Colonies

"This is really special," he says with a grin. "This one is a tomato." Elise takes the small, slightly squishy orb from him with pursed lips. She holds it up to the light and turns it carefully from side to side. Stephen watches, his long fingers twitching slightly. The sounds of the lab bubble around them, a shell of privacy held in place by the murmurs of their co-workers, all involved in recreating the delights that once were commonplace.

Elise's white hair glistens under the bright lab lights, a creamy pale color, rich as sheep's milk. She brings the tomato close to her face and inhales its sour, slightly spicy aroma. When she smiles at last, her eyes are nearly hidden in a collapse of soft and wrinkled flesh. "When I was a child, we would hide in the seed storage unit and tell each other stories about fruit. You can't describe the color blue as a flavor, but we talked about blueberries and the color of the mythical sky in the same breath as the idea of lemonade.

"The idea of summer as a cultural wellspring," she continues, "is not something a child ought to be able to argue from. But the desolation among our parents and grandparents, when they realized that we would never see a fig tree, a strawberry--it was a sadness that encouraged us. I never thought I would see a tomato. We imagined them tiny, the size of a thumbnail, heart-shaped and violet, and we knew they were poison."

"Poison?"

"I think Erica had found some old records. Today, of course, I recognize the Solanaceae are more than that, but at the time..." She trails off, and Stephen lifts his eyes to her mouth.

She is old, older than the memory of nights and days, and still the young scientist wants nothing more than to press the fruit into her mouth with a kiss. But it is the first tomato, the first and only success in a thousand years, and the sacrilege would be unimaginable.

The lights in the lab flicker, and the sound of workers, the sound like a thousand voices humming, falters. Elise raises her ancient face to the ceiling, a sighted Tiresias straining to listen.

"The fans," she whispers, the faintest look of dismay beginning to dawn. "The air exchangers have stopped." The lights flicker again and the workers begin to run, heading for their cells, their families.

In the panic, no one sees her take the first bite.

--
For the Scriptic prompt exchange this week, SAM gave me this prompt: "Summer pleasure, winter sin."
I prompted FlamingNyx with "blood under the fingernails and sand on a red velvet skirt."

The Albatross

"Look, kid, this is ridiculous. There are no lamps out there. It's physically impossible."

"I know what I saw, Anchormaster," the boy insisted. His ragged sailcloth leggings rustled as he shifted uncomfortably. "I know I wasn't supposed to be in the ambassador's quarters, and I'll take the lashes for that, but I am not lying. Was a man, on a cobblestone street, bold as brass, true as iron."

The anchormaster looked down at the rough-sanded planks, considering. The boy's bare, calloused feet scraped quietly as he shifted position again. "Report to the whipmistress in the morning. Five for trespassing. I will speak with her as to the rest of your sentence after I visit the ambassador. You will take the night watch on C deck and keep the whole thing quiet until I finish my investigation. Is this clear?"

The boy saluted and left hastily, perhaps afraid the anchormaster would change his mind. Punishments were not usually so lenient aboard this particular ship.

Anchormaster Lenn walked toward the foredecks, glaring at his timepiece. The ambassador was in one of her meetings for at least another hour. Plenty of time to check her quarters and make sure the boy hadn't interfered with anything important. He could even be back to his post before the Captain made her rounds. He headed into the lodging corridor, moving as quietly as he could. Too many people on this trip kept odd hours. He thought how glad he would be when this shipment was over, and of the spiced coffee he would drink when they made planetfall. It had been far too long since his last shore leave.

All his musings were cut short when he noticed the door to the ambassador's quarters hanging open. His mouth compressed in irritation and he mentally added two lashes to the boy's punishment for leaving the corridor unsecured.

Annoyed, he strode into the lodgings, less concerned now about the noise than about the potential security breach. The automatic lights shifted on, and a quick survey of the suite yielded no visible problems. He stood in the center room for a few moments, listening for any movement. When the silence remained, he headed into the receiving room, where the boy had claimed to see his latest impossibility. Two steps into the room, he froze.

There, in the port window, silhouetted against the infinitude of space, it was clear. A section of cobblestoned street, a wrought-iron streetlamp, and a man where no men should be, framed by the bulk of the planet looming over them all.



For the IndieInk Writing Challenge this week, Kat challenged me with "I couldn't believe my eyes when I saw him standing under the street light..." and I challenged GUS with "Malachite and amber, mother of pearl and stars."

Hijacked Frequencies

(begin transmission)

(radio static fades into sprightly music, slightly fuzzy)

"Hello again, everyone, and welcome to this week's broadcast of Cooking with Rye! I'm Rye Ellison, and tonight we're making soup, just like last week and the week before that! Everyone have their rifles handy? Good.

We'll begin by heading out into the backyard and bagging ourselves a chicken. If you didn't have enough foresight to learn to keep poultry and livestock before the, uh, before last year, any carcass will do. The fresher, the better, though--we want to keep all those nutrients in useful forms.

You shouldn't need your rifle for this, but we never go anywhere without one, right? Good.

I've prepped everything in advance; here we have one large onion, some celery, lots of freshly chopped garlic, and herbs from the garden. I like to use rosemary in just about everything, that brightness really comes through, even if you cook it too long. There's some savory, a little sage, and of course thyme, our Old Reliable.

Once you've dressed out and plucked your chicken, or prepared, uh, your meat of whatever origin, no judgment here, haha, you can drop it in your large stock pot. Cover it up with fresh water, and let it cook until it's done. This will yield not only the meaty centerpiece of your soup, but the delicious broth that binds the whole thing together.

Take that meat and broth and set it aside. In your stock pot, now, you'll want a tiny bit of fat, oil, what have you, to cook those onions in. Saute the onions until transparent, then add your celery and garlic. Let those cook gently for just a few minutes, but don't let them brown. Few things will draw unwelcome, ah, guests like the piercing smell of burning garlic.

Now you can pour that broth back in, skimming off the fat if you prefer, but remember: fat equals energy! Tie your fresh herbs into a bouquet garni, if you have string, and drop it into your stock. Leave this going over low heat while you turn your attention to pulling the meat from all these tiny bones.

Now, when you bury your trash later, be sure to save some of your hollow bones. They make great pens and you can even make jewelry out of some of them! Bones from larger animals can be used for ammo boxes, salt cellars, just about anything.

Soup is just such a reliable, high-energy food for people in our, uh situation, you really can't go wrong--"

(footsteps clattering, a lower voice hesitantly volunteers something, mostly inaudibly)

"Oh, hey there! Hey, Peter! Listen, everyone, this is my friend Peter, he'll be joining us for dinner tonight!"

"Uh, hi, everyone--how are you all doing out there?"

"Everyone inside? Wonderful. Peter, you locked the doors, right? Great. So now we pull that stock pot off the fire, and open some bottles of water for a real treat tonight.

Okay, here's our soup! Wow, it smells just wonderful. I'd love to share some with you, but there's really no more room in the bunker, ha ha--"

(glass crashing, the obscene sound of metal doors being bent inward)

"Oh my God, okay, got your rifle handy? This is where we sign--"

(microphone screeching, the clattering of a table being overturned)

"Oh shit, Peter! Peter, are you okay? Peter! P--"

(multiple gunshots, the dull sound of bullets in flesh, a low moaning)

"NO! NO! Oh my GOD, PLEASE--"

(a revolting lip-smacking sound, then something bubbling through thick liquid...someone gumming mashed potatoes, perhaps.)

(increased feedback from the microphone mingled with full-throated screams, an ear-piercing burst of static)

(end transmission)

Harbinger

She's killing baby cockroaches with disgusted glee in her shitty third-floor walkup, for what seems like the eight millionth time, when she hears his familiar step on the wrought-iron stairs. She smiles to herself as she washes her hands in scalding hot water from the tap and grabs her good bottle of gin from the top of the refrigerator on her way out the door.

"Hey," she yells down to the second landing, "didn't I tell you I never wanted to see you again?"

He stops dead in his tracks and looks up at her, blue eyes wide and startled in his face as his mouth drops open. "I recall something like that, I guess," he says, unsure but still game.

"Well, I suppose this gin won't drink itself. Got any cigarettes?"

He doesn't answer, but holds up two packs of her favorite. It's a peace offering, of sorts. She grins down at him and slides her bare feet into a pair of ridiculous cork-heeled sandals. She pulls the elastic out of her walnut-brown hair and runs the fingers of her right hand through the locks, primping for just a second while he's still out of sight. She smooths her oversized sweater down over her skirt and then bounds down the last flight of stairs, gin in hand.

He's still waiting on the second-floor landing, holding two cigarettes in his mouth. He watches her run down the stairs and lights both, holding the second one out as she skids to a stop just inches away.

"Hi," she says, leaving a multitude of words unsaid, reaching out to take the cigarette he's offering and smiling up into his endless blue eyes.

"Hey," he replies, and wraps his arms around her as she smokes silently, the two of them leaning on the railing. She pitches the cigarette butt over the side and turns back in, pressing her face into his chest.

"Let's go for a walk," she says, muffled by his jacket. She grabs him by the wrist and begins to pull away, lacing her fingers in his even as she starts to head down the stairs to the street. He finishes his cigarette, flicks the butt away, and lights two more. They walk close together, hands linked, arms touching and shoulders pressed together, until they leave her block. Then they let go, in case someone that knows them might see.  Although it's not so much her friends she has to worry about, but his, or worse, his girlfriend's.  They walk a few blocks in silence, passing the bottle back and forth.

"Could be trouble," he says, finally.

"Could be," she replies, and takes a long swallow of gin.

The Lazy Fisherman

In a certain place, at a certain time, lived a fisherman and his wife. They were a poor but happy couple whose home was quite near the Imperial compound. The only characteristic that marred their marital bliss was the unfortunate fact of the fisherman's laziness. The fisherman's wife did her best to keep it a secret, but the neighbors all knew, and pitied her.

"What a hateful thing, O husband," she would wail upon his return each night. "Today the noodle vendor told me of a thing that I would believe impossible! And yet, it is true." The fisherman's wife would tell her husband of a different celestial punishment visited upon the lazy each and every night, until even her deep well of invention began to run dry. It made no difference, alas, and her husband continued to be known all through their village as the lazy fisherman.

At the same time, gossip reported that a small pond in the shrine next to the Imperial compound was close to overflowing with large and fat fish, the likes of which had never been seen. It was said that this was proof that the kami favored the masters of the shrine, and that luck was sure to follow those who visited and paid their respects. One afternoon, as the fisherman remained abed, he heard a conversation from outside.

"So many fish I have never seen in all my days! The smallest one was as large as my forearm," said the noodle vendor, whose forearms were wide and bulging with the exercise of pulling the stock of fresh soba and udon. "I offered a coin to the shrine and on my way out, an enormous carp leaped into the air, its golden scales shining like the sun."

"I, too, visited the shrine last week," interjected the salt woman. "The fish were leaping in greeting, and the shrine maidens were dancing with joy. A more beautiful sight I have never seen."

The lazy fisherman sat bolt upright. The long walk to the lake in which he was usually forced to cast his nets would be no more. If only he could find a way to fish in the shrine pond! He was not a man who was much concerned with the gods, and not one to think about consequences.

The fisherman leapt out of bed and began to check his nets for holes. His wife, startled by this unusual flurry of activity, hurried out of the kitchen.

"Husband, you have risen! And a full two hours earlier than usual! Can it be that you have decided to honor the gods and live a more fulfilling life?"

"Cease your intemperate noise, wife, and sit with me. We must repair all these nets by sunset. I go to fish in the shrine's pond this evening, and with such a heavy catch, they must remain well-knotted."

His wife sank to her knees, her mouth agape. "Have you lost your mind, O husband? If you dare to kill the living luck of the shrine the gods will surely curse us all!"

Scoffing, the lazy fisherman continued his work without her help. He repaired his nets long into the twilight, while she wept and wailed about ill luck and disaster. When the moon rose, he bundled his belongings upon his back and set out on the short walk to the shrine, still ignoring her warnings.

At the top of the hill, where the road split between the forest and the shrine, a large rock marked the fork. As he passed the rock, he began to hear a soft weeping, and turned in surprise to see a beautiful girl sitting in its shadow. Her soft black hair swept down in long waves around her slender hands, which were pressed against her face as she wept. The fisherman shifted his weight from side to side as he thought about the large catch awaiting him at the shrine, but his conscience, usually so silent, spurred him to stop for a moment.

"What is wrong, O maiden? Can I be of some service?" He was careful to address her respectfully, as her clothes were of the highest quality. He began to wonder if she had accidentally wandered out of the Imperial compound. "Though I may be unworthy to speak to you, I do not wish to leave you unattended in the night. Pray, O maiden, lift your head and let me know how to serve you," he begged.

The girl turned away, still weeping into her hands, and her shoulders began to shake even harder. "I cannot tell you, fisherman, for I see you are on your way to a heavy catch," she whispered.

The fisherman gritted his teeth and attempted to sound insouciant. "I have more time to help than I have to fish. Please tell me what is wrong."

"Very well, O fisherman, I shall reveal to you my secret," she spoke, only a little louder than before. "I mourn for the fish you are about to slaughter, for I am the guardian of the shrine pond!" As she said these words, she dropped her lovely hands from her face, and the fisherman fell back in horror, for the front of her head was as smooth and featureless as an egg. With a shriek, he dropped his nets and ran for home.

As he dashed down the main thoroughfare of the village, his feet tangled in each other and he fell, sprawling, at the feet of the man who ran the ramen shop.

"There, friend, where do you run with such speed?" The ramen vendor reached down to help up the lazy fisherman, his wide, friendly face round and smiling. "Your wife has been weeping and worrying all night. Come into my shop and rest before you go home, or you will frighten her even more!"

"Oh, thank you," the fisherman panted, unaccustomed to such exertion. "You will never believe what I saw tonight!"

The ramen vendor placed a bowl of soup in front of the fisherman, soup so hot and fragrant with red chili oil that the comforting aroma drove away the fear in the fisherman's heart. As he sipped the soup, he began to tell his strange story, slowly relaxing under his friend's familiar gaze.

"Your wife warned you about intruding on the peace of the shrine," the ramen vendor laughed. "And you were lucky enough to meet with the guardian before you killed the fish, weren't you?"

"Well, yes, but have you ever heard of such a creature?" the fisherman asked.

"Oh, my, yes. I've heard of a spirit who can take on the face of a familiar person and one who can wipe it away. There are many spirits in these hills, you know," the ramen vendor continued. A strange feeling began to rise in the fisherman's throat. 

The man's hand rose to stroke at his chin as he began to tell a tale of the vengeful Noppera-bō, the faceless ones. The fisherman watched in dread as, with each stroke of the hand, the ramen vendor's once-familiar face disappeared before the fisherman's horrified eyes.

The fisherman fell backwards out of the ramen shop, still-hot soup spreading across the counter, a red sheen of oil staining his hands and clothes. He scrambled away crabwise as the ramen vendor approached slowly. The faceless one drifted closer, his feet no longer seeming to touch the ground, and a low moan emerged from the blank skin.  Just before it came close enough to touch, the fisherman's nerve broke completely, and he jumped up and ran home.

He collapsed onto the porch, where his wife was still sobbing about ill-luck and curses. His heart was pounding in his chest like a taiko drum and he was covered in the dust of the street and still-fragrant chili oil. His wife arose in a hurry and ran to comfort him, but upon hearing his tale, jumped away. 

"You failed to heed the guardian of the shrine?" She raised her hands to her face in shock and it melted away like cold fog on a sunny morning. A shriek issued forth from the pale and empty oval of her suddenly formless skin, and the fisherman's heart finally gave out.


This is a famous Japanese folktale, though I've cobbled together a few iterations of it.  Editing help was kindly given, when I ran into a pronoun situation, by Maren and Wendryn of IndieInk.org.  Our forum rocks. Thank you so much!

Good Samaritan

George didn't stop to think much about it, when he saw the girl in the dress. Looked like she'd been left out in the middle of nowhere by her prom date. He didn't know much about dresses, but he could tell when things were expensive, and this girl was wrapped in a good chunk of change along with some flowy purple stuff. He pulled right over, because if he'd ever had a daughter, he would have wanted someone to do the same.

"Hey, you okay?" He stepped down from the high cab of his rig and held up his hands. "I saw you walking, and I don't think a lot of cars come through here. You need to use a phone or something?" He was careful not to advance on her. With the rep some long-haul truckers had, he didn't want to scare her into the woods. "I've got a cell. You don't have to get in the cab or anything, or talk to me if you don't want to. You just looked like you could use a hand."

She frowned up at him, heels half-sunk in the mud of the shoulder. "I don't even know where I am," she confessed. "I was with Johnny and then the car broke down, and Mom's not answering her phone."

He relaxed a little. "Well, can I do anything for you? I know they say never ride with a stranger, but if you've got a phone and no one's headed out here for you I can at least get you to the 24-hour diner in Bucker. There'll be lots of people, and you can wait for your parents there, maybe?" He was worried about coming on too strong, but he really didn't want to leave a teenager on the side of the road so late at night.

"I just live off Exit 94. It's pretty close to the diner. I don't know why no one's answering at home," she fussed, pulling a surprisingly big mobile phone out of her little purse. "Is there any way you can just take me there? It's a pretty well-maintained road and I know my dad will give you gas money."

If he doesn't shoot me first, George thought, but merely said, "I can definitely take you there, no gas money needed. Do you need to call Johnny? Should we pick him up, too? How far away is the car?"

She shook her head. "I'm never talking to him again. He can find his own way home, he's probably got the car running again already." She picked her way over to the cab of his truck and glared at the display on her retro phone. "I can't believe I missed my senior prom because of this!"

George tried not to smile as he climbed back into the truck. "Well, your parents will be glad to see you home early, I guess." He leaned over to help her into the cab, her small hands gripped tight around his large one as he pulled her in. "Hey, you're freezing," he said. "Let's get you some heat." He started the truck, its patient rumble overwhelming his hesitation at having a strange teenage girl along for the ride. He cranked up the heat and, with a muffled exclamation, eeled around to rummage in the back. "Here, I knew this was kicking around somewhere," he laughed as he handed her a huge yellow-checked down coat. She took it, smiling, and wrapped it around herself like a blanket.

"Thanks. It was getting kinda chilly out there, huh?"

"Yeah," he replied, and busied himself with adjusting the heat. He signaled his turn onto the road as if there were twenty cars waiting and pulled back out. The familiar lull of highway driving soothed his nerves, and after about fifteen miles, he absentmindedly flipped on the radio. Ole Hank was singing, and George glanced quick over at the girl to see if she might mind the twang, but she had put her phone away and was leaning against the big window. He thought she might be dozing and turned the radio down a little. It was just a few more exits. He could wake her up once they got closer to the diner.

"I'm not asleep," she muttered. "I hate sleeping on the road. I told you where I live, right? It's about a mile past the diner you mentioned." After she gave him directions, they fell silent once more.

Ev'rything's agin me and it's got me down, Ole Hank sang plaintively into the night as George crossed the Big River bridge, just one exit away from the girl's. If I jumped in the river I would prob'ly drown. He looked reflexively over the guardrails, the moonlight shimmering on the fast-moving river, and shuddered. No matter how I struggle and strive, I'll never get out of this world al-- Grimacing, George reached over quick and snapped off the radio.

"Not such a good song for a moonlight drive, huh?" He grinned and looked over at the passenger seat, only to slam on the brakes as he realized the girl was no longer there. He backed up as fast as he could without fishtailing and jumped out of the cab. He ran frantically over to the bridge, leaning over the guardrail and scanning the river for some sign of her. His coat, her flowing dress, anything. She'd have to be visible. But he'd never heard the door open, he hadn't heard anything! He ran back to search the cab of his truck, and found nothing. In a daze, he climbed back into the cab, buckled his seatbelt, and headed on into town.

George was jolted from his reverie when he realized he'd absentmindedly followed her directions straight to what he assumed was her home. For one frantic instant, he thought about peeling back out of there, but it was too late. The house was lighting up. It looked as if they'd heard the truck and were looking for the source of the commotion. With one helpless glance at the still-empty passenger seat, he stepped down from the truck and walked up to the porch.

"Can I help you, son?"

George started, unnerved by the voice from a seemingly empty porch, and there was a chuckle.

A man probably ten years older than George himself stepped out of the shadows and down to the walk. "I'm Erica's dad," he said. "That's why you're here, isn't it?"

George began to sweat. "Well, I don't know her name, I mean, yes sir, but--"

"Don't worry, son. Happens every year," the older man said. "Picked her up outside of Bucker, right?"

"Well, yes, I mean, she said the car broke down. I didn't want to leave her," George said plaintively.

"Her ma and I would sure appreciate that, son. It's all right. Then you went over the Big River bridge and she was gone?"

George opened his mouth to answer, but no words followed. He stammered for a second or two, and blurted, "This happens every year? What the hell?! Is this some kind of joke?"

Erica's father rubbed at his eyes with a slightly trembling hand and sighed. "My daughter was killed in a car crash ten years ago, son. Her boyfriend was taking her to the senior prom and someone ran them off the road. I guess he was killed on impact, but the paramedics said Erica had been trapped in the car. She tried to call us on her new mobile phone, too. Hell of a thing, to hear your baby girl breathed her last calling you for help, and you didn't hear."

"This is a joke," George growled. "I don't have time for this, I'm on a schedule." He began to stalk back to his truck, fuming.

"I wish it were a joke," the older man said. "It ain't all that funny to talk to people every year as swears they were giving your girl a ride home, only to find she's disappeared partway home." He shook his head dolefully.

"Hell of a thing," he repeated as he turned back to his porch and tottered slowly up the stairs as George fumbled with the keys to his rig. 

 "Wait a second, son," he heard a moment later, and the older man came rushing down his porch stairs again.

George saw him coming and rolled his eyes. He wasn't going to be taken in by whatever scam these hill folk were trying to pull. And he was out a pretty pricey down coat, too, however this stupid trick worked. He was willing to bet he'd never get it back, either. The old man was tapping on the truck door now. Ridiculous, he thought, but grudgingly rolled down his window.

"Churchyard's just a mile down, you don't believe me," the older man panted. "You go on over there. My Erica's in the back left corner. Got a little rosebush behind the stone. You go on, you'll see."

I am sure the hell not going to go poking around in a graveyard at this hour, George thought. Then again, it's on the way to the Interstate, and I could call in a report on these people for fucking with my schedule. Why the hell not? He backed onto the road and gunned it for the church.

Thirty seconds later, he was poking around the overgrown graveyard, emergency flashlight in hand, when he spotted them. First the rosebush, white roses, really pretty but kind of creepy under the full moon's light. Next it was his yellow-checked down coat, folded neatly on the grave.

--

The month of ghost stories marches on!   I hope I didn't stretch the prompt too far, as this was the first thing I thought of upon reading the challenge...

For the Indie Ink writing challenge this week, femmefauxpas challenged me with: "It had all happened exactly a year ago.  Or had it?"

I challenged Sarah Cass with "Knife skills."

Ex Machina

"There was nothing for it. I could see them approaching, exactly as I expected! I simply had to act on my impulses or else I'd--"

I shook my head impatiently. "Computer, stop program. Run diagnostic level theta six."

The computer chimed quietly. "Level theta six diagnostic complete, Ben. No errors detected."

"Well, that can't be right! Listen to the dialogue. Run diagnostic again."

Another chime followed. "No errors detected, Ben. Program has not degenerated. Dialogue intact."

I jerked my head out of its resting place atop my arms and glared, hot-eyed, at the terminal. "This is ridiculous, computer. Find the source of the dialogue and retrace." As my desktop hummed quietly, I pulled out my hard-copied notes. I'd gone over these a million times but this time, a footnote caught my attention. Gregor Samsa, The Metamorphosis. By an auteur designated "Franz Kafka". "Never heard of 'em," I muttered. The computer heard me and thrummed expectantly.

"Source confirms dialogue's accuracy. Continue playback?"

"Oh, fine--yes, computer, continue playback. Please."

"There I go again, being overtaken by an urge. What now? Will I really? But then, won't I become nothing more than a criminal? But just what is a criminal anyway? And--"

"Seriously?"

"I don't understand the query, Ben."

"Computer, identify source of current dialogue."

"Yes, Ben. Source of current dialogue is Web user Drusil Renfield, ID 2308/507WWIA53233, designation GregorInsekt. Affiliation unknown. On lockdown until 41013.7 for assault on a senior officer. Your file is cross-referenced with the prisoner's as a result of your position as counsel for the defense. More?"

"Thank you, computer, I am well aware of my reasons for having to listen to this tripe. I still think it's gone garbage somewhere in the copying. Skip to the end and let's get this review over with."

"Last paragraph, Ben. Going to record of defendant's testimony. Voice and video available."

"Yes, computer--show the video, instead. It's not that you don't have a lovely voice..."

"Affirmative, Ben. Video replay beginning."

The screen leaned haphazardly against my wall, waiting for me to install it properly. Its serene blue glow was shortly replaced by the visage of a deeply unfortunate-looking human. Unfortunate-looking, how, I couldn't tell you. It was something in the skewed geography of his face, the planes under his skin, maybe. 

 His grey eyes bulged impossibly from his face, and his skin was patchy and coarse. His hair frizzed out at all angles, and his mouth gaped horribly, silver drool collecting in the trough of his wasted lower lip. I could see no humanity in this man's eyes. He looked like a burnout, or worse, a spaz, a person so invested in life on the Web that he'd let his real life shrivel into nothing. 

 He was talking, I guess, but it was more like a string of unrelated words. Not gibberish, exactly, more like very convincing lorem ipsum, and every few words, a flood of saliva spilled from his mouth. He'd jerk his withered arm up and swipe at his chin, the clawed hand affording him a few dry moments and a few more mouthfuls of outlandish statement. He jabbered through all of the paragraphs the computer had already read to me, and the computer was right--there was no degeneration in the file. It was all in this creep's head.

"If desperation comes knocking on your door...what wouldn't you do to keep yourself sane? If indeed, this could be called sanity. In this world of chaos, busy laneways and cobblestones, anything could be called sane," he pointed out.

It seemed this was the end, and I was leaning forward to key in a rewind, when his butcher's eyes snapped forward, as if they were focusing directly on mine. Disconcerted, I jerked back and fell awkwardly into the chair. I felt his gaze like a punch to the midsection, so real that it took my breath. That was the end of the cast, though. Wincing, I thumbed off the screen, resolving it into its normal calm glow. The computer hummed quietly on the desk behind me, and I found myself convulsively wiping my chin.

"Anything could be sanity," I said. It felt different, voicing his crazy diatribe, letting it take shape on my tongue for a reason unknown even to myself. The more I parroted it, the farther it penetrated. It felt plausible. It felt familiar. I looked down at the notes on the desk and smiled for the first time all evening. 

I'd been freed from the computer and reborn into a new host. In this world of chaos, anything was possible. Even me.

For the Indie Ink writing challenge this week, Tereasa Trevor challenged me with 

"There was nothing for it. I could see a person approaching exactly as expected. I simply had to act on my impulses or else I'd...

There I go again, being overtaken by an urge. What now? Will I really? But then, won't I become nothing more than a criminal? But just what is a criminal anyway? And if desperation comes knocking on your door...what wouldn't you do to keep yourself sane. If indeed, this could be called sanity. In this world of chaos, busy laneways and cobblestones, anything could be called sane."

I challenged  Reinaldo Martinez with "the physician of last resort".

Eternity

"My hairbrush is gone again," she said, through a mouthful of bobby pins.

"Hmm?" He wasn't really paying attention to anything but the squat glass in front of him, squarish and green with numerous imperfections, cradled in his hands with a pool of slowly warming, caramel-colored whiskey nestled in its base.

"My brush. You know how I just bought another because I thought I'd lost the first? Well, this one's gone, too, and--"

She was off on another tirade, probably about the maid service or his brother or any stupid thing. I could see the careful lack of expression on his face from my hiding place in the corner. I remembered that expression. I knew it well from all the times I tried to speak to him as soon as he returned from the office. She was fighting a losing battle here. I could almost feel sorry for her. Almost.

She stabbed the last pin into her chignon and kept talking. It's really quite marvelous, I think, that he keeps picking these tiny tank-like girls, who are so adamant in their organization and their requirements for attention. Do they remind him of me? I don't think I was ever quite so needy, but they say everyone is blind to their own faults until we see them in others.

"And then Elizabeth said that she'd seen a girl who said that her cousin used to work for you and your second wife, the banker, right? Anyway, this cousin said that your second wife's belongings went missing in the exact same ways while she worked here, I think she said her name was Maria? Well, they're all named Maria, aren't they? And you switched maid services and she lost her job, yes, another sob story but I was wondering..."

Was that all in one breath? He's not even looking in her direction and she's talking like she'll be paid by words per minute.

Finally he looks up from his drink and I come out from behind the vanity. I know he sees me. He always has. His hands tighten around the glass, nearly hard enough to break it, and he tosses off the last swallow of whiskey in a rush. When he sets his glass down, hard, on the corner table, I drift over to stand next to him. I smile at him, and staring deep into his blue eyes, I begin to unbutton my dress, the high neck and ribbon collar sweeping down over my collarbone, the livid rope burn still standing out like a brand on my pale skin. It undulates like a finger of seaweed in a tidal pool with my silent laughter, moving up and down across my vocal cords.

It does still hurt, God knows why, but it's all worth it, every long night of moving stupid things around, all these years of having to stay so close to the man who threw me off the twenty-third floor with a nylon rope knotted clumsily around my neck.

It's all worth it, then, because his jaw tightens and in the next instant he interrupts her neverending flow of words and questions to bark, "I don't believe in ghosts." He's still looking at the mark around my neck and the best part is, she wasn't even talking about her missing hairbrush anymore, she's moved on to the weekend's social flurry, and now she looks as if she's wondering if the stories might be true.  If the suicide of his first wife might have driven him a little crazy.  Or if the other stories are true, and it wasn't a suicide at all.  

I steal a couple of cigarettes out of his jacket pocket and touch him on the back of his neck.  He jumps slightly, and the sweat starts to bead on his temples.

"I'm going to the bar," he says, cutting her off again, and nearly running for the front door.  She just stands there with her well-bred little mouth clamped shut, and I pick up a lighter from the hall table, because after all I've been through?  At least I don't have to worry about lung cancer.   

Saturday Night

"Dude! Here, quick! Enter the code!"

Eric grabbed the proffered controller, hands trembling slightly, and punched in the cheat code. He'd discovered it by accident, trying to enter the Konami code and getting the order wrong, and now he was the most famous guy in three counties.

The group of thirteen-year-olds erupted in cheers as the main character, an extremely well-endowed half-elf warrior princess, favored them with a striptease, complete with some seriously nasty bumps and grinds. Eric's friends gathered around the television as he began to run the last dungeon, his half-elf warrior still running around in the nude.

"Hell yeah, go! Run that bitch!"

"Shit, look at her titties bounce!"

"Look at that sweet ass!"

Eric frowned, trying to concentrate on avoiding the last orc, who was invariably armed with the Misericordia morningstar, a high-damage weapon with an attack radius wide enough to take out not only his elf princess but half the dungeon behind her. He held his breath as he mashed the buttons frantically, ignoring the hooting of his classmates and squeezing the elf through the tunnel to the boss fight. This was trickier than it looked, especially without her armor bonuses, but he'd done it a million times before. He leaned into the controller and tuned out the increasingly graphic comments. Here was the gate. Now all he had to do was jump to the ledge above the Eldritch Oak, get in its branches, drop a vine noose, and choke the everliving fuck out of the Moribund Skelpy, captain of the Vermilion Seven.

"Oh my GOD, dude, she's fucking the tree!"

"FUCK YEAH she is, take it, slutbag!"

Eric shook his head and ran the elf to the other side of the ledge, dropping her even lower and extending the noose. The skelpy ran straight into it, and he hit X triumphantly. The room got even louder as the elf princess spread her legs and dropped, wrapping her green thighs around the skelpy's neck.

"Holy shit, was that bush?"

"NO WAY! I missed it!"

"Aw, man, is there instant replay on this shit?"

Eric rotated the analog stick thirty degrees to the left and the elf arched her back, breaking the skelpy's neck with her thighs. The loot began to drop and he relaxed slightly, looking around at his audience. "Anyone else want a turn before I re-equip her armor?"

His friends began to fight over the controller and he leaned back against the couch. Up until last month, he'd thought he might want to be a writer when he grew up. After the Slut Code, though, and his corresponding uptick in popularity, things were changing. Writing was for nerds. Naked video games, though? That would be one kick-ass business card. And he just knew the Penny Arcade guys would have something to say when his game hit it big.

Oh yes, it's Indie Ink writing challenge time again.  This week's challenge came from Binaryfootprint, who instructed me to "write a fun, full of life story of how one dream path ends and another begins".  While I'm pretty sure my idea of fun is different, no one can say thirteen-year-old boys aren't full of...uh, life.  Oddly enough, she also ended up receiving my challenge--so hopefully I will get a response this week.

Gratitude

Mama told me, oughtn't hunt the ravens. She told me, flat out. Mama's off the boat, though, and won't look sideways at a sausage even if she don't know what it's made with, and we were so hungry that month. Where she's from, I guess the ravens still speak to the old priestesses. Come straight down and whisper all the Morrigan's secrets in any ears'll listen. You'd think She'd be glad of the flock getting thinned a bit but Mama says no, girl, mustn't, never.

Mama brought my bow over the wide sea, brought it through steerage and customs and immigration, safe at the bottom of her little pasteboard valise. She taught me how to string it at five, and how to track the same year. Learned pretty good, I guess, 'cause she always took me along after that. In the hills ain't much to do but look for food, do chores, pray. The women of our family don't have much to do with prayer, but no one round can say we don't keep our end of the bargain. The year I turned fourteen, it was a dry year, a dusty time, and it was my turn to take up the hunt.

That day burned over the hills like a bonfire. Early mornings are best for hunting but by the time I've had my coffee all the mist's burned off. So I find myself slogging up the foothills in what might's well be noon, according to the animals. It's okay if I'm just checking snares but if I'm gonna do the real tracking I just stay out all night. So, this particular day it was hot, and bright. Felt like a dream of the desert, only with more trees. The hills were dried to dust and dirt and rubble, and scree kept rolling out from under my feet. I'd been in the shade for most of my hike, but sweat was still rolling down my face like a river tryin to get back to the sea.

Mama told me, the snares, girl, snares'll do the hunting when you're still laying about. So I set seven, or maybe eight, along these little scratched-thin paths where rabbits and squirrels were like to scurry without too much mind, and I'd drink my coffee and make biscuits for when Mama woke up. Anyway, this day nothing was going as it should. Line after line was coming up empty til I was bout to sit down and have myself a little drink near the crest of the hill.

Well, I'll be damned if I'll go home empty-handed, so I thought, Saoirse my girl, let's stroll down the crick and see if we can't scare up some trout for supper instead. Just as I capped the waterbag and stood to head downhill I caught a little rustle from the other side of the hawthorn. Sure enough, when I poked my head around the bush, I saw it clear as day, trying to be stealthy so's I would pass on by and it could figure its way out of my trap.

"Fox," I said, "ain't no way you're getting out of that, I tied it just so. And we don't eat fox, no matter how hungry we are. So hold still and I'll let you go." She was a big vixen, I saw, with a flaming brush as pretty as autumn itself.

"Girl," she said, "I never heard your family putting mine in the cookpot, so I'll tell you this--just over the ridge, your snare's got a fat rabbit." I smiled wide with relief as I worked to untie my special nine-knot.

"Which you were gonna swipe from the line, no doubt?" Fox just sniffed and held her paw a little higher so I could pull the rope away.

I was winding the line and headed down the hill toward the next one when I heard her bark, "Girl! Don't you eat that rabbit! Let it get away so you can follow it home. You hear me?" And I was flat put out with that, good supper going to waste because I been taught to listen when an animal's making sense. So I'm sure I came over the ridge looking like a thundercloud, but sure as anything, there was the fattest rabbit I've ever seen in my snare. It slicked its long ears back and crouched down as far as it could when it saw my mad face.

"Girl," it said with a little tremble in its voice, "girl, let me get back to my family and quick, there's a fox been sniffing around your lines, you'll wanna catch it before it do some real damage, yeah?" Well, I was still pretty cranky about losing this guy, what would've made my supper that much sweeter, so I didn't say anything, just leaned down real close to start untying the knots. "Girl," the rabbit said, "you won't regret this, this just go to show how the world repays kindness! You follow me on home, girl, and we'll show you something for sure. Yeah!" I just nodded at it and wound up my line as it shook off the pressure of being bound all morning.

Well, we were headed through the scratch and prickles of the blackberry canes along the crick when we hit along my last snare, and wouldn't you know, there was a damn raven tangled up in my line. "Rabbit, you go on ahead and leave me a marker, I've got to get this raven out of my snare before I catch up to you."

"Girl, you best leave that raven where it is and follow me, I can't leave you no markers on account of that fox."

"Well, I can't, so you are just gonna have to remember what you owe me," I snarled, and it took off in a fair hurry. And now I was in an even worse mood, so when that raven rolled its shiny bead eyes at me and croaked a warning, I just told it to shut up. I sure didn't want to hear any more lip from animals that day.

Then when the fox burst out of the canes behind us and took off after that rabbit, my rabbit, I knew for sure that this was how kindness was repaid in the world. That my sweet-talkin fox was headed to eat up my rabbit and all his kin...well, I was so riled up I strapped that raven to my back, headed home, and when Mama finally woke up? We had fried chicken for dinner.

This week's Indie Ink Challenge comes from The Drama Mama, who sent me this picture for inspiration.  It comes from Beth Moon, and I am so grateful to have been led to these pictures, thanks!  Saoirse, the Sibyl of Eastern Tennessee, comes from my staggeringly long Appalachian-folktale mishmash (still unnamed at several thousand words), and her origin story just seemed to scream straight out of this image.  I challenged Bewildered Bug with a little window into my psyche, and can't wait to read what she does with it.  

For any other folklore nerds that might be following along, this piece was loosely based upon Type 155, Ingratitude is the World's Reward.

shuffle

"The Hanged Man," Elise breathed as she turned over the last card. "Not much of a surprise."

"What? Why do you say that?"

She shook her head, smiling a little at his affected nonchalance. "Well, you're not the most relaxed person I know," she said. This was not an understatement. The man sitting across the card table was still in a three-piece suit, disregarding whatever license eleven p.m. might bring, collar pin and watch chain sparkling relentlessly in the dim light. He shifted a little in the chair as she continued to look at him through her lashes.

He sighed. "Are you going to finish my reading or talk about my shortcomings?"

Her smile widened. She let her eyes flick across the greater pattern and deepened her breath. "The Tree of Life, Thomas. It's an overview, a set of guidelines. Not something you can plan your life around." She pointed at the top right card and began reading down and to the left. "The point of your exercise in belief, the point of coming to me instead of going to mass or synagogue or learning to handle rattlesnakes for Jesus? It's lost unless you pay attention to the things I tell you. Your mind is open to the idea of things you don't understand, but not so open that you actually believe me when I give you advice. Your company is fine. Your home life is, well, adequate.  For now. Your future is uncertain," she said, frowning a little at the cards, "but so is anyone's, I guess. Free will, you know. The only certainty," she finished, pointing at the Hanged Man again, "is here."

"I don't get it. What does that even mean? It doesn't look like a very positive card," he muttered.

"The Hanged Man is packed full of so many symbols it could take me days to completely explain it, but the high points are the most important here. The subject is suspended by one foot, but look at the blissful smile on his face. He is bound to a tree, with a crown of light on his head. His number is twelve, same as the wheel of the year. You were born on the twelfth, weren't you?"

"Huh. December twelfth. But hanging? Still not seeing the positive aspects of this card."

"Acceptance, Thomas. One of the most misunderstood cards. It's an important one, too. Inner harmony coming from a new point of view. I think it's a lesson you should consider." She swept the cards into a pile, destroying the pattern and shuffling them back into the deck. "Same time next week?"

"Yes. I'll be here. I'll need to give this session some thought, it seems." He smiled, finally, his face opening a little. "Thanks for being patient with me. I know it might seem kind of weird, but this helps."

Elise stood to see him to the door, helping him maneuver between the velvet curtains and the card table, holding his coat in a conscious reversal of chivalry as he shrugged into it. They clasped hands for a moment, his fingers wrapped around her delicate wrist, lingering against her soft skin. She stood on tiptoe to kiss him on the cheek, blushing a little more than usual, and he left her studio with a smile that held more than a tinge of blissful confusion. He tugged his hat down a few degrees and shoved his hands in his pockets, his face settling into its comfortable stern lines as he contemplated the evening's discussion. His bootheels made authoritative sounds on the nighttime sidewalk, sirens in some other part of the city figuring only distantly in his thoughts, other sounds registering not at all.

When the pack had him surrounded, the smallest one moved in from behind, the knife gleaming in the poisonous yellow of last generation's streetlamps. It was a reach, considering the difference in their heights, but the blade was long enough that it didn't really matter. The others moved closer to pick over his body, snarling, fighting over his coat and shiny accessories, but she crouched, slender haunches settling to the ground just beside his face, fastidiously avoiding the spreading pool of blood.  She picked her way around the mess, nestled in the curve between his outflung arm and his ribcage, and set the knife aside.  Then she leaned in close, breathed in his last sputtering exhalation, watched his eyes slowly lose focus, wondering at the smile on his face. 

Elise isn't much of a psychic, hmm?  Oh well.  This week's Indie Ink challenge prompt came to me from A Lil Irish Lass, who instructed me, "Select your favorite quote.  Do with it what you will."  My challenge went out to Alison Newton, whose blog has a name that invites me to slap on a trigger warning.  So, unless you have euphemistic food problems like me?  You should click that little link to read her reply.  

What's that?  You want me to tell you the quote that inspired this story?  

"You may wonder about long-term solutions.  I assure you, there are none.  All wounds are mortal. Take what's given.  You sometimes get a little slack in the rope but the rope always has an end.  So what?  Bless the slack and don't waste your breath cursing the drop.  A grateful heart knows that in the end we all swing."  

--Stephen King, "The Ballad of the Flexible Bullet"

The Doctor's Season

They strode up the walk at precisely half-past nine, knowing the doctor would be readying herself for the morning's coffee-table discussion. She was determined to speak to Dr. Marrow in person. The telephone is never sufficient, her editor had shouted yesterday on receipt of yet another telegraphed refusal. Get the statement yourself and don't let anyone turn you away until you get something!

“And here we go again,” Lydia said, “barging in where we're not wanted, right, Sev?”

“Oh, I don't know about that, Lyd—what she don't want and what she don't know she want're two different things, what?”

“I suppose so. Just remember to distract that awful butler of hers so I can get a foot in the door!”

With crossed fingers and bated breath the team advanced to the hulking front door. This wasn't their first assignment by any means, and Lydia would never have let her editor bully her into taking it if she hadn't drawn Sev as her photoplate tech. They were evenly matched in both temperament and stubborn attitude. If they couldn't get a story out of the reclusive Dr. Marrow, no one could.

Lydia rang the enormous bell. Sev lit one of his reeking cigars. Never let a servant catch you smoking in their entryway, people said, but he'd bet his hands that they didn't want the servant to notice them, either. As the door began to move, he exhaled directly into the dim opening.

“I beg your pardon,” the butler sputtered. Lydia discreetly edged the toe of her brown leather pump over the threshold and smiled innocently. “Good morning, Mallory! Here to check in with the good doctor. It is Tuesday, you know.”

“Dr. Marrow is unavailable. It is Tuesday, you know.”

The slight click of heels on the marble floor caught everyone's attention, and all three looked up. Mallory shook his head in apology and stepped away from the entrance. Dr. Marrow continued into the entryway and glanced at her visitors.
“Lydia. Again?”

“Yes, mum. Jules won't let me off the hook this time. Can I get just a statement?”

“I was just on my way to coffee. Can't this wait?”

“Now, Dr. Marrow, I know that you have meetings all afternoon. I brought chocolate croissants this time...”

The doctor sighed and motioned to Mallory. “Get the cigars off the tall one and make me a pot of espresso. Don't admit anyone else, and no calls until further notice, yes?”

The butler made a slight bow, eyeing Sev as he straightened. “You heard the doctor. I'll take those flashplates, too.” Sev grinned, flicking cigar-ash into the umbrella stand as he nodded to the two ladies.

“I'll see you at the pub, then, Lyd?”

“Don't tell Jules, Sev!”
He winked, and headed back down the walk.

Dr. Marrow was a special case, coming as she did on the heels of the winter Season. The town was definitely talking about her, but as no one was sure she was proper conversation, it was a muted chatter. Society made overtures and were swiftly rebuffed in favor of academia. Not the usual lady-doctor's behavior. Society was piqued, but so was their interest.

“Now, Lydia, I can only repeat what I have already pointed out. I am working on too many projects to give the paper a full recounting! It is unconscionable of Jules to keep sending you over here to interrupt my schedule. That said, I am beginning to enjoy your company. Not to mention the croissants.”

“I have to be straight with you, Doctor. I already knew that.” Lydia unpinned her hat and set it on the card-table. Mallory disappeared into the rear kitchen with the croissants and the two ladies headed to the study. Once the coffee was served, Lydia knew, Dr. Marrow could be approached with caution. Until then, it was best to keep the conversation light. She always began by asking about the doctor's latest projects or exhibition. It had been a good week for light conversation, but Lydia was impatient to get on. She felt a slight thaw in the doctor's demeanor. Could this be her break? With one good story she could be promoted, even given a byline, and she was eager to explore how far the doctor's good mood would go.

With an abrupt departure from the usual routine, the doctor turned and said, “Today.”
Lydia's eyes widened. This was really it. She fumbled for the recorder.
“Sit down, Lydia. This will take rather longer than our usual fencing. I am almost done with the new formulations. Without publicity, word will likely never reach the people I am trying for. They are the reason I will break my silence, with you, here. Today.”

“I don't understand, but I'll take it, Dr. Marrow!”

“You're young. Give it a few years. At any rate, I really only want one thing from you in return. Don't let Julian post this as something dreadful like the 'Instructional Anecdote for Young Ladies' I read last week.”

“Well, I don't get to write headlines, yet, but this could change everything. Thank you!”
As Mallory set the coffee-table, the last lady doctor of Provence-Nouveau seated herself carefully in an overstuffed chair.

“Once upon a time,” she mused. “Once upon a time is such an ancient cliché that no-one now is certain where it began. When I was a young girl, I read that its origin was in the first internet, where we learned the breadth of the world and the world's knowledge. I always dreamed, though, of finding the beginnings of things. That may have been the reason I found my aptitude for the sciences. I suspect you are not here to converse about etymology, however, and here is the first thing you are wanting desperately to ask—where did I come from? I will tell you. In the years before the Uprising I was a young lady on the verge of my society debut...”




Okay, my darlings: this is a bit of a trick. I got caught up in a story last night like a whirlwind of fire and failed to post anything. This little excerpt is an exercise I occasionally attempt in order to improve my dialogues. I hope it made you smile, at least, even if you have no interest in Neo-Victorian history, aka steampunk.