Wednesday Photo-Wibbles

I took Mason out for a little walk this afternoon and shot up a few things I’ve been meaning to shoot. But first, the weekly shout to the new follower:

• Jerry Moore (couldn’t find your blog, Jerry — drop a comment and I’ll update)

Spring has come to FAR Manor, and it seems like it just snuck up on us. The dogwood over by the studio opened up its blooms this morning — this is what it looks like (post from 2 springs ago).

Mason was along for the walk. Mrs. Fetched and M.A.E. had him and Moptop outside, blowing bubbles earlier in the afternoon, and he wanted to do some more. There was a pretty good breeze, so I took the lazy way out and held the wand up in the wind. It did quite well that way.

Wild violets run rampant in our lawn this time of year. I’ve decided that monochromatic green is boring, and we’ll get that anyway once the violets go dormant again.

I cleaned up the bank near the road, and this was my reward — a sprinkling of wildflowers I either never had before, or had but never saw for the undergrowth.

One or both of the previous owners of FAR Manor were fond of aggressively invasive plants, judging from what’s been running riot around here. This is some kind of vine-y plant in the corners of a decorative fence in front of the manor — very pretty, but is trying to take over in every direction. After the blooms get done, I’m going to hack this sucker to the ground. It’ll be back next year.


This is FAR Manor in the spring. Pretty stuff all over the place, but it will engulf you if left to its own devices. Kind of like the in-laws.

White Pickups, Episode 79

Sunday, March 11, 2012

“Check this out!” Cody said, dropping a newspaper on the table. “How did we all miss this?”

Tina looked at the headline and the date. “I guess we weren’t thinking about newspaper deliveries at the time.” Charles, Kelly, and Johnny laughed.

Johnny laid out the yellowing paper, dated Friday, September 16, 2011 — the final edition of the Gwinnett Daily News:

‘No Terrorist Connection’ to Disappearances

An Obama administration spokesman ruled out any terrorist connection to an ongoing spate of disappearances, but would not speculate who or what was behind them.

“Like their guesses were any better than ours, right?” Charles chuckled. He began skimming the subheads and other headlines: “Disappearances Hampering Investigation. Worldwide Phenomenon. Commerce Paralyzed. Sporting Events Cancelled. Cody, is this the whole paper?”

“Yeah. Eight pages.”

“Looks like they just printed what they had Thursday night,” said Johnny. “Anything in there about the trucks?”

“Um… yeah.” Charles poked the article about halfway down, and read: “When asked if the mass disappearances were connected to a sudden appearance of white pickup trucks on the roads, the spokesman said ‘There is no hard evidence, but much suspicion.’ Yeah. Hey, this is good: ‘Plant Vogtle Placed on Standby.’ I’ve worried about that.”

“That’s a nuke plant, ain’t it?” Johnny asked.

“Yeah. Down in Augusta. I hope all the other ones got shut down, too.” Charles thumbed through the paper. “You have to hand it to these guys — it was getting pretty chaotic by then, and they still got a paper out. Heh… and they put the comics in, too.”

Kelly pointed at an article across from the comics. “Religion: ‘Rapture’ Speculation Unfounded. What’s that about?”

“Reverend Steven ‘Hitch’ Hitchman, pastor blah blah, weekly commentary on religion, blah blah. ‘No Biblical parallel’ —”

“What’s not parallel?” Patterson peered over shoulders to look. “Is that a newspaper?”

“Yeah,” said Cody. “Me and Tim were going through some of the local construction places to see if they had any stuff for Kelly’s pipeline. This was sitting on a table in one of them. I thought people would be interested.”

“Their religion columnist probably got a few too many people asking him if the trucks were part of the Rapture thing,” said Charles. “He was saying there’s no parallel to the trucks in the Bible.”

“Ah. I used to say, if the brethren put half the effort into feeding the hungry and healing the sick as they did speculating about the Rapture… but that’s no longer an issue.”

“What was that Rapture thing about anyway?” Cody asked.

Patterson shrugged. “There were several end-times interpretations, but the most widely accepted was that all Christians would be taken up to Heaven — raptured — at the beginning of the Tribulation. That was a seven-year period in which the Antichrist — Satan in human form — would be free to wreak havoc on the earth. After seven years, Christ and all the saved would return to earth, defeat the Antichrist, and rule for a thousand years. That’s the heart of it, anyway. If I went into details, we could be here until bedtime.”

“A lot of different people jumped in those trucks,” said Johnny, “including a couple atheists I knew — and you’re living proof that some Christians were ‘left behind’. I read those books.”

“Yes. And the Rapture was supposed to happen all at once — ‘in the twinkling of an eye’ — not spread out over three or four days.”

“People actually spent time studying this?” Charles looked incredulous.

“Oh yes. And any time there was an extended crisis, especially in the Middle East, there were people proclaiming the End Times were upon us. Rapture Fever really took hold in the ’70s, during the various conflicts of the time, then died back with the conflicts themselves through the 80s, and re-emerged as the millennium drew near. But as I said, I could talk about this all afternoon and not cover it all.”

“Cody, did you find anything that will help with the pipeline?” Tina asked. “This paper is certainly an interesting find, but…”

“Oh yeah. We might have. How much gas we got left?”

“A few hundred gallons, maybe,” said Kelly. “Why?”

“We found a Ditch Witch,” Cody said. “If it works, we can just bury your pipe. Once we’re sure it’s not leaking or anything.”

Johnny sputtered, then laughed.

“What?”

“You — you gotta see this!” Inside the paper was a half-page ad for Perry Adams Chevrolet/GMC/Hummer. Some laughed, some gasped at the headline: OVERSTOCK! PICKUP CLEARANCE! Below the headline was a photo of the proprietor, standing with two thumbs up in front of a line of pickup trucks — all white.

“I’ll be damned,” said Tina. “The end of the world, and that shady quick-buck artist was still trying to pull in a few more suckers.”

“With any grace, you won’t be damned,” said Patterson. “But I wonder what happened to this particular individual. Did he drive off in one of those trucks? Did he die, by his own hand or starvation or murder? Or is he still living on the fruits of his dishonest labor?”

“I don’t know, and I really don’t care. I went there last year before I bought my Impreza. Mister Perry Adams himself waited on me. He tried to push me into a Tahoe, after I told him what I was looking for, and it wasn’t a gigantic SUV. He ignored everything I said, then he wrote up the papers and told me to bring my husband in to close the sale!”

Charles snorted. “I can imagine that went over like a lead balloon!”

“I let him know I wouldn’t doing business there, and would tell everyone I knew to avoid them like the plague, then I walked out. That SOB tried to physically bar me from leaving and jabbered at me until I told him — loudly — I was calling the police if he didn’t let me leave that instant. I had my phone out and had 911 punched in before he got enough clue to move!”

Charles and Johnny laughed, and Patterson grinned. “Yeah, that sounds like Mom!” said Kelly.

“We should give this paper to Ben,” said Cody. “He’s trying to write our history or something. He’ll want to see it.”

continued…

#FridayFlash: Accidental Sorcerers 3

Around 15 years ago, I wrote the story that would become the heart of this episode on a Tandy 600 laptop. It might be on a floppy somewhere out in Studio FAR, and I might have a computer out there that could read that floppy, but the story was memorable enough for me that I was able to rewrite it without that particular crutch. (Mrs. Fetched would take this as evidence that my memory faults are selective — if true, it’s not me doing the selecting!) I didn’t set out to write Accidental Sorcerers with this part in mind, but realized it not only fit but belonged here.

Moving right along… and if you're just joining Mik and Sura, start with Part 1!

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Accidental Sorcerers #3
Sura’s Story

Mik, not used to being served, insisted on feeding the fire while Sura poured tea. She moved another bench next to Mik’s, close to the fire, and sipped her tea while he poked the wood into place. The food tray bridged the gap between their benches.

“You said you had your own story,” he said at last, taking up his teacup.

She nodded. “It was near the end of summer,” she said, staring into the fire. “I really made a mess of things…”

“Will you please sit down?” Bailar sounded amused and exasperated at once. “You’re making me nervous.”

Sura sat, watching the sorcerer eat. Hunger finally overcame nerves, and she took a roll and nibbled.

“Good,” he said. “Now that you’re still, why don’t you tell me what happened?”

She sighed. “I was about worn out carrying those buckets up from the river, and the vat was only half full. You left your staff there, and I remembered that story in the holy book about how the prophet struck the stone and water came out. So I struck the wall with your staff, and it worked! I was overjoyed at first.

“Then the vat filled up, but I didn’t know how to stop the water. I should have called for help before there was six inches of water in the basement, I know.”

Bailar nodded. “Indeed, but that was your final mistake. What was your first?”

Sura laughed. “That’s easy. I shouldn’t have done it in the first place!”

“Exactly! That’s known as the Principle of Necessity. Magic calls on powers greater than ourselves, and those powers are not to be used lightly. That’s why we have apprentices, to do the work not worthy of magic.” He grinned. “So you struck the wall and got water. Why do you think it worked?”

“Your staff. I used your staff.”

The sorcerer shook his head. “It’s only a stick. It helps me keep my balance. It worked because you have a talent for magic, like others have a talent for music or weapons.”

“What?”

“Of course. That’s the Principle of Power, or some call it the Principle of Intent. Most people wouldn’t have drawn water. You wouldn’t have either, if you just struck the wall without that intent. I knew the talent was there — I saw it in you the day I found an infant girl on my doorstep. But like any other talent, you can spend a lifetime developing it. If you want, you can learn to be a sorcerer. I’ll teach you all I can.”

“But — of course — what else would I do?”

“Many things. Any sensible innkeeper would put you in charge of his kitchen. You know the old saw: A sorcerer or king may be thrown aside / but a good scribe or cook may always abide. You could be either one.”

Mik looked at the tray. “You made all this? It’s wonderful! Do you use magic to make it taste that good?”

“No, no magic. But the mentor says he’s eaten in the best houses of Exidy, and even the palace at the capital, and never dined better than any evening here at home.” Sura smiled at the floor.

“Maybe there’s other kinds of magic.”

She blushed. “Maybe. I’d like the recipe for that cake you brought though, it’s better than mine. But magic is a lot like cooking: you start by following recipes, then you learn to create your own.”

Mik laughed. “Well, I’ve eaten most of this tray. But if what matters is talent, why all the chanting? Why the robes and wands and things?”

“People expect it. And it can help you focus. The chants are good for remembering spells, too. How the spell for awakening an ice dragon became a children’s rhyme, though…” Sura tore open a roll, stuffed meat and cheese inside it, then took a bite. “But there’s one more thing…”

Bailar put down his roll. “But let’s pretend for a moment that it was necessary for you to perform that spell. What else should you have known?”

Sura thought a minute. “Um… how to make it stop?”

“Indeed. A spell begun must be ended. That we call the Principle of Closure.”

“That makes sense.”

“Of course it does. And now you have had your first lesson in sorcery. Spells can go awry, even strictly following the Principles, but when they are ignored something nearly always goes wrong.” He began to laugh. “For example, your mentor can find you ankle-deep in water, shrieking like a banshee, desperately trying to hold back a torrent — pouring — from a wall…” He put his face on the table and shook with laughter.

Mik stifled most of his own laughter. “I can see it! I’ll bet that was a mess to clean up!”

“Oh, it was. I learned a lot that day. Kind of like you.”

“So, being a sorcerer… it’s something you were born with?”

“And you as well.” Bailar appeared in the doorway. “I rather hoped Sura would tell you her story — perhaps now you understand your own predicament a little better.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then perhaps you can tell me how the Three Principles apply to you?”

Mik thought a moment. “I think it was necessary to awaken the ice dragon. The invaders had driven our army out of the Two Rivers district, and they were nearing our town. I wasn’t aware that I had talent, I thought anyone could have done it. As for the last, I thought — no, I didn’t think at all. I suppose I thought the dragon would go away on its own once its work was done. It would be poor thanks to let it die, so I came to you.”

“Your good heart has protected you from the wrath of the ice dragon, so far. Whether it can protect you from the world at large, I know not. I believe I know what you must do, though.”

continued…

Wednesday Wibbles [UPDATED]

I’m going to get this done. It might be Thursday when it posts, but I’m going to get this done.

First, the weekly welcome to the free-range insane asylum! All three are writers too, go check ’em out…

• John Xero (he runs like five blogs, so I just linked to his profile)
• AidanF
• Shannon Mayer 

Speaking of writing, I’ve not been doing nearly as much as I’d like. M.A.E. is trying to get financial aid to go back to school and improve her job prospects — which would lead to her getting independent and moving out of FAR Manor, so I can’t exactly kick her off my computer. I’ve continued to edit White Pickups offline using my Kindle, but not as much as I’d like. Then there’s the minor detail of the sequel. At least I have nothing pressing to finish… at the moment. I got an idea for a horror story at 5 a.m. this morning while tending to Mason (no, it’s not about him), so I need a chance to finish writing that down.

[UPDATE] I forgot to include this last night. Since we downgraded from the iPhones, I’ve gone back to using my old 5G iPod (aka iPodicus) to keep the tunes coming while I’m at the office. I bought a nice leather and spandex case for it at the same time I got the iPod, but the cover over the screen and click wheel has always been a sore point with me — they obscure the screen and make the wheel a lot less sensitive than it should be. I finally got tired of the wheel cover earlier this week and took Mrs. Fetched’s sewing gear to it. I found the seam ripper was good for breaking the first stitch, then a stout needle let me pull out the rest. Before and after pics…

My only regret so far: I didn’t do this years ago. I might do the same with the screen cover, but haven’t decided yet. It’s not as waterproof as it used to be, but so far that hasn’t been an issue.


Mason seems to be going beyond Epic Bed Hair these days. The hair on the back of his head has decided it will play by its own rules and do what it pleases. Usually, it’s pleased to stand straight out from the back of his head. He’s 18 months old now… wow. His checkup went well, and we’ve got him on our insurance now. With spring continuing to bring nicer days, he gets to spend a lot of his weekend outside, either at the park or running around the manor. Mrs. Fetched and I are talking about setting up an enclosed play area for him, which is suddenly feasible now that my yearly bonus has arrived. (I haven’t told her yet, shhhhh!) We’ll probably connect it with the patio/deck project that I’ve been wanting to do as well. I’ve also ordered a few trinkets (things I’ve wanted for a while) from Amazon; maybe they’ll arrive this week. Probably next.

Shannon (see above) has invented the Blog Flog. Anyone following the blog gets to post a comment describing his/her blog, which “obligates” that person to run their own flog. I’m planning mine this weekend, so tidy up and think about what you want to say…

Hey, it’s only 11:30 p.m. Still Wednesday here!

White Pickups, Episode 78

Thursday, March 8, 2012

They called it The Great Critter Roundup, and people laughed no matter how many times they heard about it. With the spring head built and holding water, it was just a matter of routing and gluing pipe, and Cody was more than equal to supervising that. Johnny, Tim, Jennifer, and Janet pulled trailers, riding slowly to let the kids keep up. All five kids came along, all a little uncertain about what they could do but excited to be outside Laurel for the first time since October. All were armed against dog attacks — adults with firearms, kids with ammonia-filled Super Soakers — but they had no problems.

Crossing the freeway, they picked up Old Peachtree Road and followed it to Braselton Highway, continuing east through outer suburbia and exurbia through the morning. Finally, the houses and subdivisions thinned out and began to give way to pastureland. Several cows grazed in one pasture, and Johnny waved them all to a halt to look them over.

“They don’t look too bad off,” said Johnny, peering through a pair of binoculars. “I’m guessing a lot of their fellows died out through the winter, though.”

“So are we gonna try getting them?” Jennifer looked dubious. A white pickup rolled by, slowed. You need wheels to catch them. Let us help.

“Probably not. Meat cows like those, they liked to keep their distance even from the farmers back Before. We’ll have to get lucky, maybe find a couple calves that have been weaned but would still be young enough to get used to people.” Johnny made a shooing gesture at the truck, and it rolled away. “I figure we’ll be out here more than once, especially after we get the pipeline finished. This trip, we’ll call a success if we catch us a dozen chickens or so.”

“So what are we gonna do?” asked Caitlin.

“Look for a place with chicken houses. Maybe someone opened the doors before they drove off… or whatever. Most of the birds would be dead, but a few probably survived the winter. Those are the ones we want anyway — the ones that made it through the winter by foraging. They’ve figured out how to avoid predators and won’t need a lot of attention.”

“How are we gonna catch ’em?” Sheldon asked.

“If we find any live birds, we’re probably gonna find ’em in or between the chicken houses. It’s shelter, but it’s also a bottleneck. And we brought nets.”


They rode another half hour before spotting the first chicken farm. Both houses were closed up tight, and only insects and rats were to be found alive inside. Johnny led them to the farm house, and they had lunch on the spacious porch before riding on.

The next set of chicken houses they found by spotting the chicken first — it walked in the ditch on the side of the road, pecking at an unseen lunch. When they got too close, it waddled up the bank and through a screen of trees. Johnny called a halt and followed the chicken, finding four open chicken houses. He slid back down the bank. “We’re in luck,” he said, looking up and down the road. “I think that’s the entrance. We rode right past it.”

They stopped at the top of the driveway, looking over the chicken houses and an equipment shed off to one side. Several dozen chickens milled about, inside and outside the houses, pecking at the ground and occasionally flapping their wings.

“What do we do? How do we catch ’em?” Ben asked, wide-eyed.

“We’ll have to do a bunch of stuff to get ready before we even try grabbing any,” said Johnny. “The ones inside will be easiest, as long as we have the cages set up and waiting for them. But we’ll have to go way around to not spook the others.”

Johnny, Jennifer, and the boys carried nets and cages around to the back of the chicken houses, and set up the traps Johnny built over the last few days: nets, roughly six feet high and set in a triangle, between the houses. Where the apex of the netting met the ground, a short piece of culvert pipe led into a cage. “With this setup, they only have one place to go,” Johnny explained. “We’ll be carrying nets as we drive ’em toward the cages, so they can’t slip between us and get back the other way.” At the back end of each house, Johnny left the doors open just wide enough to place the culvert in between. He found some tarp in the equipment shed and tacked it up to discourage chickens from jumping over the culvert. With their traps set, they made their circuitous way back.

“You’re not gonna believe this,” said Tim as the others rejoined the girls and him at the equipment shed. “A little calf just wandered up in between two of the houses.”

“Great,” said Johnny, not at all pleased. “If he gets spooked, he’ll take down the nets at the back! We’ll have to shoo him out of there before we start. We’ll probably scatter a few chickens too.” He turned around and stomped back around the side of the last house — now that the nets were set, there was no worry about spooking the birds.

Ben and Sheldon slipped down to peer around the corner. Johnny came around the back, slipped through the net, and started waving his arms. “Hyah! Get outta here! Hyah!” The calf munched grass, unconcerned, until Johnny drew closer. As Johnny took two quick steps and shouted again, the calf turned and trotted toward the front. The boys watched it approach.

“Bet you can’t catch it,” Ben whispered to Sheldon.

“I could if I wanted too.”

“I’ll give you a dollar if you catch it.”

“Money ain’t worth anything, stupid! But watch this.” As the calf neared the corner closest to the boys, Sheldon rushed out and launched a flying tackle — and was nearly as surprised as Ben and Johnny when he landed on top of the calf! He wrapped his arms around its neck and his legs around its body as it bellowed for help, then he jerked to one side and landed in the gravel on one hip, still wrapped around the thrashing calf.

“Ben! Help!”

“Ben!” Johnny yelled, rushing toward them, scattering chickens on either side. “Use your shirt! Sit on its back legs and tie ’em together!” He pulled off his own shirt as he ran. Ben shucked his t-shirt and got it around the calf’s legs as Johnny arrived, wrapping his own shirt around the calf’s front legs. Immobilized, it stopped struggling and lay huffing on the gravel, eyes rolling.

“Get it off me!” Sheldon yelled, and Johnny and Ben pulled it away. Sheldon stood, brushing dirt off his clothes, as Ashley ran up.

“You guys okay?” She probed Sheldon’s side and leg.

“Yeah, yeah — ow!” Sheldon flinched as she pressed on his hip.

“Probably just bruising. You need to walk around a little so it doesn’t get stiff.”

“I know.” Sheldon limped back toward the equipment shed, then stopped. “You owe me a dollar, Ben,” he said.

“That was a dam-fool stunt you just pulled,” Johnny grinned. “But hey, it worked. You might be cut out to be a cowboy. If you’re up to it, go look in the shed and see if they have any sweet feed. It’ll have a picture of a calf on the bag.”

They ended up catching over twenty chickens, but after the calf even Lily’s dive to catch a loose chicken was anti-climatic. Johnny found a bridle and a feed bag in the equipment shed and gave the calf something to eat after hobbling it much like Cleve and Tim had hobbled Joseph so long ago. With a bag of sweet feed in its face, the calf decided to allow Johnny to lead it home the next morning. At a walking pace, they left at dawn and were not home until dusk.

continued…

Twitter Twaddle

It appears that Twitter may want to curtail third-party Twitter clients. Now I think Mashable might be overstating the case a little, and their failure to link to the forum post doesn’t bolster their case, but Twitter does want clients to act the same way.

Too bad they don’t practice what they preach.

I’ve used the official Twitter clients for web, MacOS X, and iPad. They all kind of look similar, perhaps as much as possible given the natures of the underlying platforms. But all three of them do things a little differently:

• Hover over a shortened link in the web client, and it displays a tooltip showing the expanded URL. Neither iPad nor OSX versions do that.
• Tap a tweet with no links or hashtags on the iPad, and you get the tweeter’s profile. Click the same tweet in the OSX client, and you get… nothing. On the web client, you get other recent tweets from that account.
• The OSX client has a pretty slick way of handling multiple accounts — avatars for each account appear in the sidebar and you can click on them to switch. I don’t see that on either the web or iPad clients.
• In the OSX and iPad clients, retweeting gives you a “quote tweet” option that the web client doesn’t.

Even if Twitter’s own clients worked the same across all platforms, I’d say they’re jumping the gun by trying to limit third-party development. In addition to the Twitter clients, TweetDeck (my primary client until recently), and a FireFox plugin called EchoFon on occasion. TweetDeck is an elaborate client, offering simultaneous views of user-defined lists. For example, I have my main tweetstream, mentions, several searches, direct messages, and new followers in separate panels. It’s a very nice way to keep up with a lot of info at once… too bad it uses Adobe AIR, which makes it screw up under heavy load. EchoFon is very simple, and lives in the bottom right corner of the browser until you pop it up to see what’s going on. Both of them offer different ways to interact with Twitter from the “official” clients, and depending on what you need they can be better ways.

In short, the Twitter ecosystem is far from being complete. Even if it was, it needs to be able to evolve to meet the needs of the people using it. The Twitter developers themselves know a lot about the system internals, but they’re somewhat removed from the people actually using the system day-in day-out. The users know what they want to do and how they want to do it — let the creativity of third-party app developers fill the needs, and leverage the knowledge gained. In other words, adapt the most popular new features to your own apps.

But first, get your own apps working the same way before you demand that third-party developers do likewise.

#FridayFlash: Accidental Sorcerers 2

I’ve had a lot of positive feedback on the first episode — thanks to everyone who has commented here or on Twitter. The story continues about a week after Mik sent the ice dragon into battle…

Part 1

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Accidental Sorcerers #2
a Quest

Mik and Piet flanked Robi, walking to school on the snowy street.

“Can you believe it?” Robi asked them, her hand in Piet’s. “Spring’s only a month away. No more school, forever!”

“If you don’t count being ’prenticed as school,” Piet laughed.

“I hope Mattu takes me on,” said Mik. “At least a merchant gets to travel —”

A gust of wind whipped Mik’s hood back, and he pulled it up. “And maybe I’ll have my own place somewhere warmer.” He laughed, then stopped and turned. “Hey, what —”

Piet looked terrified, trying to pull Robi out of the street. She stood her ground, but pointed. “Mik! It’s back!” He had mistook the ice dragon for a huge snowdrift, but now it stood watching them in silent regard.

“Is something wrong?” Mik asked it at last.

The enemy has departed your lands, it said in its frigid voice.

“Good.”

I have done your bidding. Dispel me.

“Dispel?”

“I told you!” Robi gave Piet a playful punch.

You awakened me and yet you are so ignorant? The dragon seemed surprised. I will melt with the coming of spring, like a human burned alive.

Mik shuddered. “I’ll find out how to dispel you. I promise.”


The whole town was in an uproar, everyone asking Mik questions as he asked his. It was the school librarian who told him of a sorcerer — a hundred miles away, but the dragon assured him that he could fly that far before sunset. His parents were dubious, but saw no other way. His mother gave him a thick cloak and filled his pack with cakes: “Even a wizard has to eat, and it isn’t right to seek aid empty-handed.” She had more to say, but her lecture was tempered knowing he had saved the town. All was ready in an hour, and Mik shouldered his pack.

Everyone turned out, gawping at the dragon or getting a new glimpse of Mik. Girls, who hadn’t noticed him yesterday, waved to him and wished him a speedy return — reminding him of what Robi had said a week ago.

You are ready. Mik nodded and the dragon allowed him to mount, seating himself in a sheltered spot where neck and body met. Below his left leg were large faint pink spots, but Mik barely noticed. The dragon leaped skyward to cheers and shrieks, and they were aloft.

Which way?

“East to the Wide River, then follow it north.” Mik was frightened and excited to be airborne. He found his perch surprisingly comfortable; only stray gusts of wind touched him. Land, sky, dragon — all were white, and they might be skimming the snow for all he knew. He closed his eyes —

Is that it?

High above the river, Mik saw a toylike town and fought back nausea. “Maybe. Let me down outside of town so you don’t panic everyone. I’ll ask.”


Mik stopped a townsman. “Is this Exidy Town?”

“Of course, boy,” he sneered.

“Thank you, sir. I seek the sorcerer, Bailar the Blue.”

The man looked puzzled, then looked beyond Mik, perhaps seeking companions. “Across the river, on the bluff overlooking,” he said at last, pointing.

Mik and the dragon circled the sorcerer’s keep. It was unimposing: a house against a low tower, about three stories high. A steep but walkable drop led to the river below. The dragon alit near the front door of the house. This door opened, revealing a girl about Mik’s age, wearing a blue robe and carrying a staff. She gave them a wary look, then struck the stone with her staff.

“The Sorcerer of Exidy, Bailar the Blue!” Smoke billowed from the threshold, then dissipated, revealing the sorcerer. He looked a little older than Mik’s parents, and wore a robe similar to his apprentice’s.

Mik sketched a bow from atop the dragon. “Sir,” he said, “I am honored, but a personal greeting is above my station.”

The sorcerer looked amused. “A dragonrider always merits a personal greeting. Come in, warm yourself, then we can talk.” He turned carefully and went inside.

The dragon curled up in the snow as Mik dismounted. The apprentice ushered him inside. They followed the sorcerer through a mud room and into a hallway beyond.

“You’re no older than me,” the apprentice whispered. “I don’t see many people our age here. Are you already a sorcerer?”

Mik shook his head as his host turned and entered a cozy parlor. A warm fire and benches awaited. “Please, seat yourself. Would you like some tea? Yes? Sura, bring the pot and cups for the three of us.” Mik was given the bench closest to the fire; he soon shed his outerwear.

“Oh, I brought cakes,” said Mik, removing them from his pack. “Maybe they’ll go well with the tea.”

“Indeed. And here’s Sura with the tea.”

With a cup warming his hands, Mik and his hosts faced each other around a low table, Mik’s back to the fire. Sura unwrapped and tasted a cake, then smiled. “Very good!”

“Excellent. Now, young dragonrider, why don’t you tell us your story?”

Mik told them everything, and found the reactions interesting: the sorcerer looked solemn, while the apprentice openly grinned. She had a pretty smile though.

“Very fortunate,” said Bailar at last. “Awakening an ice dragon, and living to tell about it. One wrong word, and it would have crushed you before wreaking havoc on both armies.

“But know this: you brought it awake, and thus you can dispel it. I may be able to help.” He stood. “I will consult my grimories. Sura can show you your guest room and the more important part of the house: the kitchen!”

Mik and Sura looked at each other. “Come on,” she said, “I’ll show you around.” She led him first to the guest room, then the kitchen, where she constructed a plate of bread, meats, and cheeses with easy familiarity.

“Got in over your head?” she said at last, carrying the tray and another pot of tea.

“I’m glad someone finds it amusing.”

“I’m sorry, Mik. It’s just that… you’re not the only one that’s happened to.” She gave him a serious look. “Let me tell you my story.”

continued…

Pulling Up, Welcome, Writing

Things have improved quite a bit in the last two days. The HR person went into the database and could see from the transaction history that I had tried to add The Boy, so she went ahead and fixed it. I came home to find both Skyler and Big V here at the manor, but they went home after a while so it was all good. I still find myself with very little free time, and end up staying up much later than I should. On the other hand, Moptop is back… none the worse, nor better either.


One thing I’ve been wanting to do for a while is say hello to new blog-followers and welcome everyone to the free-range insane asylum. Since I haven’t done this before, I’m going to go back a couple months. From here on, I’ll list those since the last shout…

• Lace — Survival Suburbanite Style

• Clifton Hill — artist, writer, book reviewer

• Craig WF Smith — author of Zoolin Vale and the Chalice of Ringtar

• John Anelio — musician specializing in Sci Fi Songs

• Icy Sedgwick — aspiring author and great photo prompts (see Click, The Philosopher’s Stone)

• Apple Ardent Scott — writes horror and cool flash fiction

• Cathy Webster — fiction and life, it’s like TFM without the angst

• Mari Juniper — “stories, reflections, and pretty things”

• John Wiswell — anyone with the guts to call his blog The Bathroom Monologues is worth reading!

• Laurita Miller — and I seem to have lost her blog…


With the last few episodes of White Pickups waiting to be posted, I’ve been going back into the story and doing some preparatory work on the eBook version. The primary thread, how Cody becomes the person everyone looks to, is (I think) in reasonable shape. I need to work on some of the supporting characters, and these last few episodes are setting the stage for the sequel without really supporting the current story lines. Kind of sloppy, but that’s what happens when you just start writing sometimes. Without them, the ending felt kind of abrupt, which is why I didn’t just move them to Book 2.

I’m working on defining the framework for the two books now, which is probably a good idea because the second one is already about a third written.

Meanwhile, the Accidental Sorcerers series is already done — easy enough, since it’s only four parts — and the next three parts come out on successive Fridays. As in, part 2 tomorrow. Stay tuned…

So Far No Good

If the rest of this week goes as it’s begun, it’s made entirely of fail.

It was a rough weekend for nearly everyone here, as the stomach/intestinal virus cut its swath through the population. Big V was down, so her grandson Skyler was at the manor. He’s a little younger than Mason, 14 months to Mason’s 18 months (as of today), but larger. Mrs. Fetched thinks he’s “slow,” although I think what she sees is that he’s slow in contrast to an older and more dynamic Mason. But he is blonde… very very blonde. On the other hand, he was about the only one of us not affected by the virus this weekend.

Moptop went off to her grandparents, as she does every weekend, and got good and sick there. She’s still there, as M.A.E. had the double-whammy of the virus plus surgery to retrieve an IUD that went walkabout in her uterus. I think Mason looks forward to weekends, because they are Moptop-free, and having Skyler around plus the virus made him rather cranky. “Does not play well with others,” would have been checked off on his report card this weekend. I heard the Screech of Rage™ way too often this weekend, when Skyler picked up something Mason didn’t want bothered or when he just got in Mason’s personal space.

I sweated out the virus early Sunday morning, but then Mrs. Fetched got it and I dealt with the kids. The Boy, as usual, managed to be “at work” or “helping Lobster move out” (two whole bags). The latter involved him staying at Lobster’s new place, an apartment he and his new girlfriend have picked out. (Great couple… married, but not to each other.) The Boy came down with the virus there and spent all of Sunday night there. That would have been fine, as he left my car here, but took the key with him.

Speaking of The Boy, a glitch in the database didn’t let me add him to our insurance back in November. I contacted HR at the time, and they said they’d take care of it. Now he’s not on our insurance, and they’re saying he “can’t be added” until next open enrollment in November. They’ve fallen back on scripted responses and “it’s policy” like it’s some huge effing deal… how hard can it be to add one line item into a database? When it was their own fail that kept me from adding him in the first place? If I started working there today, would I have to wait until November to add my family to the coverage? I am now officially looking for a new job, just so I can get coverage for The Boy. Maybe I’ll see of my previous employer would give me any inducement to jump ship. On the other hand, the grand-boss is going to be here tomorrow, and maybe I can dump this in her lap… especially when I start making noises about leaving over it.

Meanwhile, Mrs. Fetched is about fed up with Sunshine, her brother. He’s once again unemployed, which means he’s hanging around telling everyone UR DOIN IT RONG. That she can ignore, but when she was sick he went into the chicken houses and implemented some of his “improvements,” which as usual only screwed things up. I’ve told The Boy he could end up just like Sunshine, which he dismisses but its becoming more evident as time goes on — especially in his attempt to domineer Mason.

“I’m not having Mason throw his fits because he’s not getting his way, I’ll bust his butt!”

“Hm,” I said, “maybe I should have done that with you, then.” That shut him up, and he even looked like he was thinking about it.

One bit of comic relief came this morning. Mason once again snatched the pen and Moleskine out of my shirt pocket. “You got an idea for a story?” I asked him. He responded with a long string of vowels that, if I could only translate it, was no doubt the plot to a best-selling series that would eclipse J.K. Rowling. Mrs. Fetched bought him off with another pen, and he proceeded to the nearest wall and would have begun his first draft had she not stopped him. He cut loose with the Screech once again when she took the pen away.

White Pickups, Episode 77

Ironic — the photo in this post was taken March 2, 2011 — exactly one year before the date of this episode…

Contents

Friday, March 2, 2012

After the first week of pipeline construction, things started smoothing out. Packs of wild dogs were still a problem outside the fence, but there were plenty of weapons at each work site and the dogs started to keep their distance. With the spring head mostly complete, the hardest part was done and now Cody had rotated off the work crews for a day. Lunch was over, and he was free for the afternoon. It felt weird, nobody needing his help or even an opinion for a change, and he wasn’t in the mood to play video games (or chit-chat with fellow kibitzers while waiting his turn), so he wandered through Laurel for lack of a better idea. A line from something he couldn’t remember — doing nothing in particular, and thinking nothing in particular — ran through his mind, and it suited him. Aloneness weighed on him… funny, now that there were so few people around, he’d forgotten how to enjoy time with only himself.

Splotches of yellow — daffodils — caught his eye. The cheerful flowers were a welcome distraction. They seemed to be all over the place: growing in flowerbeds, along the streets, in yards that hadn’t yet been plowed for gardens, it didn’t seem to matter to them. Cody liked their attitude, and ended up picking a handful without much thinking about it beyond remembering Ben’s foraging admonishment: leave some for next year. As he continued to wander, he found himself walking across the lot behind the townhouses, where Sondra’s grave stood waiting for him. He looked at the cairn, looked down at the flowers, and nodded.

He sat on the end of the cairn. “Hey. I brought you some flowers,” he said, and laid them on the rocks. He heard a gasp, and Caitlin’s head popped up on the other side.

“You — oh,” she said, looking at Cody and the small heap of daffodils. “Hey.”

“Hey,” Cody said. “What…” he waved his hands.

“Sorry. I can go if you want.”

“You don’t have to.”

Caitlin boosted herself onto the other end of the cairn, understanding the rest of Cody’s first question. “I like to come out here sometimes.”

“Yeah. How’s your shoulder? Still sore?”

“Not really. Ashley checks it for infection, and Rita gave me some exercises to do so it won’t get stiff. I wish class hadn’t got canceled, though. Jenn-Mom makes me wear a jacket and a pad underneath when I practice, then she’s always telling me to be careful. Like I’m made of glass or something.”

Cody laughed. “Moms are like that. Sometimes, you need some space from all that. I guess that’s why you come out here.”

“No. It’s just that… Ashley and Lily aren’t mean to me or anything, but sometimes I just feel like I don’t belong with them anymore. I don’t belong anywhere. So I come out here and sit. Sometimes, I’ll talk to Sondra, tell her what’s going on.”

“Yeah, me too. She ever talk back?”

“Sometimes.” Caitlin clapped her hand over her mouth.

“It’s okay. She talks to me sometimes too.”

“I’m not very good at keeping secrets,” Caitlin said. “My mom used to say my mouth runs great but it don’t have no brakes. So I hope you won’t get mad if I say you said that.”

“I don’t care. Sondra liked you, you know.”

Caitlin looked surprised. “She did? I thought… well, you know… that she would have been jealous or something.”

“He — heck, no. She thought it was funny. Or she thought the way I reacted was funny, anyway. I wish my sister was still here. She was about your age, and she woulda liked you too. She’d tell you a bunch of stupid things about me, then you’d just laugh at me.”

Caitlin shook her head. “I wouldn’t laugh. What was her name?”

“Katera, but she liked to be called Teri. I always thought she was a pain in the ass back Before, but now… now I miss her more than anyone.”

“Even Sondra?”

“Almost. Maybe as much, anyway.”

They sat on each end of the cairn for a minute, both lost in their own thoughts. “So why do you think you don’t belong?” Cody asked. “Do they just ignore you or something?”

“I don’t know,” she sighed. “They’re nice, especially lately… they kind of act like they’re afraid of me sometimes. They tease me a little, but I don’t mind that much. But me and Ashley have a bedroom together, and it’s — I don’t know, it’s like Lily’s her friend more than I am. Jennifer’s nice, so are Tim and Sara, but they’re trying to get ready for the baby. If I wasn’t around — if I wasn’t, I wonder if anyone would notice.” Caitlin looked away, wiping her eyes.

“They’d notice.”

“How do you know?”

“Well, for one thing, there’s not enough people around. If someone was missing, everyone would know pretty quick. But that’s not the only reason… I’m trying to figure out how to say this. There has to be a reason why you — and me, and everyone else are still walking around instead of taking the Forever Road Trip, y’know? We can’t afford to lose anyone else.” He patted the rock. “Me and Sondra… we talked about having our first kid next — this year. She used to say, ‘a kid or four,’ so I guess we’d have been raising a lot of them. When you’re older, you’ll be having your own kids, too.”

“Yeah right. There’d have to be someone who wants to marry me.”

“It’ll happen. I never thought anyone would love me the way Sondra did, but it happened. Maybe it’ll happen again.”

“It did happen… but I’m too little.”

“Hey. Y’know, there’s some guys who wouldn’t care about that. They’d use you, maybe hurt you, and make you think it was your fault. Don’t let that happen to you, okay? ’Cause if it did, I’d have to throw the son of a bitch in a truck.”

Caitlin shook her head. “I won’t. Maybe those kind of people are already all in trucks though.”

“You never know. Hey… you want to talk to me, you can find me. Or maybe talk to Jennifer. She probably understands this shit better than I do. Sondra and me was something that just happened. And I bet if you ask her, she’ll make time for you.”

“Maybe. I guess I should go now. Thanks, Cody.” She slid off the cairn onto the grass.

“Sure. Hey, wait a minute.” Cody picked up a few flowers and offered them to her. “Take these with you, okay?”

Caitlin looked dubious at first, then grinned. “Thanks.”

Cody watched her walk away. In a lower voice, “I wish I knew how to deal with her.”

You did pretty good, actually.

“Yeah right. She still wants to be my girlfriend, and maybe just anyone’s friend. She’s as messed up as I am.”

Was.

“Huh?”

You’re not so messed up now.

“If that’s true, it’s only because you were there for me.”

Now you can be there for someone else.

“Yeah? Who?”

No answer. Cody sighed and slipped off the cairn. He’d made Caitlin feel better, maybe, and that was something.

continued…

Viruses Suck

I’m talking about the biological kind, naturally. Panda had it earlier this week; he got it from his kids who brought it home from school. Daughter Dearest and I came down with it Friday night, Mason yesterday, and Mrs. Fetched has it now. It's this stomach virus that induces nausea and diarrhea (or as it’s pronounced in the local dialect, “die rear” — rather appropriate).

Fortunately, it only lasts about 36 hours. I never threw up, although I thought I would once or twice, and ate two mugs of soup and a piece of toast all day yesterday. I had better lose a couple pounds over this.

#FridayFlash: Accidental Sorcerers 1

This story could be considered as accidental as the characters. My blog-buddy AndiF posts a daily photo and a circle of friends gather around and talk about whatever — sometimes, even the photo. We got to chatting about this particular one (shown below), and Andi said I’m thinking that it has to wait for an ice spider to spin an ice web over its bones to catch the snow. I immediately felt that familiar tickle, and over the next day or so the story pretty much wrote itself.

As Tolkien said, “the tale grew in the telling,” and it soon spawned some sequels — one of which was a story I’d written a long time ago, on the same “accidental sorcery” theme; it took almost no effort to tie it in. There will be four parts, unless there’s five or six. The title came to me after I tweeted that a lot of my fantasy involves the consequences of people using magic that they don’t fully understand, and John Wiswell responded, “Oh, so like it would really be?”

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Accidental Sorcerers #1
Awakening an Ice Dragon

The wind carried loose snow and the thud of cannon fire. Two ghost-like figures followed the creek bank, stopping then moving on.

“Where’d it go?”

“It’s around here somewhere. I saw it yesterday. It couldn’t have thawed.”

“Why are we doing this?” The first speaker pulled back the white sheet, revealing a girl’s face. She looked over her shoulder.

“Keep covered!” her companion rasped. “My uncle said the soldiers are close. Some of them might even be around here.”

“Chill, Mik. We’d see them first.”

“I’m already chilled.”

“So why are we out here?”

“Duh, Robi. The grownups won’t try this. You gotta be pure to make an ice dragon and not have it turn on you. Why do you think they let us leave, instead of making us help pack up to evacuate?”

A string of cannon fire rumbled across the distance, and Robi flipped the sheet back over her hood. “Pure is a pretty big word,” she said. “Is anyone pure? I bet the priest would say no.”

Mik stopped again, searching the bank. “I think it means virgin in this case. So we’re safe. At least I am.” He turned to Robi, grinning a question, then blushed and looked away. “Don’t answer that. I’m doing this anyway.”

“Geez, Mik.” Robi was both annoyed and relieved. She hadn’t done that… but did Piet’s clumsy groping count? Just that once? It didn’t matter. She and Mik had been friends all of their thirteen years, and if he admitted to virginity, she believed him. He’d just started noticing other girls anyway.

Photo: Andi Ferguson

“There! I think.” Mik’s excited cry startled her out of her thoughts. She followed his finger to the stream’s edge and saw it etched in the ice: skull, part of a spine and tail, a leg, some of it covered by snow. More snow swirled around them, hiding the skeleton for a moment.

“Careful, Mik. Don’t step on it,” as Mik eased down the bank.

“Yeah. Give me your hand in case I slip.” Hands in heavy gloves clasped, then Mik reached a flat spot and helped Robi down.

“You got the spider, right?”

Mik gave her a horrified stare for a moment, then laughed. “Yeah.” He took a stoppered bottle out of his coat pocket, the bottle he’d shown her yesterday. The frost spider webbed his window for a week of nights, until Mik managed to catch it in the first light of dawn — the only time it could be seen. A piece of paper blundered out from the bottom of his sheet, and Robi stooped to catch it before the wind did.

“Thanks. That’s the needle.” Mik hoped his mom wouldn’t miss it; she’d kill him ice dragon or no.

“We’re here. Now what?”

“What, you don’t remember the rhyme?” He recited:

When winter winds moan,
The ice dragon’s bones
Can be found alongside the river.

The blood of the pure
Shed without fear:
The ice dragon comes to deliver.

The frost spider spins
A white snowy skin
And blood brings the dragon awake.

But impure blood burns,
The dragon shall turn,
The bones of the wicked to break.

Robi joined him as he spoke. “Just from other kids. I guess my parents thought it was too scary.”

Mik nodded, then knelt next to the skeleton. He held his bottle over it, then opened the stopper and shook the bottle. They couldn’t see the spider, but it began to knit: slowly at first, then gaining speed.

“It’s not going to be a very big dragon,” said Robi. “It’s what, four feet nose to tail tip?”

“Better than nothing.” He slipped off his gloves and jabbed with the needle several times. “I keep missing!”

“You keep closing your eyes! Here, let me.” She rubbed a little snow on his fingertip and squeezed his finger, turning it red before poking it with the needle.

“Huh. I barely felt that.” He watched his blood drip onto the dragon. “Seven drops should be enough. It’s lucky, anyway.” He thrust his finger into the snow to make the bleeding stop, then donned his gloves. “Look!”

With a crackling noise, the ice dragon pulled itself free of the river ice and clambered onto the bank, facing the children. Its gaze fixed on Mik as he pushed Robi behind him.

Why have you awakened me? The ice dragon’s voice was chattering teeth, cutting wind, crunching of crusty snow. Robi thought it looked a lot bigger than it really was… or was it growing?

“An enemy has invaded our lands,” said Mik. “Will you make them leave?”

The dragon looked down at them now — it was growing, alright. Make them leave? Why not kill them all?

Mik thought a moment. “No. We just want to be left in peace. You don’t have to kill them if they go away.”

Yet some will die.

“Well… our own soldiers would have killed more of them. It’s not right to want them dead, but soldiers die in wars.”

The huge head cocked over. Its eye was a ball of ice, fixing them in its glare. I judge you pure of heart. It shall be as you desire. The dragon leaped over them, making them duck, then glided away, gathering more snow to itself. It seemed to grow as huge as winter itself as it departed, playing tricks with perspective.

“You did it,” Robi whispered. “You’re a hero.”

“I hope it’s enough. Huh. I guess pure didn’t mean virgin after all.”

She laughed and nudged him. “I bet you won’t be a virgin by spring, not if you don’t want to be. All the girls will want you.”

Mik stared into the flying snow. “I doubt it. No one will ever believe I summoned an ice dragon.”

But everyone believed. They had to.

continued…

And Another One’s Gone, Another One’s Gone…

The end of Snippet looks to be a permanent thing now. M.A.E., who is plugged into the goings-on of The Boy better than I am, tells me that Snippet has moved in with whoever it was she slept around with on The Boy. Meanwhile, he’s found a new prospective girlfriend, whom I met this evening. A few too many piercings for my taste, but M.A.E. says she’s more mature than his typical interest (and has a kid of her own).

But that’s not what I’m here to talk about. I’m here to talk about Lobster. He seems to have hooked up with someone — she’s ten years older than him, and not exactly divorced. In fact, according to M.A.E.* she wasn’t even separated when she hooked up with Lobster on Facebook. So I guess she moved out in the last couple days, and Lobster is slowly packing his gear and moving in with her. It is with no sense of irony that they are living in Cumming (Georgia).

I hope this doesn’t blow up in Lobster’s face. He lets his small head do too much of his thinking, and people (especially on Planet Georgia) do get shot on occasion in situations like this. But for now, it looks like Lobster will be moving on and once again going off the radar in our ongoing soap opera.

Although Big V’s grandson Skyler might replace him…

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*I’d have her write this post herself, except her spelling is atrocious. ;-)

White Pickups, Episode 76

Friday, February 24, 2012

The first part of the pipeline project involved everyone in Laurel: those not building the spring head or laying the pipe itself, or finding and hauling material to the worksites, were preparing meals or barricading roads. School was canceled for the week after Caitlin scraped her shoulder, simply because everyone was in the thick of everything to do with the pipeline. It seemed to Cody that everyone wanted his opinion or help —

What do we do with the pipe itself? “Lay it on the ground now, bury it when we know there’s no leaks.”

There’s only enough four-inch pipe to reach a third of the way back to Laurel! “There’s plenty of smaller roll pipe around. Let’s switch over once we run out and hope we can find more big pipe later.”

How do we deal with all the road crossings? Won’t the trucks crush the pipe? “Cut a deep enough groove in the pavement to lay the pipe, then mortar over it.”


Rita had a busy week too. Caitlin’s shoulder was just the beginning; an easy beginning at that. Everyone looking for supplies or building the spring head all had to deal with wild dogs — having exhausted vast supplies of garbage over the winter, former masters forgotten or resented, with the coming spring the packs were hunting and staking territory. Two people were bitten, and Johnny narrowly escaped being a third. He couldn’t get his carbine around in time, but Tim was facing the right way and shot it — almost hitting Johnny. It was Sheldon who suggested finding Super Soakers and filling them with ammonia, and that worked as well as the guns when the dogs got too close. Getting hit with a stream of ammonia was only an annoyance, compared to a bullet, so people were more willing to use the squirt guns.

But it was the accidents kept Rita busy. Rains made the ground slick, and falls led to several sprains and one broken wrist. Max dislocated his shoulder at the spring head; meditation and a dose of oxycontin allowed Rita and a helper to set it on the spot with only minimal discomfort. They put him on the backboard and rode him back to Laurel on a trailer.

Late winter weather in Georgia can (and does) change every which way, often overnight. With no nightly forecasts on TV, people often worked with one eye on the job and the other on the sky. Working outside in variable weather led to numerous colds, which people tried to ignore despite Rita’s admonitions, and several people had colds worsen nearly to pneumonia.


“I’m worried about Ashley,” Rita told Johnny one night, as she climbed into bed after a long night at the clinic. “She’s a big help, but she’s still just eleven. I’m afraid she’s over her head.”

“Send her home.” Johnny had been dozing a little, but had forced himself awake when Rita came in. “She needs her rest. So do you.”

“I did send her home. Me, I’m used to late nights. Even this hasn’t been as bad as most Saturday nights at Grady. One broken wrist, one dislocated shoulder, two dog bites, and everything else has been minor injuries. Or bad colds. It’s been a busy week, even for the clinic in Chamblee, but we’ll manage. It would be nice to have an MD on call, though, just in case.”

“You’re our doctor, Rita. Everyone trusts you.”

She sighed. “I haven’t been called on to do surgery yet, thank God. I’ve been studying, but…” She shuddered. “I just hope Ashley is ready when the time comes. I hope I am.”

“This is gonna sound stupid, but I’m gonna say it anyway. Why not take up veterinary surgery? We have a few dogs and cats that need to be fixed. I mean, it would suck if something went wrong, but not as much as losing a person. It would give you some practice, too.”

A long silence. “Maybe that would help. I’d have to find some veterinary books, though. Maybe when things settle down.”

“Yeah.”

“Ashley’s been such a big help. She runs the clinic when I have to go on a call. Even when the other kids are helping, she’s there to make sure they’re doing what needs to be done. I know children bounce back, but they need their sleep too.”

“She’ll be all right.”

“I hope so.”


Rita woke up the next morning feeling queasy. She worked through the morning, and all but forgot about it.

continued…

Weekend Roundup

There’s been enough stuff going on, but not enough time to post mid-week. I hate when that happens, so I’ll just dump everything in one post…

The Boy and I replaced brake pads on both my Civic and Mrs. Fetched’s on Monday afternoon (which was a paid holiday in the US). Doing this without a C-clamp — or rather, being unable to find any of several C-clamps I should have around the manor — to push the brake piston into the caliper can be rather difficult. After a lot of frustration, I hit on the idea of using this gigantic ancient screwdriver I found laying on the highway to pry against the brake pad, and that worked. The next three calipers combined took us less time than the first.

But I’d been hearing some disturbing rumors, and decided to come right out and ask The Boy about it: “Are you and Snippet back together?”

“Yeah.”

AAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRGHHHH!!!!!!

Fortunately, what goes up must come down, and The Boy came in from work this morning in a sour mood. Seems that Snippet is “still confused about whether she loves me, so I made it really easy on her, I’m done with her.” WOOHOOOO!!! I hope it’s permanent this time. Snippet may have made threats about getting custody of Mason (not gonna happen) because he’s talking about having him “legitimized.” Seems like since Mason’s family name (on his birth certificate) is the same as The Boy’s, it shouldn’t be difficult. Besides, the paper granting Mrs. Fetched guardianship obligates her to make sure he’s cared for. Snippet didn’t care enough to get her skinny @$$ out of bed in the afternoon to take care of him when she was here, so why would things be different when nobody’s trying to get her to do anything at all?


Excuses for not writing:

1) Your grandbaby snatched your pen and Moleskine out of your shirt pocket. (See, I’ve got proof!)

2) The rest of the family thinks that watching TV is infinitely more important than taking care of said grandbaby, so they drop the kid on the one person who has better things to do than watch TV.

3) Feline interference.

Actually, I’ve been doing some writing… mostly #FridayFlash stories. I just haven’t had much time to dedicate to a serious edit of White Pickups, which is needed to fix various issues. There’s also a sequel to attend to. I wasn’t planning to serialize that one here on the blog, but if that’s what it takes to get me to finish it… I’ll need lots of urging in the comments as I post episodes though. Ideas come fast and furious these days, and even if they don’t, there are various writing prompts to try. Not to mention ideas I’ve shelved…

There are various “collectors” out there, and I’ve started submitting White Pickups to the Tuesday Serial collector and my flash stories to the FridayFlash collector. I had what I think is a wicked-cool idea for a flash collector: send a story link, it strips out everything but the story and compiles all submissions into a weekly anthology (or magazine if you prefer) in both ePub and MOBI formats. The whole thing could be automated — probably would have to be if it caught on — and would give people who have eReaders and long stretches of time offline the chance to keep up with the many good stories being blogged out there.

Some people put audio versions of their flash stories on Audioboo. My test run with that suggests the story needs to be around 750 words maximum to fit in the 5 minutes provided there. But I might try it. I do occasionally write something really short (I have one that’s less than 200 words in current trim) so I do have some fodder to work with.


I would love to take a vacation. Daughter Dearest is home for spring break, which would have been a good time to go. Oh well, I hope it means I’ll get a little relief from the near-nightly (and all weekend) Mason-sitting for a couple weeks. The Boy and I did take him over to the park this afternoon, among other things, and he didn’t want to go back inside when we got home. He needed a nap, and refused to take one, then finally demanded a bottle. He usually only gets a bottle at bedtime now, but we were both tired and cranky and I figured it was worth a try. He was out in ten minutes.

Oh, and the battery died in my motorcycle — at work, naturally. Fortunately, it’s light enough to push to the top of the driveway and I was able to roll-start it and get home. But with gas prices going through the roof all of a sudden, this wasn’t the time. (But is there ever a good time to have your battery die?)

#FridayFlash: The Philosopher’s Stone

This one is based on Icy Sedgwick’s Photo Prompt 20. The prompts that prompt me get me to ask a question: the resulting story answers the question. In this case, the tale is a cautionary one — sometimes, a great discovery doesn’t always work out…

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The Philosopher’s Stone

We accept your invitation for March 14th. Her Grace has business nearby and will personally attend your demonstration. I myself will accompany her…

Giovanni put the letter aside. Marco felt threatened, as well he should. He, Giovanni, had discovered the Philosopher’s Stone! Because of him, gold would become as common as dirt. Three weeks, and yet much work to do.


Marco swept through Giovanni’s door unannounced, giving the front room a disapproving inspection —

“Behold Her Grace!” a herald called from the doorway. Giovanni immediately turned and knelt.

“Arise,” said the queen, bored with ceremony. “You are the one whose demonstration I have come to see?”

“Your Grace,” Marco sneered, “we may be in the wrong place. The Giovanni who wrote us claims to be an alchemist. We seem to have found the apothecary instead.”

“I am the one, Your Grace,” said Giovanni, refusing to be cowed by the likes of Marco. “I am also the apothecary to this village, which provides the income to pursue my true calling.”

“Impressive — to have discovered the Philosopher’s Stone in a part-time pursuit.”

“Your Grace is kind. But I have not labored unaided. My brother is the local monsignor, and I have a letter of commendation from the bishop as I successfully treated his gout.” Let Marco chew on that — any ill he plotted would be returned.

“I see,” said the queen. “And thus you found it. How?”

“Your Grace, you yourself know the Church has preserved a great body of ancient knowledge, to which I was granted access. From Roma, my research led me to a monastery in Persia, where is stored a certain manuscript from faraway Bharat. Clues I found in Roma — and much prayer — allowed me to unlock its secrets.”

“A pretty story,” Marco sneered, “but incredible. A mere village apothecary, no matter how well-traveled, discovering what so many have searched for their entire lives? If you were certain of success, you should have sent your notes.”

And let you steal the credit? “Eminent Marco, it is said that extraordinary claims require extraordinary proof. I intend to provide that proof.”

“So you intend to put on your show?”

“Aye.”

“Your fraud will —”

“Marco,” the queen interrupted, “enough. We were invited to be witnesses. Let Giovanni succeed or fail without further harassment.”

Marco sketched a bow and mumbled “Your Grace.”

Giovanni made a more sincere bow. “The queen is kind. All is ready in my laboratory. This way, if you please.” He conducted them into the next room, and lifted heavy lead-lined aprons from the wall. “Some of the manuscript, I was unable to translate satisfactorily. I am unsure whether these are for safety. But with such distinguished guests, I err on the side of caution. I believe the power of the Stone brought to bear on mere flesh can cause harm.”

“The Stone. What is the Stone?”

“That, eminent Marco, is a misnomer that led us all astray. It is not a stone at all, but metal! The manuscript spoke of mines in what are now German and Slavic districts. There I found the ores.

“The refining process is exacting. The manuscript says that a certain amount of refined metal is required, and must not be brought together into a single mass until the proper moment. The base metal is packed around two pieces of Stone, and brought together with a great weight atop. Perhaps you wish to examine the apparatus before we begin?”

Marco nodded and peered into the open furnace. “This brown stuff — that is it?”

“Aye.”

“So unimposing. Perhaps that too has kept it hidden. Well… proceed, then.”

Giovanni turned to the wall, where a sturdy crank was mounted. With a silent prayer, he released the catch and let go the handle; it spun madly as a mass dropped from above and struck the mass below with a flat WHUMP.

Marco smiled. “Nothing. You have failed. As expected.”

(Photo: Icy Sedgwick)

“It grows warm,” the herald said. The furnace hissed and popped, then the stone vessels shattered. Molten yellow poured forth.

“A miracle!” The herald gasped. They stood transfixed in the growing heat, until Marco seized a crucible by its long handle and dipped it in the flow. He pulled it to them and all stared at the contents wide-eyed.

“It glows with an inner light!” the queen breathed. “Marco: speak true. Do you find fraud in this?”

“If fraud there is,” Marco whispered, “I cannot find it.”

“Then acknowledge him,” she commanded.

Marco gave a sour look, but sketched a brief bow. “Maestro.”

“Maestro Giovanni,” Her Grace smiled. “What will you need to bring your apparatus to our court?”

“All can fit in ten wagons. Except, of course, the furnace.”

“Very well. Marco of course will assist you with all his talent. We will withdraw now. Begin preparations immediately.”

“Of course, Your Grace. Please, take the crucible as my personal gift to you.”


The pounding at his door did not wake Giovanni, for exultation precluded sleep. He put down his short sword when he recognized the herald’s voice: “Open, in the name of the queen!”

The herald entered. “Your services as apothecary are required,” he said. “We vomit, and our bowels run like water.”

“Tainted food,” Giovanni said, then started. “I have never known Pietro’s inn to serve bad food!”

“It was ours,” the herald said as Giovanni spooned powder into a packet. “Heads will roll at the court over this!”

“Stir this into warm tea for each of you. Who would do this?”

The herald rubbed his head, then looked at the loose hair in his hand. “Any of them.” He paused. “Marco… beware of him. He is envious.”

“I will, and thank you.” Giovanni himself felt a little queasy, and he’d eaten… nothing. He’d forgotten supper. Forcing himself to eat a bite, he then took a pinch of his own powder.


Two days later, a hearse conducted the remains of the royal entourage back to the palace. The village was in turmoil, and Giovanni departed on the advice of his brother. The villagers were used to his comings and goings, so few noticed.

Another day, another village. In the afternoon, a dead man arrived atop a cart, slumped over the reins. The cart and its contents were looted. A stack of books fed only the fires…

White Pickups, Episode 75

Contents

Monday, February 20, 2012

Miss Sally closed her folder. “This is a good stopping point,” she said, glancing at the figure in the doorway. “Professor Ball is here for science, so I’ll turn things over to him. Don’t forget your homework: pick a story, identify its central conflict, and explain why it’s important.” She stood and motioned for Charles to come in.

The schoolroom was the former workout room. It had tall windows that welcomed the morning sun, and blinds for when it got too bright. The teacher and student desks, pilfered from Ben’s old school, were lined up along the windows so they only needed artificial light on rainy days. Sometimes, Stefan and his boyfriend would come to use the exercise bikes, sweating and puffing as quiet as possible while the kids had class.

“Give me five or ten minutes,” said Charles, as Miss Sally left through the glass door. “I want to organize my thoughts a little, and I’m sure some of you could use a bathroom break.”

Caitlin flipped her notebook shut and stood. “Yeah, I need to pee,” she said in a low voice. Lily giggled, but she and Ashley both got up and followed, flanking her about a half-step behind. The boys brought up the rear, talking between themselves. Caitlin thought about how much things kept changing — just a few weeks ago, it was Ashley up front with Lily and herself following, but now she was in the lead. How — and why — did that happen?

Their bathrooms were the public clubhouse bathrooms, almost directly across the hallway outside — left to the pool, right to the staircase, straight on to the johns, as Sheldon once said. There were no windows, but Caitlin and Ashley turned on their flashlights and hung them on sconces the grownups installed near the mirrors when they put in the composting toilets. This gave the bathroom a dim light, enough to see what needed to be seen.

“Have you guys picked out your story yet?” Lily’s voice reverberated off the tile walls.

“Not really,” said Caitlin. “Right now, I don’t care. I just hope Professor Ball finishes his lesson early. I am so bored!”

“And what’s after science class?” Ashley asked; Lily joined her in a sing-song answer, “Skate class!” They both giggled.

“Yeah, whatever,” Caitlin said, finishing up. “It could be gardening for all I care. I just want to get outside.”

The other girls said nothing, in silent agreement. This was the nicest day they’d had so far this year, after all. No jacket required for once, even inside once the sun had warmed things up. It seemed wrong to be cooped up indoors on a day like this. Just another way things have changed, Caitlin thought — back Before she would have watched TV and snacked, regardless of weather. And skating? skateboarding? Never in a zillion years. True, she had worked hard at it to begin with, just to get Cody’s attention and approval, but now she worked at it because she was good and wanted to get better. Let them think what they wanted.


Cody had a surprise waiting for the kids: a low ramp, made from a sheet of plywood and some scrap lumber. The high side stood maybe two feet off the pavement. It had a brief platform, about a foot wide between the slope and empty air.

“I’m not quite up to building a quarterpipe,” Cody explained. “This’ll do, until we can get over to the skate park. Anyway, a ramp’s a little easier to start out with, and it’ll give you an idea of what to expect.

“We’re gonna start by rolling off with our skateboards. When you’re comfortable with that, we’ll practice doing some turnarounds. That should get us through today, and we’ll try a couple other things with our skates later.” He laid his stick on the narrow flat area on top, letting the front wheels rest on the slope. The rear wheels hung in a little gap between two of the boards. “Just put your back wheels here in this gap, it’ll keep your stick from rolling before you’re ready.” He stepped up and placed a foot over the back wheels. “Look forward, lean forward. When you get to the bottom, put some weight on your back wheels so the front don’t try to plow into the asphalt. Okay? You got your armor on, and you won’t go fast enough to worry about it anyway. Give it a little nudge and you’re off, just like this: ready-fire-aim.”

Cody rolled down the ramp, hit the pavement, made a wide turn in the empty street. He gave a kick and rolled back to rejoin his class. “Just like that. When you come off the ramp, straighten up and you’ll be fine. Who’s first?”

To his surprise, Ashley and both boys joined Caitlin in volunteering, and Caitlin looked nearly as surprised as he felt. “Huh. Well, I guess we’ll go in alphabetical order: Ashley, Ben, Caitlin, Sheldon. Lily, you stand at the bottom and watch what they do. If they don’t wipe out, just do what they do when it’s your turn.” She nodded and moved to stand where Cody pointed.

Ashley shifted on her board and it started rolling. She wobbled a moment, but stayed upright and rode it out. She rolled off the ramp, then took a wide turn like Cody’s but picked up her board and walked back when she’d slowed enough. Ben got fixated on the bottom of the ramp and fell. His pads kept him from getting hurt, and Cody gave him the “eyes up next time” sign. Caitlin rolled down like she’d done it all her life, then stopped with a showy braking maneuver Cody had shown her outside of class. She kicked her board up, caught it, and carried it back, looking a little smug. Sheldon rolled down and away without trouble. He still had trouble slowing and turning, so he rolled until he could stop, then turned around and kicked his way back.

Lily looked a little nervous. “You see that mailbox way down there?” Cody asked her. She nodded. “Good. Keep your eyes on it until you’re off the ramp. You saw Ben wipe out, right? He was looking at the pavement, and you go where you look. So don’t look down. Just do what you do on a driveway.” She nodded again, mounted the ramp, rolled away.

She stayed upright and yelled “I did it! I did it!” as she continued to roll away. Like Sheldon, she had difficulty braking and turning. She rolled to a stop and walked her board back with a big grin.

“Not bad, guys!” Cody grinned. “Ben, you wanna try again? Just watch the mailbox like Lily did, okay?” He nodded, mounted the ramp, rolled down and this time stayed on the board. He made his turn and came back.

“Cool. You know how I made you guys practice that one-eighty? Now you’ll do something useful with it. Lemme show you.” He rolled up the street a ways, stopped, turned around. “Now I’m gonna come up the ramp. When I stop, or almost stop, I’ll kick around and come back down.” A few strong kicks sent him up the street; he rolled about halfway up the ramp, turned and descended. “You’ll want to know how to do this when you’re on a halfpipe.”

“We’re not as fast as you, Cody,” said Caitlin. “How are we gonna get up enough speed to do anything?”

Caitlin was up to something, but Cody had no idea what. She had a good point, though. “I could pull you on my bike, I guess. You wanna go first?”

“Sure.”

Cody picked up his mountain bike from the grass and rode up the street, Caitlin following on her board. “Okay, just hang on to the rack, then let go when I tell you, got it?” Caitlin nodded and Cody got them going.

“Now!” Caitlin gave a grunt and a hard pull on the rack before letting go, hitting the ramp faster than Cody intended. As she reached the top, she ollie’d and sailed over the narrow platform, drawing shrieks from the other girls. She landed off-balance and fell, hitting the pavement on her side, her skateboard tumbling up and over the curb.

Cody left his bike on the street and ran to her, cursing. “You okay?”

“I think so,” she said, clambering to her feet. “Ow.” She felt her left shoulder. “I think I scraped it up.”

“Road rash!” Cody said.

“Abrasion,” said Ashley. “We need to clean it and get you to Rita.”

“Just clean it,” Caitlin snapped. “I wanna try again.”

“I don’t want you trying to ollie off the ramp again, okay?” Cody looked serious. “You scared the shit out of me. Just up and down this time. Promise?”

“Fine.” Caitlin hissed as Ashley reached under her sleeve, the wet-wipe stinging her scraped skin. “This is how you learn though, right?”

“Yeah, but maybe on colder days when you can wear a jacket. Then you won’t get scraped up so much.”

continued…

Saturday in the Park

No way I’d mistake it for the Fourth of July, but it was an awesome day for February. That’s a little ironic, since the upcoming episode of White Pickups is set right at this time of year and deals with a very similar day (weather-wise).

Everyone else ran off to the chicken houses, after lunch, leaving Mason and me alone at the manor. I’d made plans for this contingency, and so we were shortly off to the park.

We started with a stroll around the perimeter path, just over a mile. Mason enjoyed all the stuff going on, especially the kids playing soccer in the practice fields next to the path. I enjoyed the moms jogging or strolling with their kids. We both enjoyed some fresh air and sunshine.

The playground is just off the path, almost all the way around from where we started, and I found a spot to park the stroller and turned him loose. He has no trouble going up stairs, and I found that with the generous handholds offered on the jungle gym, he also had no problem going down them.

I did get a little nervous when he climbed to the next platform and got out of reach. As I was trying to get him to come down the nearby slide, a little black-haired girl poked her head out of the adjacent tunnel and stared at me. I stared back.

“Moptop? Is that you?” I asked after a second.

“Are you FARf?” she responded. Sure enough, that big guy stalking around the edges of the jungle gym was Moptop’s grandpa. We chatted for a minute, me with one eye on Mason, and Moptop slipped off to hit the swing set. Mason and Moptop saw each other, said hi, then went on with their own pursuits.

After a little running, climbing, sliding, a diaper change (atomic), and watching the other kids, Mason got a little overloaded. He stopped, stood and watched the chaos, occasionally stooping to pick up a handful of wood shavings and toss them. Finally, he walked over to the fence and looked at the path. “That!” he said, several times, until I realized he was ready to get in the stroller and continue our walk.

We disposed of the nuclear waste dump he’d left in his diaper in a nearby bathroom, and I got nervous about where the car was until I realized I hadn’t gone quite all the way around, and we returned and headed on back.

He was asleep a few miles before we got home, and barely stirred when I got him out of the car seat. He only napped for 45 minutes, but he’d had a good morning nap so I wasn’t concerned.

Spring #4 is being very good to us on Planet Georgia, and Winter #5 hasn’t shown up in the extended forecast just yet. But hey, there’s still March to get through.

#FridayFlash: G-5 Goes Fishing

This concludes the G-5 flash trilogy. If you’re just joining the free-range insane asylum, here are links to the first two parts:

Part 1: G-5
Part 2: G-5’s Blast from the Past

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The ice run was profitable, but G-5 added what he called “gravy” by monitoring comms from Orbital Control and finding a cargo of iridium needing a ride. I had to look up “deadheading” — it means traveling without cargo — but I liked the word, and understood G-5’s distaste for the concept. But he had even more distaste for what was waiting for him at home.

“Do you have any idea how much I hate her?” he asked as we broke Mars orbit and burned for home.

“Since you’ve mentioned it at least eight times a day since you got her message, I have a pretty good idea.”

“Eh. No. Strangling her with my bare hands wouldn’t be good enough. I’d —”

“Hey. Remember, just saying things like that in public is a felony these days. You need to be careful.”

“This ain’t public.” G-5 grinned. “Yeah. I’m just blowing off steam before I make the call here.” He stretched, letting the tenth-gee pull his arms back. He looked nervous, even though he and gram and I had worked it all out over the last two weeks.

“Don’t worry about it,” I said. “If you swerve, we’ll just re-take. You won’t have to go real-time until we hit lunar orbit.”

“Yeah. You know this is a waste of time, right? Back before I — we went popsicle, she said she’d go to the ends of the earth to pay me back after I beat her in court.” He looked at his reflection in the dark monitor. “Whatever. Let’s do this.”

I adjusted the vid and nodded. He looked at the input and smiled. “Carolyn. I have to admit I was surprised you’d follow me, even through time, just to keep your petty little feud going. But I shouldn’t have expected anything less.

“I’ve been in touch with our great-great-great-granddaughter, Marla, who’s the current CEO. Actually, they call it Steering Prime now, same thing. Against my wishes and better judgement, Steering is making you a pretty generous counter-offer. You’ll get a trust fund that will let you live out the rest of your miserable life in comfort, as long as you stay clear of me and other ECF staff. You won’t be content — nothing ever satisfies you — but that’s the absolute best you can do.

“I know you won’t believe me, but that’ll just make it more fun to watch you go down in flames again. I didn’t need connections to beat you last time. And the legal system is entirely computerized now — you can make all the sad faces you want at an AI, and it won’t care.

“So there you have it. Take it or leave it, and I really hope you leave it — I’d love to see you cast loose without a penny. But I’m attaching contact details for Marla anyway.

“Oh… hey, I’m in a generous mood. I’ll be in cryo for six weeks, but I’ll give you one more shot at me when we’re closer to home and we can talk direct. Send me your timezone, so I’ll know when to wake you up.” He turned to me. “Well?”

“Looks good. You covered — oh, you forgot the last part —”

“Nope. I’m gonna spring that one real-time. Let’s go popsicle before she has a chance to respond. With any luck, I won’t dream of that leech.”

“Leeches are extinct.”

“All but one.”



As before, G-5 was out of cryo well before me, waiting with a sippy of warm coffee and a big grin. “The bait has attracted the fish,” he said, leaving me to figure out what that meant. “Lunar O.C. assigned us a slot, and You Know Who will be waking up in about an hour. Plenty of time to chow down.” If you’ve ever been in cryo, you know how hungry you are when you wake up. Something inside knows you haven’t eaten in months or years, and it wants to make up for lost time. Space chow isn’t great, but it’s food. Lots of fiber to keep the recyclers humming, good protein, and enough carbs and fat to give it some flavor. Some. We ate, G-5 with one eye on a chrono set for Standard minus 6 (which he called “Central Time”).

With our wake-up hunger dealt with, we slotted into lunar orbit and set up a relay to Earth. It took a few minutes, but Carolyn’s face glared at us across space. “Well,” she said, “I didn’t believe you, but you wouldn’t tell a lie so easily refuted. I checked it out, of course. It seems that I have no choice but to accept our descendant’s offer. I must say, you haven’t fared much better. Such a strange future we’ve woken up in… we’re not respected much.”

“Tell me about it. You know they call us throwbacks, right?”

The three-second delay stretched on. “Such an ugly word.”

“Yeah. And like you said… here I am. Second fiddle on a space truck.” He didn’t mention gram’s offer of a Steering seat. “At least they cured what ailed us. But you know, they don’t have popsicles now? I was thinking about starting a new business — introduce ’em to some good ol’ twenty-first century junk food.”

Her eyes brightened, a smile came to her face. “Ah. Well, I won’t trouble you further, Warren. This world has done enough to us both. Goodbye.” She cut off the call before he could respond.

G-5 grinned. “Hah! Hook, line, and sinker!” He ignored my puzzlement. “She’ll start the business herself, thinking she’s cutting me out, and I’m rid of her at last!”

That’s exactly how it went. We came home to find she’d already started 21st Century Treats, and was happy to ignore us. G-5 got his Steering seat. He promoted me to Head of Logistics, a fancy title for cultural assistant, but it beat long stretches in a tin can. I got married, had kids, and taught them to call him “G-6.”

He retaliated by teaching them his favorite words.