went through the ritual of admission. She had been there before. If her name was mentioned Jason did not catch it. He did not want to. Soon she was whisked away into the bowels of the state hospital for the mentally ill.

Jason turned to go, and then turned back. He reached into the pocket of his shirt and pulled out the fifty he had planned on leaving for her back at the motel.

"Here." he said, handing it to the attendant at the desk. "See that she gets this when she gets out."

The attendant nodded. "Want a receipt?"

Jason shook his head, and went out into the darkness. A thinking man would have pondered the experience as he walked away into the night.

Jason was not a thinking man. He just faded into the darkness. His appetites were not satisfied, but for the moment they were quiet. That was good enough for him.

BOB

2008-11-30T23:04:00.000-08:00

a short story by Michael R. Lockridge

Bob looked spectacular behind his semicircular desk. It was festooned with lights and screens and various writing instruments. The walls of his sumptuous office were covered with video screens displaying thousands of scenes from the many thousands of planets over which Bob was the final authority.

Ogwan Spen entered the office, escorted by a lithe female secretary who could have been a member of any of several hundred sentient species. Whatever her actual species she exuded an aura of competence and deep sensuality. Ogwan had his recording device running, capturing all sensory and telemetry data in a multitude of frequencies and dimensional levels.

This was his first big break as a junior reporter. His almost unknown home planet fostered a very limited news agency, and it was a major coupe to get to interview Bob. Indeed, Bob remained a mystery among most of the planets under his sway. Who was the real Bob? What was he like? What did he eat for breakfast? Would he plunge half of the known galaxy into war before lunch, just to bring a glorious peace before dinner?

Bob turned in his opulent yet functional desk chair, and stood to greet the young reporter.

"Ah, Mr. Spen." said Bob, stepping forward and offering Ogwan a warm smile and hearty handshake. Bob looked very much like every bipedal humanoid Ogwan had ever seen, all rolled into one and made a hundred percent better. Ogwan liked him immediately, which made him instantly suspicious.

Bob nodded to his secretary, who walked sensuously across the office in a display of physical motion that would overwhelm the male populations of a thousand planets. Ogwan had a great deal of trouble focusing until she had closed the office door, with her on the other side.

Bob indicated a sitting area across the room. The windows on three sides of the sitting area provided fabulous views of space. Though it seemed a bit provincial, Ogwan could not help but look for his own planet as they found their seats.

"It's over there." said Bob, gesturing toward a cluster of stars of medium brightness.

"Pardon me?" Ogwan said.

"Your planet. It is over there."

"Oh. Yes." replied Ogwan. He felt slightly embarrassed.

"Everyone does that when they sit here." said Bob. It was particularly believable when offered with that winning smile. Ogwan believed.

"So, what is it you wanted to know?" asked Bob.

"Our university in Pocknar discovered a new node in the Great Network. Several Network Scholars were exploring it when the node became unavailable." Ogwan began.

"Oh, that." Bob replied. He reapplied the smile that had seemed so winning. "Isn't my office opulent? Isn't it splendid? Did you see your planet from my window?"

Ogwan was surprised. He was not surprised by the attempt at evasion. Ogwan had done enough interviews with persons of authority that he expected some evasion. He was surprised that the renowned Bob was so blatant about the evasion.

"The scholars were concerned that a new node would appear and then disappear like that." Ogwan continued. "Most new nodes entering the great network appear and are heralded and welcomed. There is much rejoicing, and the exchange of knowledge is great."

"Ah, that is usually the case." said Bob. "This node proved a little different. Do you really know who I am?"

"Uh, yes." Ogwan said. "You are the personalized representation of the great network that came into being when several information networks from a number of planets accidentally began sharing data across space. The interaction led to a personification of the network itself, and you sprang into being."

"A textbook answer, but true enough." said Bob. "As such I began to coordinate the know networks into the Great Network. I actively sought emerging networks and brought them in, making necessary adjustments to make each fit seamlessly into the whole."

"Some speculate that the war between Arglebargle Seven and the Newt Colonies of Schmegma Prime were one of those adjustments." Ogwan put forward. He tried hard to look like an experienced reporter uncovering an unpleasant secret. The projection fell flat.

"Yes, little things like that take place from time to time." said Bob. "It is not easy being an accidental artificial intelligence of phenomenal power. There is no training manual, you know. Anyway, the transition lead to a very strong node, and a lot fewer Newts."

"And that is a good thing?" Ogwan asked.

"How many Newts have you known?" rejoined Bob.

Ogwan gave up on that point.

"So, about the vanished node..."

"It's still there." said Bob. "I am still getting to know the content. Testing to see if it can integrate without costing us any more Newts."

Ogwan sat and waited. He had learned on the Great Network that just waiting was a great reporting tool.

Bob also sat and waited. He looked out of the window. He adopted a wistful expression.

Ogwan continued to wait.

"You know, I don't have a home planet." said Bob. He sighed. The sigh was wistful, as well.

Ogwan decided to wait a bit more.

"Ok. Ok." said Bob. "I am holding back this node for two reasons."

Ogwan almost stopped waiting. He decided to wait a bit longer until he decided whether or not to stop waiting.

"The planet at the center of the new node is named Earth." said Bob. "They have Ebay."

Ogwan couldn't wait this one out. "What is Ebay?" he asked.

Bob smiled. He felt like he was back in control of the interview. He also felt like that was an illusion. For a being that was largely just an illusion in the first place, it was a bad feeling. He decided to go with the feeling that he was back in control of the interview. That made him feel better.

"Ebay is a system of exchange these humans have on their network." said Bob. "Human is what these bipedal humanoids call themselves. Of course we call similar species humanoid, ourselves. I chose to appear as a humanoid, though a very good looking humanoid if I do say so myself."

Ogwan looked confused. That made Bob feel even more in control. He should feel in control, being the personification of a vast interplanetary network of obscene hugeness.

"Kind of a chicken and the egg thing, if you knew what chickens or eggs were." said Bob. "Anyway, we don't have anything like this Ebay. I want to think about how to introduce such a revolutionary concept. I don't want to start any more damned wars or anything. I already have a planet full of bereaved Newts to deal with."

Ogwan just nodded. He was beginning to feel out of his depth. Even so, he thought there might be some kind of story in all of this. He checked his recorder, and found it to be getting all sorts of good stuff. The indicators for seventh dimensional data were especially promising. Yes, he could get a good story here.

"They also have God."

Ogwan looked up, startled. "You mean they have the concept of God? The idea of a supreme being and all of that, a myth from the depths of their history?"

"No." said Bob. "They actually have God. He has a particular affinity for their little planet and their petty doings."

"Are you saying God is real?" asked Ogwan.

"Why, yes, God is real." said Bob. "I have lunch with him every Tuesday."

"And, of all of the people in the galaxy, these creatures know God?"

"Well, more or less." said Bob. "It is more just a matter of Him knowing them. He really likes them. In fact, He has pinned a lot of the future of the universe on their doings."

Ogwan was flabbergasted. "This is going to be an amazing story." he said.

"I suppose." said Bob. "But I think the Ebay thing is going to be more significant to most members of the Great Network."

Ogwan was incredulous. "How can you say that?"

"Hey, God fell out of fashion in this part of the galaxy a long time ago." said Bob. "No matter what you say, it will just be old news. Ebay, however, that is going to be big."

Ogwan continued to be incredulous. He tried very hard to make his face represent his true state of incredulity. It made him tired.

"Anyway, the only ones in the Great Network who really believe in God are the Newts, and you see what happened to them." said Bob. "I think we are done here. How about we go get some lunch?"

Ogwan just nodded, and followed Bob out of the office.

"There is a bistro just around the corner I think you will like." said Bob. "God just loves the place. I can't think of a better recommendation."

A Man of Many Dimensions-

2008-11-11T01:00:00.000-08:00

A Man of Many Dimensions-

a short story by Michael R. Lockridge

The reporter sat precariously on the three-legged camp stool his host had offered him. His host, Garmen Grender, sat on a similar stool, and seemed quite comfortable.

Comfortable, but obviously bored.

Garmen made another cast. The ripples moved out steadily from the little float that bobbed on the water.

“Tell me again how you learned I was here.” Garmen said, addressing the young reporter. “What was your name, again? Dave?”

“David Thompson, of the Winston Valley Gazette.” the young reporter replied. “I was researching a UFO encounter in the north county, and the guy mentioned what you were. He told me just where to find you.”

Garmen chuckled. “Those UFO guys are usually pretty off.” he mumbled. “I will have to keep an ear to the ground in the future.”

“Pardon?”

“Eh?” grunted Garmen. “Oh, nothing. Just making a note to myself. Go on with your questions.”

“The gentleman who studies UFO’s said that you were a dimensional shifter.”

“Did he, per chance, explain what that might be?” queried Garmen, turning his eyes from the float out on the water to the bright eyed young man.

“Not really. He started talking techno-babble and drawing pictures in the dust.”

“Hmmm.”

“I gathered that he believed you traveled between dimensions.” the young reporter ventured.

“You haven’t been doing this very long, have you?” inquired Garmen.

“I am a first year journalism student, over at Winston Junior College.” replied the young reporter. He sounded a bit defensive. “I am a stringer for the Gazette.”

Garmen’s eyes returned to his fishing float. He watched it bob serenely on the surface of the lake. The young reporter waited, trying to appear patient.

“Well, this time your lead paid off.” Garmen finally said. “I am, indeed, from another dimension.”

The young reporter was taken aback. “Uh. Which dimension?” he asked.

“I don’t really know. I have been moving from dimension to dimension for the better part of a year.”

“Uh. Wow. What is your dimension like?”

Garmen paused a moment, and reeled in his hook. The bait was missing. “Sneaky little bastards.” he mumbled. He fitted a new worm on the hook, cast it out, and settled back as if no question had been asked.

“Pretty much like this one.” he finally answered.

“Uh. Pretty much?”

“Well, exactly like this one might not be an overstatement.”

“Exactly?”

“I don’t know for sure. So, pretty much. Exactly.”

“Um. OK. No real difference, then?” continued the young reporter.

“None that I can detect.”

“How do you know you have changed dimensions, then?”

“Mathematics.”

“Mathematics?” asked the young reporter.

“Mathematics. And technology.”

“Uh. Yes. I see.”

“Do you?” asked Garmen.

“How do you know you aren’t just going back and forth between two dimensions that are just alike?”

“Wow. That one verged on being original.” said Garmen. He set his pole down into a holder that had been driven into the ground by his stool. “Come with me.”

They walked together to a motor home that sat nearby. Garmen opened a door near the back. Inside were many wires and circuit boards. Some lights were blinking here and there.

“Technology.” said Garmen.

The young reporter snapped a picture.

Garmen pointed to a small monitor in the corner. Complex equations were drifting across the blue background. The symbols were bright gold.

“Mathematics?” the young reporter asked.

Garmen nodded. He closed the door.

“All of the dimensions are pretty much the same?”

Garmen nodded again. “So far.” he said.

“That must be pretty boring.” the young reporter observed.

“Yep.” agreed Garmen. “That’s why I am fishing just now. I am taking a bit of a break from the whole dimensional thing. It’s pretty boring.”

“I can see that.” said the young reporter. He offered his hand. Garmen shook it. “Thanks for the interview.”

Garmen watched the young man walk to his car. He waved when the young reporter turned his way. The young fellow waved back, got in his car, and drove slowly away.

“I should just print up a handout.” Garmen said, as he sauntered back to his fishing spot. “Frequently asked questions. That’s the third time I have seen that young man in the last three dimensions.”

Garmen picked up his pole, and slowly reeled in the hook. The bait was missing again.

“What did he say his name was? Dave? Could have sworn it was Richard.” he mumbled as he baited his hook. He cast it out into the water, and watched the ripples spread from the float as it bobbed on the surface.

“Over three hundred dimensions and the only difference I have found in almost a year of travel is one man’s name.” he mumbled. He started to think on this, but was interrupted when the float ducked under the water.

“Ho! Fish on! Now that’s a change worth noting! I may have fish for supper!”

Can I Keep Him?

2008-11-10T01:22:00.000-08:00

Can I Keep Him?

a short story by Michael R. Lockridge

Bobby Blanchardt could not figure out just what it was he was looking at. It was not particularly large. It was about the size of a kitten. Though it sat more like a monkey or small man, it did not really feel like that. Feel was not the right word, but Bobby could not find a better one.

He knew that most people would find the creature disgusting. Hair sprouted from one place or another, but most of the skin was exposed. It was dry in places, wet in others. Some spots seemed to ooze a bit if the creature moved. The skin was bone white in places, several shades of red in others, and never a color that seemed right or natural.

Least natural were the eyes. They hid malice. Oh, they were big and frightened and innocent looking. They drew Bobby in. Yet he sensed a malice under the “help me” they tried to display. Still, they drew him in.

On impulse he reached down and picked it up. The boney tail wrapped around his arm in a possessive grip. The protrusions that covered the ridge along the back of the tail prodded his flesh and made him momentarily afraid. The little creature adjusted the grip and seemed immediately more pleasant to hold. If it weren’t for the sting of what felt like a paper cut on the back of his left hand Bobby might have thought he had imagined the boney grip.

“You are a kitten.” Bobby said. He was making a mental shift that was common among humans. He expected it to purr, but it did not. Bobby just kept trying to make it a kitten in his mind. The neighbors of Bergen Belsen or Dachau made a similar shift in thinking when they learned to live with something evil nearby.

It is thus that Bobby Blanchardt came to have a demon. It may have been just a tiny demon, but it was a demon nonetheless.

His mother assumed that Bobby had created an imaginary creature to fill his lonely hours when he came home begging “Can I keep him?” She could not see the creature he held in his arms when he asked her if he could keep it. Oh, her eyes saw it, but the information got lost somewhere on the way to her brain. She did not have the longing that Bobby had, or it might have actually appeared to be a kitten.

No, her mind simply lost the information. The kitten was imaginary, and that was that.

Bobby’s mother had a mind that embraced convenience. It had served her when Bobby’s father had walked away two years before, and it served her now. She said, “Yes, you can keep him.”

“I’ll name him Fluffy.” Bobby announced. It was the least fluffy thing in Bobby’s small world, but the name contributed to the illusion. Almost he could feel the thick fur when he stroked his new pet. He did not stroke it often. It felt boney, dry and scaly, except when he touched one of the oozing places. No, he seldom even touched it when he could avoid it.

That did not mean it was not always near him. Often it sat and just stared at him. When Bobby would go somewhere it would jump up and huddle on one of his shoulders, the nasty tail wrapped around him possessively. Bobby learned to ignore it most of the time, except when his mother asked about his “kitten.”

The fact that it never ate, never drank and seemed to never need to use any kind of litter box contributed to his mother’s belief that it was just imaginary.

For Bobby it was just there. It sat by his bed when he slept. It invaded his dreams. It was there when he ate or brushed his teeth. It was just there, as if it had always been there.

It went to school with Bobby. For weeks it just went there with him, sitting on his shoulder. Once he arrived at school it would jump down and find someplace to sit and stare at him. Bobby got used to it, and stopped thinking about it.

Somehow he knew better than to tell his few friends about his kitten. It might get complicated.

Then one day Ralphie was walking by the lunch table at which Bobby was sitting. Ralphie was different. He walked with crutches and wore a helmet all of the time. Bobby had never paid much attention to Ralphie, but this time he could think of nothing else.

He noticed how unsteady Ralphie was as he walked. How much he depended on those crutches. Bobby felt Fluffy’s eyes boring into the back of his head. Though he knew that Fluffy was involved somehow, he also knew that what he did next was his own choice.

He stuck out his foot and hooked one of those precious crutches and sent Ralphie sprawling between the tables. Nobody saw him do it. He knew he should react to the blood that came from Ralphie’s broken lip. He should feel sorry, or sad, or even gleeful. He felt nothing.

Fluffy seemed heavier when he leaped up on Bobby’s shoulder for the walk home. However, by the time he reached his home Bobby no longer noticed.

Over the years the Ralphie type of incidents graduated into planned and carefully executed acts of meanness. When they were over Bobby always lacked any of the feelings he knew should accompany such minor evil. At such times he would sense that Fluffy had gotten bigger, and felt heavier on his shoulder. Then he would promptly forget the observation.

The night he took Suzie Wells out in his mom’s car was the first time he saw Fluffy grow. Suzie had seemed very interested in Bobby, and he felt some interesting things when he was around her. That night when she said “No!” he knew she meant “Yes!” Fluffy sat in the back seat and watched.

As Bobby fulfilled all of the desires Suzie must truly have toward him he saw Fluffy physically swell in the back seat. When Bobby was finished and Suzie huddled against the door of the car, weeping, he realized that she could actually see Fluffy over his shoulder. Seeing Fluffy must have done something to her, because she never told anyone about that night.

Over the years Bobby had gotten new friends. They liked the things Bobby would come up with for them to do. At least they did until, one by one, they began to disappear. Most were assumed to be runaways. Only Lenny disappeared in a way that could be explained. He vanished into Juvenile Hall, where he was found one day hanging from a shower curtain rod.

After that Bobby’s mom was on his back. She whined and wheedled, complaining about his bad friends and bad performance in school. She began to irritate Bobby. Even worse, she obviously irritated Fluffy.

Bobby couldn’t even remember how the baseball bat had come to be in his hand. He just remembered the satisfaction of swinging it, again and again. The hollow thunk when it hit. The warmth of the blood.

With his mother now gone and the evidence against him, Bobby soon found himself sharing a series of jail cells with Fluffy. It didn’t bother Fluffy. He just sat and stared. Even the fact that the cells were a bit cramped due to the increased dimensions of Fluffy did not bother Fluffy.

Bobby took to spending hours just sitting and staring back. He lost himself in those huge eyes. The malice was no longer hidden. It was exposed, and hungry. Fluffy would stare at Bobby. Bobby would stare at Fluffy.

They couldn’t put anyone in a cell with Bobby. Even the most hardened felon would beg to be let out after an hour of sharing the cell. Nobody cried when Bobby was convicted and moved away to prison to sit on Death Row.

For months that became years Bobby would sit and stare at Fluffy, and Fluffy would sit and stare at Bobby. The whole prison sighed a sigh of relief when Bobby finally lay on the table, tubes sticking out of his arm and his heart not beating. Even then he stared, even in death.

A great, hulking demon arrived in Hell that night. It was well known that his name was Fluffy. The other demons pointed and made signs behind Fluffy’s back, but none dared to do so to his face. He had fed well, and was greater than most demons in Hell. Not the greatest, but more than a match for any regular demon.

Fluffy dragged a man along behind him. Most of the demons drew back from the creature when they looked into his eyes. The eyes were filled with malice and devoid of fear. Fluffy dragged him downward and deeper into Hell.

“Hey, Boss!” Fluffy shouted as some broad, dark shoulders filled the passage ahead. The shoulders turned to reveal the Dark Lord himself.

“Oh, uh, hi Fluffy.” said the Dark Lord.

Fluffy dragged Bobby out of the shadows and held him by one arm in front of the Father of Lies. “I found him on the street where you left me, Boss. Can I keep him?”

The Master of Deceit looked at the human spirit dangling in front of his eyes. Bobby gave him a sullen and baleful look. The Dark Lord snorted.

“Wow.” he said. “Good work, Fluffy.”

“Thanks, Boss.” said Fluffy. “Can I keep him?”

“Uh. Sure.” said the Dark Lord. “What the Hell. Sure. Keep him.”

Fluffy hugged his prize to his chest and moved even deeper into the recesses of Hell. Finding a dark corner far from the writhing masses of tormented souls Fluffy put his pet down on the ground.

Fluffy sat, and began to stare at Bobby. Bobby sat and stared at Fluffy.

After what might have been a millennium or maybe a half hour, Bobby said, “Know what, Fluffy?”

Fluffy said nothing. He just raised the horny ridges above his eyes a bit in question.

“I don’t really think you are a kitten.”

For the first and last time in all of eternity laughter rang through the halls of Hell.

Thomas Crossing-

2008-10-29T00:49:00.000-07:00

Thomas Cross sat quietly at the head of the classroom, feeling slightly disoriented. It was a feeling that was becoming all to familiar. So familiar that it almost felt normal, like some core element of his life that was never enough in focus to recognize, but always there.

He sat at the teacher's desk. He was the teacher. He recalled that, as well as the nearly twenty years he had occupied that desk and taught generations of children to write. He had been writing just now when the feeling came over him. The pen was still in his hand, and the journal open on his desk. He put the cap on his pen, and put it in his pocket. He closed the journal and locked it in the left hand drawer of his desk.

Thomas stood with care. He did not like the feeling that had come over him. He was confused, but the confusion was deep beneath the surface of his awareness. He checked himself carefully, to be sure all of the parts were in the proper place. Yes, his old and tweedy suit felt right over the same body he had occupied over the course of many years.

He brushed at the pants, noticing that he might have to retire this comfortable suit one day soon. He liked the comfortable feel of old clothing, but it was necessary to keep up appearances when guiding young people through their educations. Or so the administrators often reminded him.

Thomas was glad none of the students were present to see his confused state. Most of them seemed to care for him, but it was not a good thing to burden his young charges with anything that did not move their educations forward.

He let himself out of his classroom into the main hallway. He headed down the hallway toward the teacher's lounge, intending to sit a bit and regain his composure. Then he would head home and see how he might be feeling. This was a strange feeling troubling him. Stranger, because it seemed to be purposefully avoiding his full awareness.

Even stranger was the end of the hallway. Where he ordinarily turned right there was no longer a right turn. The hallway ended in a brick wall, in front of which was a trophy case. He recognized the case, and the trophies inside. He recognized the hallway going off to the left from this main hall. He did not recognize the paneled wall that stood where the right hallway ought to be.

Thomas felt he had but two options. He might return the way he had come, and make his way out through the main entrance and find his car and go home. He might also take the left hallway and see what other strangeness lay in store for him. Somehow the prospect of exploring the strangeness seemed less daunting than trying to go on pretending nothing was wrong.

He turned left and went down the center of the hallway. He looked at each door as he walked, taking some comfort in their schoolish sameness. Classroom door after classroom door. Plain, functional, except for this one now standing before him. Heavy wood, stained glass window, and a dark arched encasement. It was wrong.

Thomas turned the handle and walked through. The pipe smoke on the other side was disconcerting. So were the many tables, and the large fireplace with the blazing fire on the grate. He glanced out the window on the far side of the room and glimpsed a gypsy wagon passing by, drawn by a single horse. Two men sat on the seat, and something shiny was mounted above their heads. The light that momentarily glinted off of the object disoriented Thomas further.

"Thomas!" called a fellow seated at a table beneath the window. The man waved a clay pipe at Thomas, inviting him over to the table. Thomas heard a sound like a door closing behind him. He turned and was somehow not terribly surprised to find the door he had just passed through to no longer be there. Just a dark paneled wall.

He straightened the pleats in his kilt and walked across the room. Thomas recognized the man seated at the table. Jenkins, one of his fellow teachers. He was momentarily taken aback by the long pointed ears, but could not guess why they bothered him. Half-elves like Jenkins often retained the pointed ears of their elven parents, even though they may assume almost exclusive human features in all other respects.

Thomas sat next to his friend and pulled his own pipe out of the pouch hanging from his belt. Jenkins tossed him a leather pouch and Thomas loaded his pipe. Without thought he took a pair of tongs from the holder on the small brazier on the table and picked up a tiny coal. He lit his pipe expertly, yet in the back of his mind he wondered at even knowing what the little brazier was for. The strange feeling that had nagged at him was back, and stronger than ever.

"The Headmaster is pleased by the progress of your students." Jenkins said. "He has said so rather frequently of late. I think he is trying to hold you up as a model instructor for me to emulate."

"Nonsense." said Thomas, feeling nonetheless pleased at the news. "Your students are progressing just fine. Anyway, I just teach them their letters and a bit of writing. Nothing like your courses in practical magic."

"I can only relate what I hear." said Jenkins. "Practical magic is important, that I grant. Still, your students write clearly and have imagination."

Thomas drew on his pipe in gentle puffs, and stared into the fire.

"Those feelings are bothering you again, aren't they?" Jenkins asked. Thomas nodded. "Let me brew you some head tea, my friend. It will make you right again in no time."

"Yes, perhaps." said Thomas. He pulled his pen from behind his ear, absently straightening the feathers. Jenkins already had some ink on the table. Thomas extracted a few papers from his inside jacket pocket, and laid them out on the table. "Perhaps I just need to write down some of these feelings while they are clear to me."

Thomas began to write, feeling the click and rebound of the keys. Something about that did not seem right. He glanced up from the screen and looked at his companion. The Jenkins IV unit sat passively across the table from him. Why they had chosen to give the IV model elven features still defied Thomas. Even so, the machine was a coworker and friend.

"Thomas Crossing, I think I need to make a few adjustments to your reality centers." said the Jenkins IV. "Your reality cohesion is slipping, and it is impacting your work."

Thomas recalled his name and what it meant. Thomas Crossing. He was a trans dimensional being who was able to phase between various planes of existence. Yes. That was the confusion. He was drawn to the human form. He found the creatures fascinating. Bound to only one reality and having relatively short lives these creatures had developed immense imaginations.

They were so finite, however. Locking his being into their form caused disturbances in his trans dimensional psyche. No wonder he was becoming disoriented.

"Yes, Jenkins. I think you are right." he said. "Please do so."

The Jenkins IV unit soon had the adjustments made, and Thomas Crossing felt a bit better. His cohesion was reestablished, and the multiverse was again clearly in perspective.

"Well, I have to log." said the Jenkins IV. "Will we play tomorrow?"

Thomas felt another moment of confusion. The Jenkins IV laughed.

"Thomas, whenever you log on as that trans dimensional being you get all whacked out." said the Jenkins IV. "Log out and take a break. You can't play this game all of the time."

The Jenkins IV froze and then faded away. Thomas stared at the space it had occupied.

"Yeah, I guess I should log out." said Thomas. He sighed. "I have a class to teach tomorrow."

A few keystrokes later Thomas Crossing felt a portion of his being fade away. Fortunately most of the other aspects of his trans dimensional being remained logged in. He stood up and turned toward the door, wondering what might be on the other side.

Only one way to find out. He stepped up and put his hand on the handle. A whole multiverse was on the other side. Taking a deep breath he turned the handle.

Networks and Beta Readers-

2008-10-02T01:23:00.000-07:00

I recently read a book on getting a literary agent. It was a good book, well written and filled with the information I needed. The publication process is long, and the book helped to explain why that was the case.

Last night I finished my first edit of my first draft of Inn at the Edge of the World. It felt good to complete that part, even though I am far from done.

Apparently I should have a network of people who can help me with the next step. Beta readers. People who will read the raw text, and add their input.

I have been aware of networking for a long time. Networking for careers, and now networking for getting published. People serving as resources for one another in a given process.

I don't network well. I have little social drive, and this whole networking think is rather social. I just don't have the beta readers I would like to have.

This is awkward. The next step might be easier if I were studying writing in a school, with contacts and friends seeking publication. Unfortunately, I am pretty much alone in this.

Eventually I will find a way to get people to read the book, and comment and criticise. I will get to that rewrite, and be ready to seek representation by an agent.

Or, I could self-publish and learn my own marketing.

Meanwhile, I started the sequel. After all, editing and all of the other stuff is not writing.

Next up, Marcus and Ara. The tale of a growing relationship, filled with travel and adventure. Oh, and some steampunk. I just thought it would be fun.

Cruise of a Lifetime-

2008-10-02T00:47:00.000-07:00

"Oh, John." said Martha. "Do you think it is really pirates?"

"I don't know, Martha." answered John. They had saved for years for this special cruise. Now here they were, huddled in their suite. Pirates!

"Ladies and gentlemen." called the Captain on the public address. "The approaching ship has fired a round across our bow, and demanded we stand down. We are currently bringing the ship to a stop."

Martha trembled in John's arms.

Minutes passed. They waited in silence.

"The pirates are approaching from the port side." called the Captain through the speaker in their room.

"That's our side, Martha." John said.

She nodded, and held him tighter.

"For those of you who have reserved action suites, I have unlocked your gun lockers on your private patios. Good hunting!"

John and Martha jumped up and ran to their patio. They could see the pirate ship clearly. The deck of the pirate ship crawled with milling bodies. They could see various rifles and several RPG's.

John popped the locker door, and handed Martha a Kevlar helmet and flack vest. As she donned her gear he put his on. He then pulled the two fifty caliber rifles from their racks and began mounting them on the gun mounts on the patio rail.

Martha was quickly bringing out boxes of ammunition.

As they were preparing they heard several opening shots ring out from the decks above.

"Hurry, John." said Martha. She was flushed with excitement. John smiled at his bride of so many years, and handed her a round.

Soon they were locked and loaded. Drawing a bead on the pirates, they let loose the first volley. They loaded again, and John adjusted his scope. Martha felt that hers was close enough, and let loose another round.

A pirate rolled from the ship and fell into the sea.

A single RPG round detonated somewhere below their level. For just a moment their view was obscured. Answering rounds rang out from the three action decks. Pirates were now jumping from their ship, which was on fire.

John began targeting pirates in the water. The rounds hitting the surface gave enough information to allow him to adjust his scope again. Martha gave hers just one click in elevation, and then they both began picking off pirates at will.

All too soon the pirate's ship listed and went under. There was no more motion from the bodies out on the sea. Some guests were still plinking at the dead targets.

"At ten bucks a round, I think I have had enough." said John, as he stowed his gear. He closed the locker when he was done, and turned to look at Martha.

Her face was flushed, and there was a gleam in her eye. She took him by the hand and lead him back into the bedroom of their suite.

Yep, thought John. The best second honeymoon ever.

Martha demonstrated that she very much agreed.

Dominant Species-

2008-09-20T13:00:00.000-07:00

Scratches-All-the-Time entered the building at his leisure, found his place in the circle, and sat on his haunches. He lazily brought up his left hind leg and began to scratch slowly behind his left ear.

You're late. Observed The Alpha.

Scratches did not respond to the voice in his head. He switched to scratching his right foreleg with his teeth. Scratches thought The Alpha's obsession with human time to be quite unseemly for a Canine.

Why can't we have these meetings from home? grumbled Moves-Like-a-Bee. The Terrier was hopping around the circle, and being disgustingly pup-like. Not the proper behavior for a six year old. Middle-age should be more sedate, thought Scratches.

Tradition. said The Alpha. Pack meetings have always been in real groups.

So where is the traditional deer carcass? asked Smells-Like-Lemons. His professionally done coif was accented by bright ribbons tied in his fur. You know how hard it is for me to get away.

Yeah, yeah. Fancy show dog. replied Bee.

Lemons gave him a haughty look, and then barked a doggish laugh. Lemons may look pretty, but he fought like a circle buzz-saw. Nobody would push him too far, and he knew it.

Back to business. said The Alpha. We have a problem. I got word at the Alpha meeting that our take-over of this planet has not gone unnoticed.

The whole circle sat up, ears erect. Whines and growls came from twenty three doggy throats.

A transmission was intercepted by the home world. he continued. The Vogons did a survey of this planet, and observed an inordinate number of us being served by the humans.

I knew no good would come of those leash laws. complained Rolls-in-Crap. Too obvious that we are in charge. Being fed, being walked. All of our needs met.

We lost our cover when the humans killed off so many of the feral members of the Order. The Alpha agreed. It was only a matter of time. Even with our efforts to reestablish the wild packs, we haven't had sufficient cover for generations.

The Vogons are stupid. said Bee. He bounced up and down in place.

The Vogons are stupid, yes. said The Alpha. But they sell information. Someone in the Galactic League might take issue with our unauthorized expansion.

The pack thought back on their history. They remembered through their racial memory. The Great Alpha made the declaration, These hairless monkeys are just what we need to dominate the galaxy. We shall pretend to submit to them, and through that seeming submission shape their species and their future.

Why did they chose the humans? asked Smart-as-a-Stone. They get out of hand, sometimes.

Thumbs. said The Alpha. I don't suppose you have noticed that we don't have any. We needed them to make tools and weapons.

Well, they have proved adept at those things, that's for sure. observed Bee.

The Alpha stood up suddenly, staring into space. The others watched and waited.

Crap. he said. Bad news on the Alpha Network. The Vogons have already reported to the Galactic League Assembly. They have condemned the planet, and the Vogons got the contract.

How can they justify destroying our planet? asked Lemons.

Something about an expressway coming through. said The Alpha. The Dolphins are already beginning their exodus.

The pack picked up the image from The Alpha's mind. Millions of Dolphins rising from the sea in the dark of night, sailing off into space.

We can't do that. complained Bee. Those not-fish have huge brains and telekinesis. We just have a psychic link with a bunch of dysfunctional hairless apes. We are so screwed!

Nonsense. declared The Alpha. The Alpha's are already grooming the next White House dog. With some luck he will guide the next American President into a new space program. Our exodus shall be assured. Probably.

Great. said Bee. We pin our hopes on the influence of a bald monkey and a fleet of over-sized Roman Candles. Yeah, I feel good.

It has been decided. said The Alpha. Go home and guide your humans to make the right choice in the coming election. The fate of the world depends upon it.

Scratches looked up from licking his balls to see that the meeting was breaking up. He stood up and followed the others out.

They all made their ways through the city to their various homes.

I hate politics. Thought Scratches-All-the-Time. I wonder which of those two folically challenged simians we were supposed to have our humans vote for?

He kept his thoughts to himself, however.

He did not share The Alpha's confidence in this plan. With the end of the world growing closer by the minute, Scratches had to assess his priorities.

He turned from the path home, thinking of something more important than influencing his humans in the coming election. He knew of a nice little bitch that was in heat. He began moving with a lot more purpose than he had for the big meeting.

Scratches-All-the-Time knew what was really important in times like these.

Mystery Box-

2008-09-12T14:55:00.000-07:00

"What is it, Dad?"

"What kind of gift would it be if I told you?" said Wendy's father. "It is a Mystery Box."

Wendy had unwrapped the gift, and within the gift box had been another wrapped box. The label read "Wait". She held the four inch square cube in her hand, feeling the texture of the wrapping. Not paper. Something like burlap. When she turned the box something shifted inside. It did not make a sound.

"Can I open it yet?" she asked.

"In a moment, if you want to." said her father. "Did you smell it? It smells old, like it has been around awhile. Not unpleasant, just the scent of many years."

She brought it near to her nose, and inhaled. Yes. Time rested lightly on the surface, permeating the cloth wrapping.

"Did you regift this?" she asked.

Her father smiled. "Yes. On purpose. That is part of the mystery."

Wendy looked at her father, trying to read what was behind the intensity of his gaze.

"My father brought that to me when I was about your age." he said.

"Oh. A hundred years ago." Wendy quipped. Her father chuckled.

"I asked when I could open it. The same label was on it. 'Wait.'" he continued. "My father said I could open it after I had thought about it for a bit."

Wendy turned her head a bit to the side, looking at the Mystery Box.

"You didn't open it." she said.

"No. I realized that if I didn't open it, there were infinite possibilities as to what might be inside."

"An eternal mystery." Wendy said, softly. It was almost a sigh.

"I can't give you the world, Wendy. I can give you possibility and hope for the future." said her father. "You can open it whenever you like."

Wendy was turning the box in her hands when she heard the door close.

Infinite possibility, all in a little box.

She read the label one more time, and then placed the unopened box where she could see it every morning upon waking.

"Infinite possibility." she whispered. "What a great gift. It goes with everything."

Pestilence-

2008-09-06T11:50:00.000-07:00

General Fortus stood before the door to the Garden, and waited. He rarely had to wait on anything, being the highest ranking military person in the Troskan Empire, but he waited here. The wait was the consequence of his own orders, and he had a purpose in those orders.

"He is out of line of sight, Sir." reported the soldier guarding the door. The soldier inserted an ornate key in the equally attractive lock, and opened the door for the General. Fortus stepped inside, and went down the short passageway to the next door and the next soldier. That soldier had a similar key, and inserted it into a similar lock. He quickly opened the door, and the General stepped through it into the Garden. He heard the door close, and the lock snap into place.

His crew was good. They had been well trained, and knew their business. It was critical to Fortus' plan not to let the resident of the Garden know anything of the outside world. At least, until today. Fortus rehersed in his mind his plan for this day. The culmination of fourteen years of planning. The beginning of the next phase.

Fortus walked as he thought on his plans, wandering along the convoluted pathways of the Garden. It was astoundingly beautiful, and all for one small boy. One small boy who was on the cusp of becoming a young man.

Rounding a turn in the pathway the young man came into view. He was sitting on a bench by one of the many reflecting ponds, watching the clouds reflected in the water. The young man turned at the sound of Fortus' feet on the gravel path.

"Uncle Fortus! How good to see you!" shouted the young man, who stood up carefully and walked slowly toward the General. He shook the General's hand warmly, looking up into the older man's eyes with open affection.

"Good day, Pestilence!" said Fortus. He noted the continuing flame of fever in the young man's ashen cheeks, and the heat of it in his hand. "It is your birthday today. Fourteen years old!"

"You said you had some special plans for today, when you last visited." the young man named Pestilence said.

"Indeed. All is ready." replied Fortus. "Walk with me, Pestilence. I have gifts for you."

They strolled together down the paths of the Garden. It was beautiful, and Fortus always enjoyed such strolls with his adopted nephew. The General had made this special residence as pleasant as he could. It was a prison for the boy, but not a place of punishment.

Pestilence glanced around at the familiar grounds, little realizing that his small universe was unusual in its beauty. He had know no other place, and never seen the world outside. So careful and subtle had been his lifelong imprisonment that he only vaguely thought of the world outside at all. The outside world was like colors to a blind man. He rarely gave it any thought.

They came to a door. It was large and deep brown, with an arched top. The ironwork was ornate, and the lock and latch beautiful. Like all of the doors Pestilence had ever seen, it was locked.

The General sighed, and pulled a key from his pocket. Pestilence was immediately curious. In all of his years of residing in the Garden he had never seen a key, nor an opened door. The General had engineered the place so that people could enter and exit the Garden always unseen by its one inmate. He met with people on the paths, but never did he see them come or go.

Today the General would breach his own command, and expose Pestilence to the possibility of something greater than the Garden.

The young man watched as his Uncle placed the key in the lock. The key turned slowly, and the latching mechanism engaged with an audible "snap." Fortus turned the knob, and pulled the door open.

"Pestilence, here is your first gift." said Fortus, as he ushered the young man through the door. "This door shall remain unlocked. You may open it whenever you wish. Now, let's go up the stairs."

The General assisted Pestilence with the unfamiliar stairs. "Always use the handrails." he said. "You are too precious to lose in a fall." He showed him how to ascend safely.

At the top the stairs opened onto a well appointed deck at the top of the wall, overlooking the Garden. Pestilence gave the Garden only a glance. His eyes were wide as he looked in the opposite direction. The vague concept of outside became suddenly real.

A sloping ridge line, covered in trees, descending to a little bay. Water going out to the horizon. He had no words in his small vocabulary for most of what he could see. Life in the Garden had been simple, and required little in the way of words.

He was astounded. Fortus allowed him to stand and stare for nearly a half-hour before recalling his attention to their business.

"As I said, a gift." Fortus repeated. "You may come here as often as you like. View your Garden from a different perspective. You may even observe the outside world."

"So big." said Pestilence. "Yet the trees and plants seem to have no order. Is there no person to care for them?"

"Caring for a garden is one thing." said Fortus. "Ordering a whole world is another. Still, this Garden is pivotal in managing that world. Sit, Pestilence. Let me tell you a story."

The young man found a seat. He waited patiently, the glow of the fever alive in his face.

"Our land is not particularly large." Fortus began. "A very small continent, not much more than a very large island. We have been small players in the politics of the world. There are many nations, all seeking the power to dominate the others. Like those games I taught you, long ago."

Pestilence nodded, though it was apparent that he did not fully understand. How could he, living isolated as he did? The General made a mental note to begin the next phase of the young man's education in a few weeks.

"Though not large, we were prosperous. We grew more than enough food, and our artisans created things highly sought after." continued Fortus. "We were growing rich and were held in high esteme by other nations. Then came the dark times."

Pestilence moved to the edge of his chair. This was better than any other story he had been told. His attention was intensely focused on the words of the older man.

"Disease ravaged our people. Entire villages were wiped out. One in every three people died." said Fortus. "Our economy was in ruins. The people were confused, and in need of a firm leader. The Emperor seized power and placed things in order. He brought people together in central locations and built fortified cities. We were ripe for plunder, once word got out and other people came to believe the ravaging disease had run its course."

Pestilence touched his own cheek gently, feeling the burn of the fever that had always been in him.

"I found you, and adopted you as my nephew." said the General. "Your parents, sadly, had both died. Of all the people that contracted the disease and did not die, you were the only one in which the disease continued to live. You have never been defeated by the disease, yet your body has never overcome the invader. You became our national treasure."

"What do you mean, Uncle?" asked the young man. "How can one sickly boy be the treasure of a nation?"

"This Garden I had built as your home." the older man continued. "In all of these years I sought to keep you safe. I also have used you, lad. I am not ashamed of that. You have served your people better than hundreds of men. Thousands."

"Uncle?"

"Over these years you have had many visitors." said Fortus. "They came and met you, touched your hand, shared your food. Soldiers, workers, mothers and more. I did that to keep them exposed to the disease that in you did not die. Our people will be strong and resist the disease because you are here to share it with them."

Pestilence nodded, remembering the endless stream of visitors he met in his Garden. It had been part of the patern of his life for as long as he could remember.

"You know, Pestilence, most boys do not get new bedding every day." Fortus said. "Nor do the get new clothes four times each day. The bedding in which you have slept and the clothes you have worn have been taken to other lands. Carefully managed, we have used them to bring disease to various other lands, keeping them weak. Too weak to invade our precious land."

Pestilence looked out over the sea. He could only vaguely imagine those other lands, those other people. He thought that perhaps he should feel some guilt or pain over all of those deaths. He could not. It was all too new to him.

"That is why I have kept you in this Garden." Fortus said. "You are too valuable to lose. Yet you grow older, and who knows what the future holds? So, I will begin your education into the ways of our nation and the world."

A young woman appeared around a corner. Now that he was aware of the trick, Pestilence realized that she had come from outside, through some hidden door. He eyed her and the contents of the tray she carried with equal interest.

The General noticed his interest, and smiled. The next phase should go quite well. Over the recent months the more matronly women working to care for Pestilence had been replaced by younger women. The uniforms of those women became more aluring over time, to provoke the interest the General now observed.

She set the tray of delicate fruits on the table. She smiled at Pestilence, and then stepped back against a nearby wall to wait.

"These fruits we cannot grow here in this land." said Fortus. "We must trade for them. To keep the balance of trade we exchange other goods. Bedding, for example. Perhaps children's clothes."

Pestilence took one of the unusual fruits and studied it. He then consumed it with obvious relish. His eye often strayed to the young woman standing by the wall.

"You want to do your part, maintaining this balance of trade, don't you?" asked Fortus.

Pestilence nodded. He was not sure why it was so hard not to look at the serving girl.

"Sandra, come here, please." said the General. The serving girl came and stood by him.

"Pestilence, would you like Sandra to stay with you for a few days?"

"Oh, yes, Uncle!"

"Good, good. Sandra, why don't you take Pestilence over there and you two can get to know each other. Don't mind me, I will be fine right here."

Sandra smiled and took Pestilence by the hand. The young couple walked a few paces away and sat on a lounge facing the Garden.

Fortus sat back and smiled. Sandra was just a few years older than the many other serving girls working around the Garden and surrounding compound. She was considerably more experienced. She would teach Pestilence some wonderful things in the next few weeks. Things he would be able to share with the endless parade of young women the General intended to march through the Garden.

Perhaps the condition that made Pestilence so valuable was genetic. Perhaps it could be bred. If not, the young women who had been intimate with Pestilence could become another exportable commodity.

If nothing else, the unending pleasure should keep his young prisoner docile for many years to come. The General was content in his belief that the Empire would be safe and secure for a very long time.

He got up quietly, went around a corner and let himself out through another hidden door.

Pestilence did not even notice his Uncle's departure. He was too busy with the next phase of his education. It was a very happy birthday, indeed!

All That is Holy-

2008-09-01T03:44:00.000-07:00

Abraham carried the vessel with great care as he navigated the narrow path. He had been an acolyte for only a month, and took his duties seriously. It was his task to feed and otherwise care for the ascetic monks attached to the monastery. The mixtures of simple grains were sanctified, and destined to nourish one of God's Chosen.

Making the final turn in the path Abraham walked up to a literal hole in the wall. Brother Levi had hollowed out the hillside and sealed himself inside a small cave of his own making. He had stacked the rocks that formed the front of his cell, leaving a hole just big enough to allow the vessel Abraham carried to pass through.

Brother Levi was the last of the seven monks assigned to Abraham that he had to visit each morning. Abraham was tempted to greet the monks. Abraham was a naturally cheerful young man, and keeping the silence required in the Vale of the Monks was difficult for him. Still, he was devoted to his God and to the church. He managed, most of the time.

Abraham silently slid the vessel full of grain into the hole. He waited. Soon, a pair of hands took the vessel into the darkness. Abraham tried to hold his breath while showing the proper veneration for God's Chosen. Unfortunately, the Chosen of God did not smell very good. Abraham felt bad for his uncharitable thoughts, but he did not believe his nose lied to him.

A moment later another vessel appeared in the opening. It was the vessel he had delivered the day before. Abraham lifted it with care. The contents reeked more than the air escaping from Brother Levi's dwelling. He carried it slowly away. He was always very careful at this point. The solids and liquids sloshed dangerously in the vessel, no matter how carefully Abraham walked.

He was relieved when he reached the place where he could pour off most of the liquid. He took great care in not letting the solids escape. He mouthed the prayers he had been instructed to speak as he performed this task. Ordinarily he enjoyed prayer, but these prayers required him to breath more than he really wanted. This was a time when even a small inhalation could be incapacitating.

Once most of the liquid had been poured off Abraham lifted the vessel and carried it in his outstretched arms. By the time he got to the hut of Father Isaac his arms were shaking from the strain. Father Isaac met him at the door, and took the vessel before he could drop it. Father Isaac gave him a baleful look.

"Abraham, Abraham, Abraham!" he said. "How long will it take you to learn to venerate the gifts of the Chosen of God?"

Abraham hung his head in shame.

Father Isaac tucked the vessel under his arm, and gave Abraham a gentle smack on the top of his head. "Come with me." he said.

Abraham followed, thankful for the gentle rebuke. He watched as Father Isaac took the stone lid off of a very large vessel, using only his free hand. With practiced moves Father Isaac emptied the contents of the vessel Abraham had brought to him into the larger vessel. He muttered the appropriate prayers as he waited for the last bit to drop into the ripe smelling container. Abraham muttered the prayers along with the priest.

The task completed, Father Isaac handed Abraham the vessel and put the lid back on the larger container. It would be Abraham's task to take the vessel to the nearby stream and wash it clean. Abraham liked this part of the job. The air was fresh by the stream, and he could sing his prayers to the music of the running waters.

"A year from now and this shit will be ready." said Father Isaac. "People will come here and buy this shit to take home to their gardens. You know why, Abraham?"

Abraham held his tongue. He knew that it was not a question he should answer. Father Isaac liked to ask questions, and then answer them himself.

"They will come for this shit, because it is Holy." continued the old priest. "Yes, this is Holy Shit. Those crazy men sit in their rock holes, praying and pooping. Why should just the praying be Holy? That's what I said. 'What about all of that shit?' I asked."

Abraham waited. He knew better than to interrupt.

"So, they put me in charge." said Father Isaac. "They said, 'OK, so you do something with all of that shit.' And I did."

The old priest looked lovingly at his row of large vessels. He patted the nearest one with affection.

"Holy Shit. That's what I said. Put it up for a year, and it is the best soil on earth. That's what I said. And the people listened. They came, and took it to their gardens, and praised the Chosen of God for their prayers. But it wasn't only prayers that gave them abundance from their gardens. No, it was the Holy Shit."

Abraham nodded, and waited patiently.

"You go, Abraham. Clean that vessel, and bring it back. Then you can be off to your classes."

Abraham smiled, turned, and ran for the stream.

"Oh, and Abraham!" Father Isaac shouted after him. "Take a bath while you are there. You don't smell so good!"

Getting published-

2008-08-31T00:58:00.001-07:00

I haven't written any short stories in awhile, due to investing my time in cleaning up my rough-draft novel.

Besides the task of polishing the story I have been exploring the best way to get the thing published. I have explored Lulu.com and the services provided by Amazon. I have looked at blogs on the subject of getting published, and checked web sites of those who offer to assist. I have also looked at web sites warning of the excesses of some who offer to assist writers in getting published.

I am currently researching how to get an agent. I face an uphill battle, since I am a first-time writer trying to get published at the age of 55. Still, I don't really see gaining the necessary skills to market a novel on my own. I may work on a project with the intent of self-publishing through print-on-demand resources, but this novel is not that project.

There is still much work to do in finishing and formatting my novel. I have a serviceable level of skill in word processing for writing reports and simple documents. I feel the need to gain a bit more skill in learning to manage and format a novel length text.

That, and ongoing research has limited my resources for writing the short stories I love. Oh, and the switch from working days to nights has been a bit taxing, as well. I am fairly well accustomed to the new hours, and hope to do better.

If all goes well I should publish a new little tale in a few days. For those of you who are checking in, thanks for sticking with me.

Word Processing-

2008-08-13T06:19:00.000-07:00

I have finished red-lining my rough draft for my novel, Inn at the Edge of the World. I started making corrections and additions last night. As I did so, I realized that I have not actually mastered my word processor. It does not help that I go from Word at work to Word Perfect at home.

If I do go with a self-publishing service or the print-on-demand services with Amazon, I will need to learn how to format my work for publication. I could pay for the formatting and other services, but I feel that learning how to do the formatting myself will be valuable learning. It is more in line with my budget, as well.

First comes the rewrite and a more serious approach to learning the word processor. I suspect that formatting a novel for publication will be a bit more involved than anything else I have done in the area of word processing.

I have a lot to learn. That seems to always be the case.

Twenty Two Caliber Redemption-

2008-07-24T21:05:00.000-07:00

He sat in silence on the worn park bench, sipping from a bottle in a paper bag and watching the dusk fall. He no longer had a name, and that gave him what little peace he knew. He left that name along with the family that was now just a suppressed and faded memory.

His eyes drifted from the sunset over the sooty city skyline to glance at his quarry. He was always astounded when something like a sunset awoke the vague echoes of pleasure that still clung to the edges of his empty self. His quarry took some money from a young man of about fourteen. The young man received something small in return, and ran off down the street.

The quarry made a few more sales, and then glanced around. Probably looking for the cops, or competition. The man put his bagged bottle to his lips, and took another sip. An empty man is invisible, and winos so common as to be of no more note than the pigeons in the park. He got up and followed slowly as the quarry headed toward a darkening alley.

He mumbled a bit, swinging his bottle about, and stumbled into the alley just a few yards behind his quarry. Slumping beside a dumpster, he took another sip. The quarry met a man at the back of the alley, and they conducted a little business. After the quarry left the alley, the man with no name slowly stumbled to his feet.

He followed. Down a block, a right turn. Another block. A left into another alley. The pusher's digs were not far ahead.

The stumbling wino gait gave way to purposeful strides. The hand not holding the bottle came up with practiced precision. The small caliber hand-gun barked three times. Sub-sonic twenty-two caliber rounds exited the muzzle and quickly found their new home inside the pusher's skull. The quarry dropped, dying even as he fell.

The man with no name walked on. He came soon to the chapel he had chosen. Entering, he looked around in the holy gloom. He did not touch the offered holy water, fearing that it would burn him. He went forward to an empty pew, knelt and prayed.

Here the memories flooded back. Backing out his daughter's car, to get it ready for a family outing. The muffled thump as he ran over something. His daughter's scream. Her, holding his now dead grandson beside the driveway.

"I have brought you another one." he prayed. An offering. A bit of cleansing. An attempt to buy redemption.

He knew in his heart that God had forgiven him. His family had forgiven him. They had struggled to bring him back to himself after the accident. They did not know that he was truly empty. He could not forgive himself.

He had wandered for years, now. The hurt his absence must cause his family simply added to his debt. He hunted those who poisoned children, hoping that somehow that would buy him peace. Perhaps someday he could once again claim his name.

The man with no name stood, and exited the chapel. He wandered toward the cheap room that would contain his dark dreams and muffled screams for the night. He would clean his gun, eat enough to keep his unworthy body alive, and seek a new town tomorrow.

Television Commercials-

2008-07-23T03:23:00.000-07:00

Some of the most entertaining material on television is the commercials. Just try and watch a half-hour of Hell Date, and then find a nice string of commercials. My bet is that you will find the commercials more entertaining.

The short stories I publish here are best classified as Flash Fiction. I keep the stories very short. They move very quickly to the pay-off. A lot like commercials.

I sometimes wonder if commercials would be as focused and entertaining if they were not simply vehicles to introduce us products and services, and keep those products and services fresh in our minds. I have to imagine a lot of energy (and money) goes into producing these very short commercial stories.

It would be interesting to visit the future, and find out how these little product positioning tales fare over time.

I have to imagine that some commercials will outlive their products. They may not always sell, but they will continue to entertain.

A Stitch in Time-

2008-07-18T13:37:00.000-07:00

A Stitch in Time-

Angela Jamestone sat at her sewing machine, making an adjustment. Angela knew her sewing machines. She had worn out four, and currently owned three more. She sat in the midst of fat quarters, pattern samples, bobbins and threads. Her sewing room was orderly and filled with color and creativity.

"Your mother makes great quilts." she heard, coming from the kitchen. Her sewing room was just off the kitchen, and she liked to keep the door open.

"Yeah, she does great work." That was her son, Carl. He and the neighbor girl, Tammy, must have come in for a drink from the refrigerator. Angela smiled as she finished her adjustment. She could hear pride in his voice.

"How long has she been sewing like this?" asked Tammy, amidst the clinking of glasses and bottles.

"All of my life." answered Carl. Angela heard the refrigerator door close, and a moment later the slam of the back door. Her adjustment finished, Angela once again began to sew. As she sewed, she remembered.

Angela remembered weeping. She sat on the porch, in the dark, and wept. She wept for the words of her doctor, who had informed her that her son would probably not live. She rubbed her round belly, weeping for the boy within. She stared out into the darkness, and wept.

"I wish I could do something." she said aloud, focused on one particularly bright star.

She heard a cough, a poorly covered belch, and an unrestrained fart from the gathered darkness below the tree in her front yard. She felt too miserable to be afraid, even as the unshaven man stepped out of the darkness and glared at her with bloodshot eyes.

"Something." he said. "Pretty damned general. Kind of a blank check, eh?"

"Who are you, and what do you want?" asked Angela. It was barely a whisper. There was still no fear, even though the man looked like he had recently resided in a dumpster. A particularly dirty and neglected dumpster.

"I am a fairy." he said. "No, not that kind. You know, magic and all that crap."

He belched again.

"You made a wish on my star. I am responding." he said, with the patience born of boredom rather than compassion. "So, what do you want?"

"I want my son to live."

"Huh. Cheat death and all that? That one is going to cost you."

"Cost me what?" asked Angela. She would give anything. He knew it. She knew he knew it.

"Hmmm. You like to sew. I know that from your profile."

"You fairies keep profiles?" Angela asked.

"No, we check the Internet."

"Oh."

"OK. Here's the deal. It's my job to find something you like, and use that to bargain with. I require you to do that thing so much, you come to hate it. In exchange, you get the wish."

"What kind of a good fairy are you?" asked Angela. She had become curious enough to have stopped weeping. This was just too weird.

"Who said anything about good? You picked the wrong star. I failed the test to become a demon, and this was the only job open." answered the unpleasant creature. "I hate this job, but what is a supernatural being to do? Now, do you want the deal, or no?"

"What deal?" asked Angela. "You haven't made any kind of offer, yet."

The fairy rolled his eyes. "Sheesh. OK, you keep sewing, the boy lives. That simple. You stop sewing, the boy dies. Pretty clear, eh?"

"Not really." Angela replied. "How much sewing? What kind of sewing? Do you have any perks to sweeten the deal? You know, assured success in life for my son. Good teachers. Good grades. Good job opportunities. A good wife. Oh, and a good fairy, should he ever need one?"

"Lady, you sure are pushy." said the reprobate fairy standing in her yard. "I don't know anything about sewing. Tell you what. I got a thing a bit later with an angel on vacation, if you know what I mean. You state the terms, and I will decide if they are good enough."

"Here's the deal. I have to always be working on a quilt. I must always start the next one before the one I am working on is finished."

The fairy nodded.

"I don't have to sew constantly. After all, I will soon have a baby to care for. However, I have to do something on my quilts every day. That can include shopping for material, studying patterns, and keeping my work space clean and orderly."

"Sure. Sure." said the fairy. He was obviously anxious to get going. "Don't forget, you are going to learn to hate all of this."

"Of course." said Angela. She hoped her face displayed what this creature would mistake for innocence and credulity. "Oh, and my son gets all of that good stuff I mentioned."

"Fine. Deal." said the fairy. He turned and started to walk away.

"Wait!" called Angela.

He turned around. He did not look pleased. Angela wondered how he could fail to become a demon with a face like that.

"Magic wand?"

The fairy grunted. He bend down, picked up a dirty stick, and waved it generally in Angela's direction. A muddy ball of energy drifted from the stick slowly toward Angela's belly. It enveloped her, and slowly insinuated itself into her distended abdomen. It was disgusting, but seemed to seal the deal.

"Happy now?"

Angela nodded, trying not to throw up.

The fairy turned left and departed Angela's reality.

Angela finished her stitch, and came back to the present. Carl was now a young teen. Angela thought back on the years of sewing. The friends. The contests. The prizes and awards. The life of her son.

No. She had not yet come to hate the task.

She hoped that damned fairy was miserable knowing that she was not.

Reading for Young People-

2008-07-11T17:49:00.000-07:00

I was just commenting on a blog where the issue up for discussion was summer reading for young people. Should the recommended/required reading lists be fun or "literary"?

Many people who are not readers perceive reading as work. Some people I have talked with find it actually emotionally traumatic to be required to read. I recall a comment on the bus I heard one time. I was using a small flashlight to read by, since it was dark and I had about thirty minutes to ride to my destination. Someone quipped, "Why is he doing that? Reading is hard enough anyway." Obviously not a big reader.

My comment on the blog I was reading regarded Dickens. His work is almost always included in a young person's list of things they must read. My introduction was "Great Expectations." Having read a lot of Dickens over the years, I would contend that an introduction to his works should begin with one of his lighter works. There is nothing wrong with fun being a part of someones education.

Compulsory introductions to poetry should not necessarily begin with Emily Dickinson, or Shakespeare. Too many people can only see poetry as something culled from Hallmark. An adventure in fun poetry should begin the exploration. Especially bringing "manly" young men into the presence of the poet.

Translations and transliterations don't necessarily hurt, either. "Canterbury Tales" is much more interesting when it is in a form that is readable by a modern reader. Having read the tales in an understandable format, the adventurous reader might just go back to the older form of English for a taste.

Literature should not be a mode of snobbery. It is, among some parts of our society. It ought not to be. It should not be bound by rules that confine the experience without enhancing it. Rules are fine, if they provide structure and focus. However, once they fail to enhance the experience, they fail in their purpose.

I must reiterate that the shift of attention from reading in a post-literate age does not necessarily mean a decline in culture. Preservationist must strive to keep literature alive, but it is not reasonable to expect everyone to be an avid reader in an age that provides alternatives to the written word for communication.

Today I could be expressing myself in a video, which I could publish as easily as this blog. I could easily aquire (though not necessarily easily master) animation software, and express myself that way. There are many options, beyond simply writing.

Perhaps that presents a challenge to those of us who value the art of reading. A challenge to use some of these alternative media to encourage people to read. The very tools that are available to provide options other than reading can also be used to share the joy of reading.

As always, a problem is not just a problem. It is a challenge, and an opportunity. It will be interesting to see just how the alternative media are used to encourage young people to read.

The Bear Hunter-

2008-07-10T10:31:00.000-07:00

The Bear Hunter

a short story by Michael R. Lockridge

George Quintana finished his breakfast, and rinsed the bowl in the sink. He looked around his new fifth-wheel toy hauler recreational vehicle with some pride. It had been reinforced to his specifications, so that he could haul it confidently behind his Ford F-450. The large diesel engine and four-wheel-drive were necessary to haul himself and his toys deep enough into the woods to suit his purposes.

He stepped back into the toy section of his ample mobile mansion. His creation sat silently in place, secured by the travel webbing. George hummed a bit to himself as he began breaking down the webbing to free his creation. Once the webbing had been removed and stowed, he disconnected the electrical power line and the air lines.

The huge exoskeleton sitting before him sucked light into its mat-black finish. He had gone to considerable trouble to reduce reflective surfaces on this model. Off-the-shelf parts had to be refinished or covered. Custom pieces, and there were many of these, had to be sent out for powder coating or other specialized finishes. George had machined much of the creation himself.

George reflected on his inspirations. His father tinkering in the garage, or cleaning and maintaining his several hunting rifles. Crabfu, the long-time mechanical genius who had resided on the Internet for decades. Thomas Edison. Leonardo Da Vinci. Walt Disney and his Imagineers. As he reflected, he adjusted various elements of his creation.

As he strapped himself into the behemoth, George remembered his father’s passion for hunting. A passion he had passed on to his mechanically inclined son. Rifle, bow, black powder and pistol hunting. They had done it all.

Remembering his father’s untimely demise from a heart attack gave George pause. He brushed away a tear, and then finished the process of enmeshing himself in his creation by inserting his arms into the arms of his colossus. He snapped five toggle switches inside the left arm with his left hand, and the colossus came alive.

Slowly, deliberately, he moved his left arm toward a robust button on the wall of his toy hauler. The servos within the behemoth’s left arm responded and moved to this command. With the back of his surrogate left hand he pushed the button, being careful not to foul the three sharp blades that extended from that mechanical hand like claws.

The rear door to his mobile home and shop began to descend into a ramp. The rail mounted seat on which his mechanical being sat slid forward. Once clear enough to stand, George did so. He checked the read-outs in his heads-up display. All systems were good to go.

He stepped forward, and moved away from the vehicle. The rail mounted seat retracted and the doors closed. George was now outside, equipped in his new creation, deep in bear country. George took a few steps, and again checked the display. The indicators were still good. He began walking into the woods, seeking his prey.

As he sauntered through the woods, he used the strength of his amended systems to clear the path. While the gyro guided balance system was robust, George still proceeded with caution. Taking time to move a downed tree or other interfering object would be less costly than causing his creation to tumble.

Getting up off of the ground in this thing had proved challenging in the lab. George did not want to test the process in the field. Not in the very heart of the realm of the brown bear. Anywhere else would be embarrassing. Here, it could be deadly.

George checked his shielding as he approached the first baited area. His arms and legs were fully encased. Forearms and lower legs were armored with a fairly heavy gage alloy. The upper arms and legs were somewhat lighter in gage, but reinforced by heavy bars. His torso was enveloped in a reinforced mesh, a compromise to allow for air flow and reduced weight. His head was encased in a helmet with a Plexiglas face plate, and flexible reinforcing columns along his neck.

The power for the unit was a combination of electrical and pneumatic systems. He carried enough compressed air to power his system for two hours at minimum use. The tanks and batteries resided in housings on his back, along with a small compressor. The compressor was powered by propane, and would be used after the hunt to renew his air pressure.

George found the first bait disturbed, but no bear was present. He turned toward his second bait, and moved slowly through the woods. Even before he entered the clearing he could hear the bear rooting about near the bait. George stepped quietly into the clearing, and watched his quarry.

The bear was confused and frustrated. The blend of bait scents George had concocted was intended for that purpose. So far his quarry had not noticed him. George watched the young male, assessing how the battle would go. He had not yet engaged a creature so magnificent in combat. This would be his first battle.

It was time. George spoke a gentle command into the microphone. From a speaker mounted in his chest guard the challenging bellow broke forth. A sound bite, but a well chosen one. A bear’s challenge.

The bear spun around like lightning, standing on his rear legs and looking quickly from left to right. He did not find the bear he was looking for. The strange contraption standing in the clearing caught his attention, but was not immediately perceived as threatening.

George stepped forward. The bear dropped to his four feet, and ambled forward. The creature appeared more curious than angry, but he tossed his head displaying his confusion and concern. George moved more quickly.

The bear reared and charged. George tucked down to keep his center of gravity low and hit the bear in the chest with a head butt. The bear swung with a paw and struck the shoulder of his strange enemy, then lost his balance and fell backward.

George moved in quickly, swinging his clawed left arm downward to disembowel his worthy opponent. The bear was quick, and rolled away back onto his feet before the blow could strike. The creature came around quickly, hitting the side of George’s helmet hard enough to cause a ringing in his right ear. The blow rocked the exoskeleton sharply to the side. Servos hissed and whined to keep the vehicle upright.

The bear turned swiftly and hugged George in the mid-section. The jaws and teeth dug and snapped, denting the wire mesh shielding that protected George’s mid-section. The vehicle stabilized, and George tried to clear his mind for the fight. The fierceness of the assault had overwhelmed his senses.

The bear grew frustrated with the resilience of his opponent’s belly. He reared back and dug in again. Something snapped, and George felt part of the meshwork protecting his flesh push against his stomach. Nearly in a panic, George forced himself to think.

Quickly he bent down and grabbed the bear’s rear legs. George lifted the beast, holding the huge creature upside down. What to do with it?

Both George and the bear stopped fighting for a second when there was another roar from behind the exoskeleton. It was a strange sound, incongruous in the situation. George recovered first, realizing that the compressor motor had started in order to renew the air pressure in his system.

Taking advantage of the bear’s confusion, George released the grip of his right hand and brought the claws on the back of his hand down in a swipe across the exposed belly of his enemy. The bear screamed in agony as the blades opened his flesh.

Overbalanced by the great weight in his left hand, George’s systems once again hissed and howled trying to compensate. Realizing that he might topple over, George released his grip on the bear.

Entrails dragging on the ground, the bear turned and again charged. George managed to get a grip on the creature’s shoulders, holding it away from his own torso. George had no idea how close the bear was to breaching the shielding on his own belly, but he was unwilling to let the animal test the matter.

The bear began to slow. Loss of blood was finally ending the struggle. Soon George realized that the only thing holding up the beast was his own exoskeleton. He tossed the beast to the ground, and drove the blades of his left hand deep into the animal’s throat. His final blow was met with a sluggish outflow of blood from the resulting wound. In moments the animal was dead.

George grabbed a foreleg of the beast, and began dragging it back toward his camp. He was almost within sight of his camp when the low-pressure alarm in his exoskeleton began chirping. Dropping the beast, he started jogging toward his camp. He hit the big button on the outside of the door to his rig, and waited for the door to drop and the seat to deploy.

He had just seated himself when he heard the next alarm. The compressor was out of fuel, and was shutting down. In moments he would have been operating on emergency electrical, with just enough power to move the unit a very short distance. He had cut this one very close.

Once the unit was safely inside his mobile shop, George initiated the shutdown procedure and began separating himself from his creation. He had some difficulty getting the guard covering his chest to open, and had a fleeting vision of starving to death, trapped inside the strange device.

Finally the guard sprung away, and George was free. He examined his creation, and found it largely intact. He could see that he had come very close to losing the battle due to a flaw in the chest guard design. George took a few pictures of the damage, already working on design improvements in his head.

George whistled as he worked. He plugged in the helmet camera to his main computer, and began downloading the images from the battle. He got everything connected, so that he could recharge the system. He still needed to go out and get his trophy.

While the vehicle recharged, George put on the tea kettle and then headed for the shower. He figured he had two hours before the system was ready to go. A shower and a quick meal. Nothing much, though.

Tonight George intended to feast on a very fresh bear steak.

Twilight-

2008-07-09T21:12:00.000-07:00

My wife, Linda, got the first in the Twilight Saga, by Stephenie Meyer. Titled Twilight, it is actually targeted toward young adults. However, the writing is excellent, and any lover of vampire tales will not be disappointed. It is quite suitable for all audiences.

How do I know that, when my wife is reading it? She finished on Sunday, and handed me the book. We are going soon to Texas to visit the kids and grand kids. My wife wanted to give the book to our daughter when we got there. I had a deadline.

I finished yesterday, which was late Tuesday. A marathon of reading. I don't mind. As I said, it is a good story. The sexual tension peculiar to young adult literature is a twist. So are some of the shifts in the mythology of vampires. The characters are interesting, and the tale holds together quite well.

The young female protagonist reminded me much of a young woman I knew long ago. She also reflected the female lead character in Piers Anthony's Mode Series. All three are young, complex, and endearing.

Will my next short story be a vampire tale? Not a chance. Stephenie Meyer also gave a twist to bear hunting. Yep. Bear hunting.

I hope to write it tomorrow. Stay tuned.

Hacker's End

2008-07-05T09:27:00.000-07:00

Hacker’s End

a short story by Michael R. Lockridge

Thomas McGuffin had been excited when writing the program. The power of programming was intoxicating for this otherwise small and unremarkable young man. He had been frightened by that power, when he released it into the Internet and it did his will. Millions of machines irreparably damaged. Billions of bits of data lost forever.

Elation. Intoxication. Fear. Deep emotions for an otherwise stunted personality. Tommy was overwhelmed by what he had done.

So was the world. Headlines called out the nature of his crime. The populace was irate. People called for him to be flayed, salted, drawn and quartered. They wanted him to suffer and die.

He was hiding in his smelly little room, eyes locked onto his computer monitor, when the voices called out and the door was kicked in. He did not resist when they dragged him away. He sat numbly in his solitary cell, coming out only for showers and court dates. He was finally sentenced.

The populace was angry. Only twelve years in federal prison for his crime. Twelve years! They wanted his hide.

Tommy just wanted his computer back, and access to the Internet. His life of confinement was empty without access. He thought he was dying inside.

Now, here he stood. Naked in front of some non-descript officer.

“Open your mouth. Lift your tongue.”

Tommy did so. A light shined into the resulting cavern.

“Lift your arms over your head.”

Tommy lifted his arms.

“Now lift your balls.”

He did so. He had done it enough times while in the county jail that it was no big deal.

“Turn around. Bend over. Spread your cheeks.”

Tommy did so. He could almost feel the invasion of the light from the officer’s flashlight.

“Lift your feet so I can see the bottoms.”

Tommy did that.

“Get dressed. Grab your issue and follow me.” said the officer. The voice was flat. Unemotional. The officers had all been polite, but distant.

Tommy got dressed in his prison garb. Non-descript blue cotton clothing. Sturdy. Cheap. He picked up his blankets and other issued items and followed the officer. Another officer followed.

They made their way through a warren of cells. Tommy heard but did not listen to the catcalls that followed him. He had heard them before, in jail and on the street when being taken to court. They were just the background noise of his new life.

The officer stopped. He snapped the key ring from his belt and produced a cell key. He did it with the automatic familiarity of many years handling keys. Tommy knew that the officer could probably put a man on the ground with similar ease and familiarity. Tommy would not test that. He was not built for physical drama.

“Your roommate is named Lars Vextman. He hasn’t been here very long.” said the officer.

Tommy started to move into the cell. The officer stopped him with a finger in the middle of his chest.

“Let me tell you about Lars.” said the guard. “He apparently became angry when a computer virus destroyed his collection of midget porn. Lars boasted to me that he had the most complete collection of midget porn in the world.”

Tommy swallowed. It was hard to do. His throat had become quite dry.

“He went on a rampage of crime. Assaults. Vandalism. Arson. It was the three bank robberies that got him put in here.”

Tommy began to quiver. A plastic cup shook loose from his issue and bounced across the floor. Someone down the hall called out, “Wino!” The guard bent down, picked up the cup, and put it back into the pile of issue in Tommy’s arms.

“Lars is not the only one who suffered due to that virus.” said the officer. Then he smiled. It was not very encouraging.

The officer motioned toward the cell. Tommy went in.

“Oh. We took the liberty of telling Lars you were coming.” said the officer, as the door closed with a resolute clang.

Tommy stood in the dimly lit cell. As his eyes adjusted he could see some kind of mass on the bottom bunk. A great, hairy, hulking mass. A great, hairy, hulking mass that shifted a bit. It farted.

“Make up your bunk.” said a surprisingly gentle voice. The sound emanated from the huge being huddled on the bottom bunk. It seemed incongruous. “Make up your bunk, and when you are finished, we shall discuss reparations for certain crimes against my person.”

Tommy trembled. It was going to be a very long twelve years.

Sylvester the Cat-

2008-07-03T07:18:00.000-07:00

His name was Sylvester. Sylvester II, to be exact. He didn't really know that, however. Neither did he know that he was so named simply because of the black and white coloration of his fur reminded people of a cartoon character, as had been the Sylvester before him.

Sylvester was, quite simply, a cat.

Well, perhaps not quite so simply. Yes, he was indeed a cat. He did have a remarkable similarity to his namesake. However, below the level of his complete set of cat instincts Sylvester had another layer of instincts. It was one of those deep instincts that had his ear twitching at this moment.

It was early morning at the jail farm, and Sylvester was beginning to wake. The inmates in the bunks around him were asleep, and the guards were at the guard station. The ear twitched a few more times, and then the eyes opened.

The eyes saw a row of bunks much like the one on which Sylvester lay. The inmate with whom he was sharing the bunk had curled his legs around Sylvester in a most accommodating manner. The cat stood up in that comfortable half-circle, stretched, and jumped to the floor.

He padded silently down the rows of bunks, hearing but not listening to the breathing sound, the snores, and the occasional moan. He started slightly as a baritone fart greeted him in passing, but did not slow his pace. As only a cat can, he accepted this place, these men, the food and the affection as his due.

Sylvester padded past the latrine, ignoring the rustling sound of a news paper page being turned somewhere in the enclosure that held the row of commodes. It did not occur to him to be curious or amazed at these creatures who shit in their living spaces, or the efforts they made to create systems to eliminate the resulting waste. He had a bit of similar business of his own to take care of, somewhere outside.

The cat padded purposefully out through an open back door, and wandered to a planter on the far side. He made a deposit in some soft dirt, and scratched some earth over the scat. His ear twitched again. Sylvester turned away from the dormitory and loped purposefully toward the dump next door. Through a hole in the fence he went, and then across an open space.

He went to a pile of discarded machinery that was rusting quietly along side a hillock of buried waste, and slipped through an opening in the debris. A tunnel wound deep into the heap of scrap, and opened into a small chamber. The chamber was clean, and free of rust. Several probes pointed toward a single point in the center of the chamber.

Sylvester walked to that point, and curled up there on the floor. The ear twitched twice, and was still.

Lart Kohln became fully aware of himself. He was sitting in his chamber, with probes aimed at him. Lart remembered himself. He was a multi-dimensional being, and this projection was called "Sylvester" in this particular dimension. He relaxed as the sensory data transferred from his projection into himself.

"One of them is aware." He said. The others in the chamber leaned forward. "One of the authority figures. He has somehow guessed that the projection Sylvester is an alien. There is not enough data to indicate how he knows. He has spoken of it several times to Sylvester."

Elder Da thought for a moment. He bathed his own awareness in the beam of a projector for a moment, and thought some more.

"He only suspects. It is a speculation. These creatures live largely in delusion, and he is no different. We shall continue the project. Sylvester will continue to live among these creatures, for a time."

Lart nodded. Sylvester's ear twitched.

"I am curious." asked Acolyte Simph. "Why do these creature remain in this place? It is a place of confinement, yet there are no fences. Still, they remain."

"That is why we chose this particular site to study these humans." Answered the Elder. "The situation is complex, and they are conflicted. There is a convenient concentration of the beings in this place, and the projection Sylvester is accepted among them."

"I have all of the current data." Lart said.

"Good." said the Elder. "Send the projection back to the facility."

"Elder, I have a question." said Acolyte Janz.

"Please. Let Lart rest up from projecting. He will be available for questioning later." said Elder Da. "Lart, we will be awaiting you in four saas."

Lart nodded, and waved his hand over a node in the wall.

Sylvester's ear twitched. He stood, and stretched. He then padded out of the chamber, through the small tunnel. He loped across the dump, through the fence, and across the jail parking lot. He sauntered in through the open door, and across the latrine.

The humans were eating. Sylvester sat next to his bowl. He only had to wait.

"Morning, Sylvester." said one of the inmates, as he deposited a bit of sausage and scrambled eggs in the bowl. As the cat began to eat, the man stroked the fur along his back. Sylvester accepted the food and the stroking as his due.

His ear twitched. He continued eating.

Reading as therapy-

2008-06-22T21:41:00.000-07:00

My line of work has a degree of stress. Most do. I have been directly managing inmates for over eighteen years. This has understandably caused some damage to my mental faculties. Kind of a psychic bruising over time. Some days it is a massive struggle to overcome the depression.

I returned to writing as a tool to manage that depression. I still have some time to go before I can retire from this line of work, and I need every tool I can get to keep my mind sound through that time.

The other side of writing is reading. So, being a bit troubled by depression this morning I turned to reading. My current book has been One for the Money, by Janet Evanovich. Her writing is well paced, light hearted and often amusing. Not your usual approach to what has to be dropped into the Mystery genre. This is the first in her series of Stephanie Plum novels. The number in each title represents the number of the book in the series.

Her fourteenth is in the book store right now.

I have no idea if I can attain such a level of success. At this point, I have a finished (but not quite polished) novel. It was written as a way to manage depression, but I really would like to publish it. I am still exploring how to do that. It is not an easy business. Still, it was fun to write. It was an interesting experience.

Whatever I do with my book, there still remain thirteen of Evanovich's to read. Not bad therapy, all things considered.

Digital Sailor

2008-06-15T10:23:00.000-07:00

Digital Sailor

A short story by Michael R. Lockridge

Thomas Weston sat on the bench by the harbor, eating a toasted onion bagel and enjoying his first cup of coffee. He was watching the loading of the new Lustig 270 robotic shipping vessels just a few hundred yards away. He could see seven Lustigs lined up, waiting for off-loading. Once unloaded they would automatically slide forward in the channel and be loaded by a largely robotic crew.

Tom knew all of this, and more. Though his rather cherubic appearance did not fit the image, Thomas Weston was a Sea Captain. Well, Sea Captain Trainee, actually. He had six more weeks until he received the full title. However, he knew the largely automated shipping system backward and forward. He felt ready for the test.

He finished the coffee and got up from the bench. It was time to go to work. He dropped the cup in a composting bin as he walked the rest of the way to his office. Well, cubicle, actually. He greeted the night shift officer with a perfunctory “Good morning.” She got up and said, “Nothing to report.” Tom assumed the seat she had vacated, and she headed off through the sea of cubicles to make her way home.

Tom scanned his monitors. Most displayed rotating images representing the gauges that would have been part of the various vessels in earlier configurations. Some contained images from cameras onboard the vessels in his charge. One image appeared to be someone’s living room.

“Damn, Lisa!” Tom said. “Can’t you clean up before you leave?” He cleared this unauthorized image the night officer had left on his screen, and began scanning the data.

Tom had seven vessels in his charge today. Three Lustig 250’s, two Lustig 255’s, and two Lustig 257’s. The 257’s had been discontinued shortly after the first lot had been delivered. Several design flaws had emerged making them slower than specified. However, until the purchase cost was fully amortized the company intended to keep them on line.

All of the vessels had their solar arrays properly aligned, and were charging well. The wind was favorable, and the 257’s had their wind wings fully deployed. The 250’s and 255’s, though older models, had only 72 per cent of their wings deployed, so that they would not outpace the slower vessels.

Tom checked his instruments, and all seemed to be in order. The weather was perfect for this run, and Tom did not anticipate any problems. He pulled out one of his text books, and opened to where he had left off. He read about the ancient days of giant vessels burning fossil fuels and consuming vast resources in their construction.
Some of those vessels carried the raw fossil fuel in massive tanks, hauling the very fuel that would later power their engines to the places the fuel was processed. The waste was astounding.

Operating the vessels, however, had been another thing. Crews of ten, or even twenty people were required to run these monsters. In those days the Captain was a leader, the master of a vessel that had to be mastered.

Now Thomas Weston, twenty two years old, was on the verge of earning that same title. From the comfort and safety of this little cubicle he could direct his string of vessels to any suitable port in the world. Automated port facilities were not quite common, but probably would become common in the course of his career.

With the title of Sea Captain he would also earn the privilege of working from home. He already had a lot of the gear, since remote vehicle operation had long been his hobby. Now, it would be his career.

He returned to his reading, looking up now and then to check the instruments and monitors. He noted an unknown object approaching his vector, and set one of the alarms to advise him if it got too close. He had just gotten back into his reading when the alarm went off.

Tom directed one of the cameras on his lead ship to scan the direction of the object. He got little from that. A dark spot out on a gray sea was all that was visible. The radar and sonar told a bit more. The data indicated a small craft.

Another alarm sounded. All seven vessels were stowing their wind wings. The tall airfoils retracted into their chambers in the center line of the ships. The electric motors cut in, trying to maintain the momentum. A second later another alarm indicated that some kind of override had shut down the motors.

His vessels were slowing, and would soon be motionless.

“Pirates!” Tom mumbled.

This was another reason he longed for command of the 270’s. Lustig Corporation had installed onboard anti-piracy systems on the 270’s. Even the 260 series would be better. They had onboard gun systems. Nothing like the 270 weapons arrays, but better than the nothing on early models.

Tom sent the coordinates of the pirate vessel to missile command, requesting a standard pattern deployment. It would be several minutes until the data was verified and authorization made. This would be a great time to test his idea.

Always a creative thinker, Tom had analyzed the average losses of goods to pirates, the cost of anti-pirate missile systems, and the value of vessels under trainee command. He had determined that one of his 257’s had been sufficiently amortized to use in a special project. Tom had read about fire ships in the maritime histories required for trainees. He had proposed the 257 as just such a ship.

In ancient days a ship set afire and sent into a gathered enemy fleet could do considerable damage. Tom had understood this, and after running his numbers decided that the 257 model robotic container ship would be cost-effective in such an application.

Tom sent the code. One of the 257’s broke formation and began closing on the pirate ship. Tom switched to a bow camera on that vessel. He could see the pirates leaning over the gunwales and pointing. The shock factor gained him time.

The pirates again tried to shut down his boat’s electric motors. Several override codes were received. His program stood firm, and the 257 closed on the pirate vessel. Tom could see the pirates begin to scramble across their vessel, trying to get it moving away from the growing danger.

They were too late. The screen of the monitor went white. Tom switched to a camera on his lead vessel, a 255. The 257 had become a smoking hole in the water. The pirate vessel was on fire and already listing heavily to port. The surviving pirates were deploying inflatable survival rafts.

Tom sent a message canceling the missile attack. He also realigned his vessels, deployed their wind wings, and got them back underway. He turned one of the cameras to view the pirate activity as his vessels began to move. One raft was desperately trying to catch up with the departing vessels. Slowly they fell behind. Soon they were lost in the vastness of the surrounding sea.

Setting aside his text book, Tom turned to his keyboard and got ready to write his report. He had cost the company a Lustig 257, but saved the cost of missiles and eliminated a pirate vessel and an unknown number of pirates.

If he wrote this up right, he could see a very bright career ahead. Not a bad day’s work for a digital sailor.

Tom smiled as he began to type.

Madeleine L’Engle

2008-06-11T16:49:00.000-07:00

Madeleine L’Engle is an author who impressed me early in life. I recall vividly the sense of wonder as I read A Wrinkle in Time. Since it was published in 1962, it was probably a rather new book at the time of my first reading. The concept of travel via the tesseract was fascinating. I think her ability to weave science and magic into a romantic childhood vision of the world was something that captivated me.

A Wind in the Door was published in 1973. I was a soldier in that year, and I don’t recall being aware of the sequel at that time. However, from time to time over the following years I would reread books that affected me in my youth. I suspect that it was sometime in the 1980's that I reread A Wrinkle in Time, and in doing so discovered the sequels.

The third book, A Swiftly Tilting Planet, was published in 1978. As I said, I am not sure just when the nostalgia overcame me and put me back in touch with the series. However, I have had copies in my library for many years.

I just finished rereading the three books a few minutes ago. I am still engaged by the magic that lives so comfortably with science in L’Engle’s world. I relate to the difficulties of growing up experienced by Meg and Charles Wallace. I love the whimsy that embraces the practical in these connected tales. Her vision is huge. Her appreciation of creation is all-embracing.

For me her influence is a warm and special feeling that informed my childhood. Another bit of magic clothed in words, to be invoked again and again.

Child's Play

2008-05-31T15:07:00.000-07:00

Child’s Play

A short story by Michael R. Lockridge

Cindy walked down the sidewalk of Seventh Avenue, her hair tied back and her rifle slung on her shoulder. It had been a half-day in school, and she wanted to make good use of the afternoon.

Mr. Johnston stepped out of his shop just as Cindy passed.

“What have you got there, young lady?” He said, eyeing the rifle.

“Remington .308, Mr. Johnston. Mom gave it to me for Christmas. It used to belong to my father.” She answered cheerfully.

“Nice. That looks like a really good scope. Rather small magazine, though, isn’t it?” Asked Mr. Johnston.

“Well, it isn’t for laying down cover fire.” She responded. “Slow and steady. Better scores. I am still just a juve, Mr. Johnston.”

“Of course. I know you will do well.” Said Mr. Johnston. “Here. Let’s up the stakes.”

He removed a black bandana from his pocket, and tied it on her left upper arm. It matched the one tied around her head. He looked at her, and smiled warmly.

“Are you sure?” She asked. Her face felt warm. He displayed considerable confidence in her, doing this. To risk loosing his colors!

“Your father always had my back. It is the least I can do.” He answered. He waved to her, and went back into his shop.

She walked very proudly, the rest of the way. The pride in her walk became caution, as she approached the block that formed the perimeter. She quickly found the abandoned building she wanted, and stepped through the door.

Bennie and Tom worked their way slowly through the rubble between the two perimeters. Neither could remember the time when the city was a contiguous mass of buildings. The blasted rubble of buildings that formed the no-man’s-land between barrios had always been there.

Bennie wore his colors on his head. Tom wore his on his arm. Each had been folded to best present the red circle that was centered in the green field. The circle was relatively small, but they presented the color proudly. Most gang colors had become a bit more subdued, to reduce easy targeting. Still, they were proud of the red on green.

They were very close to the perimeter wall on the far side of the no-man’s-land. They were feeling very small, and quite alone. Still, tagging the enemies’ perimeter was a proud tradition, and as juvenile members of their gang, they had to prove themselves. Each carried two spray cans. Enough to make their marks clearly.

They pressed them selves against the wall they had selected. Between them they had but two revolvers. One was a relatively new .22 caliber six-shooter. The other was a .38 snubbie that seemed ancient. Both were fully loaded, and each young man had a pocket full of the appropriate ammo.

The guns didn’t matter much, today. This was a tagging mission. They had been careful to avoid enemy patrols.

Tom examined the wall. He had to step back a bit. It looked good enough. Not too marked up and visible from the home side of the rubble-strewn zone. He began shaking the green can he held in his right hand. H didn’t even hear the report of the round that passed through his head.

Bennie was stunned. He dropped his paint and ran forward to his friend. Tom just stood there, staring at nothing. Then he dropped in a heap in the rubble and the dust. Bennie tried to catch him, but was pulled down by his falling friend. He heard the round that grooved his back as he fell on top of his friend. The pain flared through him, and he screamed.

He lay for a time, on top of Tom’s body. He was terrified. Where had the gunfire come from? He refused to move, even with the screaming pain in his back.

Finally, the pain and fear overcame him. He jumped up, drew his gun, and looked around frantically. Nothing. Nobody in sight. He quickly scanned the windows above him, but could see nothing but shadows. In a panic, he randomly fired six shots into the shadows, and then turned to run.

It was then that he caught a flash of light from a distant second story shadow. He turned toward the darkness that held his enemy. A cold calm came over him. He leveled his weapon and fired. There was a dry click. He saw another flash, and felt a heavy weight thump him in the chest. The sound of thunder followed.

Bennie was looking at the sky. It was bright and blue. He did not recall falling.

He was very tired. Exhausted. As his eyes closed, he realized he was not just going to sleep. He was too tired to be afraid.

Mr. Johnston heard someone call his name from the street entrance to his small shop. He turned, and saw Cindy standing there, as if in a frame. She had the rifle slung on her shoulder. He could also see two pistols in her belt. In her hand she held two bandanas.

She looked…. Proud. And sad. He understood.

“Cindy! Two!” He said. “And two weapons. Tell me about it!”

She told the tale of the taggers she had tracked across the no-man’s-land. She had, of course, tracked them with the rifle’s scope. She had watched them come; counting the times she could have taken them. She let them get all of the way across.

“I took them just before they made a mark. Of course, they were just taggers. Juves.”

“Nonsense. Just taggers! They had their colors. Now you have them! You have defeated the enemy!”

Her smile was weak. She offered to return his bandana. He refused. “Keep it for luck.” He had more.

She pulled out the .22, and showed it to him. He was polite, but he could tell that she knew that it was not much of a trophy. Then she pulled the .38.

He drew in his breath. She handed him her trophy. He held it, reverently. He hoped she did not see his hands tremble.

Mr. Johnston made polite remarks about the ancient weapon. How such a treasure was quite special. Would she carry it?

He returned it to her, knowing that children such as her had dreams of Glocks, and SIG’s, not ancient iron like this. Still, she was polite, and received her treasure back with obvious pride.

A few more words, then she was on her way. When she could not see, he let his tears fall.

“My father’s gun! Come back after all of these years! How proud my brother had been to carry it on his first mission. How we have missed him.” He said, as he looked in the direction in which Cindy had departed.

“Carry it proudly, Cindy.” He said, softly. “I hope you carry it for many years. Life is too often short, these days. May you see a better world.”

He turned, and walked quietly back into his shop.

Steampunk and other trends-

2008-05-31T10:29:00.000-07:00

I am still editing The Inn at the Edge of the World. Even so, my thoughts are often turning to the sequel, Marcus and Ara. Just as with the writing of the first book, this one is forming with little story bits that come to mind.

Often I write those bits in my mind. I play with them, shaping them and testing ideas. One element that has come to mind is a bit Steampunk. Now, I really like some of the things I have seen with the Steampunk movement. The best description is romance meets technology. I like the way the touch of Steampunk makes mechanical things interesting. It also has a fascinating fashion element.

Though a bit old for participation, I appreciated elements of the Goth movement. However, I found it a bit dark, too involved in aspects of life that reflected depression and defeat. The Lolita movement was an interesting twist, and though I found it fascinating, again it was nothing in which I felt compelled to participate.

Steampunk, however, is something I feel I can participate in. Not all out. I don't think I would be comfortable in Victorian garb most of the time, and I haven't the time or inclination to enter deeply into the mechanical elements of the movement. I do feel that I can bring elements of Steampunk into my life. I certainly can explore the movement in writing.

Steampunk seems to be a celebration of technology and creativity. The technology we live with is made warmer and compelling when dressed in Steampunk garb. The movement reflects the optimism that a new technological culture offered. Steam was king, and technology would bring prosperity to all.

Things didn't turn out that way, but the movement captures a creative nostalgia for a might-have-been culture. Steampunk lends itself to alternative history quite well. It is a looking back to a time that never was.

So, some day I may don a frock coat and some other garments that reflect the Steampunk theme. I do know that I will be writing a bit in the genre. I will continue to explore the culture, and enjoy my findings. Like the era Steampunk strives to reflect, we live on the cusp of a new age. I don't know that we are quite as optimistic. I don't know that we have reason to be.

Perhaps that is why we look to a past that never was.

My idea bag-

2008-05-28T13:00:00.000-07:00

I only have a few more completed stories in my file. I have a few more in the idea bag, but they are not yet written. My idea for this blog was a good one, but writing a novel has consumed much of my writing energy.

Still, I think that this blog was a good idea. I have learned a bit about blogging, and about the Internet. Though I haven't developed much of a readership, it is a venue for people seeking my work to find some samples. It is also a challenge and an exercise.

So, I think I shall set myself the task of writing something at least twice a month just for this blog. I may take a couple of these stories to another level at some point, as well. I will chronicle that development in this blog.

My future project shall be a web site to begin developing and marketing my writing. I am more and more inclined toward self-publishing my book, The Inn at the Edge of the World, through a print-on-demand site. I will promote the book myself, developing the needed skills as I learn how to do this. In part that will be the purpose of my web site.

I will also seek to promote a custom short story business. These would be very short stories crafted as gifts and tributes to friends and family, produced for a small fee.

Along with that will be copywriting. This is not my first choice, but a few assignments (or taking someone's overflow work) won't be bad.

So, if you are one of the few readers I have, keep checking back. I will try and have something new for you on a regular basis.

Solar mobility-

2008-05-02T13:33:00.000-07:00

I just got to thinking on how wonderful a mobile lifestyle might be if the power source could be the sun. Solar power. I don't even know if such could be done. Enough power for each day, gathered from the sun that always shines. If today does not provide the power to move, perhaps tomorrow enough could be gathered.

The technology might already exist, but it would be costly to get it all together. So, I created a character to try the experiment. Wealthy enough, connected enough, and audacious enough to try and create a lifestyle that was practically free in every sense of the word.

Perhaps I will study the aquisition, storage and distribution of energy and see if this experiment is even viable. It sure was easy to do on virtual paper.

The Electric Gypsy

2008-05-02T13:24:00.000-07:00

The Electric Gypsy

A short story by Michael R. Lockridge

Oliver Wendell James hit the save button, and then directed the laptop to shut itself down. He gazed out beyond his little machine and drank in the view. He had found a great place to stop, that was for sure. Hills, trees, a stream and a quiet lake. Blue sky, just enough clouds to make thing interesting.

When his laptop was finished with its closing procedures and had powered down, the middle-aged author closed the lid and picked the valuable instrument up from the table. He set it on his chair, and folded the table into its surprisingly compact travel form. This he stowed in the compartment behind him.

Standing by the compartment door, he gazed at the machine that was his home. Top end construction, and a massive experiment. It amazed him, and also made him chuckle. The damned thing had more advertisements painted on the exterior surfaces than a Nascar racing vehicle. Contributors, fabricators, and sponsors of his mobile lifestyle.

Ollie moved the laptop to the entry steps, folded the chair, and stowed that with the table. He closed the compartment door and secured it against the days travel. The vehicle should reach full charge any moment, so Ollie began his walk around. Before moving each day he would check the vehicle with care. Doors secured, no damage, tires fully inflated. No obvious flaws.

He heard the chime just as he reached the main door. He had been traveling this way only two months, yet he could sense when the charge was complete. He pushed a button on his key fob, and the awning began stowing itself for travel. Not only did it provide shade, but the surface of the awning was also part of the solar charging array.

Ollie stepped back and watched as the awning put itself away, and the tilted panels on the roof moved into travel position. The satellite dish on the roof also folded into travel mode. He could hear the hum as the electric levelers stowed themselves under the vehicle. Everything was being managed by the central onboard computer.

Many items on the vehicle were experimental, donated or provided at a discount in exchange for mention in the travel blog and advertisement space on the outer surface of the experimental recreational vehicle. Ollie chuckled once again at the rather obnoxious outside of his home, scooped up the laptop, and stepped up into his mobile castle.

The interior was very well laid out. Designers had agonized for many hours over form and function, constantly trying to save weight while creating an environment in which a man could comfortably live. Sometimes it seemed that the interior was larger than the exterior, the design was so well thought out.

Ollie stowed the laptop in a compartment, plugging in the charging unit. He then brewed a cup of tea, and took it with him to the driver’s station. He set the cup in the holder, and settled into his driver’s seat. It was almost too comfortable to make for safe driving, but he could never figure out how to complain to the designers about that. He really didn’t want to.

He switched on the several monitors. Rear-view, navigation, system information. He first picked a spot on the navigation map that would be their destination. The computer advised him that it was within range. He double-checked the information on the other screen. The batteries were at capacity, and the lock-outs had cut off any unneeded systems to prevent trickle leaks of power. He hit the button to accept the route to the target.

Since the target this time was a commercial RV park, the computer automatically began making a reservation and deposit. The confirmation chirp came almost immediately. Years of high cost had diminished the RV market, and it was often easy to find a space in the surviving parks.

Though the vehicle had an accelerator pedal, it was seldom used. The computer was more efficient. The driver would steer and when necessary control the vehicle with the brake. Ollie pressed down on the brake, released the parking brake, and then let up on the brake pedal. He pushed the engage button on the computer monitor, and the vehicle began to accelerate.

The acceleration was slow and steady, much like a train ramping up to travel speed. The computer, using the mapping data and inputs from a multitude of sensors, would do most of the work. It was Ollie’s job to avoid other vehicles and try to keep the vehicle on the selected course.

Once he got back to the main road Ollie had to wait for a suitable opening in the traffic. It would have been much more difficult in years past, but the higher cost of fuel finally compelled even the most ambitious drivers to slow down. Hybrid drivers were the most conscious of cost-saving driving skills, but practically everyone had made adjustments by the time Ollie launched this great experiment.

Grabbing an opening large enough to allow for the metered acceleration of his experimental vehicle, Ollie took his foot off of the brake and allowed the machine to move out onto the highway. After this, it was just steering and enjoying the view. The smooth progress was pleasant.

Ollie had named his new home The Electric Gypsy. An electric powered motor home. It was capable of forty five miles per hour on flat terrain. Ollie rarely achieved that speed The course was always plotted to keep to roads where a top speed of thirty five miles an hour was acceptable. The computer had to account for elevations as well as distances. Climbing required energy and that was always in limited supply.

Even as they traveled the solar collectors gathered sunlight and converted it into electrical power. When not in motion the array was rotated to an optimal collecting angle. The outdoor awning also made a contribution. Even some of the suitable side surfaces had collection panels. All of them were gathering energy and storing it in the huge battery.

However, on any given day only so much energy could be gathered. Here the travel philosophy of the famous Tioga George came into play. Travel a little every day, and conserve the resources. Of course, George had been saving gas. Ollie was conserving his precious electricity.

The road ahead began to rise. The vehicle had gathered speed on the long stretch of relatively level land, and made good use of a recent down hill run. Now the inertia was consumed by gravity, and the computer smoothly introduced power to the drive motors. The vehicle slowed to about 27 miles per hour, and maintained that speed all of the way to the top of the pass. Ollie just had to keep it on track.

“Check point. Turn off onto route 17.” said the computer. Ollie glanced at the map on the navigation monitor. They were almost half-way to their destination. Ollie watched for the exit, and smoothly turned the vehicle off of the main highway.

The Electric Gypsy had slowed almost to a stop when Ollie stepped on the brake at the stop sign. He took his foot off of the brake right away. There was no traffic. He turned right, as directed by the navigation computer. The computer began accelerating the vehicle to the optimum speed for the road.

So it went for almost three hours. Finally their destination was in sight. “Bide-A-Wee Recreational Vehicle Park.” Ollie read out loud. He turned in at the entrance and stopped at the office.

“Welcome, Mister James.” Said the proprietor, as she checked The Electric Gypsy in. “Right on time. I am so glad you could stay with us.” Ollie smiled, signed the papers, accepted his space assignment, and was soon on his way to his lake side space. He also signed one of his novels the proprietor pressed into his hands. Ollie never minded this. His readers made this life of his possible.

Once he had The Electric Gypsy parked, Ollie advised the computer of their arrival. The machine knew where they were, of course. However, it needed permission to begin setting itself up for camping. The system deployed the awning and levelers, and put up the solar panels and satellite dish. Though the system had maintained an Internet connection through cell phone connections, it now switched to the more reliable satellite Internet.

Ollie did not have to attend to any of this. He just made another cup of tea, grabbed his laptop, and headed outside. Soon he had his “office” set up, and was back at work on his next novel. At least he was, for a few minutes.

“You’re that traveling writer guy, aren’t you?”

Ollie looked up to see a gentleman in shorts and a Hawaiian shirt standing nearby. He obviously belonged to one of the several RV’s in the park.

“Yes. Yes, I am.” Ollie answered. “Would you like to sit down?”

The man looked around, but did not see another chair. Ollie indicated the open storage area. “No, thanks. Just wanted to say ‘Hi.’”

Ollie nodded, and waited.

“So, this is the future, is it?” the man said. “I don’t know if I like it.”

“Which rig is yours?” Ollie asked his visitor. The man waved vaguely at one of the machines across the way. Ollie looked, and saw more grime from sitting than road grime. “When did you last move it?”

“Been here almost a month.” the man answered. “I expect I can move on in a few more days. Maybe.”

Ollie said nothing.

“Pretty expensive, moving on.” the man said, sheepishly.

“I traveled about seventy miles today.” Ollie said. “It cost about three dollars. That includes the prorated cost of my share of the vehicle.”

The man simply blinked, and looked at the machine.

“Rich writer like you should be able to travel in style.” the man finally said. “Hang the cost.”

Ollie nodded. “I guess you are right. However, I am also rich enough to choose not to throw away my money. I used my wealth to create this experimental vehicle. I used my wealth to create this experimental life style.”

The man blinked again.

“I don’t know if it is THE future.” said Ollie. “I do know it is MY future.”

“Maybe I’ll read one of your books one day.” said the man, as he turned to walk away.

“That would please me.” said Ollie. “In the mean time, I will write you a new one.”

With that he returned to his keyboard, in the shade of the solar awning of The Electric Gypsy. Ollie could almost feel the power for the next day of travel being packed away in his amazing machine. It felt good.

Billy Maddison

2008-04-21T15:51:00.001-07:00

Billy Maddison

A short story by Michael R. Lockridge

Billy Maddison was not happy about the trip to Carmel. He had never been there before, but he already knew he didn’t like it. Art galleries and restaurants! He would have to tag along, looking at pictures and sculptures that weren’t very interesting, and eating food with strange names that tried to look like paintings on his plate.

He pouted all of the way there. He dragged his feet as they wandered into shops and galleries. He looked at boring paintings. He didn’t even want to touch the sculptures his mother constantly told him not to touch. The day dragged on to lunch time.

Lunch was not so bad. He managed to get a sandwich he rather liked. Mom and Dad still ate weird stuff, though.

The best thing about Carmel was the dogs, in Billy’s opinion. Lots of dogs on leashes. Some dogs were wearing clothes! The stores had bowls of water out front, and often bowls of doggie treats. Billy had never seen that in any other town. If it wasn’t so boring, he might have come to like Carmel just for the dogs.

Afternoon was becoming just as boring. They came to another art gallery.

“Rip Squeak and Friends.” Billy read from the sign. At nine and a half years old, Billy was just young enough to find the name exciting. They went in.

On all of the walls were pictures. The mouse in the pictures was probably Rip Squeak. The other animals were the friends.

There were books, too. Books about Rip Squeak and his friends, and their adventures together. Billy wandered and tried to see everything at once.

Then Billy saw the painting. Rip and friends were sitting on books, and were listening to a frog in a suit and top hat who was reading from one of the books. The colors were bright, and the picture told a story in Billy’s head. The room around him faded from his awareness as he was drawn into the image before him.

“Doctor Maddison?”

Doctor Bill Maddison shook his head, and looked down at the patient before him. The image cleared from his mind, and he returned to the surgery.

“Sponge, please.” he said. Strange, remembering the picture he had seen in his childhood. So vivid. “Number six scalpel.”
“Can I get a little suction here, please?”

The image began to superimpose itself on the patient again. “That’s got it. Ed, can you close for me?”

“Sure, Bill.”

Doctor Bill Maddison exited the operating room, stripped off his gloves and gown, and made his way to the restroom. He could hear one of his other patients barking in the background. He rinsed his face with cold water, and looked at himself in the mirror. The face looking back seemed too young. What was going on?

The frame of the mirror became the frame of a painting. A mouse and several friends sitting on books, listening to a frog wearing a suit and top hat. The frog was reading from one of the books. Bill could almost hear the frog reading.

“Billy?”

Billy Maddison turned slowly from the painting that had captivated him. His mother’s face swam in front of him.

“Billy, are you all right?” his mom asked.

“Uh, yeah, mom. I’m fine.”

She smiled at him. “I bought you this.” she said. She handed him a book. One of the books from the store. A book about Rip Squeak and his friends.

“Thanks, mom.” he said, looking at the front and back of the book. “Wow!”

“You seemed to like the paintings, so I thought you would like reading this.”

“I will, mom. I like it a lot.”

They exited the gallery. Over the course of the afternoon they visited a few more stores, several more galleries, and then got into the car to go home.

“How did you like Carmel?” Billy’s father asked, as he guided the car back toward the highway.

Billy thought for a minute. “I think I liked it, dad.”

“Good. Maybe we can do it again, sometime.”

Billy didn’t hear. He was reading about Rip Squeak and his friends.

Professional writing-

2008-03-27T15:17:00.000-07:00

I would love to write professionally. I am comfortable with writing, and would be content to make writing my next career. I certainly am weary enough of this one. Eighteen years is a long time to do something like corrections, and I still have two to go to reach my goal.

Ah, but after I retire from this line of work I will be free to try something new. With the assured income of a pension, I may be in a good position to begin writing professionally. With a novel past first draft, I am closer than ever to a writing career.

One thing I must learn is how to market myself and my art on the Internet. This should prove interesting. My limited hits on this site reflect a very limited skill in Internet promotion. Perhaps I will find a way to fix that.

It is a good thing I enjoy learning. I have a lot of learning to do.

Dreamers

2008-03-27T15:12:00.000-07:00

Dreamers

A short story by Michael R. Lockridge

“Did you hear that?” Asked Julia, from the far side of the campfire. Like Tom, she was sitting on her opened sleeping bag, leaning against her pack. Tom had been dreamily watching her through the flames, watching the light dance on her face.

“No, I didn’t hear anything.” Tom answered. He continued to look at Julia, slipping again into a dream-like state. Julia relaxed, also. They were tired from the hike in to Shadow Lake. It was a lonely place, far from the world.

Tom looked on Julia with wonder. He was amazed that she had agreed to come. She had emphasized that it was just a camping trip, not a date. Tom didn’t mind. He had longed for her since first seeing her at the beginning of the semester. Strong, athletic, and handsome. He just wanted to be with her in any way he could.

Here they were. He watched her as she nodded a bit. Then her head came up. She was listening. What was she hearing?

Deep below the dreamy state he was experiencing Tom felt alarm. It did not shake him. It just nudged at him. A disturbance below the calm surface of his drifting mind.

He continued to watch the desire of his heart as she stood up and looked longingly at the lake.

Far away he heard the voices of those who had said the lake was haunted. Why had this beautiful lake never appeared on any map? It only existed in rumor, in shadow.

His slow moving mind dismissed these thoughts, just as it had when he first heard them.

Was that music he heard? It seemed to be coming over the waters.

As he looked at the lake, he thought he saw Julia walking toward the shore. He wanted to turn and look at her place on the other side of the fire, to reassure himself that it was not her stepping onto the water. He couldn’t. The dream state was too heavy upon him.

He just watched as she walked on the waters. This reassured him that what he saw was the edge of a dream. How could Julia walk on water?

She stopped, about fifty feet from shore. Then the great arm she stood on lifted slowly from the water. Tom could see tentacles as the arm tipped upward. Julia tumbled into the water, which churned for a moment, then was still.

The distant alarm sounded again somewhere in Tom’s mind. Somewhere far away. The alarm faded into a quiet, lilting music. It seemed to come from far across the lake.

“Isn’t the music beautiful?” Julia asked. Tom turned toward her side of the fire. There she lay, looking at him with the same desire in her eyes that he felt in his heart. The fire lit her naked body, with flickering shadows defining her glory.

She was just as he had imagined her to be.

He could hear the music, as she moved and stood up. It was beautiful. She was beautiful. She walked around the fire, and offered him her hand.

“Come. Let’s go to the water.”

He took her hand and stood up. He could not take his eyes off of her, as they walked down to the shore.

“Something is wrong.” He said to her. He felt confused. He stopped moving. The music faded into the sound of an alarm. The alarm faded into music again.

She looked at him quizzically. She smiled. Her smile washed all doubt from his mind. She pulled gently on his hand, and stepped onto the surface of the water.

Tom followed.

Pornography and sex-

2008-03-24T13:08:00.000-07:00

My short stories are often inspired by images. Something I see, or something I imagine. Sometimes, just a "what if..."

Skill grows by exercise, and reaching for new goals. I do not consider pornography a real stretch, but when a momentary observation led to a short story that cannot be classed as anything else, I wrote it down. It was an interesting experience. The exercise was real writing, and I sought to write a quality piece. I am pleased with the results.

I doubt that I will publish it. I certainly will not publish it here. I want to be able to share this site with anyone interested in my work.

I was interested, however, in just what introducing the words into my title might do to hits on my site. I would not use words gratuitiously, just to generate hits. However, this is a legitimate observation on the subject. We shall see.

Professional blogging-

2008-03-24T12:57:00.000-07:00

Having completed the first draft of my first novel, I am exploring the sale of such an item. This is much more involved than just joining Blogger and posting short stories. I can go several routes, and will probably travel one or two on my way to publication and sales.

One aspect of selling a book seems to be promotion. Once a task for the professional publishers, it seems to be something the writer must now master. Blogging is becoming a major factor in promotion. Hence, the need to learn another art.

On the whole I value new learning opportunities. However, this will be a stretch. I am not a particularly social being, and this networking on a global scale is daunting. Daunting, but with a strong element of fun.

Time will be a factor. Time spent blogging. Not just writing, but visiting blogs, commenting on blogs, and seeking to make myself a presence in the bloggosphere. Some long for popularity and fame. I do not. I do, however, wish to attain some success with my writing. So, I face new challenges.

It should be interesting. It can be fun. It will be a bit of work.

Writing a novel-

2008-03-11T15:38:00.000-07:00

Today I finished the first draft of my novel. What an interesting sensation! I know I have a lot of work ahead, but it was great to accomplish this task. Finished!

As I had shared in an earlier post, I returned to writing as a way of overcoming depression. In combating depression a very important tool is to DO SOMETHING. Not something in particular, but to do SOMETHING. I returned to writing.

At first it was just short stories to be published here. Then I started a big project. I started writing a novel. I kept going, no matter what. Over one hundred and two thousand words later, it is done. I kept going. As a tool to fight depression, it worked.

That, in itself, made the task worthwhile. However, I intend to see it to completion. I also will soon begin my next work. Doing something works, and I intend to keep doing it.

Bang

2008-03-11T07:28:00.000-07:00

Bang

A short story by Michael R. Lockridge

Mike Wilson stepped out of his store, and was immediately confronted by an irate middle-aged woman.

“How can you encourage these gangs?” she asked. “Gangs are bad for these young people, and bad for the rest of us! Here you are, running gang stores, catering to those criminals!”

Wilson just smiled and stepped past her. She followed him to his car, continuing to lecture him on the disservice he was providing to his community.

Once he was in his car, he waved at her, and pulled away. She was still yelling when he looked at her in the rearview mirror. Her blue dress contrasted with the red storefront. The large number fourteen, painted in white on the front of the building, stood just above her head.

He wondered if she had chosen the color blue on purpose. That was the color of another of his stores, located in another part of town. That one had a large white number thirteen painted on it. He had several other stores in other locations, with other color schemes and symbols. Each catered to a particular clientele.

No weapons, of course. Just clothing and items indicating pride and affiliation with whatever social club they were involved in. Deep enough in the respective territories not to have to worry excessively about graffiti or vandalism.

Wilson was accustomed to the accusations. For the most part, they were right. He abhorred the gangs he catered to. However, the stores were useful.

They provided intelligence. Information. The bangers relaxed in his stores. Being relaxed, they often said things. Things that the video systems and audio systems picked up. Things Wilson could use.

Things like the name and photograph he had in his pocket.

Wilson turned in to a rental storage depot. He cruised slowly back to the garage he had rented for the past two years. He parked near the garage, and stepped out of his car. He opened the door, rolling it up quietly. A van sat inside. In moments he had the van out next to his sedan.

Both the van and the sedan were non-descript. They had been carefully chosen so as to attract as little notice as possible. Both were white. The van had some generic looking business logo on the side. The logo was replaced by painters in some other town, every six months or so. Each new logo was as generic as the other.

Wilson put the car into the garage, and closed the garage door. He got into the van, and drove away from the storage depot. He would return in the morning, when they opened.

He drove aimlessly, for a while. He stopped for fuel at a station he did not remember visiting before. He wandered a bit more, and then headed for the area described on the short document in his pocket. A center of gang activity. The heart of his customer base.

Wilson parked on the street, careful to orient the rear of his vehicle toward the nearby intersection. He stepped into the back of the van behind an obscuring curtain. Nobody would see him through the windshield. Wilson set to work.

First, he covered his clothes. He put on a paper jumpsuit. He put on rubber gloves, and covered his face with a plastic shield. He put on paper shoe covers, and used rubber bands to seal the cuffs and the sleeves of the paper suit.

These preparations made, he examined one of the rear window panels. The material that stood in place of the window was intact. His earlier examination of the outside, while getting gas, had indicated that the illusion was adequate. A shear cloth, treated to look like a dirty rear window. That was ready.

As always, he did everything systematically. He set up the tripod mount, locking it in place and setting the levels. He opened the case, and removed the rifle components. He assembled these onto the tripod; carefully setting the locks that would secure the entire system together.

He had designed the system himself. It had been refined over the last two years, and worked flawlessly. He tested and sighted the system every week out on his property in the Mojave Desert. The property was halfway between his city businesses and a small venture near Twenty-nine Palms. The trip required switching cars three times, and took most of the day.

Wilson opened another cabinet, revealing a computer monitor and keyboard. He initiated the computer, and soon had a view of the nearby intersection on the screen. The camera was hidden in a vent on top of the van. It was beside a sonar range finder, both mounted on a very quiet system that allowed remote direction and aiming.

First, he got the range to some of the items on the far corner of the intersection. A light pole, a street sign, and a newspaper box. Satisfied, he ran one or two small diagnostic programs to insure the rifle was following the aiming directions. He realized that he was engaging in busywork, and made himself stop.

Out of another sealed container Wilson removed a photograph. It was set in a frame, alongside a newspaper clipping. Wilson looked long on the face of the young man in the photograph. He read the article to himself, his lips moving.

“Killed by senseless gang violence.” He whispered, as he read. Driveby, he formed with his lips. A tear fell on the glass covering the photograph. Wilson wiped it away, and put the photograph back in its sealed container. “For you.” He said, softly. “For you.”

For the next hour he watched the foot traffic along the corner he had targeted. Over time faces he recognized began to congregate. People he had expected based upon his intelligence. Not the face he wanted, however. Not yet.

Wilson checked his watch. Any time now.

There! Behind the two taller young men. Yes!

Wilson checked the image on the screen against the photograph he had brought from his shop. It was a match!

He manipulated some controls, and then took a set of ear protectors from the rifle case. After adjusting these on his head, he began to move the camera controls to put the crosshairs on his victim. On target. He pressed the control key on the keyboard, and then the enter button.

The ear protectors as well as the special housing in which the rifle was mounted muffled the report of the rifle. The interior of the van was also comprised of sound absorbing materials. The bullet itself exited the muzzle and passed through the screen serving as one of the rear windows of the van. The material gave way so readily that there was not even a ripple in the taught surface. The resulting hole was hardly perceptible.

Down range the projectile flew. Lead hollow-point. No jacket. Nothing intervened between the rifle and the intended target. Entry and exit. A significant portion of the target’s brains exited with the bullet, and painted the wall of the building behind him. The body collapsed, and several people loitering on the corner began moving toward the bleeding form.

Wilson backed up the recording, and reviewed the hit. He removed the ear protectors. External sensors picked up a scream. He relished the sound. Satisfied that his target was dead, Wilson began breaking down the equipment.

Ear protectors back in the rifle case. Shut down the computer, and stow it in the proper container. Break down the rifle assembly, and place it back in the case. Put away a few little items, gather up any trash. He then stripped off the paper suit. Last of all, the gloves. He took these off in such a way as to allow him to use them to stuff the paper suit into the garbage bag. He left the gloves with the suit, and tied the bag closed.

Emergency vehicles were arriving. It was time to go. If he left during the confusion, he would look like any other professional vehicle in the flow of traffic. He knew the timing. He had done this many times before.

For less than an hour he drove randomly about. He made a few short stops near convenience stores, but none of them felt right. He finally found several similar service vans parked along a dark street. He pulled in behind them. This place felt right. Wilson climbed into the back, pulled some bedding from another sealed container, and bedded down for the night.

Before first light he was awake, again. He stowed his bedding, and was on the road in minutes. Again he drove without particular direction, until about twenty minutes after the self-storage facility opened. He drove in and switched vehicles. In less than an hour he was back at his apartment, getting ready for the day.

Wilson pulled into his south county store at a little before nine. As he stepped out of his car, a woman stepped away from the wall. She waved a newspaper as she approached him.

“Another one dead!” she declared. “Killed by gang violence! How can you encourage this?”

“Didn’t I see you at my north county store?” Wilson inquired, politely. “Yesterday? You were wearing blue.” He noted that she was wearing red.

“Yes. I want to shut you down!” she cried.

“You and half the county.” Wilson replied. “Please, feel free to protest here all you like. However, keep in mind that this bunch might not like you wearing another gang’s colors. Have a nice day!”

With that, he unlocked the door and stepped inside.

Writing

2008-01-26T15:34:00.000-08:00

I have been busy, and so posted little of late. I have been working on a novel. It started with an image in my mind. It was something I would have painted or drawn if I had the skill. Instead I tried to do a flash fiction. It haunted me, so I wrote more. As I wrote, the story expanded in my mind.

Now I am at about the half-way point in writing a novel. I like the story, and think it may actually be marketable. I hope to finish it in a few months, and then learn just how to get it published.

I am at a point in my life where a transition in professions would be a very good thing. I like writing, and think it would be a good profession. This novel may serve as a transition point.

I would like that.