Mason Monday

The holiday food binge went as expected: we all ate way too much. Daughter Dearest had to work on Black Friday, fortunately just the 10am to 6pm shift. I took her in, and the crush had already abated to merely very busy.

Hangin' out

But for Mason, the highlight was decorating the Christmas tree. Daughter Dearest crawled into the crawlspace behind the closet, and boxes, papers, and bags came flying out—Mason too, when he crawled in to see what was going on. I expect that he’ll be checking that out later on, when nobody’s looking. He has a long memory…

The wife brought home a blender a few weeks ago, because it had a nice sturdy glass container, but she didn’t know if the base worked. So I plugged it in and hit the “Obliterate” button, and it spun up. Mason came running in, “Are you making smoothies?” We haven’t made smoothies since July.

But I digress. We got a new (to us) tree, compliments of the wife’s older sister. It’s pre-lit, but anyone who has read TFM for a long time knows Christmas Rule #1 at FAR Manor: If you can see green, the tree needs more lights. Lights were dug out of boxes, tested, and strung. Then out came the non-breakable ornaments. So far, Mason hasn’t shown a desire to knock ornaments off the tree, like he did last year. But he focused his hanging efforts on one lower corner of the tree, inasmuch as a round tree can be said to have a corner, as shown in the pic here.

Job well done!

Of course, once he finished hanging all the things, the wife re-distributed the ornaments to even it out a little.

Yesterday, I took him to the park. Actually, I took him twice. The first trip was actually meant as a “nap ride,” and he was still going when I hit the last stretch into town. But I happened to look at the rearview mirror, just as he flopped his head over and closed his eyes (aka the Toddler Head Crash). With the actual mission accomplished, I took the other way home and put him to bed.

But when he woke up from his nap, he was still jonesing for a trip to the park. I’d planned to take him anyway. It was much colder on Sunday than it was on Friday, but that’s what jackets are for (if only he’d keep his hood up). I brought along a printout of the second Accidental Sorcerers story to write/edit to amuse myself, and he went tearing off for the jungle gym. A few minutes later, he ran back and jumped on the bench with me, huddling close.

“Did something scare you?” I asked, and he nodded. “What was it?” He pointed at this little redhead girl, about 18 months old, stumping around the playground and occasionally inspecting the wood chips. She waddled up to the bench and stood staring at Mason, who shrank into me even farther. I, and the parents nearby, thought this was hilarious. Yes, those girl things can be scary… so later on, he wanted to swing. The girl-thing seemed to know exactly how close she could get without getting bowled over by a swinging boy-toddler, and watched him until she persuaded her mom to put her in the next swing. The two of them swung quietly, side by side, for a while. This seemed to break the ice for Mason, because when she stuck her head in the covered “dining car” (part of a train-themed playground set) where he was sitting a little later, he didn’t freak out.

After she left, Mason decided to take a run on the track. However, some older kids (tween/early teen) had been horsing around on one end of the jungle gym, and they were now running around on one of the ball diamonds. So Mason wanted to join the fun. I talked him into taking the adjacent diamond, because I didn't want him to crimp the bigger kids. (The youngest girl especially seemed a little rude.) That went on for a few minutes, until the evening and cold set in, and we came home.

So… let the High Holy Daze begin!

The Sorcerer's Daughter (#FridayFlash)

This is the intro to a third Accidental Sorcerers story, of the same name. I'll start writing the rest of it once I finish the second one…

---

Unbalanced and clumsy as he was, Bailar the Blue had cut or burned himself too many times to be comfortable in kitchens. And yet, if he wanted to drink tea or eat something warm, he had to risk it. Fortunately, this was a better morning. His poor balance did not betray him when he built up the fire. He did not drop the kettle on his foot, or slice a finger when he cut open a sausage to fry.

“It’s more necessary for you to learn to do these things, Bailar,” he laughed, repeating the words of his departed mentor, Gilsen the White. As an apprentice, Bailar wanted to use magic to do his chores, claiming it was necessary to avoid injuring himself. He was alone now, and dwelt in the home Gilsen had bequeathed him, yet he continued to honor his mentor’s wisdom.

With breakfast finished, Bailar made his careful way toward the low tower. Anyone across the Wide River, needing his services, would come to him. Still, they would raise a banner on the Exidy side of the river to warn him—

He stopped and turned about, stumbling and catching himself on the wall. He thought he’d heard a squawk of some sort. “Is someone here?” he called. He only used a few rooms in the house—one bedroom, the common-room, kitchen, privy, and the workroom—and he walked through them all, listening for the strange noise. Outside the common-room, he heard it again. Toward the door, so it must be outside.

Source: openclipart.org

Bailar opened the door, and heard a third squawk. At his feet. There, on his doorstep, lay a basket. A baby looked up at him, with big round eyes, sucking on a fist.

He looked around. “Hello? Is someone here? Come forth, in all peace and harmony.” No response, except for a gurgling noise from the baby.

“I will not leave an infant on my doorstep!” Bailar called out. He reached to grasp the handle, then thought better of it and hooked his arm through instead. Nobody protested or cried out as he lifted the basket and took it inside.

Bailar kept a close eye on his footing, but felt the baby’s eyes on him. “You’ll be hungry, sooner than later, I expect,” he said. “But I need to know some things, first.” He made his careful way past the common-room to the work area. “I’ll be back in a moment,” he assured his visitor, leaving the basket on the floor. Augury worked best with fresh, warm ashes, and the kitchen was the only place to find them through the summer.

He returned to find the baby making grumbling sounds. He unwrapped the blanket and laid both baby and blanket on one table.  The thick cloth diaper was only a little wet, and Bailar was not surprised to find that the baby was a girl. “Well, then,” he said, “let’s see what Fate has to say about you.”

She caught his finger in a firm grip, and laughed. Bailar smiled, and picked her up. She nestled into the crook of his arm, grabbed his sash, and started chewing on it. Fortunately, Bailar needed only one hand free for augury. He scooped up a handful of warm ash, took a deep breath, and held it to his lips. “What is this girl’s fate?” he whispered, then blew the ashes from his hand and stepped back to let them settle on the table.

The patterns were strong, more distinct than Bailar had ever seen. “Sun, Earth, Fire, Sun again, Water,” he said, walking around the table and identifying the runes. “Sun for magic. Twice? You’ll make a good sorceress yourself, I think. Earth for home, Fire for the hearth-fire. Water for movement. I suppose you will travel with me, and always return home.” He smiled at the girl, making contented noises around his dampening sash. “Let us go up and raise a banner. The reeve will want to know what has happened, in any case.”


Bailar considered Reeve Korene a dour woman, but she was unable to suppress a smirk at the sight. The girl looked up at the reeve, and returned the smile around a mouthful of blue sash. “I never took you for a domestic man, Bailar.”

“I cared for my younger siblings as a child,” he said. “The memories of what to do returned quickly, I’m happy to say.”

“Indeed. So why did you call? Do you have a sister visiting? Is she in need of a Healer?”

“Someone left this child at my doorstep. I thought it would best to let the authorities know.”

The dour look returned to the reeve’s face. “Such an outrage! If I find the mother, I’ll…” She forced herself calm. “I must ask: have you trafficked with any fair maidens, of late?”

“No maidens. Not of Exidy, nor of any towns upriver.”

She nodded. “Well. I’ll ask around. Someone will be willing to take her, I think.”

Bailar shook his head. “No. Someone already has her.” He stroked the girl’s hair, and she laughed.

“You?” Reeve Korene looked surprised. “That’s your right, of course, but…”

“Indeed. I read the ashes over her, and she has the Talent for sorcery. She will be both daughter and apprentice, in time. But even without that? I thought solitude suited me, but she’s melted my heart, and I don’t think I could bear to give her up. Can you send a nurse? One that can cook would be best. None of us will eat well if that’s left up to me.”

“Very well, sorcerer. Has she a name for the records?”

Bailar nodded. “I name her Sura, the summer sun. As a lad, a sister of mine was stillborn… and my parents gave her that name. It seems that Fate has restored her to me, after all these years.”

“So be it. I’ll find her a nurse. Best of luck to you both.”

Flash (#FridayFlash)

I don’t need pity. So what if I’m deaf? Not only do I miss the banal noise of everyday life, it’s awesome PR. I could be lost in a sea of women looking for modeling work in this city. Instead, I’m Kyria Mist, Deaf Supermodel. Work what you’ve got.

Flash.

I’ve worked with this photographer before. He’s okay, and he’s trying to learn enough ASL to coach me through the poses. I think he’s doing it to get in good with me. I give him props for trying, even if it’s easier, faster, and more accurate to tell the interpreter what he needs.

Flash.

Duck into the wardrobe for the next outfit, and back on the platform. These fall fashions aren’t exactly practical for cold weather, but they get attention. That’s what’s important. I don’t have to wear it outside this studio, I just have to help sell it.

Flash.

In mid-instruction, the photographer and interpreter stop. The little TV isn’t where I can see, but they’re looking at it. And they’re horrified. Assassination? Another 9/11? Damn.

Then, they’re in panicked motion. The photographer snatches his camera off the tripod, throws it in a bag. The interpreter is signing we’ve got to go, frantically. She grabs up my jeans and blouse and flings them at me, points to the wardrobe.

What the hell—

FLASH.

Source: openclipart.org

The interpreter and photographer look at each other. His lips say, “Oh shit,” and they crouch on the floor, hands over their heads.

The first and last thing I ever hear, in my entire life, is the sound of the shockwave toppling our building.

Writing Wibbles

First, let's welcome the new visitors to the free-range insane asylum:

• Patricia Lynne—one of my writing buddies, and she's from Michigan too (so you know she's cool).
• Garrison James—writer, designer, artist. Check out Hereticwerks, where he blogs a long-running serial.

Feel free to look around. But watch out for that little inmate, he’ll distract you with cute and steal your phone.

I haven’t done a lot of writing this week. I poked at a few things, and that was about it. But…

As part of a rather impressive 2013 publishing (and writing!) schedule, we’re getting the novella formerly known as Chasing a Rainbow ready to publish. It will probably drop in January, after the holiday craziness has subsided. We’ve finally settled on a title we all can live with, The Crossover, and now we’re thrashing away at the cover art. Turns out the Wikimedia Commons is a good place to start, and (if you have a concept that can be expressed in a photo) you can often find what you’re looking for. People on the mailing list are going to get a sneak peek this week; once we nail down the details (by next week, I hope), we’ll share the official cover with everyone.

Hot on the heels of The Crossover, will come the first novella in the Accidental Sorcerers series. Since I’m about 90% done with the next one in the series, there will be excerpts. The cover art for that one will be difficult or expensive, I'm afraid—It all but demands an ice dragon. Then, come spring, Pickups and Pestilence should run down all the mysteries I left hanging in White Pickups. By then, the co-op should be a well-oiled machine, and we’ll be churnin’ out the titles.

If you have any writing (or reading) news, feel free to drop a comment!

The Voting Dead (#FridayFlash)

I thought we could all use a little non-partisan laugh after the long cat fight…

---

It started in Chicago, of course, but not for the reason you’d assume. Rick Carbone was a long-shot candidate for the City Council. He owned a meat-processing plant, and zombies often bought the offal he would have had to pay to dispose of. To drum up business among the zombies, more than actually trying to win the election, he ran on a platform of extending rights and protections to the undead.

To everyone’s surprise, including Carbone’s, disenfranchised zombies banded together to support his candidacy. Vocal opponents had a way of changing their minds, and he won handily. A man who was raised to keep his promises, his first act was to introduce a law that de-legitimized hitting zombies with vehicles, a pastime often called “bowling.” After two crucial opponents on the City Council suddenly joined the walking dead, the anti-bowling measure passed.

Carbone, of course, had a brief but stellar political career, moving up to serve four terms in Congress. During that time, he spearheaded a successful movement to extend nationwide voting rights to the burgeoning zombie population. But as much as the political climate has changed, getting caught in bed with two dead women (even if they’re only undead) always spells the end of one’s political career. Still, Carbone’s legacy lives on, as America’s number one priority is now education. After all, the largest voting bloc’s single issue is “more braaaaaaains.”

Writing Wibbles

Just a little writing to wibble about this week. I’ve been cheering on everyone participating in NaNoWriMo, though.

I’ve learned something about my internal writing process this week. I’ve been a “pantser” (i.e. writing my the seat of my pants), as opposed to a plotter, for a long time. So I would think of a pivotal scene, write it, then fill in the spaces in between the pivots. I always thought of it as “organic story development” rather than “pantsing” though.

So for reasons as different as the stories themselves, I thought I’d try plotting several of my upcoming story ideas. Even though I gave myself permission to change the outline as I went, I found myself getting bogged down early on. It was the gigantic word-bomb that Mik and Sura dropped on me that helped me figure out why. They forced me to write the beginning and the end of Accidental Sorcerers 2, and left that long dry in-between for me to finish on my own. When I have an outline—which for me means chapters and scene titles laid out in Scrivener—I feel like I have to start writing with the first empty scene. I need to add a little organic fertilizer to this non-organic story development, and make myself write the scenes where I know what’s happing now. That will help me fill in those ever-smaller in-between spots.

First attempt was a success. It took 20 minutes to write the first 30 words. Then I got 100 more down in the next 10 minutes. An hour later, I was up to 1,200 words. Always something new to learn!

A little Green Envy Press news: Angela Kulig has released her Skeleton Lake preview novella, The Skeleton Song, free on Amazon. I edited it, so you can blame me for any remaining typos. ;-)

Meanwhile, I’m hoping to have two Termag novellas out over the winter. Pickups and Pestilence should be out come spring, and that’s just the beginning…

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

---

“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.”

The World's Cutest Pirate

Arrrr, ye lusty wenches! He’s gonna board yer heart, while his granddad plunders yer booty!

And with Daughter Dearest, definitely looking non-slutty in her phoenix guise.

Hope everyone had a great Hallowe’en!

Well, it's official: no frost in October at FAR Manor, for the second time in three years.

Writing Wibbles

It is with great pleasure that I welcome EJ Hobbs, a former FAR Manor inmate, to the online version of the free-range insane asylum! EJ is trying to devote more time to writing, so go check out his #FridayFlash for this week and give him some encouragement. Drop him a comment, all that good stuff.

With the White Pickups blog tour dwindling in the rearview mirror, the Accidental Sorcerers decided they were done tormenting me for a while. I’m going to try getting a #FridayFlash out this week; maybe a new “On the Georgia Road” segment, to tie into the fall tourist season in full swing here in Sector 706.

But Mik’s and Sura’s story, which doesn’t have a decent title yet, is about 2/3 done now. I have place settings or topics for at least three more stories, so this might make a nice little series of novellas. I think the hardest thing will be keeping them out of each other’s bedrooms remembering to age them properly as the story line progresses. I suppose, now, the overall arc becomes a coming of age story, while they have lots of interesting adventures (and everyone thought the age of adventures was long over, haha).

In between, I’ve been working on an expanded version of UW-401, the “pre-zombie apocalypse” #FridayFlash. This too, I think, will end up in the novella size range. That one, I’m writing by hand, while the Accidental Sorcerers get the keyboard. Interesting, how different stories want to be drafted different ways. I should break out the old manual typewriter some time and see what stories want to be literally banged out. With any luck, I’ll finish both of them by the end of November.

If the Launch Cannon appears in the Wibbles, it means more of my stories have escaped the friendly confines of the blog. It begins with the recent #FridayFlash It Begins, which coincidentally uses the main characters and situation in UW-401. The editor of the Were-Traveler actually asked me to submit it for her “Alternate Zombie History” issue! Go check out the other stories, there are some really good ones in here. From ancient Egypt and Rome, to WW2, to other big moments in history, to the near future, the dead are walking. Perfect for Hallowe’en, right?

And a #FridayFlash from last year, Assignation, got itself cleaned up for an appearance in the Best of Friday Flash, Vol. 2 anthology. This marks my first fiction available in print, and that’s kind of exciting. You can drop 10 bucks on a paperback (which includes an eBook version), or 5 bucks just for the eBook.

And somewhere in there, I’ve been doing some editing for Green Envy Press. I thought I had an ambitious set of launch goals for next year—Angela is pushing for even more! I really need to stop procrastinating and get the Pickups and Pestilence draft out to the beta readers, that’s like the biggest of the bunch so far.

So, Lord willing and the Internet don’t fall over, I’ve got at least Pickups and Pestilence coming out in the spring, along with the to-be-retitled Chasing a Rainbow, both Accidental Sorcerers stories, and UW-401 scattered throughout the year. I’d planned to start on Wings: Unfurled before now, but with a couple more royalty direct-deposits the wife might give me some time to get it done!

Come back tomorrow, when I’ll post a pic of Mason in his Hallowe’en outfit.

Winners!

The White Pickups blog tour drove off, and left two winners in its wake:

2nd place, a copy of White Pickups: Jess Richardson

And the Grand Prize winner: Laura Hill
That big ol’ pile of loot includes:

• White Pickups by Larry Kollar (um, that’s me!)
• Being Human by Patricia Lynne
• Snapshots by Patricia Lynne
• The Violet Fox by Clare Marshall
• Within by Clare Marshall
• The Skeleton Song by Angela Kulig
• Dust of the Dead Sea by Angela Kulig
• Pigments of My Imagination by Angela Kulig

If you’re one or the other, and haven’t seen my email yet, check your spam filter? (Actually, one winner has already responded.)

I appreciate everyone who entered and followed the trucks around the blog tour… without, you know, actually climbing in one…

Writing Wibbles

With the White Pickups blog tour in the rear-view mirror, I heave a sigh of relief. There were a large pile of guest posts to write, plus an interview. As I type, there’s still two days to enter the raffle. You can’t win if you don’t enter!

October is the crazy month. Well, they’re all crazy months at FAR Manor, but October stands out as the real moonbat. It’s not Hallowe’en so much as that it’s tourist season in Sector 706 of Planet Georgia. That, and the “change of season” feeling that we don’t get much of the rest of the year. So it’s natural that I get the Biggest Word-Bomb Ever, or at least my personal biggest, in October. Perhaps I should explain…

If you’ve been around a while, you might have read at least parts of Accidental Sorcerers, a serial I've been blogging for a while. What is on the blog is about half of a completed novella, roughly 30,000 words. But that’s not all of Mik and Sura. Not by a long shot. I’ve had an idea for a second novella for a while now, and took a shot at writing one scene. One. This story really puts Mik and Sura through an emotional wringer, and frankly those two voices in my head got angry. Very angry. And while they may be kids, they can do magic. One has summoned an Elemental Dragon, and lived to tell about it; the other one gets the urge to set people on fire when they cross her. They chained me to the keyboard and made me write the ending (with the resolution), then sent me to the beginning where they were having a really good time at first. I call it a word-bomb, because it didn’t really feel like a Download from God like I’ve had a few times in the past. Still, 17,000 words in a week was mentally taxing. At least I excerpted a little of it for my #FridayFlash last week.

So I’m over halfway done with this story, and they’ve left me to muddle through the middle. Anyway, I need to finish beta on the first story, and then get the second one up.


I got a rather pleasant email from Amazon this morning. My first royalty “check” is going to be direct-deposited toward the end of the month. Nothing huge—I’ve sold about a dozen copies each of White Pickups and Xenocide—but it’s a start. The wife is suddenly realizing that I could have a little income out of this… so maybe I’ll get more time to write? Let’s hope.

#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

---

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

White Pickups Blog Tour!

One of the benefits of joining a publishing co-op is that I get a lot of help with promotion. Oh, did I not mention that? I’ve joined a publishing co-op! It’s a very new thing, and we’re all still feeling our way forward, but we’re all pooling our not-writing skills, so everyone benefits.

Once we really get going, I think we’ll have a top-notch operation, and be able to match or beat anyone on quality.

Blog tour. I was talking about a blog tour. Yes, White Pickups is taking an online road trip of its own…

It’s amazing how quickly this all came together. I had to blast out four guest-blog posts in a week, and of course the one that came first was the absolute hardest one to do. But meanwhile, Angela Kulig, the marketing expert at Green Envy Press, was lining up tour stops and had time to throw together a short video. Check it out…

There’s goodies to be won! In addition to an eBook copy or two of White Pickups, there’s a slew of other books from some of the other Green Envy Press authors in the pile. So here’s a list of the wonderful bloggers who are helping out:

Oct 12th: http://www.faeryinkpress.com/category/blog
Oct 14th: http://jamiebmusings.webs.com/
Oct 15th: http://www.sonyaclark.net/
Oct 16th: http://www.patricialynne.com/
Oct 17th: http://safireblade.com/
Oct 18th: http://www.angelakulig.com/
Oct 19th: http://www.smreine.com/
Oct 20th: http://www.hmjacobs.com/

You’ll get to read guest posts, the “craziest interview ever,” and other fun things, so don’t forget to follow that truck!

And now… the Rafflecopter giveaway! Rafflecopter giveaway Don’t forget to enter, there’s plenty of good stuff to win!

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…

Weekend Fall Mason Blogging

Fall on Planet Georgia is a great time to be outside. After a long hot summer, it’s nice to be able to sit out on the patio with a fire to keep the bugs away. And Mason’s all for being outside…

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We went to the corn maze last weekend. He had a blast, running full-tilt boogie through a very complex maze. This wasn’t the kind where you could always get through it by turning right at every juncture.

That way!

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Seems like every time we go outside lately, he wants to go into the woods and pick blackberries. We have to keep telling him they came in June and were gone in July. While we have some in the freezer, the persimmon tree just above the mailbox is starting to drop little sweet-bombs:

Snack time!

These are, as far as I can tell, a variety called Fuyu. They’re not the ultra-pucker type, so we’ll find something to use them in.

Oh, and the in-laws have two pear trees. They’re Kieffer pears, which are very firm and have a tough peel, and are meant for cooking or canning. I picked up several bags of good pears off the ground, and the wife and I canned eight pint jars and five quart jars of preserves. She wants me to pick up another bag, to make pear relish. I cooked a few in my crock pot at work last week, just to smell up the office.

---

We went to visit the wife’s older sister (the not-nutty one) yesterday. With her last kid in college, she’s downsizing and selling her house. We brought home some outdoor furniture, but Mason saw a huge spread of pumpkins at a nearby church and about went nuts. So we got a couple to carve, and Mason found a very strange looking gourd:

So ugly it's cute (the gourd)

He wasn’t too thrilled about the anthill over at the table where they collected the money, especially since one chomped his foot, but a little cream on the bite and he was fine. If only all the hurts he gets in life can be fixed with a little cream and sympathy…

Snippet dropped by on Friday, on the way to see her mom near Jacksonville, with her new boyfriend in tow. Her dad (who’s okay) also showed up. I got a good fire going on the patio and we all sat out there and yakked until we realized we’d forgotten supper. She’s coming back by on Monday, when it’s supposed to be raining heavily. Here’s hoping they get here and gone okay… they’re in his parents’ new car, and I’d hate for something to happen to it. :-P

#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

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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…

Weekend Mason blogging

Or, “what I did on our vacation…”

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Y'all can call me Shady!

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Hey, these floaties keep me out of the water!
Time to go for a swim…

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Yes, wearing ice cream is half the fun!

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Man, it's been a long day… I guess
I'll rest a minute… ZZZzzzZZZzzz…

#FridayFlash: Poltergeists in Space

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

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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.”