Digressions

Is this thing on?

2021-10-06T11:04:00.004-05:00

Well, the world is a dumpster fire, and social media sites are the blustering, fetid wind that fuels the flame, so I'd like to spend less time on them and more time where I can natter on and post food photos and feel less dirty about the whole thing. So here we are. Does anyone still read blogs? Am I talking to myself? Maybe. And that's ok, too.

500 Words week three winner: Omen

2019-01-26T15:58:00.002-06:00

Only a bit farther to go. She was almost there. And while she longed to get out of the wind and into a sheltered place, the anxious knot in her stomach grew tighter and heavier as each step brought her nearer to her destination.

The lonely road was bleak and barren, coated with a dirty rime. The few trees along the road offered no shelter from the cold wind. There had been buildings all along this route once, but all that remained of them were evenly spaced concrete slabs that outlined the now-abandoned foundations.

Once this area had been measured in blocks, but no one thought of them that way anymore. That unit of measure no longer served a purpose. Still, Mina liked to count off the blocks between the shelter, where she lived with the rest of her community, and the temple, which she was required to visit every day, regardless of the weather. Four more blocks. And then at least she’d be out of the wind.

She struggled down the road to the end of the block, where another abandoned road crossed her path. Three more blocks. She could see the temple ahead of her now, getting closer.

A crow wheeled in front of her, seemingly out of control in the strong wind. It made a rough, graceless landing on the road in front of Mina, barely keeping to its feet. It shook out its wings, then folded them back and pinned Mina with its glass-black eye.

Mina froze. A crow was the worst possible omen. Death and destruction, fire and fury. Well, the fire part didn’t sound so bad right now. But a crow blocking her path as she walked to the temple must foretell disaster and sorrow. She stood as still as she could with the wind assaulting her, transfixed by the crow. In turn, the crow stood, statue-still even in the wind, and stared her down. It did not fear her as wild things should, and it did not flee her presence. Should she tell Father Lucas about this omen? No, no. No good would come of that.

She wanted to wait for the crow to fly away before continuing, but the bird was steadfast, and Mina was cold and late. She braced herself against the bird’s evil gaze as much as the wind, and took a step forward, expecting the bird to start and fly.

It did not.

She took another step, bringing her almost close enough to touch the crow, and still it held its ground. She turned to step around it, and the bird swiveled, still watching her every move.

The bird’s uncanny behavior was alarming, but Mina knew that if she was too late to the temple, she’d have to explain why, and explanations never went well with Father Lucas. She steeled herself, looked away from the bird, and stepped past it, intent on reaching the temple as quickly as possible.

After five steps, she felt a strange pressure on her right shoulder, almost light enough to mistake for the wind brushing its arms around her. She angled her head to peek out around the edge of her hood, and there, perched on her shoulder, was the crow.

She stopped again. Her stomach clenched, and she could hear her pulse pounding in her ears. The wind gusted again, and seemed as though it should have been strong enough to rip the crow of her shoulder, but its small claws dug into her thick coat, and it held steadfast. Two black feathers were torn away by the wind and flew down the road ahead of her.

Another omen, and very clear. She must get to the temple, now.

She hurried as best she could down the broken road and through the violent wind, chasing after the feathers, even after she’d lost sight of them. How in the world would she explain this to Father Lucas? What would she say?

As she approached the next intersection, the next block, she considered her options. She could try to tear the crow off her shoulder and release it into the wind. But she couldn’t bear the thought of touching such a foul omen, even with her thick mittens protecting her skin. She’d have to burn the mittens, and they were her only pair. She could try to explain to Father Lucas what had happened, and hope that he wouldn’t blame her for the appearance of the omen. But Father Lucas found fault with everyone and everything, and Mina was a common target of his disapproval. She had little hope that he would respond kindly to this omen, and the role she played in it.

One block to go. The temple, dark and tall and menacing, loomed near. And Mina still did not know what to do about this crow, this wretched bird that still clung tenaciously to her shoulder and sheltered beside her hood. Despite the frigid temperatures, Mina felt sweat pop out on her hands and forehead. Her heart continued to race, begging her to flee from imminent danger.

And still she plodded forward, following the path of the rouge feathers as they lead her to the temple door. She passed the last intersection and was now on the same block as the temple. She could see now that the front door was open — very odd in weather like this. And a figure stood just inside the shadow of the door. Father Lucas. Looking for her. Wondering why she was late.

There was no helping it now. She was in plain sight, with the crow still firmly attached. If he hadn’t seen it yet, he soon would. She covered the last few steps and approached the oversized front door of the temple, walking up the three shallow steps that led her directly to Father Lucas.

He stood silent, watching her. He said nothing, and did not so much as glance at the crow. But he held in his hand two glossy black feathers.

Mina stood shivering before the door, longing for shelter but afraid to speak, to move. At length, Father Lucas stepped aside and gestured for her to enter. She hurried in, and hoped that perhaps the crow would choose to fly away now rather than join her in the temple. But no; the crow remained in its place, unmoving.

Father Lucas let the door fall shut behind her with a heavy thud, and threw the heavy iron bolt to keep it closed against the wind. Mina’s eyes struggled to adjust to the dark interior of the temple. A few lit candles cast wavering light from where they sat on high shelves around the entryway. A dark opening before her led to the sanctuary. There, the sacred fire would be burning, but Mina could not see it from here.

Normally, Mina would enter the temple after knocking and waiting for Father Lucas to unlatch the door for her. She would silently remove her outerwear and then wash in the basin of clean water that waited just inside the door. She would then follow Father Lucas into the sanctuary, where she would learn the day’s lessons and participate in the day’s divinations. Sometimes, when she was early, she would run into Tara, the acolyte from the northern settlement. And sometimes when she left, she’d pass Jina, who came from the eastern settlement. All throughout the day, every day, Father Lucas had acolytes come, one at a time, each chosen by her community, to learn from him, assist him, bring him offerings of food and other goods, and facilitate the divinations upon which all the communities relied.

Mina hated it, and didn’t understand why she had been selected as her community’s acolyte, but there was no arguing about it. After a few years, she’d be deemed either sufficiently educated or too old to bother with, and she’d be able to return to a life of working with her siblings and neighbors to maintain and provide for their settlement. But until then, she had to endure Father Lucas’s unintelligible lessons, constant criticism, and, as far as she could tell, meaningless divinations. The elders had great reverence for the divinations, and were anxious to hear them from her each day, but Mina had never once understood one, or thought it to be profound or prophetic. She kept her opinions to herself and quietly, meekly served out her time as acolyte. This, too, would end, as all things do.

But today, she had lost the rhythms of their normal routines, and she didn’t know what to do. What would happen if she took off her coat with the crow attached? Dare she approach the water basin, with such an unclean creature clinging to her? She turned to look at Father Lucas, hoping for some guidance, scared to ask.

He stood watching her, apparently waiting for something. As soon as she made eye contact with him, he nodded and spoke.

“We knew from yesterday’s reading that this was coming, but I did not expect the chosen messenger to be you. Tell me, Mina, has the Watcher revealed its name to you yet?”

The Collection (500 Words short story project, January 25, 2019)

2019-01-25T13:59:00.002-06:00

Ivy felt like she could finally take a full breath, after a season of gasping for air. The season was done, as was the accounting of it, and Ivy could pack away her ledger books and pens until the next season began. The interval was never as long as she’d like, but the pause was welcome nonetheless.

Ivy’s small cupboard of a workspace was dark and cramped, with scraps of paper and mislaid books on every cramped surface. She was working at gathering, replacing, and tidying up when she heard a knock on the open door.

She turned to look and saw an unfamiliar woman watching her. “Yes? How can I help you?” Ivy asked, barely taking her attention away from her task.

The woman stood silently for a few moments, and then cleared her throat and began, “Mistress Accountant, I need to speak with you on a rather urgent and serious matter.”

Nothing could be terribly urgent or serious this time of year, Ivy though. The season was done. The workers had scattered to their home communes for the interval. The heavy equipment of the collective was disassembled and stowed away. Her final reports had already been sent to the district governor, so there was no changing them now. The only thing that happened during the interval was …

“Oh,” Ivy exhaled, as if punched in the gut. Her knees went weak, and she gripped the edge of her desk for support. “You want to talk to me?” Now she turned her full attention on the stranger, examining her.

The woman had a severe face, thin and sharp, without a hint of mirth. Her clothing was all black, a modest and formal dress with a high neck, long sleeves, and not a touch of lace. Her hair was pulled back into a tight bun, so tight it must have been giving her a headache. She held a darn, worn leather folder in the crook of one elbow, and carried a sturdy black bag in the other hand.

“Yes, Mistress Accountant. I am here to speak with you.” There was no malice but also no empathy in the woman’s voice. She was cold and serious, almost lifeless.

A job like hers probably beats the joy out of you pretty quickly, a part of Ivy’s mind observed. The rest of her mind was frozen, and a rising terror was spreading out from her navel, burning up to her heart and down through her toes. She could summon no words to respond to the stranger.

Another moment passed, and the stranger spoke again. “I see you know why I’m here, Mistress Accountant. You are perhaps thinking this is ill luck, but I assure you this business will be over quickly, and it’s not as terrible as you seem to fear.”

Ivy nodded, numb. She wanted to flee, to fight, but there was no point. When a district collector came to pay you a call, there was no appeal and no escape.

“As you already suspect, you have been selected for the collection. You will come with me immediately. You may not gather personal items or say goodbye to associates or loved ones. They will be informed of your status via official notice.” She stepped forward and handed the black bag to Ivy, who took it without thinking. “These are all of your possessions now. Do not lose them.” With her hand now free, she took Ivy’s elbow in an iron grip and steered her toward the door. “It’s time for us to go.”

(This post is part of the 500 Words short story project.)

Omen (500 Words short story project, January 24, 2019)

2019-01-24T18:33:00.001-06:00

Mina couldn’t feel her toes. Or her ears. Or her nose. A cutting wind nearly knocked her to the ground; she crouched low, bending her knees and hunching her back while she waited out the gust. The sun was high and bright, but its warmth wasn’t strong enough to cut through the ferocious wind.

Only a bit farther to go. She was almost there. And while she longed to get out of the wind and into a sheltered place, the anxious knot in her stomach grew tighter and heavier as each step brought her nearer to her destination.

The lonely road was bleak and barren, coated with a dirty rime. The few trees along the road offered no shelter from the cold wind. There had been buildings all along this route once, but all that remained of them were evenly spaced concrete slabs that outlined the now-abandoned foundations.

Once this area had been measured in blocks, but no one thought of them that way anymore. That unit of measure no longer served a purpose. Still, Mina liked to count off the blocks between the shelter, where she lived with the rest of her community, and the temple, which she was required to visit every day, regardless of the weather. Four more blocks. And then at least she’d be out of the wind.

She struggled down the road to the end of the block, where another abandoned road crossed her path. Three more blocks. She could see the temple ahead of her now, getting closer.

A crow wheeled in front of her, seemingly out of control in the strong wind. It made a rough, graceless landing on the road in front of Mina, barely keeping to its feet. It shook out its wings, then folded them back and pinned Mina with its glass-black eye.

Mina froze. A crow was the worst possible omen. Death and destruction, fire and fury. Well, the fire part didn’t sound so bad right now. But a crow blocking her path as she walked to the temple must foretell disaster and sorrow. She stood as still as she could with the wind assaulting her, transfixed by the crow. In turn, the crow stood, statue-still even in the wind, and stared her down. It did not fear her as wild things should, and it did not flee her presence. Should she tell Father Lucas about this omen? No, no. No good would come of that.

She wanted to wait for the crow to fly away before continuing, but the bird was steadfast, and Mina was cold and late. She braced herself against the bird’s evil gaze as much as the wind, and took a step forward, expecting the bird to start and fly.

It did not.

She took another step, bringing her almost close enough to touch the crow, and still it held its ground. She turned to step around it, and the bird swiveled, still watching her every move.

The bird’s uncanny behavior was alarming, but Mina knew that if she was too late to the temple, she’d have to explain why, and explanations never went well with Father Lucas. She steeled herself, looked away from the bird, and stepped past it, intent on reaching the temple as quickly as possible.

After five steps, she felt a strange pressure on her right shoulder, almost light enough to mistake for the wind brushing its arms around her. She angled her head to peek out around the edge of her hood, and there, perched on her shoulder, was the crow.

(This post is part of the 500 Words short story project.)

Liar (500 Words short story project, January 23, 2019)

2019-01-23T21:21:00.000-06:00

You always do this to me, you know. Well, not just to me. To everyone. You drag us all into your ridiculous stories and hoaxes and conspiracies, and not one of us has the guts to stand up and tell you we don’t buy it, we’re not playing your games anymore. I’m mostly sure you don’t believe this garbage, either. But not one hundred percent sure. What’s going on inside your head? When you lie, do you even know you’re lying?

I used to think I understood you inside and out, that I had you pegged. I would confidently whisper to our mutual friends, “Oh, you know how Sarah is. She’s a pathological liar. She does it for the attention.” But lately, I just don’t know.

You showed up to work that Monday morning breathless and buzzing. “You will not believe what happened to me last weekend!” you gushed.

And I thought, you’re right. I already don’t believe it. But the new girl, Gina from HR, was both kind enough and naive enough to say, “Oh? What happened?” And stood listening with her mouth half-open, ready to swallow whole whatever tale you trotted out this time.

“I was out driving,” you began, and that’s when I started to check out and wander away from the break room. I already had my morning mug of tea, and the daily crossword puzzle wasn’t going to solve itself.

“Krin, where are you going?” you called after me, and I froze midstep, a grimace on my face. “You’ll to want to hear this — it will be especially of interest to you!”

“Yes, come back!” sweet, dumb Gina cajoled.

I sighed, and turned back into the break room. “I can’t stay long, Sarah. I have a lot to get through this morning.” I had some good theories about 4 down, “heroic canine.” But I could tell I wasn’t going to get out of listening to this story without a fight.

“So, like I was saying, I was out for a drive. I like to do that on weekends — just get out of the city and wander for a bit. It helps me to clear my head.” You paused here and sighed, staring into the middle distance. Gina was doubtless imaging the many wearisome troubles that cause you such distress that you must flee the city to seek solace.

“And?” I asked, hoping to moving things along. “Then what?”

You flashed a quick, irritated glare at me — you hated it when anyone interrupted your flow. “Well, usually I drive out west of town, out where the bluffs are. I like to feel like I’m sheltered by their protective embrace as I ponder life’s sorrows. But this time, something spoke to me. It might have been a spirit from beyond. I’ve been in communication with my third-great-grandmother for the last few weeks, and I can sense that she’s guiding me toward a great revelation. So when I felt her hand moving the steering wheel, I allowed her to dictate my path. I have complete faith in my ancestors, of course.”

Gina, still wide-eyed and open-mouthed, nodded in appreciation. I just barely disguised a derisive snort by covering it with a cough.

“Grandma take the wheel,” I quipped. “And where did dear Grandmama lead you?”

Again you threw a brief glare at me, but your features quickly returned to calm serenity. “Krin, I can’t believe you don’t know. I mean, you should have sensed it, I’d have thought.” You smirked a bit, knowing you had Gina on the hook, and thinking you might be about to hook me as well. “Dearest Grandmother Maude led me to your backyard.”

(This post is part of the 500 Words short story project.)

A New Place (500 Words short story project, January 22, 2019)

2019-01-22T14:51:00.002-06:00

There was pain, overwhelming and unexpected. A tearing, a loosening. And then, drifting, driftless, weightless, unanchored. Esther wanted to reach for something solid, something to hold, but she couldn’t remember how to reach, and couldn’t see anything to grab. What had been darkness bled into a sudden rushing brightness that blinded and enveloped her. A new sound overwhelmed her senses -- a throbbing, grinding, pulsing sound, fuzzy static turned up to maximum volume. She wanted to shield her eyes, her ears, but her arms weren’t working properly, wouldn’t answer her call.

After an endless time had passed, perhaps a few moments, perhaps many years, the light began to soften, or perhaps Esther had simply adapted to it. The static in her ears began to take on a structure, peaks and valleys, a cadence that was familiar but just beyond understanding. She looked around her, because she couldn’t not look -- her eyelids were as unresponsive as the rest of her body -- and she saw a soft blue-white glow that slowly revealed moving shadows, distant but perhaps coming nearer.

Esther realized that, while her eyes and ears were overwhelmed with input, she had no other physical sensations. She could no move her body, and she also could not be sure that she had a body. She could feel anything around her, nor could she take in a breath to see if her surroundings had a scent. She could not open her mouth to taste the air or the light. She could not turn her head to look at herself, whatever might remain of her. She was reduced to what she could see and hear, a disembodied, powerless consciousness.

I should panic, she thought. But she was not panicking. A calm curiosity was all she felt. Where am I? What happened to me? Who is that? For now one of the shadows was resolving into a vaguely humanlike shape, and it came nearer and nearer, with Esther clearly its object and destination.

The rhythms of the static sound further refined into something like words, as though Esther were hearing them underwater and couldn’t quite catch their edges. As the shadow drew nearer, the sound became clearer, and Esther began to understand.

“Yes, you will have so many questions!” suddenly filled Esther’s mind. The voice, warm and deep and comforting, poured a river of words into her, one tumbling over the next. “Well, I can answer some of them for you, and time will answer others. Oh, we’re going to get on so well, my dear! Let me introduce myself! Oh, no, I see you’re not quite ready for that yet. Let us get you sorted out first.”

What is happening? Esther wondered but didn’t say, because she still could not access her mouth, her vocal cords, her lungs.

And yet the voice answered her: “Indeed, first things first! Dear one, you are dead! Isn’t that wonderful? And I am so fortunate as to be assigned to you as you adjust to your new existence! Oh, it’s all just so exciting, isn’t it?”

(This post is part of the 500 Words short story project.)

Invasive (500 Words short story project, January 21, 2019)

2019-01-21T19:08:00.001-06:00

The cave opening exhaled. Warm air rushed across my face and tangled in my hair, rejecting me. Still, I stepped closer, placing one hand against the glistening rock wall. It shivered beneath my skin, revulsion and disgust and fear.

Sorrow filled me, and perhaps the cave could sense my sorrow, but it did not relent. The cave made it clear that I was not welcome in this place.

So be it.

The entry was mere inches above my head, and so narrow that I had merely to breathe deep and stretch my shoulders wide to brush against the walls. As I stepped inside, the rock walls recoiled, expanding the space just a hair. I kept my body close. While I couldn’t avoid violating this sacred space, I had no desire to increase the cave’s discomfort.

“I am sorry,” I murmured. The gust of wind intensified, then faded to the faintest breeze. Perhaps detente.

I kept my lantern dim. The faintest light was sufficient to illuminate this interior. Every photon danced in the sparkling minerals trapped within the rough and uneven walls. Still the rock strained away from me, but the light, never felt by the dark reaches of the cave, filled it with the beginnings of delight. A rumble, coarse and scolding, rained dust and debris down on my head. Do not attempt to woo me, the cave whispered with every shudder.

“I must use this light to find my way,” I replied.

The rumble faded, and the glimmering of the walls around me seemed to flash and shine. I stepped deeper into the cave.

Here and there, water escaped captivity in the mountain above me and burst forth in determined droplets, reaching cautiously down and then letting go, plummeting into the embrace of the smooth rock floor. Each drop tapped a message to me, but I was not yet able to decipher their code.

Perhaps if I had, things would have gone differently.

After a time, the glimmering of the rock walls dulled. The droplets faded behind me, tapping only to themselves. The breath of the cave was but the faintest whisper, hardly able to dislodge a single strand of my hair. And the walls of the cave pulled in tight ahead of me, huddled so close together that they would not, could not let me through.

“Here, now,” I said. “You know this is where I need to go.”

Stony silence met my words. I extinguished my lamp, and through the narrow crevasse before me I could see just the faintest glow. It pulsed a sickly green, and here the breeze took on the scent of rancid oil, rotten flesh.

“You don’t have to hold on to this,” I whispered. “I can help you, if you’ll let me.”

From deep within the mountain around me, I could feel more than hear a grinding shriek, rock against rock, bone against bone. The crevasse tightened before me, nearly closing entirely.

I adopted a stern tone, chiding and motherly. “You cannot hide from your problems forever. Let me take this burden from you, before it overwhelms you.”

But what happened next caught me off guard. The light, acid and poison and bile, flashed bright enough to blind me, strong enough to wrap bands around me hold me fast. I could not breath. I could not move. The cave cringed in terror, and I was crushed between its cowering walls. “Fear not,” I gasped. “I can help you.” But my strangled words were too faint to hear over the quaking earth.

(This post is part of the 500 Words short story project.)

500 Words week two winner: Blue

2019-01-20T15:51:00.002-06:00

The landscape flickered once and then became solid, more real than reality. Blue took three steps forward and felt her feet sinking into the sand, felt a breeze blowing in from the body of water before her. Was it an ocean? A large lake? Blue couldn’t be sure. But the sand was lovely, warm and soft against her bare feet.

She walked out to the edge of the water and dipped in her toes. It was shockingly cold, given the warmth of the sand and the apparent sunlight blazing above her. She stepped back and turned to walk down the line of the water. It had happened somewhere around here, and if she kept her eyes open, she should be able to see some sign of it.

A breeze blew against her skin, colder than she’d expect for this sunny day. Goosebumps popped up on her exposed arms, and she hugged them tight across her chest. It was an odd disconnect that served to remind her of where she really was.

The beach was wide and empty before her, but back a few dozen meters from the water a dense wall of scrubby trees seemed to scowl at her. Somewhere in there, it must have been.

Yes, as she drew near, she spotted a narrow path that led into the trees. She could see murky green light inside — sunlight, or something that might as well be sunlight, filtered through a thick layer of trees.

The path wasn’t terribly inviting — low bushes clustered close, and their branches were crowded with long, narrow thorns. Heavy tree limbs hung low enough that even Blue, who was rather on the short side, would need to crouch down while on the path. The ground here shifted from fine sand to sharp gravel. “Shoes,” Blue said, and sturdy hiking shoes appeared on her feet, with soft socks nestled inside.

She entered the path, doing her best to avoid touching any of the branches. Nothing here could mortally wound her, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t pick up minor scrapes and bruises. She considered donning thicker clothing that covered more of her body, but the was warmer and stuffy back among the trees, and she didn’t want to be even more uncomfortable. She inched her way deeper into the trees, dodging branches that seemed to reach out for her.

After walking the path for several minutes, she heard a distant, musical sound. She could almost have mistaken it for birdsong, but it was too mechanical to be natural. The sound was repetitive, a simple four-note melody, and it was accompanied by the faintest whirring noise. As she walked, the sound swiftly grew louder, and after just a few more steps, the path abruptly opened into a small clearing. If Blue had been able to stand in the middle of the clearing, the surrounding trees would be just barely out of reach of her fingertips. But she couldn’t stand in the middle, because that space was occupied.

A shining metal object stood in the middle of the clearing. It was a narrow oval, about as tall as Blue and a bit wider than her shoulders. The surface was an iridescent silver, gleaming in the green light. As soon as Blue entered the clearing, the sound stopped, and the object began to glow a pulsing, otherworldly aquamarine. A voice that came from everywhere and nowhere said, “Welcome. Please step inside.” And then the oval split in half, revealing a dark and vast interior.

Blue felt a chill that had nothing to do with the breezes. This Robin’s Egg should never have made its way past the High-Atmosphere Defense Shield. There hadn’t been one on the surface of the planet in decades, precisely because HADS had been put in place to keep them out. How had this one slipped through? Would others? Had others slipped through already, undetected?

Blue stepped close, and the pod began to vibrate in anticipation. She leaned in to look inside, but the interior was nothing but the deepest void, endless and empty all at once.

“Well,” she said to no one, “let’s give this a try.” And she stepped into the blackness.

Everything Blue could see shifted and splintered and spun around her, and Blue fought down a wave of motion sickness. Then all went black — not the blackness of the interior of the egg, but a simpler, flatter, more mundane darkness. A dark room, the lights unexpectedly switched off. Nothing supernatural about it.

And then a voice in her ear: “What the hell just happened, Blue? Did you break the simulation?”

“Sorry,” Blue replied, and then flinched as harsh bluish-white lights flickered on, revealing the boxy room she’d been in all along. “That simulation was amazing, Dot. The new upgrade makes a huge difference. I could actually feel the sand on my feet.”

A door opened to Blue’s right, and someone joined her in the now-barren room. “Don’t try to change the subject. What did you do to my simulation?”

“I found the Robin’s Egg,” Blue replied. “Dot, how did it get here?”

“That shouldn’t have broken the simulation,” Dot replied.

Blue gave a sheepish chuckle. “Well, I entered it.”

“You what?!” Dot stared at her in horror.

“I wanted to see what would happen! The simulation is safe, right? It couldn’t whisk me away or anything.” Blue put a hand on Dot’s arm and took on an apologetic tone. “I’m sorry, Dot. I’ve just never been that close to a Robin’s Egg before. Not even in a simulation. I was curious.”

“Curious? Well, that’s lovely. I think you fried my newly upgraded system with your curiosity.” Dot shook her head. “I should have known something like that would happen.”

“How could you? We’ve never used the simulator to find a Robin’s Egg before. This is uncharted territory. Is it really ruined?” Blue started to feel a bit embarrassed. She hadn’t even considered the affect her actions might have on the delicate interworkings of the simulator’s machinery.

“Maybe. I’m going to have to tinker with it and see what I can fix. Regardless, we won’t be simulating anything for a few days, at least.”

“Damn,” Blue replied. “I’d like another look at that Egg.”

“Are you crazy?” Dot exclaimed. “Why would you want to get anywhere near one?”

“It’s just a simulation! It’s safe in there.” Blue thought it was safe, anyway. You never could tell, when it came to Robin’s Eggs.

Dot snorted in response. “Safe. Sure. Well, your curiosity is going to have to live without the Egg or my simulator, at least for now. At least you figured it where it is, right?”

“I think so,” Blue replied. “It was definitely North America, and the body of water looked like a Great Lake. Michigan, maybe? I’m going to triangulate a few things, but I think I can narrow it down.”

Dot got a suspicious look on her face. “Blue. Tell me you’re not going to try to find in for real. Because that would be a terrible idea.”

All innocence, Blue said, “What? I wouldn’t dream of it!”

Unconvinced, Dot continued, “You need to leave that to the professionals. Just tell the team where you think it is, so they can create the quarantine zone.” Dot caught Blue’s eyes and held them. “Seriously, Dot. Promise me.”

Blue couldn’t look away, and found it terribly hard to lie to Dot while making eye contact. “Come on, Dot! What do you take me for?”

Dot raised an eyebrow, but let the matter drop. “I’ll be in my office. For many, many hours. While I clean up the mess you just made for me. Please keep out of trouble.” And then Dot exited to the hallway.

Blue watched her go, and then checked her watch. She’d been in the simulator for about an hour, only half the time she and Dot had scheduled for this exercise. So the team wouldn’t come looking for her assessment, and her guess about the location of the Egg, for at least another hour. If she was quick, she could home in on the location and hop on a flight before anyone knew what she was doing.

Blue stepped to the door and checked the hallway before entering it — empty. Good. Dot had probably forgotten all about her by now and was elbows deep in her simulator repairs. Blue darted down the hall and into her own office, staying just long enough to grab her computer and notepad. Then, back into the hall and to a side door that let her out into the grassy mall. The Department of Planetary Defense building was just one of a cluster of ugly office buildings that crouched around a bland expanse of manicured grass and evenly spaced shrubs. Benches were placed at regular intervals with military precision. But just past the end of the mall was an unruly tangle of trees that hadn’t yet been tamed by the groundskeeper. Blue headed for the trees in search of a sheltered spot to sit and work. There would be no witness in the little copse, and the team was unlikely to come looking for her here.

Control (500 Words short story project, January 18, 2019)

2019-01-18T12:19:00.002-06:00

Control. That’s all I ever wanted. Control over my life, my choices, my occupation, which shoes to wear or which books to read.

It seemed like a fairy tale, one that couldn’t possibly be true, but I had lived in the days before the Reorganization. I remembered what it was like to make your own choices in life. I could recall having a closet full of clothes and choosing each day which suited my mood. I remember lazy summer afternoons when I could spend hours trying do decide whether to go for a bike ride or read a magazine or just stare into the hazy humidity rising from the sun-beaten grass of our fenced-in backyard.

When I whispered about those days to my younger colleagues, who had been babies or not even born yet when the Committee took control, they gave me incredulous stares and shook their heads. They couldn’t imagine a life like that. They were sure I was making it up. I started to wonder myself.

I was young, 12 years old, when the Reorganization happened — they called it a return to decency, and started dictating every minute of every person’s life. Suddenly we all had Committee-issued monitors in every room of every home. They gave them a nonthreatening feminine voice, a cute name (Darla), and a bubbly personality so we would overlook the invasion of privacy, the loss of independence, and just enjoy the fact that Darla would give us fun facts and play approved music in addition to informing us when it was time to get up, to work, to eat, to sleep.

Darla (or, rather, the Committee via Darla) gave every adult a new work assignment, and cheered the fact that now every adult was gainfully employed. Everyone under 16 was assigned to an education center, but the things we learned were very different from what we had been taught in our old schools. Everyone wore the same clothes, all the time. You didn’t need a full closet anymore — just a few changes of the same slate-gray pants, shirt, socks, jackets. The Committee knew we’d be more productive if we didn’t have to trouble ourselves with meaningless choices about what to wear each day.

It’s odd to look back on that time and see that so few people rebelled, so few spoke out against the authoritarian changes. Oh, some did, but so many people were happy with the changes. The world was too confusing, they said. We didn’t really need to make so many choices. We’d all be so much happier just letting Darla and the Committee choose for us. So the dissenters were few, and each time one of them spoke out, they swiftly disappeared. Some were never seen again, and some would return after weeks or months, quiet and subdued and compliant with Darla’s every request. They didn’t talk about where they had been, or what had been done to them, but whispered rumors said that they had been subjected to terrible physical and psychological tortures as part of a reeducation program.

I didn’t plan to verify the truth of those rumors, really I didn’t. It’s just that I was so tired of wearing gray every single day.

One morning, a Tuesday in February, I couldn’t take the crushing gray any longer. I found a bright yellow silk scarf that I’d kept hidden under my mattress, one of the few things I had been able to squirrel away from the old days.

I wrapped the yellow scarf around my neck and wore it to my job at the Acceptable News Bureau. I made it three steps into the lobby before the guards grabbed me.

(This post is part of the 500 Words short story project.)

Balance (500 Words short story project, January 17, 2019)

2019-01-17T15:48:00.001-06:00

The cosmos requires balance. For all good, there must be equal evil. For all joy, there must be equal sorrow. Every time you have an amazing day — you find $5 in your pocket, you hit every green light, you get that big promotion — someone else is having an equally awful day — they get a parking ticket, or a pink slip, or that nasty sore throat that’s been going around. It steals a bit of the sweetness from every positive event, knowing that it’s matched by something negative, something hard. And it isn’t great knowing that tomorrow it might be your turn to have that garbage day when you forget your wallet on the train or a bird takes a crap on you. Or your dog dies. Or you get that cancer diagnosis. Oh, yes. Your turn is coming, and mine.

I had just come off a doozy of a bad day — stepped in a deep puddle in my favorite shoes while running to catch a bus I still missed — and was hoping to spend the rest of my evening drying out and eating a not-too-disgusting microwave meal for one when a strange number popped up on my phone.

Like most sane adults, I don’t answer phone calls like that. I let them go to voicemail, because they’re almost always telemarketers or collections agencies or robocalls reminding me about my upcoming physical exam. I don’t have time for that.

But I had been thinking a lot lately about my theory of cosmic balance, and how bad my day had already been. Whoever was calling, I figured I’d better just answer and deal with it, instead of letting some threatening voicemail message simmer and brew for days while I avoided looking at the blaring red “New message!” notification and tried to pretend it didn’t exist. That never turns out well.

“Hello?” I said in a brusque, no-nonsense tone. I wanted whomever was calling to know I had very little tolerance for shenanigans.

The voice that responded was deep but soft-spoken, and the speaker took his time with each word, savoring every phoneme as they passed across his lips. “Yes, good evening. I’m looking for Angela Johnson.”

I don’t really like confirming my identity for strangers, so I hedged. “May I ask who’s calling?”

“Of course, of course,” he responded. “My name is Dr. Hector Bridgeton. I’m calling to confirm an appointment with Ms. Johnson.”

I rolled my eyes. Of course it’s just a stupid doctor’s appointment confirmation call. I started to give the standard reply (“Yes, of course, I’ll be there, I’ll bring my insurance card and copay, see you then, whatever”), expect that a) I was fairly sure I didn’t have a doctor’s appointment of any kind coming up, and b) I was quite certain I’d never made an appointment with anyone named Dr. Hector Bridgeton.

“Uh, Dr. Bridgeton? I think you must have the wrong number. I don’t have an appointment with you.” I got ready to hang up on Dr. Bridgeton, despite his lovely voice, but his response brought me up short.

“Oh, we definitely have an appointment, Ms. Johnson. And it’s right now.” And then there was a knock on my door.

(This post is part of the 500 Words short story project.)

Search Party (500 Words short story project, January 16, 2019)

2019-01-16T16:40:00.000-06:00

“Go away,” the voice on the other side of the door said.

I waited a few moments, and then knocked again. “I said go away!” This time it was shouted, and I could tell the speaker was just on the other side of the door.

“I’m not leaving until I talk to you,” I shouted back. Then I waited. If the inhabitant of this hut was who I thought it was, and I was reasonably sure it was, he would recognize my voice. I didn’t think he’d turn me away, but he was unpredictable. And he hadn’t spoken to his own brother, my grandfather, for more than 50 years over some squabble so minor my gramps couldn’t even remember what it was.

The door opened a crack, and I saw his bottle-green eye peering out. “Well. I thought it was you. Run along. I don’t have time for you.” And then he slammed the door shut in my face.

I couldn’t help but laugh. Great-Uncle Elbert had a reputation for being a curmudgeonly hermit, and the reputation was well earned. I didn’t take it personally that he was refusing to see me. I’d gotten farther than most people would have, and I hadn’t given up yet.

I knocked again.

“Go away, Xan!” was the instantaneous reply.

“I have something for you,” I shouted back.

There was a pause this time. And then, “What do you have for me?”

“It’s from Aunt Edina. She says it’s something new. Can you open the door? All this shouting is bad for my throat.” There. I could have set no better trap for him. My Aunt Edina was Elbert’s favorite niece, much to my own mother’s dismay, in part because she supplied him with all the ingredients he needed for his work. Arcane and obscure herbs, mostly, that she either grew in her garden or foraged from the surrounding woods and grasslands. Elbert loved nothing more than when Edina came up with a new herb for him to experiment with. She didn’t do it very often, for fear that one of Elbert’s experiments would end up burning down his house or killing him, or both. But every now and then she sent him something interesting, something she hoped wouldn’t be too dangerous. It had been years since her last discovery, and while that one had burned off Elbert’s eyebrows, he’d also used it to make a near-miraculous salve to soothe the burns, so it wasn’t a total wash.

I waited five long breaths, and then the door opened again, this time slightly more. I could see Elbert’s eye again, and his nose and half of his mouth. “Show me,” he said. I could see the hunger in half of his face, and assumed it probably covered the whole thing.

“Let me in,” I replied.

He swore softly, and then opened the door the rest of the way, stepping back to let me in with a mocking flourish of his long, spindly arm. “Right this way, Xan. Do make yourself at home.” He snarled the words, but I could tell he was more curious than mad.

I stepped into the front room of the little two-room hut and looked for a place to sit, but every surface was covered with books, papers, bottles, bundles of dried herbs, and dirty plates. Rather than exhibit any hospitality, Elbert closed the door and rounded on me. “Well? What did she send?”

I tried to keep my smile off my face. “First, I need something from you. Some information. And also some advice.”

Elbert scowled. “I got out of the advice-giving business, Xan. It never goes well. You’re better off without it.”

“Maybe that’s been true in the past, but in this case, you’re the only one who can help me.” I paused to see how he’d react to this. His scowl relaxed only a hair, but I saw an eyebrow twitch up. Curiosity. Good.

“You’re the only one who can tell me where I should look. You see, your brother has gone missing.”

(This post is part of the 500 Words short story project.)

Blue (500 Words short story project, January 15, 2019)

2019-01-15T22:19:00.004-06:00

She walked out to the edge of the water and dipped in her toes. It was shockingly cold, given the warmth of the sand and the air around her. She stepped back and turned to walk down the line of the water. It had happened somewhere around here, and if she kept her eyes open, she should be able to see some sign of it.

The beach was wide and empty before her, but back a few dozen meters from the water a dense wall of scrubby trees seemed to scowl at her. Somewhere in there, it must have been.

She entered the path, doing her best to avoid touching any of the branches. Nothing here could mortally wound her, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t pick up minor scrapes and bruises. She considered donning thicker clothing that covered more of her body, but it was warm and stuffy back among the trees, and she didn’t want to be even more uncomfortable. She inched her way deeper into the trees, dodging branches that seemed to reach out for her.

After walking the path for several minutes, she heard a distant, musical sound. She could almost have mistaken it for birdsong, but it was too mechanical to be natural. The sound was repetitive, a simple four-note melody, and it was accompanied by the faintest whirring noise. As she walked, the sound swiftly grew louder, and after just a few more steps, the path abruptly opened into a small clearing. If Blue could stand in the middle of the clearing, the surrounding trees would be just barely out of reach of her fingertips. But she couldn’t stand in the middle, because that space was occupied.

A shining metal object stood in the middle of the clearing. It was a narrow oval, about as tall as Blue and a bit wider than her shoulders. The surface was an iridescent silver, gleaming in the green light. As soon as Blue entered the clearing, the sound stopped, and the object began to glow a pulsing, otherworldly blue. A voice that came from everywhere and nowhere said, “Welcome. Please step inside.” And then the oval split in half, revealing a dark and vast interior.

(This post is part of the 500 Words short story project.)

Recruits (500 Words short story project, January 14, 2019)

2019-01-14T13:57:00.001-06:00

“That the most foolish idea I've ever heard,” Gregor said, with Tyrna nodding along beside him. "You’ll be broke or dead inside a week, and either way you’re leaving us here to take care of everything without you.” He glared at me over his half-circle glasses. “Foolish and irresponsible.”

“You’ll be fine!” I replied as I pulled on my lightweight summer cloak, the one with all the extra pockets on the inside. I’d already stuffed them full of the things I’d need on my way to the capital -- dried fruit and nuts, some jerky, a thick packet of folded-over blank paper, so I’d have someplace to write down my thoughts and musings, and the little bit of money I had to my name. It wasn’t much, but the capital wasn’t far, and once I got there I’d be taken care of.

With the cloak settled over my shoulders, I returned my attention to scowling Gregor and Tyrna. “We all know you don’t need me to feed the chickens, or anything else around here. Gregor, you do almost everything yourself and shout at me for doing it wrong if I try to help. Tyrna, you do everything else, and refuse to let anyone help you. All I do here is sit around and eat your food. I thought you’d be happy to get rid of me.” I fastened my cloak pin, checked to be sure it was secure, and then lifted my small pack. Again, it didn’t hold much, but I wouldn't need much. And, truthfully, I didn’t have much.

But Gregor wasn’t ready to concede. “Happy to be rid of you? How can you say that? When Mother and Father left us,” and here Gregor paused as both he and Tyrna closed their eyes and murmured a respectful line of prayer, “we promised them we’d look after you. And we don’t aim to let them down.”

I refrained from rolling my eyes and snorting, but just barely. “I was five. I needed someone to look after me then. I don’t now.” With the cloak in place and the light pack over my shoulder, I was ready to go. I darted in close and gave Gregor a quick hug, and then turned to give Tyrna a peck on the cheek. “I’ll write to you when I get to the capital, right after I check in with the recruitment office. I’m sure they’ll keep me busy, but I’ll make time to write nonetheless. Don’t you worry! Soon you’ll be coming to visit me in the capital, once I get settled!”

“Please, Alex.” Gregor’s tone, now pleading, brought me up short. “Please, just consider. I don’t trust this call for recruits.” He and Tyrna shared a serious look, and then he returned his gaze to me. “You’re too young to remember the last time the capital sent out a call for recruits. It was a little different -- last time they were calling for craftspeople, not artists, but otherwise it was just the same. Come put your talents to work for your queen! Finally receive the recognition -- and pay! -- you deserve! Help build our fine capital into a beautiful paradise! It all sounded so noble, and so attractive. Of course everyone from the districts wanted to go.” Gregor dropped his head and was silent for a long moment.

And then I saw the tears welling in Tyrna’s eyes. After long, silent minutes, and Gregor failed to continue, Tryna took over. “Alex,” she said, her voice a whisper. “That was when Mother and Father left. They answered the call for recruits. They promised to write, to send home money, to return with riches and presents for all of us. But once they left, we never heard from them again.”

(This post is part of the 500 Words short story project.)

500 Words Week 1 Winner: Armored

2019-01-13T17:08:00.001-06:00

The agency took a long time to find a new prospective job for Irma. After a string of false starts and swift dismissals, they began to fear that Irma would never hold down a job (and make them some money). Irma was always attractive to new clients at first -- she was nearly impervious to most weapons, thanks to her unique deformity, which meant that as a bodyguard she never feared putting herself in danger to shield her client. But despite her skill at keeping them safe, clients always grew uncomfortable with her, and she found herself dismissed before she could make it past the agency’s free trial period for all new placements.

Irma had tried to come up with a new line of work, since it was starting to look like this bodyguard business wasn’t going to work out. She couldn’t go back to ballet -- her old dance mistress had made it clear after Irma’s illness and transformation that someone who looked like Irma would not be welcome in the studio or on the stage. So dance was out, and that was the only thing Irma had ever loved. She was agile, fast, and strong -- but also socially awkward and chronically late, and even the kindest-hearted souls found her rather hard to look at. If she could think of a job she’d be good at that she could do locked away from the world, she’d do it. But so far nothing had come to mind.

After a few weeks of dreary unemployment, with Irma sitting around scratching at the itching, bony plates that grew along her muscles and stretched her skin taut, the agency sent her a message saying she had an interview with a new client. It would mean travel, and helping out with menial tasks in addition to her usual work as a bodyguard, but Irma wasn’t in any position to say no to work.

Since her parents had passed, she’d been bounced from one sibling’s house to another’s, overstaying her welcome just long enough that everyone stopped being polite to her, but not quite long enough for them to pack up her things and leave them for her on the front steps after changing the locks. She knew the right time to jump ship, and fortunately had enough siblings that by the time she needed to go back to one and ask for use of their spare room or couch yet again, it had been long enough since her last stay that their negative memories were softened by the guilt and shame that drove them all to help Irma more than they really wanted to. Poor Irma, disfigured and strange, the family’s burden to bear.

Irma was near to the end of her stay with Philemon -- she could tell because her brother’s children no longer swarmed around her to chatter about their day when they came home from their lessons, and his spouse no longer asked what her favorite dishes were so she could order them from the cook, and Philemon himself, who rarely showed his face outside of his study, had started asking pointed questions about how Irma’s job prospects were looking, and whether she was really trying as hard as she might to find gainful employment. She figured she had six days or less before things got truly unpleasant, and she couldn’t let it come to that.

So she hastily bathed, which tended to further irritate her too-tight skin but couldn’t be avoided, pulled on the custom-fit uniform one of her sisters had sewn for her, and set out to meet with her potential new client.

Irma had gotten the message from the agency just before the midday meal, and she had skipped her lunch while getting ready for the interview. When she was a few blocks from home, that missed meal began to nag at her. She considered stopping at a food cart on her way to the agency, but she avoided eating in public if at all possible. The way the illness had affected her face bones was both the most unsightly change and most inconvenient. The skin of her face pulled tight over new bony plates that gave her forehead, cheeks, and chin an angular, inhuman look. Her jaw no longer opened the way it had, and she had a hard time chewing because of it. Her stomach rumbled angrily as she walked by a stall selling hand pies, but she kept on walking. Trying to eat a steaming hot pie while walking down the street would be a ridiculous farce. People already stared at her more than she liked, and she’d rather not dribble lunch all over her clean clothes right before meeting a potential client. They’d just have to listen to her rumbling stomach instead.

The agency was about a 20-minute walk from Philemon’s house. She enjoyed staying with him most of all — the rest of her siblings lived in much less convenient parts of town. Getting kicked out of Philemon’s was going to be unpleasant, for a lot of reasons. After a short, brisk walk, Irma entered the unassuming brick building that held a stable on the ground floor, a printmaker’s shop on the second floor, and the employment agency on the third floor. Up the familiar stairs she went, and at the top landing she opened the agency’s front door without knocking.

The woman at the front desk was someone new, yet again. For an employment agency, they seemed to have a hard time keeping their own employees around. She looked up when Irma entered, started violently, and then struggled to compose herself. “Can I help you?” she asked.

“I’m Irma. I’m here to meet a new client.”

“Oh, yes, Irma! We’ve been expecting you,” the woman said, a wide, false smile on her face. “The new client isn’t here yet, but you’ll be meeting her in the Yellow Room. You know the way?”

Irma nodded and started toward the hallway that led to the agency’s various meeting rooms. The woman’s voice followed her: “I’ll bring in tea in just a moment, shall I?”

“Sounds good,” Irma said over her shoulder. Drinking was much easier than eating, and this way at least she’d have something in her stomach.

The Yellow Room was one of four themed rooms the agency kept for introducing new clients to their rather unique contractors. The agency offered contract employees in all sorts of unusual specialties. As things went, Irma’s bodyguard work was rather pedestrian. The door to the Yellow Room was open, and sunlight streamed from the open door into the hallway. Irma approached the door and tapped gently on it, peering inside.

Roxy was inside, sitting in one of four plush armchairs in the aggressively bright and cheerful room. “Irma!” Roxy beamed. “Come in! Our new client should be here any minute. Where is Clementine with the tea?” Roxy frowned for a moment, but then waved Irma in. “Come, come, have a seat!”

The room’s chairs were all overstuffed monstrosities in shades of yellow, shifting from light butter to dark brass. The carpet was plush and golden — Irma felt her soft shoes sinking into it and she stepped into the room. The afternoon sunlight intensified every gleaming surface in the room, from the polished curtain rods to the elegant gold-leaf tables near each chair. Irma wanted to shade her eyes, but she resisted the impulse.

“Hey, Roxy. So this clients a little different than our usual, huh?” Irma said as she seated herself in the seat next to Roxy’s. “Travel? Extra duties?”

Roxy nodded, her face serious. “I think you’re going to like this one, and I think she’s going to like you, too. But it is going to take a little … uh, flexibility on your part. I promise you, it’s going to be worthwhile!”

Irma knew she couldn’t exactly be picky when it came to clients. She needed the work, badly. And she needed this one to stick. But she didn’t want to say that to Roxy, in part because she didn’t want to discuss her private business with Roxy, and in part because Roxy probably already suspected as much. “We’ll see,” was all Irma said in reply.

Down the hallway, they both heard the agency’s front door open. Clementine, who Irma surmised must be the new woman at the front desk, let out an ear-splitting squeal — even all the way down the hall, Irma covered her ears and flinched. “What …?” Irma started to ask, but Roxy leapt to her feet, her face worried, and took off out of the room and down the hall.

Irma strained her ears to listen as Roxy started speaking, first to Clementine and then to the new visitor. “Clementine!” she hissed. “Go busy yourself with preparing the tea tray, and quit screeching at our clients. Then, in Roxy’s usual tone, oozing confidence and professionalism: “Ah, Ms. Darma! We are so delighted you could make it today. Come with me, and I’ll introduce you to Irma. I just know you two are going to hit it off.”

Ms. Darma — why did that name sound familiar? Irma sifted through her brain attempting to make a link. She knew she’d encountered the name Darma somewhere recently.

“Yes, right this way — the last door on the left,” Roxy said, and Irma could hear footsteps approaching. A woman, short and slight, with a mass of bright yellow hair almost dwarfing her small frame, stepped into the room, with Roxy on her heels. Roxy was saying something, but Irma wasn’t listening — she finally remembered where she’d heard the name Darma before. Her sister Isadora had dragged her out to the big amphitheater downtown a few months back, claiming she needed to get out into the world more. Irma suspected she’d done it to give Philemon and his family a break from Irma’s near-constant presence, so she went along without too much complaint. The performance that night hadn’t been at all what Irma expected. The performers weren’t actors, but rather musicians — Isadora said they toured from town to town playing songs of their own devising, rather than the usual folk songs and ballads one heard at public concerts. Irma must have been the only person in the audience who had never heard of them. The crowd had buzzed with excitement all through the performance, and they screamed their adoration between each song, much the way Clementine had just screamed in the front room. The band was called The Darma Birds. And the lead singer was ...

“Oh my stars,” Irma said before she could stop herself. “You’re Irene Darma.”

(This post is part of the 500 Words short story project.)

Down (500 Words short story project, January 11, 2019)

2019-01-11T13:54:00.001-06:00

The cavern was completely dark at this point, so far from the cramped opening that no natural light could find its way in. Alba’s headlamp provided her only illumination. To reach the next chamber, she had to make her way down an ancient wooden ladder that looked as thought it might disintegrate if the beams from her lamp hit it too hard. Alphonse had repeatedly assured her that the ladder was perfectly sound, that he climbed up and down it all the time, but Alba wasn’t so sure.

She tested the first rung gingerly, and while there was an alarmingly loud creak when the rung took her weight, it didn’t snap. So far so good. Slowly, slowly, she inched her way down the ladder, trying to strike a balance between getting down and off it as quickly as possible without taxing the delicate rungs any more than she had to. Even with her headlamp, she couldn’t see the bottom of the ladder from the top. The darkness of the cavern seemed to swallow up the beam of light. So she just worked her way down, slow and steady, trusting that the bottom would come.

After a minute of descending the ladder, she paused and looked down again. Was that the bottom? Maybe. It was so hard to say with her feeble light, and the crushing black of the cave. She kept going, one rung after another. Inside her heavy-duty gloves, her hands began to sweat and slip. Despite the cool of the cave, she felt beads of perspiration dripping down her neck and into her shirt, creating a nagging itch just between her shoulder blades. Can’t deal with that now, she thought. Get off the ladder first.

After another minute, she looked down again, and this time she was sure she could see a still-distant end to the rickety ladder. She subconsciously picked up the pace, and she could feel her mostly empty backpack slapping against her with each movement.

All told, it took nearly five minutes to descend the ladder. Alba tried to calculate just how far down she’d come, but she couldn’t be sure. Two hundred feet? Three hundred? And this was just the beginning. Here at the base, in a chamber that was about ten feet square, she found the supply box, just as Alphonse had described it -- a beat-up metal chest, with a coat of flaking red paint and a fair bit of rust. It was closed but unlocked. Inside it, Alba found candles and matches, a stockpile of individually wrapped protein bars, a coil of rope, a ball of twine, a trowel, and a clear, glassy orb, about six inches in diameter. The orb was faintly glowing.

Huh, Alba thought. So he wasn’t lying after all.

Alba took off her backpack, setting it on the ground next to the box, and gently picked up the orb. It was warm to the touch, weirdly out of place in this cool subterranean environment. She took a silk cloth out of her backpack and wrapped it around the orb. She could still the orb’s glow through the thin cloth. Then she tucked the wrapped orb into her backpack, reshouldered the pack, and surveyed the surroundings. Yes, just as Alphonse had said, there was an opening in the cave wall directly across from the ladder. Onward.

(This post is part of the 500 Words short story project.)

The Machinery (500 Words short story project, January 10, 2019)

2019-01-10T19:39:00.000-06:00

Awake. Kira’s eyes opened, then closed again. The sun was pressing down on her face through the open window beside her. She tried to bring an arm up to shield her face, but she found her hands were bound at her sides. Her legs, likewise, were immobile. She struggled a bit, just enough to be able to tell that she wasn’t going to get free without a lot more struggling, and she’d likely rub her wrists and ankles raw in the process. She turned her head to the right away from the window, and opened her eyes again.

The room was small but bright and clean. She was on a small cot, low to the ground. The wall opposite her also had a window, and through it she could see lush forests and, beyond them, mountain peaks. What little she could see behind her seemed to be just a wall -- she was in a corner at the end of a narrow room. Down past her feet, she could see another wall with a red door, firmly closed. There were a few tables in the other corners, one with tea things, another with what appeared to be prescription medicine bottles. In the third corner was a wooden chest. It looked heavy and sturdy, and an iron padlock held it shut.

Kira had no idea where she was, and no recollection of how she came to be in a geographic location that included both forests and mountains. What was the last thing she could remember? Something about a phone call, an unknown number and no caller ID. She never answered calls like that, but this one she had picked up on a whim. And then the strange voice that replied when she answered, almost robotic but not quite. “The machinery is ready. Report to your pickup location.” Then, and now, she had no idea what that voice was talking about.

What had happened after that? She had flashes of packing a suitcase, but why? Why would she have done that? Did she do it, or was it just a half-remembered dream? Had she called someone after hanging up on the strange voice? She felt certain she had. But she didn’t know who, or why.

She tried again to move her wrists and ankles, deliberately this time, looking for weakness in the rough ropes. Her left hand, closest to the wall, seemed to be least tightly bound, so she focused her energies there. She twisted and tugged and twisted again, grimacing at the pain as the rope tore at her skin. She could pull her hand out almost as far as her bottom thumb joint, and then it stuck. But if she could get it that far, surely she could pull the whole thing free. It would just mean a little pain.

Kira gritted her teeth. She was no stranger to pain, and she wasn’t going to let it prevent her from getting free and getting some answers. She folded her thumb in tight against her palm and pulled, slowly, surely, and the coarse coils of rope slithered millimeter by millimeter up her hand. Her skin burned and her thumb felt like it was about to dislocate, but she took a deep breath, blew it out and pulled one last time. She almost cried out at her hand flew free of its bindings -- the pain was intense and lingering, but one had was free. Success.

Then, a noise at the door. A key in a lock. Not sure what to do, Kira returned her hand to its former position -- free now, but unless someone looked closely, they would believe she was still fully bound. The door opened, and a figured stepped from darkness into the brightness of the little room.

“Ah, Kira, you’re awake! Wonderful.”

Oh my god. It was Albert Manchester. Kira’s father. Kira’s dead father.

(This post is part of the 500 Words short story project.)

Out of Gas (500 Words short story project, January 9, 2019)

2019-01-09T21:15:00.000-06:00

Empty. Fuck! Tonight required nothing but good luck if Miriam was hoping to end the evening still alive, and this was the biggest piece of bad luck she could have imagined. She slammed her hands against the steering wheel. Great -- now I’m out of gas and my hands hurt.

The instant she opened the car door, the rain started pelting her arms and face. She was not dressed appropriately for a nighttime adventure through a thunderstorm. Her T-shirt and jeans were little protection against the rain and wind, and her canvas shoes were already feeling damp. Her long hair whipped into her face and was plastered there by the rain, getting caught in her mouth and eyes.

When she’d started driving a few hours before, it was still light out, and the threatening clouds on the horizon had seemed so distant. She thought for sure she would outrace them, outpace the dwindling fuel reserve -- it was all supposed to come together! None of this was supposed to happen! She slammed the car door shut just as it occurred to her that her purse was still inside. Her purse with her phone. And her keys. Right there on the passenger seat, where she could just barely see it through the window of the now-locked door.

She kicked the front tire a few times to let out a fresh surge of rage, but her canvas shoes were no protection at all. So now my hands and my toes hurt. And I’m probably going to be murdered. Fantastic.

She took a few deep breaths and leaned against the car, closing her eyes and taking stock. Okay, so. I’m on a deserted forest road in the dark. In the rain. My car is out of gas, and I’m locked out of it. If I don’t make it to Adam’s within the next hour, I might as well dig my own grave. That about summed it up. Miriam’s only choice, as far as she could tell, was to start walking, and fast.

She had only been to Adam’s once, and that had been years ago, but this back road had come back to her as if she’d driven down it yesterday. If she was remembering correctly, she was just a few turns in the road away from Adam’s at this point -- not more than a 15-minute walk. She hoped.

She opened her eyes to the rain and the dark, set herself in the direction she had been driving, and squinted her way down the side of the road. She could just barely make out the trees on either side, which helped keep her on the verge and out of the forest itself. Her shoes were soaked through after just a few steps, and her clothing clung to her uncomfortably. But she wasn’t going to get any more drenched or uncomfortable, so she put it out of her mind.

At the first turn, she stepped into a rushing rivulet of water before she realized she’d wandered away from the road and was entering the forest. She squinted some more and reoriented herself against the treetops that were faintly distinct from the dark sky, and continued on. For the second turn, she saw the wall of trees approaching and managed to turn with the road without mishap. And by then, she could see the yellow-white glow of artificial light shining in the near distance. Adam’s house.

(This post is part of the 500 Words short story project.)

A Long Walk (500 Words short story project, January 8, 2019)

2019-01-08T19:33:00.001-06:00

It was cloudy, again. The small cottage, tucked back among a tumble of boulders on the cold, blustery beach, quivered with each gust of wind. As chill and damp as it was inside, Spike knew it would be much worse outside. She dreaded leaving the relative warmth of her small stove.

Still, there was no help for it. The walk was long and cold enough without waiting for nightfall to drop the temperature and add an extra degree of danger to it. She’d best set off, the sooner the better.

Spike had packed her backpack the evening before with everything she’d need for a two-day trip -- a change of clothes, some dry food bars, two large bladders full of water, assorted small tools, a bit of money, a tightly wrapped bundle of highly sensitive papers. Her bullwhip hung from a tie on the outside of the pack, and her walking poles were propped up and waiting by the small front door. Once she’d donned her water-repelling cloak, she was as ready as she could be. She doused the coals in her small stove, checked the locks on all the windows and doors for a third time, then shouldered her pack, grabbed the poles, and headed out.

The front door was small but heavy, and it made a satisfying thud as she closed it behind her. A moment later, a gust of wind nearly took her off her feet, and she had to brace herself against the closed door lest she be blown to the sandy ground. As soon as it let up enough for her to stand upright, she gripped her walking poles, one in each hand, and set out around the back of the house. A gravel path curved along the side of the cottage and wound its way through the boulder field. It climbed up the underlying sand dunes that sheltered the cottage from the worst of the winds. Once she had crested the dune, she was in a wide, rolling field of scrubby grass and scattered stones. Her path meandered off toward the sunrise, with twists and turns to avoid the larger boulders and deeper ravines between dunes.

Her face was bombarded by the tearing wind and bright early morning sun, both of which made her squint and want to shield her eyes. But she knew both would ease as her journey progressed, so she tucked her chin low and pushed her way into the folds and tangles of the gusting wind.

One foot ahead of the other, poles planted deep into the soft earth to support her against the wind, she pushed against the elements for an hour or so before taking her first break. She had kept her head down for the first stretch, knowing the landscape was nothing but ever-repeating clumps of tall grass and gently rolling hills, with very little danger of encountering another soul. But the wind and the sun were desiccating, and so she stopped sooner than she’d have liked to retrieve water from her pack and take a long drink. Before stowing the water and closing up the pack, she checked the placement of the bundle of papers, ensuring they were still there -- yes, of course they were still there -- and that they weren’t wet or exposed to the wind or the sun. The papers had been tucked deep inside the pack, protected by her rolled clothing, but Spike knew important papers like these had a way of getting away from you if you let your guard down.

(This post is part of the 500 Words short story project.)

Armored (500 Words short story project, January 7, 2019)

2019-01-07T20:10:00.000-06:00

Irma had tried to come up with a new line of work, since it was starting to look like this bodyguard business wasn’t going to work out. She couldn’t go back to ballet -- her old dance mistress had made it clear after Irma’s illness and transformation that someone who looked like Irma would not be welcome in the studio or on the stage. So dance was out, and that was the only thing Irma had ever loved. She was agile, fast, and strong -- but also socially awkward and chronically late, and even the kindest-hearted souls found her rather hard to look at. If she could think of a job she’d be good at that she could do locked away from the world, she’d do it. But so far nothing had come to mind.

After a few weeks of dreary unemployment, with Irma sitting around scratching at the itching, bony plates that grew along her muscles and stretched her skin taut, the agency sent her a message saying she had an interview with a new client. It would mean travel, and helping out with menial tasks in addition to her usual work as a bodyguard, but Irma wasn’t in any position to say no to work.

Since her parents had passed, she’d been bounced from one sibling’s house to another’s, overstaying her welcome just long enough that everyone stopped being polite to her, but not quite long enough for them to pack up her things and leave them for her on the front steps after changing the locks. She knew the right time to jump ship, and fortunately had enough siblings that by the time she needed to go back to one and ask for use of their spare room or couch yet again, it had been long enough since her last stay that their negative memories were softened by the guilt and shame that drove them all to help Irma more than they really wanted to. Poor Irma, disfigured and strange, the family’s burden to bear.

Irma was near to the end of her stay with Philemon -- she could tell because her brother’s children no longer swarmed around her to chatter about their day when they came home from their lessons, and his spouse no longer asked what her favorite dishes were so she could order them from the cook, and Philemon himself, who rarely showed his face outside of his study, had started asking pointed questions about how Irma’s job prospects were looking, and whether she was really trying as hard as she might to find gainful employment. She figured she had six days or less before things got truly unpleasant, and she couldn’t let it come to that.

So she hastily bathed, which tended to further irritate her too-tight skin but couldn’t be avoided, pulled on the custom-fit uniform one of her sisters had sewn for her, and set out to meet with her potential new client.

(This post is part of the 500 Words short story project.)

500 Words Short Story Project

2019-01-07T20:07:00.001-06:00

Hello, friends! I'm dusting off this space as a place to share a new project I'm working on.

You see, I'm participating in a 500-word short story project. Each day Monday through Friday, I'll write 500 words to get a short story started. Friday and Saturday, other participants, and readers like you, can vote on which of the short story starts I should continue to develop, and then I'll write an additional 1,000 words on Sunday.

We'll repeat this process for three weeks, and then I'll ask for votes on my three 1,500-word story starts to select which short story I'll flesh out into a full and finished tale.

For the first week, I've decided to use Rory's Story Cubes for inspiration. Each day I'll choose three dice and roll them, and then try to work the images shown into that day's story start. I'll post photos of the dice each day so you can see what I was working with. I might try something different for weeks two and three, depending on how this goes.

ETA: For week two, I'm using random pulls from a tarot card deck for inspiration, one card per day.

Got it? Great! Let's do this.

Week One:

Monday, 1/7/2019: Armored
Tuesday, 1/8/2019: A Long Walk
Wednesday, 1/9/2019: Out of Gas
Thursday, 1/10/2019: The Machinery
Friday, 1/11/2019: Down

Week One Winner: Armored (expanded version)

Week Two:

Monday, 1/14/2019: Recruits
Tuesday, 1/15/2019: Blue
Wednesday, 1/16/2019: Search Party
Thursday, 1/17/19: Balance
Friday, 1/18/19: Control

Week Two Winner: Blue (expanded version)

Week Three:

Monday, 1/21/2019: Invasive
Tuesday, 1/22/2019: A New Place
Wednesday, 1/23/2019: Liar
Thursday, 1/24/2019: Omen
Friday, 1/25/2019: The Collection

Mending Metaphysical Rifts

2012-09-10T09:23:00.003-05:00

Today we’ll be brushing up on our metaphysical mending skills. All too often, we suffer unexpected and unpleasant tears in our metaphysical fabric or loosenings of our most basic threads. While mending these distressing faults can be daunting, you’ll soon find that it’s just as simple as darning a worn sock—and every bit as worth your time!

Before we begin, take out your scissors, straight pins, elastic (enough to stretch the length of the rift to be mended; when in doubt, about 1.2 yards*), theoretical thread, a hand-sewing needle, and grosgrain ribbon (in a color of your choosing; optional). Keep your materials close at hand to ensure this quick and easy repair goes smoothly.

Take a moment now to identify the precise location of your rift. Use the following chart to determine what sort of rift you’re suffering from and where it is located.

Symptom(s): Generalized frustration, feelings of impotence

Rift type: Impedance

Location: The lower left quadrant (gazing outward) of your sixth ventricle, just above the second chakra.

Symptom(s): Malaise, ennui

Rift type: Disaffectation

Location: The left (malaise) or right (ennui) shoulder, usually deep inside the enervative cuff.

Symptom(s): Jealous rage

Rift type: Covetousness

Location: While this type of rift feels global, it is actually quite small and contained entirely within the fifth metacarpal of the dominant hand.

Symptom(s): Yearning, hopelessness

Rift type: Irredemptive

Location: This diffuse rift permeates the thoracic cavity and can be squirrely to pin down.

Once you’ve identified your rift type and location, grip it firmly in one hand. Spend a goodly length of time considering it, wallowing in its complete control of your emotional state. If, after this step, you still have the will to continue, use your free hand to carefully lay the elastic against the length of the rift. Pin the elastic in place using as many straight pins as necessary or enough to achieve attunement, whichever is more.

(This maneuver is tricky when mending rifts of covetousness; if necessary, use your teeth to hold the elastic in place, being careful not to ingest feelings of fury or straight pins.)

Using the needle and theoretical thread, contemplate sewing the elastic in place.

If you so chose, you may now apply the grosgrain ribbon. This step can sometimes result in a newly created morbid or grotesque rift, so proceed with caution.

And you’ve done it! Now you can mend any rift that tears your being asunder, and with a little practice, you’ll be able to adorn those tears with ribbon, a lace edging, pom-poms, or even a sequined border—because even the most persistent metaphysical afflictions benefit from some sprucing up.

Be sure to join us again next week, when we’ll explore using silk flowers in feng shui of the soul.

* Rifts of doubt almost always measure 1.2 yards.

All Mimsy

2011-10-22T08:48:00.002-05:00

Head over to Flash Fiction Online to read my teeny tiny short story All Mimsy.

Useful Text Shortcuts for All Occasions

2011-10-20T20:02:00.006-05:00

Apple's iOS5, newly installed on iPhones across the land, has a built-in text expander. Helpful techie websites (e.g. , http://lifehacker.com/5849229/how-to-configure-ios-5s-awesome-built+in-text-expansion) offer useful suggestions for phrases and shortcuts you can program into your phone: "brb" for "Be right back," or "thx" for "Thanks," for example. I feel as though these techies aren't really exploiting the text expander's full potential. To get the most out of my iPhone and to save myself time, I've programed a few shortcuts that will save me countless hours of thumb-typing.

"stm": Stop texting me; I am busy and/or you are boring.
"ctn": Can't text now--I'm driving in the rain on the highway, and every time you text me, you knock me out of the Netflix app and interrupt my screening of "Wives & Daughters."
"ich": I can haz [to be combined with one of the following]
- "chz": cheezburger
- "fum": five uninterrupted minutes
- "atctjhastitsohap": all the children to join hands and sing together in the spirit of harmony and peace
"prs": Proofread your text and resubmit it; I will then consider reading it.
"pdb": Poor, dead bastard.
"wwf" (for use within the Words With Friends app): I accept your surrender.
"manifesto": I hereby declare that I will stand up for the rights of the downtrodden, the neglected, the hungry; and that I will cherish every brightly burning spark of inspiration, innovation, inclusion, and love that drives us to be better humans and makes the universe spin with wonder and harmony and joy; and that I will require a margarita.

Foundation Beyond Belief Launches!

2010-01-01T00:01:00.002-06:00

I've mentioned before that I'm extremely excited about Foundation Beyond Belief, and not just because our company built the website and both Airan and I are continuing on as volunteers with the group after launch. Even if we had no involvement with the Foundation other than as members, I'd still be over-the-moon excited about it. When Dale McGowan dreamt up this group, he struck a chord with freethinkers, humanists, atheists, what-have-you. Many of us want to be part of a community and want to support efforts to make our world a better place, but without the structure of a church or other faith group, we often have a hard time finding outlets for our charitable impulses. Foundation Beyond Belief addresses that need and brings us together for the greater good.

I'll let Dale explain how the Foundation works:

Today is the big day! If you're so inclined, go to the site, sign up for a membership, set your monthly donation level, and decide how your contribution will be divvied up among the featured charities. Let's get this decade off to a roaring start. Happy New Year, and happy giving!

What are you doing to make the world a better place?

2009-10-07T16:45:00.010-05:00

Lately, I've been thinking about what I'm doing to make the world a better place--what I could be doing, what I should be doing. Humanity faces not one but many crises on a global scale--the environment, human rights, access to health care--and far too many of us who are in a position to help have our heads buried in the sand.

We nonreligious folk, in particular, need to be doing more. The American Religious Identification Survey (ARIS) tells us that there are more religiously unaffiliateds in the U.S. than ever before, yet studies show that secular Americans donate less time and money to charity than our religious neighbors. It's very easy for the religious to point at those studies as proof that we're morally inferior. I don't know about you, but I'm ready to prove them wrong.

Dale McGowan, the founder and executive director of Foundation Beyond Belief, likes to talk about memes. I think his new Foundation responds to a meme that's been in the minds of atheists/agnostics/humanists/freethinkers--we all want to do more. The Foundation is our invitation to gather together, to pool our resources and our ideas in service of humanity.

Do you get a warm, fuzzy feeling when you put out your recycling? Great. Now take it a step further. The Foundation's Facebook Cause page drew 1,700 members. If each of them signs up to give just $10 a month, $1 in each of the Foundation's 10 categories, by the end of a year we'll have raised $204,000 for charity. That's $20,400 to promote human rights around the world, $20,400 to protect the environment, $20,400 to combat poverty. That's huge. I know times are tough, but can't we all swing $10 a month? And those among us who can give more will boost those numbers even higher.

Now, this isn't a competition. It's not about which group of people gives more or does the most good. But if that's what it takes to move us to action, great. The world benefits. We're all giving more. We're all doing good.

So I'm asking you to join me. Create your account at the Foundation website. And do more than sign up for the monthly automatic deduction. Get involved. Read the blog, and leave your comments. Join in the discussion forums. We have a lot of work to do. Let's get to it.

Speaking of that blog, I'm extremely honored that Dale caved to my begging and appointed me blog editor for the Foundation. We're still gathering our stable of bloggers, so if you have a favorite blogger who's talking about human rights, education, poverty, peace, child welfare, animal protection, or health (and who also happens to be a humanist), send 'em my way. Thanks!