On the Georgia Road 6 (#FridayFlash)

With some of the things my online friends up north are dealing with this week, I got in the mood to write another one of these.

Earlier installments in this series:

#1: the commuter
#2: interstate patrol
#3: lake property house-sitters
#4: Relocation Center
#5: college campus

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“The State DNR’s Tourism division has announced that their third annual Fall Color Tour is scheduled for the week of November 8^th. The day trips run all week, and wind through the north Georgia mountains. Buses leave the North Springs MARTA station at 10 a.m., and return by dusk. Lunch is included, and travelers are encouraged to bring a small cooler and snacks. The overnight trip leaves at 10 a.m. Saturday, includes accommodations at Amicalola Falls State Park, and returns to North Springs mid-afternoon on Sunday. All meals are included, and each passenger may bring an overnight bag. For details and reservations, see the DNR website at the bottom of your screen.

“The mountains are beautiful, but the people who live there aren’t watching the leaves—they’re getting ready for winter. In tonight’s segment of ‘On the Georgia Road,’ Sean McKinzie travels to White County, where local residents are busy this time of year. Sean?”

Cut to: Sean, exterior, woods. Chainsaws snarl in the background. Sean raises his voice to be heard above the noise. “Hi, Marcia! When you have to depend on your own resources to make energy, wood is the Number One choice! It literally grows on trees, after all!”

Cut to: exterior, people stacking firewood. Sean voiceover. “Residents tell me their first frost came early last week, and that’s lending a little urgency to the winter preparations. With gardening season officially over, the focus has mostly shifted from food to fuel.”

Cut to: exterior, local road. A large tree lies across the road. Man in foreground, talking to Sean; men and women in background sizing up the tree. Title: Johnny Long, local resident. “Our host, Johnny Long, put things in perspective for us.”

Fade to: Johnny Long, gesturing toward the fallen tree. “What do you see there?”

Sean: “A tree down, across the road.”

Johnny: “Yeah. Well, we see enough firewood to keep a house warm for half the winter. It’s blockin’ the road, too, but that’s not what’s important. What’s important is we get this cut up and stacked.”

Sean: “Where do you get the fuel to run your saws?”

Johnny: “We got a little motor-sickle. We take it down to Gainesville and bring back groceries and a couple of five-gallon cans. That’s plenty for saws.”

Fade through: sequence of clips. Tree being cut up and removed, shrinking with time. Sean voiceover. “In less than two hours, a fallen tree became several stacks of firewood, plus a few large sections of trunk. While two people cut it up, others were hauling away cut pieces, splitting what needed to be split, and stacking the rest.” Cut to: Sean carrying an armload of cut wood. Continue voiceover. “We got pressed into service as well, and maybe we helped more than we got in the way.”

Cut to: interior, small barn or large shed. Women and men working at long tables, preparing food, setting up jars. Sean voiceover. “The focus is mostly on fuel, but there is still some food to put away.”

Cut to: interior, woman. Title: Sarah Adams. Sean voiceover: “This is a neighborhood cannery, and everyone pitches in. Sarah Adams explains what we’re looking at.”

Sarah: “Today, we’re doin’ the last of the apples and pears. Now that we’ve had a frost, the persimmons are sweet enough to use, so we’ve gathered a couple bushels for jam. We had a pretty good year with the scuppernongs—”

Sean: “What’s that word?”

Sarah, laughing: “Scuppernongs. They’re a domesticated muscadine. It’s a kind of grape. We’re doin’ those today, too.”

Cut to: baskets of fruit. Sean voiceover. “Ms. Adams says that a month ago, during the height of the garden harvest, the cannery was running full-tilt from morning into the night. Come winter, stews and soups will nearly always be on the dinner table in Unincorporated areas. Empty a few jars of meat and vegetables into a Dutch oven, and set it on the woodstove in the morning. By noon, you have a hot meal.”

Cut to: exterior, firepit made of concrete blocks. Rebar forms a grill across the top. Pots on the grill. Sean voiceover: “For safety’s sake, cooking and sterilizing happens outside. They burn pine in the firepit, saving the oak for heating the houses. Cooked food is taken back inside and put in jars, then the jars come back outside for final processing.”

Cut to: exterior, house. Solar panels on roof, windmill standing idle. Sean foreground. “Ms. Adams let me know that they were not self-sufficient, as far as food goes. Hunters might bring in game through the winter, but they don’t or can’t produce items such as flour, coffee, beans, citrus, and so on. So, they make grocery runs on occasion, and visit the library. There, they check out books, or load their readers with eBooks over the wifi, to keep them occupied through the winter.

Cut to: exterior, Sean close-up. “And so we learned that, with a little foresight and a lot of teamwork, it’s certainly possible to survive—even thrive—through a Georgia winter.” Camera zooms out. Sean holds an armload of firewood and several full quart jars. “On the Georgia Road, I’m Sean McKinzie.”

#FridayFlash: Mik and the Merchant

The barge reached the Captain Rietha Bridge, and the crew offloaded the wagon. With Mik leading the donkey, and crewmen pushing behind, they got the wagon up from the landing and onto the Royal Highway. With evening setting in, they crossed to the way station opposite the bridge. There were several wagons, merchants by the looks of them, standing covered outside.

"I think the donkey likes you, Mik," said Sura, as they unhitched it. "If you get him in the stables, I'll put supper together."

"Fair enough." They embraced for a moment and went their ways.

After accepting another handful of grain, the donkey let Mik lead him into the stable. He found an empty stall and tied the donkey within, then spread fresh straw from the hayrick on the floor. Mik took the bucket and walked back down to the river to fill it. Familiar chores, once done in a place that he would soon see again.

As he went to find Bailar and Sura, he heard a hiss and a voice. "Hoy. Boy-sprout."

Mik turned to see a merchant, beckoning to him. He shrugged and ambled over. "What?"

"I have something for you," whispered, holding up a tiny vial. "A love potion, from the faraway East. I saw you and your girl out there. Put this in her tea, and she'll do anything for you. And I mean, anything!" The merchant grinned and made a suggestive gesture.

Mik frowned, fingering his blue sash. Is it possible he doesn't know what this signifies? he thought, but decided to play along. See how truly ignorant this folkman was. He leaned forward, gazing at the vial. "How does it work?" he asked.

"It's strong magic," the merchant assured him, warming to his pitch. "Sorcerers in the faraway East have preserved lore of such things from the time of Camac That Was… or perhaps even before! I've traveled far, looking for one who could benefit. You, I think, are the one."

"Enchanters," said Mik.

"Eh?"

"A potion would be an enchantment," Mik explained, "imbuing an object with magic. Sorcery is harnessing the elements, usually for a physical effect."

"Sorcerers, enchanters," the merchant made a dismissive gesture, trying to regain his footing. "Quite the young pedant, you are. But we're talking about your love life, no?"

"No." Mik's hand shot forward, grasping the vial for a moment, before the surprised merchant could snatch it back. "You were talking about a supposedly magical potion that would… well, it would do nothing, because I felt no magic in it just now. What you have there is probably a concoction of herbs, or perhaps a swallow of liquor."

"And you're some great mage?" the merchant sneered.

"Only an apprentice sorcerer. But I know enough to recognize a bargeload of rotten meat when I hear it." Mik turned. "And now, good evening to you, sir."


As they shared supper, on the way station porch, Mik related the encounter. Bailar laughed heartily. "You taught him a fine lesson! I hope he applies it!"

Sura was not at all amused. "I wish I'd been there," she growled. "Setting him on fire might have been a better lesson." Below them, a small patch of grass began to smolder.

"Sura, put that out!" Bailar looked alarmed. "Petty fraud does not warrant serious injury, in any case!" Sura shook her head, but hopped down to stamp out her small fire. "No harm was caused, and I expect he'll be more cautious with his touting from here on."


Later that night, Mik was drifting toward sleep when he heard Sura whisper. The three of them shared a tiny room in the way station, the bed little more than a wide platform above the floor. “Mik. Are you awake?”

“I am.” He eased himself up. Between them, Bailar breathed slowly.

“Can I ask you something?” He could see little more than her outline in the dark.

“Anything.”

“If that merchant really had a love potion, would… would you have bought it?”

Mik shook his head, forgetting for a moment that Sura could not see. “No,” he whispered. “When…” he paused, thinking Bailar might be awake and listening. “No. Is it my turn to ask a question, now?”

Sura sighed. “Ask.”

“Would you have really set the merchant on fire?”

She giggled. “No, but after he heard what I had to say, he might have wished I had!”

Mik snorted. “That would have been fun to watch!”

“Go to sleep, you two,” said Bailar. “If you are hoping I will find a quiet place to sleep, and leave you here by yourselves, I will not.”

“Apologies, mentor,” said Mik, although they could both hear the smile in his voice. “Sura started it, though!”

“Mik!” Sura laughed, snatched up her pillow, and flapped Mik with it over her protesting father. He covered himself and chortled under her laughing assault.

A Fragment of the Great Nothing (pt 5)

Prologue: World with End
Part 1 • Part 2 • Part 3 • Part 4

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Source: WikiMedia Commons

In later years, when Jakrom’s children had completed their apprenticeships and were making their own way in the world, a visitor came calling. Jakrom did not recognize the man, but invited him in.

“I came to thank you, Jakrom,” said his visitor. “You aided me long ago, when all hope was lost, and I have not forgotten your kindness.”

“Forgive me, sir,” said Jakrom, “but I do not recall. When and where did I help you?”

“At the Edge of the World, as you made your final climb to gaze upon the Great Nothing.”

Jakrom gasped as a name leapt into his mind. “Perin! I had forgotten. You healed, I see.”

Perin smiled. “Indeed. The leg still pains me on rainy days, especially now as I grow older, but thanks to you I do yet walk the world. It is said, ‘Blessed is he who remembers a kindness received, and more blessed still is he who forgets the kindness given.’ You have been greatly blessed, I see.”

“I have,” said Jakrom, squeezing his wife’s hand.

“Do you still have the Fragment? I see chips of it on your rings—a clever token and one that marks you.”

Jakrom laughed. “I could never bring myself to sell it. Let me bring it forth.”

Perin shook his head. “Knowing you still have it is enough. I did not come to see it, but to answer the question you never asked of me.”

“Why were you on the mountainside?”

“Yes. That question.”

Jakrom smiled. “And what is the answer?”

“I must first ask you a question. You know the legend of our world’s creation?”

“Of course,” said Trenah. “Thurun Made it for folk who insisted that their own world had an Edge. But in the middle of the Great Nothing, he Made a city of refuge for other Makers. A fine tale to tell children at bedtime.”

“The tale is true.”

Jakrom’s eyebrows climbed into his thinning hair. “And you call that city home?”

Trenah gasped. “You say you are a Maker yourself?”

“I do call it home, but I am no Maker,” said Perin. “As with sorcerers, not all children born to Makers have the ability. Those of us who do not are sent into the world of Day, to travel and observe. We are the eyes and ears of our city. Long ago, Makers were persecuted and hunted. In those times, they swore that no kindness shown them would go unrewarded.”

“But we have wealth to outlive us,” said Jakrom. “We need no reward. Your thanks is enough.”

“What I offer,” said Perin, “no wealth under the sun can buy. You have a welcome and a home in the City of Refuge. There you would lack for nothing, including a long and vigorous life. And more children, if you wished. In fact, such would be encouraged.” He paused a moment. “It—”

“Wait,” said Trenah. “How does one cross the Great Nothing?”

“I am here, and it is harder to come to Light than to Darkness. But when Makers will a thing done? It is usually done. For those who know the way, crossing the Great Nothing is less arduous than the journey from here to the Edge of the World.”

Jakrom and Trenah looked at each other for a long time. “We must think about this,” said Trenah. “Until we decide, please remain with us as our guest.”


Larbam was old now, and preferred to sit on his upstairs balcony where the sun could warm his bones. Yet his merchant’s mind was as sharp as ever. On the day Jakrom came calling, Larbam’s granddaughter Carinah brought them tea and cakes. After they had eaten and drank, Larbam said, “You are moving on.”

“How did you know?” Jakrom was surprised, for he and Trenah had only made the decision that morning. Perin knew, but he had not departed the house.

“That day so long ago, when you departed for the Edge of the World, your eyes were already on that journey.” Larbam chuckled, and sipped his tea. “This day, you have that same look about you. What wonders will you see this time?”

“I will tell you, for it was you who set my feet on this path. But only if you will not spread the tale further.”

“Of course, of course. I myself will soon take my own journey, the one from which there is no return.” Larbam sighed. “Your secrets I will take with me.”

“Nor do I expect us to return here.” Jakrom told Larbam of his visitor and the invitation they had accepted. “We have agreed to tell everyone else that we will spend our lives seeing all there is of our world. But you, my friend? I thought you should know the truth.”

“I have oft regretted that I was not your father, Jakrom. But I am always grateful that you have been my friend, instead.” Larbam looked into his teacup, then at Jakrom. “I believe we shall not see each other again. Therefore, let me embrace you as a father embraces his beloved son when he goes to make his way in the world.” And Larbam embraced his friend. “Go and do, Jakrom,” he whispered. “Speak my name in the City, that shines by its own light, under the eternal Stars.”

Thus did Jakrom and Trenah depart from the world of Day. It may be that they were Made young again, and bore sons named Larbam and Perin, and daughters named Arah and Rakah. It may be that they live there yet.


Sarna gave Galbron a wide-eyed look. “To be Made eternally young, like the Unfallen… what a thought!” she breathed.

“Many have sought the way to Thurun,” said Ethtar, “but none have yet found it. Or if they did, they never returned. Perhaps that is for the best.”

“So our wisest say,” said Galbron. “Makers in these days would be nearly like gods, doing whatever they pleased. But even Makers, we believe, would come to see life as a burden and lay it aside. Thus is the balance maintained.” He gave his friend’s daughter a warm smile. “Perhaps Jakrom and Trenah did the same. The important thing is, they seized the adventure before them. As do you and your father!”

“Indeed!” Sarna laughed.

THE END

A Fragment of the Great Nothing (pt 4)

Prologue: World with End
Part 1 • Part 2 • Part 3

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Source: WikiMedia Commons

“You have seen it?” Perin asked. “You need not answer. I see it in your eyes. It is something you will not forget.”

“Indeed,” said Jakrom. “It was awesome. I know now, how one might go mad in that place.” He shuddered. “Now, to get you out of this place?”

“Walk that way,” Perin suggested, pointing down-slope. “It may be that this crevasse opens up on the mountainside farther down.”

Jakrom followed the crack, and it was indeed as Perin guessed. He returned, and supported Perin until they again reached the trees. There, Jakrom found a stream and built a travois for Perin after hunting some game for them both. Jakrom stopped once, to retrieve his cached gold. When they again reached the river, they built a raft and floated downstream, using the broken pickaxe and a pole to push them away from rocks. They slept at mining camps, trading their wondrous story for food and drink along the way. Finally, they reached the last town (now the first town) and Jakrom took Perin to the local Healer.

“It will be some time before he is fit to travel further,” the Healer told them.

“I have gold a-plenty,” said Jakrom. “Enough for us both to stay here, as long as needed.” The prospectors had made good on their promise, and left Jakrom more gold in town. He was now a rich man, as he reckoned things.

“You should go,” said Perin. “You have a wife to claim at home. I will perhaps see you again some day, and I will tell my folk of how you brought hope to the Edge of the World, where I had lost my own hope.” There were more words, but Jakrom finally assented. He did pay the taverner to see that Perin lacked for nothing, however, until he was able to make his own way.


Jakrom returned home, nearly two years after he left, and he came home to find much had changed—not the least thing, himself. Feeling unsure of why he did so, he found Larbam’s house.

Larbam wept when he realized who it was at his door. “Come in!” he cried. “I feared I’d sent you to your death. I rejoice to see you alive, yet I grieve that I cannot keep my end of the bargain.”

“So I heard,” said Jakrom. “But tell me anyway.”

“A year passed after you departed, and young men of good families presented themselves. I allowed them to marry Arah and Rakah. Since then, my own fortunes have suffered, and now I am nearly a poor man myself. If you would hate me for one, and mock me for the other, I would understand.”

Jakrom shook his head. “I will do neither. I came to show you that for which you asked, though,” and showed Larbam the fragment of the Great Nothing.

“It’s beautiful,” Larbam breathed, after a long while. He lifted his eyes away, with some difficulty, and met Jakrom’s. “Will you sell it? There are only a few who could afford a fair price!”

“I don’t know,” said Jakrom. “I have thought I would, and I have thought I would not. However it is, I brought home a great deal of gold as well. That in itself is more wealth than I need.” He withdrew a small pouch. “I heard that you had fallen upon hard times. Take this. Consider it a loan, if you wish. Your fortunes will improve, then you can pay it back.”

Larbam wept again. “My fortunes have already improved,” he said, “for you bear me no ill will after all that has happened. You have helped me, now let me help you. You will be invited to travel in the circles of the wealthy, as you possess something that no other man has. I can advise you.”


Jakrom found Larbam’s advice sound, for Larbam himself had once traveled in the circles of the wealthy. Jakrom bought a modest house, and hid the Fragment there with his family curse. Larbam taught him how to act at ease among the high-born, and how not to let his words trap him in a ruinous course of action. Jakrom did not sell the Fragment, but put a small piece in a ring. Soon after, he gave a similar ring to his bride, the sorceress Trenah. Their children were strong, healthy, and had sorcerous talent of their own. Over time, Larbam’s fortunes did indeed improve, and he paid Jakrom twice what was lent. Both men prospered, and grew influential in their city.


“And that’s the end?” Sarna glowered at Galbron from across the room, holding their full wineglasses. “A fair adventure, to be sure, but not deserving of being served your wine!”

“Not quite,” Galbron assured her. “There is yet a little more.”

continued…

Origins: Miss Siles (#FridayFlash)

This is a followup to an earlier flash, Miss Siles…

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Miss Siles’s logo

“Thanks for inviting me over, Montana.” Miss Siles settled into the leather recliner, wine glass in hand.

“My pleasure.” Montana Rack took the love seat. A glass-top coffee table stood between them. She poured her own wine, and set the bottle on the coffee table.

“I guess you want to interview me, right?” Miss Siles asked. “There has to be a reason for this invite. The dinner was great and all, I just figured… you know.”

Montana laughed. “That’s not the reason. If you want to talk about anything, though, I’m all ears.”

“And tape recorder.”

Another laugh. “A good transcription starts with more than memory! No, I wondered if you’ve given much thought to who you wanted to have for your Recording Journalist. I think we’d be a good fit. I won’t get distracted by your, um, superpowers, and I do have experience. Now that Captain Heroic’s retired, I’m open. He’ll vouch for me.”

Miss Siles laughed herself. “I bet he would! Sure, why not?”

Montana nodded. “One drawback. I give it maybe ten more years before I’ll have to give up live reporting and move to the anchordesk. But that gives us plenty of time to find a replacement.”

Miss Siles shrugged, making the recliner shift. “Fair enough. I guess you want to hear my origin story, then.”

“Of course!” Montana rose, and returned with a recorder. “Just tell the story. Once I have it down, I’ll pass it to you and let you add or correct things as necessary. Then it goes into the archives until you’re no longer active.”

“When is Captain Heroic’s story coming out?”

“Not right away. He still might have to come out of retirement.”

“Oh. All right.” Miss Siles began:

I was born June Stiles, a corn-fed girl from small-town Nebraska. I’ve always been a big girl—I mean, not like this, more like you—and I learned early on how to make it work for me. But I mostly earned my school grades, and I was accepted into IU without a personal interview. I majored in biochemistry, with a minor in genetics, and Sontanmo hired me after graduation. Despite knowing how to work what I had, I have to admit I was still pretty naïve. I bought that whole line about Sontanmo wanting to work with nature, improve on it, and feed the world.

They know how to work the idealists, too. Keep up the happy-babble, and keep us busy on small corners of the Big Picture. Get us tied to that paycheck, so we’ll look the other way the first time we catch a glimpse of what’s really going on.

I’m sure that’s what caused the accident. After a couple peeks behind the curtain, I was having some—okay, a lot of misgivings about working for Sontanmo. So I was distracted, wondering what I should do. I’d not even worked for a year, yet, and already I couldn’t afford to just quit. I had an apartment, car payment… oh, you know the tune. Besides, I was gnawing at a technical problem. EG-12 was a genome we were trying to splice into corn. The goal was halving the time to harvest—which meant we’d get two harvests in a season! Being able to double production would have been a game-changer, you know?

Like I said, I was distracted. I usually put my lab coat on backwards, so everything up front got covered, but I didn’t that morning. And it was a hot day, so I was wearing something low-cut. Lucky I had my face shield down when the centrifuge came apart, but my upper torso wasn’t shielded nearly as well. The seniors designed EG-12 to be delivered as a bath, so we could soak the corn in it. For all my working my assets, I was kind of modest at heart, so I didn’t do the smart thing and get out of my clothes and jump in the shower right away.

“So the EG-12 soaked into you?” Montana looked shocked.

“Right,” said Miss Siles. “Next thing I knew, I was… growing. Then the men in black showed up. That’s how I always thought of them. They gave my family some line about Sontanmo sending me overseas on a special project, and brought me to Professor Zero. He helped me learn how I’d changed, helped me develop my new talents, and sent me here to Skyscraper City.”

Montana gave her a sympathetic nod, and refilled their wine glasses. New superheroes were always vulnerable, as they adjusted to their new lives. She remembered Professor Zero’s words: as a Recording Journalist, your job is to simply listen, at least as much as covering the exploits of your assigned superhero. Your careers are symbiotic. With no secret identity, this poor kid would never have a normal life to fall back on, so she’d be even more vulnerable. Zero should have addressed this before sending her out.

Well, she’d been Captain Heroic’s friend all those years, and more than a friend now that he was retired. She could be June’s—Miss Siles’s—friend, too. She turned off the recorder. “That’s enough for our first night,” she said. “How about a movie? I have Nextflick.”

A Fragment of the Great Nothing (pt 3)

Prologue: World with End
Part 1 • Part 2

---

Galbron lowered his wine glass and continued.

Source: WikiMedia Commons

“Down—” the cough again. “Down here. Help me.” Jakrom looked, and saw a narrow crack. He peered down, and was surprised to see a man looking back up.

“What are you doing here?” Jakrom gasped.

Even in his distress, the man smiled. “I will ask you the same thing, but not just now. I am Perin. Do you have water?” he whispered.

“Of course, of course.” Jakrom found a place to wedge the handle of the broken pickaxe, tied his rope to it, and slid down. He found a man covered head to foot in furs, resting on a pack. He gave the man a waterskin, and the newcomer sipped at it.

“Ah. Better.” Perin still had more croak than voice, but he sipped again. “To answer your question, on the Edge of the World a foot placed wrong can kill. Two days ago, I slipped on loose stone up above and fell here. It is warm enough in this sheltered spot, and food I have, but lost what little water I carried in the fall. And my leg is broken. But what of you? What brings you to the Edge?”

“This is how I shall prove myself worthy of marrying the daughter of a merchant,” said Jakrom. “I have been sent to stand on the Great Nothing, and bring back a fragment as proof.”

“If the bride-price for all daughters is so great,” Perin chuckled, “I am surprised there are folk left in the world!”

“Larbam offered me his older daughter with no bride-price, but I know her not.”

“Then she is a prize indeed. But do not chip at the Great Nothing. I have a fragment that I can give you instead.” Perin reached into his furs, and withdrew a large chip of black stone.

Jakrom took it and stared into it wide-eyed. It was the deepest black he’d ever seen, darker than any windowless closet. In its flat side, he thought he could see sparks of distant lights. He felt as if he could fall into it. Finally, he looked away. “I thank you, sir. But if I need not chip away a piece on my own, I must still stand on the Great Nothing. I will not deceive the father of the woman I wish to marry.”

“And to have come this far?” He nodded. “Of course. You are nearly there. Go have your look. But take your rope, that you may find your way back. Those not accustomed to the Great Nothing find it confusing. And when you feel lost, look up.”

“It is said that you lose your way, and then your mind, in the Great Nothing,” said Jakrom. “Your counsel is wise. But first, let me splint your leg. When I return, I can help you further.”

Jakrom left his waterskin and the rest of his pack behind, taking with him only his rope and the pickaxe. So close to his goal, and free of his pack, he felt light as a feather. He quickly scrambled up the steep slope, nearly bounding. But remembering what Perin had said, he kept a close watch on his footing. As he climbed, the sky before him turned a deep shade of blue, then almost black.

At last, he reached the peak. He stood watching, one with the stone, for how long he could not say. Before him, sunlight scattered over the Edge and marked a way down into a blackness as black as the fragment that now rested in his own pocket. To either side, a yellow-white line stretched away as far as he could see: the mountains that formed the Edge of the World. Above him… pinpricks of light, the “stars” of epic poems, hidden by Thurun’s eternal day. Finally, he focused on the slope before him and found his way down.

By some magic—or perhaps only his eyes craving what little light there was—he found that he could see better as he went. As the slope began to level out, to a pool of utter black, he again found a place to wedge his pickaxe and tied his rope to it. And thus Jakrom stepped onto, and stood on, the Great Nothing.

No poem, no story, can prepare a creature of endless Day for endless Night. A frigid wind cut through Jakrom’s jacket and thick clothing, but he felt nothing. Each breath he took made a little puff of fog. The vast plain of black obsidian was filled with the stars that twinkled above, and he thought he might float away to dance forever with those tiny sparks.

“I must go back!” he cried, but his words were swallowed in the Great Nothing. Then he remembered Perin’s advice: look up. As he raised his eyes to the stars, wondering what good the injured man had thought this would do, he saw a line of yellow-white stretching away. There was the Edge of the World, and perspective snapped into place. In his numb hand, he remembered the rope that anchored him—and his sanity—to the world he knew.


“When I heard Ethtar tell his tale,” Chelinn mused, “I did not see how the ‘Great Nothing’ would be so terrible. It would be little more than a clear winter night in the Northern Reach, or perhaps the Icebound Islands. I did not consider the thought that those who grow up in eternal daylight would not know how to cope with night.”

“Indeed,” said Galbron. “And the change we heralded, that morning we winded the Seventh Trumpet, will leave many unable to cope as well.” He looked to their host. “Protector Ethtar, have you thought about how sorcerers will fare in a world that increasingly has less need of them?”

Ethtar gave him a sour look. “I have. But as yet, I have no answer.” He shrugged and forced a smile. “You should finish your story, though.”

“That I should.” Galbron drained his wineglass once again, and continued.

continued…

#FridayFlash: Uprising

Source: openclipart.org

Joe leaned over, and threw a couple sticks into the fire ring. Sparks spiraled up, reaching to join their brothers in the sky. A wisp of smoke curled Joe's way in the dark, not strong enough to sting his eyes.

He gave a happy sigh, leaned back in is plastic chair, and drained his Bud. At his feet, his dog Bo echoed the sigh. Joe tossed the empty beer can onto the heap of cans, off to one side, then fished a fresh one out of the cooler next to him.

Popping the can, he paused. Standing across from him, at the edge of the firelight, was a strange woman. Her wrinkled face and dark garb made her hard to see, as if she were just part of the woods.

"Where the hell did you come from?" he demanded, glaring at the interloper. He stole a glance at Bo, who made no attempt to get up.

"I have always been here," the woman replied. Joe thought she had an accent. Something foreign.

"You squattin' on my property?" Joe was incensed. "Bad enough you Mexicans sneak up here and live off our welfare, you gotta squat on land that don't—"

"Where do you get your wood?" the woman cut in, gesturing at the stack, within easy reach of Joe's chair.

"I cut it myself. As if that's any of your business," he growled. "Too many trees, anyway. I'm clearin' out—"

"You have said enough!" The woman took a step closer. Her clothes looked like tree bark. Damn good camo, he thought. Bo raised his head, sniffed, and trotted off into the woods. "By your own words," she went on, "you are condemned, you and all your brethren."

"What's that supposed—" Joe sneered, then heard the snapping noises. He looked around, but never saw the bough that crushed his thick skull and collapsed the chair beneath him.

The dryad raised her arms; around her, the trees whispered in the language of the wind. "This night," she intoned, "we rise up! Join me, my sisters. Let all Nature arise and reclaim what is hers!"

Bo returned, and sniffed his fallen master. He whined and lay down next to him. Around them, the uprising began.

A Fragment of the Great Nothing (pt 2)

Prologue: World with End
Part 1

---

Galbron looked into the distance, and continued his story.

Source: WikiMedia Commons

After a month of preparation (he continued), Jakrom departed his home in the Middle Latitudes, that pleasant band of eternal afternoon, and set his face north (that is, toward the Edge, as they reckon directions on Thurun). He carried food, a crossbow, a pickaxe, and what money he had. The first part of his journey north were on roads well-travelled, and was uneventful. But beyond the last town, well short of the halfway point, he would enter the Wild Lands. Few ventured there other than prospectors and hunters. Thus Jakrom spent a few days in the last town, and learned what he could of the lands to the north.

He spent much of his money buying drinks for prospectors in the tavern where he stayed. Most of them had the same thing to say: “The best way north is along the river. There is a trail. Sing or whistle as you go, so prospectors know you are not a sneak.”

“But when you pass the headwaters?” Jakrom asked. “What then?”

“Not many of us go that far,” they said, shaking their heads. “But there is a line of mountains that run north, then east. Some say there are gems to be had there, but it’s a long way and those who prospect there never go alone.”

“But nobody has gone past those mountains?” Jakrom would ask.

“What else is there? Only more mountains at the Edge of the World, cold and rocky, then the Great Nothing. What fool would go there?”

“A fool seeking the bride-price of a rich man’s daughter?”

And the prospector would laugh. “Ha! Luck to the bold, as they say. If I see you here again, I will buy your drinks next time!”


Jakrom followed the river northward. Remembering the advice of the prospectors, he sang of fair Rakah and her friendly smile as he went. All along the river, the prospectors welcomed him and invited him to share their sleep-fire. They smiled and shook their heads when he told them of his intent, but wished him luck and sent him on his way after breakfast. As he continued, the camps became infrequent and he often slept alone.

Once, he came upon an empty camp. He called out, and heard an answer from the river. He followed the call to find four dejected men standing in the river, looking at a low bluff that formed the riverbank at this point. “Discover and prosper!” he called, for this is how prospectors greet one another on the river.

“We have discovered,” said one, “but alas, we may not prosper. We have found a vein of gold, but our pickaxe has broken.”

“Then use mine,” said Jakrom, offering them his tool.

They cheered, and invited Jakrom to join them. They took turns digging gold out of the riverbank,  filling five sacks. Later, around the sleep-fire, they opened a jug of wine and made merry. When they awoke, Jakrom left them his pickaxe. “Your broken one will serve my purpose,” he told them, taking it up.

“You must take your share of gold with you,” they insisted. “We will dig some more before we return down-river, and we won’t be able to carry our share and yours. But we will leave you more in town, as thanks and fair trade for your pickaxe.” Thus, Jakrom departed with a heavy burden. But soon, he left the river behind. To his east rose the mountains. His shadow, a little longer each day, led him north. He found a place to bury his share of gold, and left it there with a curse upon anyone who might find and take it away. The curse was an old family heirloom, passed down to each generation, and had not failed them.

Every day, the sun hung a little lower in the sky. The air turned cool, then cooler still. Jakrom donned the jacket he’d bought for this part of his journey, and slept a little closer to his sleep-fire. At last, he spied another range of mountains to his north: the Edge of the World. Game was plentiful here, in a land where people rarely came, yet Jakrom chafed at the time needed to hunt and prepare his meals. He was a young man, within sight of his goal.

A cold wind fell from the mountains as Jakrom drew closer, and only the exertion of climbing kept him warm. He began to seek sheltered places to build his sleep-fire. Fuel for his fires grew scarce on the dim and shaded mountainside, as did the streams and rills which he depended on for his water. For the first time, Jakrom began to have doubts about his goal. But to have come this far? It was a lesser foolishness to press on, so press on he did.

As he scrambled up a rocky face, near the summit, he stopped for a moment. He’d heard something, like a faint cry. He cocked his head, and this time he heard another sound: a cough.

“Is someone here?” he called.


“Well?” Chelinn rumbled. “Was there someone?”

“Sadly, my wineglass has emptied itself,” Galbron sighed, looking at his friend through the glass. “If only it could fill itself anew.”

Sarna laughed and took up his glass and hers. Ethtar met her with the jug, and filled both glasses with a smile. Sarna returned with the freshened glasses, and sat closer than before to Galbron. She looked up at her adopted father and grinned.

Galbron took a long sip. “Ah, better. Perhaps I can continue now.”

continued…

#FridayFlash: Poltergeists in Space

This is a continuation of an earlier #FridayFlash, Ghosts in a Can.

---

The spirit guides paused in their chanting to confer. “Fifteen,” one said on the general band. In other words, fifteen ghosts on board. “Please proceed with repowering.”

Construction Engineer Paul Temberson checked both ends of his tether, then kicked off the hull of Deimos Salvage VI (aka “Sweet Six”). In a few seconds, he touched the space-weathered outer hull of the can once known as Paradigm Industries Number Four (“Para-4”). This was his third salvage run, and he found he liked the work. Tearing down is always more fun than building up, an old friend once said, but he was describing his ex’s approach to relationships.

Paul found the diagnostics hatch and pried it open. Looking at his wristpad, he punched into the maintenance band. “Looks like a standard D-7 diagnostics port,” he said. “Telemetry receive ready?”

“Let ‘er rip,” Narayan said. Narayan was a Diagnostics Tech, and a damn good one. He and Paul had hit it off right away on his first run. Narayan hadn’t kept Paul hanging in vac at all—third time was the charm. This guy was a keeper.

Paul checked the fuel cell one more time, then sorted through the pigtails on the ancient Atlanta Instrumentation box. His first run, he’d been surprised when they handed him this fossil, but it matched up well with the cans they were recycling. He found the D-7 plug and connected it to the panel. “Applying power,” he said. Several amber lights on the panel started blinking, then turned green, one by one.

“Self-tests passed,” said Narayan. “Ah. Looks like the last one out turned off the lights behind him. Good form.”

“No surprise there,” said Paul. “The solar panels are folded in. I’ll bet the pivots are vac-welded.”

“A bet you’d likely win.” Narayan laughed. “Batteries are depleted, as usual. Try applying evac-level power.”

“That’s all this fuel cell can do,” said Paul. He punched a button on the diag box, and more amber lights went green on the panel. Several others lit up, flashing amber. “Evac power applied. Fuel cell has thirty minutes.”

“Confirming emergency lighting. Thank you, Paul. Narayan.” That was Steven Crescent Moon, one of the few spirit guides who tried to acquaint himself with the rest of the crew. “Primary activity is in Sections Two, Five, and the bridge. The salvage crews can begin their work in the other sections at any time.”

“They’re isolated, then?” Paul asked. Ghosts rarely used a power connection to invade a salvage ship, but it had happened. Such events brought little danger, but much disruption. Spirit guides worked to prevent the possibility.

“They should be, by the time you’re ready to plug this can in.” Paul could hear the grin in Steven’s voice through the general band.

“Roger that. Whup, got a visitor here.” Paul felt the adrenaline surge that accompanied a visitation. Lights flashed at random on the diagnostics panel. Clattering noises came over the general band.

“Poltergeists, poltergeists,” one of the spirit guides said. “Paul, cut power.”

“Cutting power.” Paul flipped the main breaker on the diagnostics box, then disconnected the cable. The indicator lights flickered for a few seconds, but died out. He listened to the noise on the general band. “Everyone all right?”

“So far,” said Steven Crescent Moon. “Everything’s tied down, they’re just throwing dust around right now.” A chunking, snapping noise came over the radio. “What’s that?” one of the other spirit guides asked.

Motion above Paul caught his eye. “Holy… it’s the solar panels! They’re trying to get them open!”

Captain Li’s lilting voice joined the chatter. “Clear the can. Clear the can. Evac Protocol Three.” That was one level above a drill: orderly exit, leave nothing behind.

Paul buttoned up the diag box and kicked off the can, back to Sweet Six. The airlock door was closed. “Knock knock!” he called.

“Sorry, Paul,” Dikembe’s voice chuckled in his ears. We were in the airlock when the captain called the evac. It’s clear to cycle now.”

“Roger.” The light went green, and the door swung inward. He secured the diag box inside, then stood in the open door, waiting for the spirit guides. He watched the vac-welded arms on the solar panels twitch, as the poltergeists tried to pull them open.

“Whoa. Incoming,” a spirit guide said. “We’re leaving!” another barked, her professional serenity under severe stress. “Watch behind,” Steven said, “they might try throwing whatever that was again.”

“Are you in danger?” the captain asked.

“Not much,” said Steven. “As long as they don’t have power, they can’t activate anything.”

“Better hurry, then,” Paul told him. “There’s a little play in the arms.”

“Block ‘em at the diag panel, then!” the stressed spirit guide—Mary Alice something—suggested.

“Negative, negative,” several voices chorused with Paul’s. “Evac protocol. I need to be here to catch your tether.”

“We’re at the lock,” said Steven. “You ready?”

“Do it!” Paul soon saw a blinking light—the tether end—approaching. About halfway across, it suddenly deflected. “Damn!” Again, he checked his own tether, then dived after it.

“What happened?” the captain called.

“Poltergeist knocked the tether end off course,” said Paul. “Got it.” He snapped it onto his belt, then attached it to Sweet Six as he returned. “Secure. Come on home. Better move it, they’ve about got the juice back on!”

“Four fish on the hook,” Steven called. “Reel us in.”

“Roger.” Paul started pulling.

“Look out!” Steven yelled. The others shouted. “Keep pulling!”

“They knocked Steven off!” Mary Alice yelled.

“Hang on!” Paul snapped, and hauled hard. In seconds, three shaken spirit guides stood in the airlock. Paul took the loose end, and dived out. “Steven!”

“Here.” Lights on Steven’s suit raced back and forth, marking his location. Paul kicked twice to deflect himself, and reached Steven with a meter of loose tether to spare.

“Gotcha,” said Paul. “You okay?”

“Just shaken up.” Steven clipped himself on. “Let’s get home.”

A Fragment of the Great Nothing (pt 1)

This is really a continuation of the #FridayFlash, World With End. Read it for context. Chelinn, Ethtar, and the rest will wait…

---

Source: WikiMedia Commons

Chelinn was again watching the storm at an open window, when the chamber door opened. The wind found its way in, through the window, drenching the big warrior-wizard. He shouted something into the night, and flinched back. A peal of thunder answered him as he pushed the window shut and turned away.

“Paying homage to the Windlord, Chelinn?” Galbron asked, standing in the door. “I knew there was a reason your life is so charmed.” The priest grinned at his wet friend.

“And how did you receive your Windlord’s blessings without a thorough drenching?” Chelinn asked, then muttered something in a language only Ethtar understood.

The spindly wizard feigned alarm and made a warding gesture. Lightning flashed, and the Protector’s keep shuddered to the thunder, bellowing on the heels of the lightning. “Chelinn, you should not tempt the elements with your blasphemies,” he laughed.

Chelinn chuckled, not at all chastised. “I wasn’t sure that the elements could understand that language,” he said. “That you know it, Protector Ethtar, is somewhat of a surprise in itself! But I was asking Galbron how he stayed dry while opening his arms to the wind.”

“I didn’t.” Galbron smiled and crossed the room, pouring himself a glass of wine from the open jug. His hood fell back, revealing his drenched black hair. “I did wear one of those jackets the local sailors make, and that kept much of the rain off me. My boots, I left with the apprentice, and exchanged them for my sandals.” He lifted one foot and wiggled it. “Did I miss anything of import?”

Chelinn’s daughter Sarna moved over on her divan and gestured to Galbron to join her. “Nothing important,” she said. “But Protector Ethtar did tell the most fascinating story, about a world Made as a half.”

“Thurun’s world?” Galbron asked, surprising the others. “Oh, yes. Our Order knows that story well. As we tell it, Thurun begged the aid of the Windlord to establish that world’s weather patterns.” He sat down next to Sarna, getting a wary look from Chelinn that amused him. “He told you about the Makers? And the Great Nothing?”

“That I did,” Ethtar nodded. “But that is all I know. As I explained to the others, what the Protectors know, we have kept to ourselves. We are attempting to break Termag’s habit of hoarding knowledge, beginning tonight.”

“Ah.” Galbron sipped his wine several times, pondering. “Then I should tell one of our own tales. It concerns an ordinary man, on an extraordinary journey, across a most extraordinary world.” He sipped once again, then began.

Once, in the time of Camac That Was (Galbron began), on the world called Thurun, lived a man called Jakrom. The son of a common laborer, Jakrom was not thought to have great prospects, yet he was bold and clever. Many such young men have started with even less and yet prospered in the end.

Now Jakrom had in mind to woo Rakah, the younger daughter of a prosperous merchant named Larbam. As Larbam had no son to claim his inheritance, many poor young men sought the hand of either Rakah or her sister Arah. Larbam would listen politely to these suitors, then set them an onerous task; that was usually the last he saw of them. So when Jakrom came calling, it was the same.

“Very well,” said Larbam after Jakrom made his proposal. “I will give you Rakah, if you can prove your worth. Go to the Edge of the World, and stand on the Great Nothing. When you return, if she is willing, you may marry her.”

“If that is the price, I will pay it,” said Jakrom. “What shall I bring you as proof? I would not want to make such a long journey to have you say I only made up a story.”

Larbam cocked his head, for all other suitors only walked away when hearing of the bride-price. “A perceptive question,” he said at last. “You have the quickness of mind needed in my business. I make a counter-proposal: with no journey, I offer you the hand of Arah—again, if she is willing. It is only fitting that the older daughter marries first. Do this, and you will be my right-hand man and my heir when I pass on.”

“Arah I know not,” said Jakrom. “I have done business with Rakah, buying your spices, and she knows me by name and always smiles when she sees me. I am sure she will be willing to take me as her husband. For her I will go to the Edge of the World and bring you proof.”

Larbam was struck by an idea that made him smile. “Bring me a fragment of the Great Nothing,” he said. “Do this, and both of my daughters and my good name are yours.” Larbam knew that certain rich folk would pay a great price for a fragment of the Great Nothing, a price far beyond any gemstone or exotic spice.

“I will,” said Jakrom, then he departed, already thinking about what he would need.


“That suggests,” said Chelinn, “that the folk of Thurun seldom visited the Edge.”

“Of course,” Galbron agreed. “Thurun's weather is opposite our own, torrid at the pole and frigid at the equator. Its pole faced the sun; there was a vast steaming ocean surrounded by a tropical shore. Most folk dwelt in between. So Jakrom began his journey…”

continued…

#FridayFlash: Twin Sisters of Different Mothers, pt 4

The conclusion! (I’ll add the Part 3 link when I get home from vacation.)

Part 1
Part 2
Part 3

---

After a few minutes, Monica came downstairs to find her husband sitting on the couch, staring at an open bottle. He would lift it as if to drink, then put it down and stare at it again. She sat down next to him, put an arm around his shoulders, and kissed him. “You’re forgiven,” she said. “I can understand how you could have mistaken her for me. Poor girl. For all I know, we could be related.”

“I was just so relieved to see you—her—alive,” Rob moaned, capping the Scotch and dropping it on the coffee table. “I know it’s selfish, but I’m glad that’s not you upstairs. You didn’t get hurt.”

The phone rang, cutting off Monica’s response. “I’ll get that,” she said, jogging to the den. “Hello?” Rob heard. “Yes, this is she. Oh. You did? Well, good. Ah… yes, the address is correct, you can send it there. Thank you so much.”

“That was the airport investigators,” Monica said. “The plane I was supposed to be on crashed? My God, you must have been half out of your mind! Anyway, they found my purse on the plane and they’re going to overnight it here. Which means,” she said, punching three buttons on the phone, “your friend upstairs is the one who stole it in the first place.”

“Oh my God,” Rob said. “The State Department people who called to verify your identity said you looked just like a wanted criminal in the Netherlands. It has to be her!”


The sight of police entering the bedroom was the trigger that restored Monique’s memory. With her leg in a cast and her head still woozy from jet lag and the concussion, she was unable to run and settled for insulting the cops in Dutch. She gave up the “no speak English” gambit when Monica translated the insults, and stopped speaking entirely.

“You’ll want to contact Immigration,” Monica said, as the cops handcuffed Monique to the wheelchair in the foyer. “She’s a Dutch national, probably on a falsified visa, and is wanted by the police in the Netherlands.”

“Jesus, lady,” one of the cops said. “She looks like your twin sister. You think you’re related, maybe?”

“Twin sisters of different mothers?” Monica chuckled. “She never showed up at family gatherings—have you, Monique?”

Monique just glared as the cops wheeled her to the van.

“Next time you go overseas,” Rob said as they watched the cops drive away, “I’m going with you. I don’t think I could take a repeat.”

“That would be peachy,” Monica said, turning him toward the door. “Then when we get our stuff stolen, who do we call to verify that we’re us?”

Rob gave her a cock-eyed look. “For that matter, how do I know you’re really Monica? Maybe I just sent my own wife to the pokey?”

Monica smiled. “Oh, I think I know of a way to verify my identity. Let’s go upstairs and see.”

#FridayFlash: Twin Sisters of Different Mothers, pt 3

I’m so glad for scheduled blog posts, I won’t have to worry about this on vacation.

Part 1
Part 2

---

“Yes, one of the passengers looks like her,” the nurse said, scanning Rob’s wallet photo. “If you’re quiet, I’ll let you see her—I think she’s sleeping at the moment—and you can tell me whether it’s your wife or not.”

“That’s her!” he whispered. One side of her head was bandaged, and her right leg was in a cast, but the hair not covered told Rob what he dreaded to know.

The nurse looked at the photo again, then at the unconscious woman. “I think you’re right,” she whispered back. “Let me buzz the doctor and he can explain the situation.”

“She’s not seriously injured,” Doctor Dikembe explained in the waiting room. “She has a broken leg and has suffered a mild concussion. She seems to be suffering from amnesia, though—is your wife German?”

“Dutch, originally,” Rob said. “But she’s been living here for 15 years.”

“Ah, that explains it. She’s mostly speaking Dutch, with a few words of English thrown in, when she’s awake. From what we’ve been able to gather, she knows she’s in New York, but isn’t sure where she lives or even what her name is. Sometimes she calls herself Monica, other times Monique.”

“She was born Monique, but she goes by Monica,” he said.

The nurse came in. “She’s awake,” she told them. “You can see her, just don’t get too excited.”

Monique looked at Rob. “Hello,” she said, “are you an investigator?”

“It’s your husband, honey,” the nurse said. “He’s here to take you home, if you think you’re up to it.”

“Am I? I can’t remember…”

“You will, in a day or so,” Doctor Dikembe reassured her. “Being in your own home should help you with that. Remember: don’t try to force it, and if you start doing something on your own, let it happen.

“And that goes for you, too,” she told Rob. “Give her time, don’t try to push it. If she doesn’t seem to be fully recovered in a week, you might need to contact mental health professionals in your network. Where are you from?”

“Massachusetts. Framingham.”

“Oh. I won’t be able to refer you to anyone, at least right now. Here’s my card, though; if you need it, call me and I’ll write a referral.”

The nurse rolled in a wheelchair. “You ready to go home, Monica?”


Around 1:30 a.m., Rob brought Monique home. He helped her up the stairs and into the bedroom.

“Rob,” she said. “I know we’re supposed to be married, but I just can’t remember right now. I won’t feel comfortable with you here…”

“It’s alright,” Rob sighed. “I’ll sleep on the couch. Right now, I’m so tired—and so relieved you’re okay—I could probably sleep in the driveway.”

Monique smiled. “You’re a kind man, Rob. I hope when I remember, that I’ll know I was worthy of you.”

Rob nodded, turned off the lights, and went downstairs. He swung into the kitchen to grab the Scotch before getting a blanket out of the linen closet.


Monica woke up just after nine on Sunday morning, much later than planned, which put her in a grumpy mood. She threw everything together, checked out, and got on the road. She was almost to Connecticut before she realized she’d forgotten to call Rob. She swore at herself and drove on.


Rob woke up on the couch around ten, just a little hung over but not enough to forget about the situation. He crept upstairs to find Monique still sleeping. Good: she might wake up in her bed, in her room, and have her memory back. He slipped back downstairs for a glass of milk and a cinnamon roll. A cup of coffee might be good too.

Glancing into the den on the way by, he finally noticed the answering machine light flashing. “Will you accept—” a mechanical voice began, then cut off.

Rob hit ERASE. “No, I will not accept your scammy refinancing offer,” he snarled and walked away.


Just before two, Monique awoke and asked for something to eat when Rob came up to check on her. He quickly rolled downstairs and brought back a tray with coffee, juice, toast, and the other cinnamon roll. She nibbled her food while Rob talked to her. To Rob’s disappointment, she hadn’t recovered any memory of their being married or of other parts of her life. He would probably have to call Framintek tomorrow morning and explain the situation; she wasn’t in any shape to get back to work just yet. “I’m going to change my shirt, if that’s okay,” he said. She nodded, and he pulled off the shirt he’d worn all day and all night.


Monica walked into the house, and saw the blanket spilling from the couch to the floor. Rob must have been watching a late movie, she thought. He was probably outside—good, it would give her time to drop her bags in the bedroom and brush out her hair before he saw her.

Climbing the stairs, she heard Rob talking with quite a bit of animation—but why would he be on the phone in the bedroom? She walked in: “Rob, what—”

Rob looked up, fresh shirt halfway on, and froze. For a long moment, nobody spoke or even moved. Rob stood bug-eyed in the middle of the bedroom, looking to the puzzled woman in his bed, then to she who stood glaring in the doorway, back and forth. Except for the clothes—one was wearing them, the other wasn't—the two were identical.

“Who are—” the clothed woman began, then stopped, seeing her double clearly for the first time. She blinked, rubbed her eyes, then took a hesitant step into the bedroom. It was like looking into a mirror. The woman in her bed stared back, with the same puzzled expression. At the same moment, both of them reached up and brushed the hair back from their foreheads.

Seizing the opportunity, Rob pulled down his shirt and dashed out of the bedroom. If there was any Scotch left in the living room, he intended to finish it.

continued…

#FridayFlash: Twin Sisters of Different Mothers, pt 2

In case you missed it: Part 1

---

“Robert Germain?”

“Yes.” Robert had a bad feeling about this — the caller ID said “US STATE DEPT” and his imagination immediately furnished a long list of terrible things that could have happened to Monica.

“Your wife, Monica. Is she available?”

“Um, no. She’s in Amsterdam at the moment.”

“Very good. Could you briefly tell me where the two of you met, and when you were married?”

“Sure. We were students at Michigan Tech — I was in mechanical engineering, she was in electrical engineering. We got married in 1996.”

“Where does she work and what does she do there?”

“She’s a product manager at Framintek. Since she was born in the Netherlands, they send her to Europe to deal with technical issues from time to time.”

“All right. Now could you describe her?”

“Sure! She’s five foot-six, short brown hair, brown eyes, weighs about 150 pounds…”

“Excellent. Thank you for your time, Mr. Germain. Your wife ran into some trouble in Amsterdam — her purse was stolen, with all her ID — and amazingly enough, she’s a dead ringer for a wanted criminal in the Netherlands. We’re going to issue her a temporary passport and help her get home as soon as possible.”


Monique had never flown before, and the experience was rather unsettling: the deep hum of the engines, the way the aircraft vibrated even after leaving the ground, the noise of the landing gear retracting — but the politie and the Netherlands were now behind her. A new life, a new name, and nothing to do for the next eight hours. “I must be the luckiest woman in the world,” she whispered to herself, then willed herself to sleep.

The pilot’s voice awoke her. “Ladies and gentlemen, we will be landing at JFK airport shortly. For those of you on the right side of the craft, you can see the Statue of Liberty. Please put up your tray tables and return your seats to their full upright position; and as always, thank you for flying Northwest Airlines.” He continued to chatter about connecting flights and the local weather, but Monique tuned him out and looked out the window.


Rob sat and fretted. No word from Monica — no surprise there, if her purse was stolen then her cellphone was gone too — and the guy at the State Department hadn’t told him if she was going to make her flight. He missed her when she was gone, and he’d really wanted to surprise her at the airport with a bouquet. He decided to sit tight, wait for her to call when she arrived Stateside, and order take-out from her favorite Thai place. He turned on the news station and settled into his lounge chair with a book.


More disconcerting rumbles as the flaps deployed and the landing gear came down. Just a few more minutes, Monique thought, watching the runway rush by her window. A jolt as the plane touched down, then a sickening lurch and the plane dipped to the right. Monica barely heard the shrieks from other passengers as she saw a piece of the wing hurtle past, trailing sparks and debris. I think my luck just ran out, as a spindly tower leaped toward her.


“Breaking news about a plane crash at New York’s JFK airport,” the newscaster broke in. Rob jumped, his book tumbling to the floor. “The landing gear on Northwest flight 86 from Amsterdam apparently collapsed as it landed just minutes ago, sending the aircraft skidding across the runway and into a communications tower. There are reports of serious injuries, but no confirmed deaths at this time—”

That was all Rob heard. He rushed into the kitchen and snatched Monica’s itinerary from the refrigerator. “Oh God oh God oh God,” he said, reading Northwest 86 3:50 pm. He bolted out the door, and was on the way to New York in seconds.

It was past eight by the time Rob arrived at the airport. He bolted to the Northwest counter, where a hand-lettered sign promised FLIGHT 86 PASSENGER INFO. “My wife— I think she was on that flight— where would she be now?”

The sympathetic black woman patted his hand. “We’ll try to help you. What’s her name?”

“Monica. Monica Germain.”

“Sir… I don’t see her name on the passenger list. There’s a Monica Pappas listed here, would she have been traveling under another name?”

“No— I don’t know. Her passport was stolen this morning; the State Department called me to verify her ID and said they’d get her home as soon as possible. Could I maybe describe her? She’s about your height—”

The desk clerk shook her head. “Sir, I didn’t see any of the passengers. Jamaica Hospital is where they took everyone; it’s north on the Van Wyck Expressway to Exit 6. They may be able to help you there.”


About the same time, Monica stepped off the jetway and headed to Customs. That was not something she really looked forward to, with a temporary passport in hand, but perhaps the Consulate had sent word ahead. Right now, all she wanted to do was get her bags, find the nearest hotel, and get some sleep. Rob was probably worried about her, so she’d call him collect as soon as she could find an increasingly-rare payphone. Thank God it was Saturday, New York rush hours were horrendous.

After reaching the answering machine, the collect call wouldn’t go through. Rob might be treating himself to a little supper at McVann’s. Surely he knew she would have missed her first flight.

continued…

#FridayFlash: Twin Sisters of Different Mothers, pt 1

A strange little four-parter I found in my archives…

---

Image source: openclipart.org

What a stroke of luck! Monique thought, looking at the American’s driver’s license. We could be twins! No need to delay a few hours to switch pictures—the local politie had raided her flat this morning, so time was not her friend right now.

Monique looked through the stolen purse again and considered. Using the woman’s airline ticket and passport would only be asking for trouble; she might leave safely but de Amerikaanse politie would be waiting for her. Better to trust her luck with the fake passport and ID she had in her own bag. “But I can perhaps buy myself a couple of hours,” she muttered, fishing around in the American woman’s giant purse and finding the cellphone. The train to Schiphol was a good place to be anonymous; people chatted among themselves or simply looked out the window. She called the hotel.

“Yes, my name is Monica Germain,” she told the clerk. Interesting, the American had not only her looks but her first name. “A strange woman entered my hotel room—room 504—this morning, and attempted to take my purse. I managed to keep it and run, but left my luggage behind. I’m afraid to return to my room.”

“I understand, madam. Can you describe the woman?”

“Certainly.” Act American. “She was my height, five—excuse me, ah, 175 centimeters. Brown hair, thin.”

“We will let the police know,” the receptionist said. “I would think it is unlikely that she would still be in your room, though. If you wish to return, one of our staff will be glad to accompany you.”

“Yes, perhaps that will be best. But I am on a train at the moment, so I will have to turn around. It may be some time. Could you be kind enough to send security upstairs to make sure my room is unoccupied?”

“Good idea, madam. I will do that.”

“Thank you,” Monique ended the call. It was unlikely that her twin would be arrested, but a little confusion would work in Monique’s favor.

At the airport, her first order of business was to cash in the airline ticket. Act American, chatter as if her plight mattered: “I’m traveling on business, and now they want me to go to Frankfurt and then to Paris. I’ll fly home from Paris. I know it will cost more, but they think it will be worth it. Euros will be fine, I’ll use them.”


At the hotel, Monica was turning the room upside-down, looking for her purse—she could have sworn she’d left it in the room before she went down for breakfast!—when the concierge and the security guard opened the door without knocking. “Did I call already?” she asked. “I’ve lost my purse.”

“Come with us, please,” the concierge said. He and the guard each took an arm and marched Monica out of the room before she had a chance to protest.

“For the last time,” Monica snarled in Dutch, “I’m not Monique Fleek. My name is Monica Germain. I was born in Eindhoven, yes, but I have lived in America since 1992. Call the Consulate, dammit!”

The security guards looked at each other. “But you are a perfect match for Fleek,” said the guard who had brought her down to this basement office, “and why would you ransack your own hotel room?”

“Again. I was in the restaurant, eating breakfast. I left my purse in the room and brought my key and my credit card with me. When I came back upstairs, my purse was gone.”

“Perhaps we should let the Americans deal with her,” the conceirge said. “Monica Germain is a guest here, and if that is who she is, then we apologize and all shall be well. If she is Fleek, the Americans will turn her over to the police, and all shall be well. Either way, turning her over to the Consulate seems to be the best course of action.”


With a stolen credit card that still worked, Monique bought another ticket on the same flight, using her false ID. It seemed likely that if the politie were closing in, they would assume that she would book another flight—or perhaps take the train out of the country.

“No luggage to check?”

“My bags were stolen this morning. I’m buying clothes in New York,” she said. She planned to practice Monica’s signature on the flight, and use some of her travelers cheques to buy those clothes.

The clerk looked again. “Good thing. The check-in time just closed. You’re cutting it close.”

Monique bought a magazine with some of her cash from the airline ticket, and took a seat at a gate across and one down from her departure gate where she could keep an eye out for trouble. It wouldn’t be long — she had already emailed an American contact, who said he could furnish what papers she would need in America. A new identity, a new land… perhaps she could even take Monica’s place.

continued…

#FridayFlash: Shine Until Tomorrow (conc.)

And we bring this story to a close. In case you’ve missed the earlier pieces, here they are:

• Let It Be (There Will Be an Answer)
• Times of Trouble
• Words of Wisdom
• Shine Until Tomorrow, pt 1

---

“What does that mean?” Mary pushed away to look at Eric.

“You used ‘let it be’ to bring the beast to life, right? And all that other stuff, like getting me out from under that pole. And making the angel.” He took a deep breath. “But not us. I was into you before that.”

“Huh?”

“Yeah. I used to watch you in history class. I was afraid I wouldn’t be good enough for you, so I never dared to try talking to you. I was gonna take art next semester so we’d have another class together.”

Mary grinned. “I so totally wanna hear about this. But we need to get rid of the angel first.”

“It’s that Beatles song.”

“That what song?”

Eric laughed. “My dad said he used to sing it to make me go to sleep, when I was a baby. Let It Be. I bet it’s in there. ‘There will be an answer’.”

Mary shuddered. “I remember thinking that. A couple times, while I was finishing a sketch. How come I don’t know the song?”

“You probably heard it and forgot. I guess it came out when our grandparents were our age.” Eric shrugged. “Dad and Aunt Circe liked the Beatles, and she has her CDs here. Let’s go look for it.”

They went back inside, and Eric lifted the cushion beneath the CD player. He pulled out stacks of CDs and handed them to Mary, digging deeper until, “Aha! Got it! Here, let’s put the other ones back first.” Mary passed stacks back to Eric, until they were all put away. He replaced the cushion. “Let’s play this.” Eric turned on the CD player and inserted the disc. “Track 6. Let me know if it’s too much, okay?”

Mary nodded, and Eric pressed Play. She laughed at the opening lyrics, but was soon caught up. The refrain brought quiet tears to her eyes, but she let the song go on. Near the end, she gasped. “Eric! Stop!”

“What?” He paused the CD. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah. Can you back it up a little?”

“Sure.” Eric held the Back button, watching the numbers count back, then pressed Play again.

“That’s it!” Mary was already at the table, sketchpad open, pencil flying across the paper. She looked up and gave Eric a wild grin. “I’m baaaaack! Give me a few minutes, okay?”

“Okay. I need to go get whatever they’re handing out for supper, anyway.” He picked up a cooler. “I’ll be back in a few.”


By the time Eric returned, Mary was pacing outside the camper.

“They made rolls today!” he grinned, holding up a plastic bag. “And they gave Aunt Circe two cans of beer. She’ll like that.”

“Spam and green beans, too?”

Eric laughed. “How did you know? Did you draw it?”

“Nope, just guessed. Come look.” She took his wrist and pulled him inside.

Source: christianimagesource.com

“Cool,” he said, looking at the drawing. It showed the angel, rising to Heaven in a great beam of light, with people watching all around. Above were three words, different than from before: SHINE • UNTIL • TOMORROW.

“Do you think it’ll work?” Eric asked her.

“Only one way to find out,” she grinned, and kissed him with fervor.

They soon felt the gaze of the angel upon them, but there was also a glow, far brighter than the evening light. Mary looked up again. “Shine until tomorrow,” she said. “Then you go home.” She laughed.

“I guess we’ll have to be careful then,” said Eric. “About… you know.”

“Let it be!” said Mary. They laughed together.

THE END

#FridayFlash: Sheriff Art

Source: openclipart.org

“Evenin’, Art,” the waitress greeted him. “Coke?”

“I’m off-duty, Tina,” said the sheriff. “How ‘bout a Bud? What y’all got on special tonight?”

“Barbecued half-chicken with two sides.” Tina grinned. “Bread and beans for your sides?”

Art returned the grin. “Like always.”

Tina left to put in the order, and Art’s mind began to wander. As Tina returned with a Bud and a cold mug, a newcomer slipped into the seat across from Art. A striking woman, with dark hair and eyes.

“Oh—” Tina started. “Well. Art, you didn’t tell me you’d found—”

Art scowled at the woman sharing his booth, then looked up. “Tina, this is Ann. My sister.”

“Oh,” Tina said again. “I didn’t know you had a sister, either.” She looked Ann over, then smiled. “Yeah. I can see where y’all favor. You like anything?”

Ann returned the smile. “What he’s having. He knows what’s good here.”

Tina laughed. “That’s true! Comin’ right up.”

“‘Art’? And ‘Ann’?” The woman shook her head.

“Close enough.” Tina swung by and dropped off another beer and mug for Ann, as Art poured his own. “What’s going on?” He glared at Ann.

Ann pushed the mug aside and drank from the bottle. “You’re looking good, brother.”

“As do you.” Art glanced around and lowered his voice. “Too good. Who did you kill?”

“Nobody that didn’t have it coming.”

“Not in my county, I hope.” Art put his hands on the table and looked his sister in the eye. “I won’t stand for that. Not even from you.”

Ann laughed. “Over in Colquitt,” she said. “I know better than to poach on your grounds.”

“Who was it?”

“Just a cop who got above himself.”

Art tensed. “Abusing his position?”

“With gusto!” Ann grinned and took a generous swig of beer. “But not anymore.”

“Better be careful. They’ll be looking for a cop killer.”

“Oh, I haven’t gone sloppy. They’ll never find him, or his carriage.”

“Patrol car.” Art smirked; Ann rarely slipped like that. “And let me know if you find a crooked cop here. I’ll deal with it.”

“Nobody’s above the law, even now.”

Art nodded. “That’s right.”

“Half-chickens, beans, bread.” Tina laid platters from front of each. “Enjoy! I’ll bring you both another round. Thirsty day.”

Ann watched Tina go. “Serving-wenches are so chatty nowadays.”

“Waitress. She’s a waitress.” Art sighed. “You’re playing with me. Now tell me, why are you here?”

Ann giggled. “Of course I’m playing with you.” She picked up her chicken with her fingers and tore into it. Barbecue sauce made her mouth look bloody, making Art think about the life she had taken. She swept a hand around the place. “Why are you here, Arthur?”

He glanced around. “I go by Art here. Art Pender. And I’m here because the people appreciate an honest man watching over things.”

“You were once a king, and now you are a sheriff? A shire-reeve? Subject to the approval of the peasants, like a Saxon kinglet?”

Art sighed. “As ‘shire-reeve,’ in this age, I do much the same I did as king. I uphold the law. I do not allow the mighty to exploit the weak. Yes, they are peasants, and ignorant as peasants often are. But they are content with their lot. And to sit, even in fair Avalon, wears at one after so many centuries.”

“You should find a woman. Yon waitress would swoon into your arms, methinks.”

Another long sigh. “I haven’t had such good luck with women. You know that.”

“That was a thousand years ago, and half again! And—” She caught herself.

“You have not yet told me why you have come, Morgana.” He paused. “Is it time? Has Merlin awakened?”

Morgana’s eyes turned milky white. “Merlin yet sleeps, but he has stirred. He has cried out in his dreams. The time draws near. Earth is not the only troubled realm. The King must soon become a King once more.” Her eyes cleared, and she lifted her beer bottle. “It took much time and trouble to find you.” Then she smiled. “The King should take a Queen,” she continued, nodding at Tina. “That one will not betray a good man.” She drained her beer bottle and stood. “What I have come to do, I have done. When I see you next, we will stand together and fight for the Realm. Until then.” She walked into the deepening evening.

Tina came to fetch the plates. “No offense,” she said, “but you sure got some odd ducks in your family.”

Art laughed. “You don’t know the half of it!”

“You ready for dessert? Pound cake’s pretty good tonight.”

“Not tonight.” Art paused for a moment. “You free tomorrow?”

“Uh, yeah. Why?”

“Oh, I thought maybe we could go over to the reservoir park. Have a picnic. I can bring you your supper for a change.”

Tina grinned. “You know what? You got yourself a date. Lemme get your check, and we can thrash out the details.”

Art smiled as she walked away. Morgana did know women.

#FridayFlash: the Disposition of Planet EJK7734

This is based on a prompt by Eric Krause: “A tiny planet declares independence from the intergalactic empire.” The planet’s name and designation are a nod to the prompter, not an opinion about same. ;-)

BONUS STORY: John Xero is featuring my sci-fi flash, Archived, on his site. You get two from me this week!

---

On the planet called “Capital” is the Emperor’s Palace. Behind the ornate Throne Room, where the Emperor greets important delegations, is the State Room. From this plain but heavily-shielded room, the Intergalactic Empire is truly run.

The Ministers have gathered, per instructions from His Sublime Majesty, Overlord, Emperor Warren the Seventeenth. Several of them skim their reports on private holoscreens, hoping to catch any final error before the H.S.M.O.E. does. Those Ministers who know and trust their counterparts have swapped reports to get another set of eyes on them.

At last, the Major Domo enters, plays a recorded fanfare, and introduces the Emperor. All rise as the undisputed ruler of most of the Local Group enters the State Room.

“Be seated,” he says, dispensing with further formalities. “I trust that all of you have prepared your reports?” They nod as one. “Good. Then let us attend to the matter of EJK7734.” He looks at the woman to his left. “Minister of Culture, I will ask you to begin.”

The Minister of Culture, Rebekah Fennel by birth, stands. “I am honored, Your Majesty. We all received the Declaration of Independence from EJK7734, known as ‘Krouze’ to its inhabitants, shortly before the broadcast services did. It is the considered opinion of the sociologists that Krouze has been infested with Dystopian-4 politics. My report describes the situation further.” The charts appear on the primary holoscreen.

“Minister, I am unfamiliar with the details of your labels.”

“Your pardon, Majesty. Dystopian-4 is what we call a ‘constructed reality.’ It espouses the belief that government is not only unable to provide solutions to problems, but is always the problem. As can be expected, it is always accompanied by a studied denial of any facts that do not support the constructed reality. Those are two prime indicators. The third, which is also present on EJK7734, is the suppression of opposing views by violence—usually threatened, but occasionally physical. We believe that as many as two-thirds of the populace, perhaps two billion people, remain loyal to the Crown, but feel unable to steer their planet to a more reasonable course of action.”

“Thank you, Minister,” says the Emperor. He looks at a serious man further down the table. “Given the potential number of loyalists, Minister of the Military, what could be done to minimize civilian casualties and suffering?”

“Sir,” says the Minister of the Military, “I would recommend Standard Plan SP-RB-79 in this situation.” He sifts through several reports, quickly adds slides from one and modifies a few others. “Damage to both sides would be minimal.”

“A thing of beauty.” The Emperor next turns to a fussy-looking man. “Minister of Economy. What is your assessment?”

The primary holoscreen fills with a mind-numbing array of numbers. “As you can see here, Your Majesty, EJK7734 is what the Ministry classifies as an MPP, or Minimally Productive Planet. A ‘backwater,’ in terms of several generations past. Yearly contributions to the welfare of EJK7734 exceed received tax revenues by two hundred billion Intergalactic Credits.”

“An interesting datapoint, Your Majesty,” the Minister of Culture interjects. “Dystopian-4 politics almost always manifest on MPPs.”

“Good to know. Minister of the Military, what would it cost us to put down this rebellion, using your recommended plan?”

The Minister purses his lips. “At a minimum, sir, six trillion credits.”

“Strategic value?”

“Next to none, Majesty.”

“Very well. Minister of Transportation, what would it cost the Crown to transport two billion loyalists?”

The Minister of Transportation, a dark and slender woman, hems and haws as she calculates. “Perhaps one point five trillion credits? Depends on where we send them, Your Majesty.”

“Minister of Commerce,” says the Emperor, “does this planet contribute anything significant to the Crown?”

“Their primary exports are cotton and iron, Majesty. Their contribution in both regards is minimal.” His report flows across the primary holoscreen.

“Thank you, Minister.” The Emperor pauses for a few seconds. “So, we are hearing that a drain on the Empire’s treasury wishes to sever its ties with the Empire. It would cost us about four times as much to put down the rebellion as it would to transport loyalists to a friendlier environ. The planet itself provides nothing important, commercially or strategically. Am I correct?”

Seeing the nods of agreement around the table, the Emperor continues. “It is the provisional decision of the Crown, that EJK7734 be allowed to peaceably withdraw from the Empire, contingent on their allowing all loyalists to depart unmolested and with their personal property. We will study the other reports, but we suspect that they will reinforce our initial decision. I am placing Minister of Transportation Elsbeth Rialna in charge of relocating the loyalists, and she will call upon any of you in support of that. Minister of Planetary Resources, I especially expect you to help her find a suitable destination for our subjects. Once that phase is completed, we shall expect the Minister of State to establish diplomatic relations.” The Emperor smiles. “But nothing too elaborate. As with others in this situation, we expect that our wayward planet will beg to rejoin the Empire within a generation.”

His detractors called him Warren the Beancounter, but historians dubbed him Warren the Wise.