The Book Cover!

I know I’m weird, but I get giddy all over again just looking at it. If you want a photographic book cover, Sara Reine is a wiz with Photoshop and does great fast work at a great price. Tell her FARf sent you.

Hey FARf, stop yapping and post the cover already!


OK, OK… here it is:

Yup, there’s my real name. Now y’all know who I am. Sondra cleaned up gooooood for the book cover, didn’t she?

The only thing is, I have no idea what I’m going to do for the Pickups and Pestilence cover just yet. Oh well, I still have a while to think about that. Gotta finish the book, first things first.

#FridayFlash: Second Jude

All I can say about this is, it proves that I have a strange sense of humor. We might preserve a few things over the next 2000 years, but it’s likely that most things will get lost… or misinterpreted.

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Submitted August 18, 3911

Time is unkind.
— An adage among data archaeologists

About two thousand years ago, the Data Explosion dwarfed the so-called “population explosion” in scope. Indeed, it is only the sheer quantity of data produced, and the numerous copies made, that has allowed us to recover anything at all about that time in history. Until recently, the process was labor-intensive, requiring trained data archaeologists to reconstruct documents by matching fragments of data scattered across paper, magnetic, and optical storage devices. The development of Quantum Media Analysis is changing the field, as QMA is able to recover data from media once thought unreadable while automating matches across any number of devices. This has allowed the Department to turn to more obscure works, which may provide glimpses into many alternate modes of thought during that time.

Some of the oldest documents extant are religious works, as their adherents continuously copied and updated them as needed. However, many works not included in the primary scriptures, such as the Bible, were lost or long misplaced. One of the latter is the epistle commonly known as “Second Jude.” References to the text begin to appear in the decades following the discovery of the “Dead Sea Scrolls,” so it is often assumed that the text was part of that discovery.

Only fragments of the text survived, usually in a “modernized” paraphrased format popular during that time. In particular, the greeting is missing. Some scholars suggest that the known text is a hymn, or less likely a popular song, based on the original text.

Authorship is commonly ascribed to St. John the Apostle, as the style is reminiscent of the soaring prose of the Gospel of John and The Revelation, although the repeated exhortations are unique to this epistle. The text recovered is brief but rich in metaphor, comparing Wisdom to a desired woman and a song to the preaching of the Word. The following text was prepared by Quantum Media Analysis, and mimics the style of canonical scripture. While the analysis is imperfect — after recovering the fragment below, the text deteriorated into nonsense syllables — QMA achieved the most complete recovery to date in about an hour. Note that the media used was unreadable by other methods, yet further improvements in QMA may allow further recovery of the text.

Footnotes were inserted by the author of this report.

[1]

O Jude, I exhort thee, turn away from all evil things, that you may improve the sorrowful song. [2] Forget her [3] not, but take her into your heart; only then will your song be pleasing.

O Jude, again I exhort thee: fear not! This was the purpose for which you were created: to search diligently, that you may find her. Keep her close to you, that she may wear your very skin as her own, [4] for this is how your song shall be improved. If you suffer the pain of persecution, O Jude, cease; it is not for you to carry the world upon your shoulders. For it is written, “the foolish man shall let his fire go out.”

O Jude, I exhort thee: fail not in your purpose. Your search has borne fruit; therefore, take her as your beloved wife into your heart, that you may begin to improve your song. Cast out that which is unwholesome, that you may be filled with the Spirit. [5] O Jude, do not tarry in this matter. For know you not that otherwise you stand alone? Lift your hands, raise them to Heaven. [6]

[7]

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¹No surviving copies include the customary greetings of an epistle.
²“Song” is used to describe the preaching of the Word through this text.
³Wisdom is depicted as a woman through this text.
⁴The transliteration is unclear. This idiom is not found elsewhere in scriptural writings.
⁵QMA chose this wording. The literal “let it out, and let it in” is an idiom not found elsewhere, but is clear in context.
⁶QMA chose this wording based on context. The media was nearly unreadable at this point; only the words “move” and “shoulder” are legible.
⁷The text repeats itself, then deteriorates into nonsense, after this point. This may have been caused by an interaction between QMA and badly deteriorated media.

Wednesday Wibbles (on Thursday)

I know it’s not Wednesday, but my employer sent us to a Braves game yesterday. The pitching was rather uninspired, and the bats only slightly more so until the bottom of the 9th — then a late rally got the thin crowd on its feet until it fell two runs short. It was a lot of fun, and the manager decided to try a team-building game on the way home: state one true thing and one false thing about yourself, and let everyone guess which was which. I picked: “I’m trying to get a novel published, and I raced in road rallies during college.”

But before I go much farther, it’s time to welcome the new follower:

• Robin Eduardo — dark and disturbing horror!

Funny thing: when I dropped into my Blogger Dashboard to get this post started, it popped up one of those notifications: “Your blog is popular, why not make some money with AdSense?” But according to my stats, pageviews dropped around 25% last month… which I attribute to not posting a Friday Flash two weeks in a row. Daily counts are now recovering, though — I knew you guys wouldn’t let me down!

We’re now calling the guest room “Mason’s room,” even if he isn’t sleeping there yet. We’ve modified the barricades to let him come down the hall and go in there. With daylight coming in the windows, he had no problem crawling under the bed and coming out around the side. He loves having the extra running-around room. Me… I can no longer stake out one place and expect to always see him from there. Sigh

With vacation behind me, I’m getting back into the writing groove a little. I have no idea where tomorrow’s Friday Flash came from, but I thought it was funny. Then again, I do have a strange sense of humor. I posted another flash on Google+ last week, and I figure I need to bring it over here. Maybe next week.

I’ve set Scrivener to give me a daily word quota — Nicola Slade, an author who sometimes hangs out at Andi’s blog, quoted another author who suggested this — of 50 words. The idea is, no matter how nutso your day gets (and most of mine can get pretty nutso), you can almost always find time to put down 50 words. Since a writer in motion tends to remain in motion, that 50 words can easily become 600 or more without even realizing it happened.

I got really excited yesterday, and not just for the Braves’ almost-comeback. Earlier in the week, Sara Reine offered on Twitter to work with people on their book covers. I was pretty impressed with the work she’d done for her own book, Six Moon Summer, and I wasn’t getting much indication that either The Boy or Brand X were interested in making a little money. I gave her my “vision” for the cover on Tuesday, and by Wednesday afternoon I had a first draft. To say the least, I was excited — too excited to offer objective feedback until later this afternoon. Once I settled down enough to suggest some changes, she turned it around in roughly an hour. I’m having second thoughts about one of the changes, but again I’ll sleep on that until tomorrow. But I hope to reveal it this weekend or maybe Monday. One of the beta readers got his feedback in as I was typing this up, so it’s two down one to go.

Mrs. Fetched took her van in to get the windshield fixed after we got home from vacation, and got it back today. I don’t know whether they fixed the other issues we reported yet… probably not. Daughter Dearest is getting her blue Civic, and has gotten comfortable with a manual shift.

And that’s things around FAR Manor.

Moving Furniture

With M.A.E. out of the manor, Mrs. Fetched decided it was time to bring in the bed she bought for Mason at a yard sale last year. There were many cobwebs to clean out of various corners, and I ended up vacuuming then wiping down each part with a towel, and that got it pretty clean.

Whoever designed this bed knows little boys. It’s up off the ground, giving room for a matching dresser and cubby along one side. The door on the footboard turns the rest of the under-bed into either storage or a kid’s fortress of solitude.

Mason said, “Cheeeeeese!” as I took the picture. Where did he learn that from?

Mason watched and “helped” as I assembled everything, then put the slats, pad, and mattress on top. He was suddenly less pleased with the door, but I showed him that he could come out the back side and around and that mollified him a bit.

The cubby is a tight squeeze for a kid, even one as small as Mason, but I told him he could throw toys in there. He opened it, tossed whatever gadget he was holding at the moment, then closed it. Now if we can get him to do that consistently…

He’s still in the crib for now, and this will be the guest bed until he’s old enough to sleep in it himself.

Clearing House

This is what the room that M.A.E. was staying in looks like at the moment:

Mrs. Fetched finally got tired of saying she was going to chuck her out and actually did it. I’ll be at work when M.A.E. comes waddling in after a long weekend of boyfriend-banging, expecting Mrs. Fetched to take her to a doctor’s appointment, but I’d love to see the look on her face when she sees this. Nothing says GTFO like removing all the furniture.

This is the state of the carpet after we applied an entire can of cleaner. She and especially Moptop were none too careful about what they spilled on a white carpet. We’ll probably end up ripping all that out and putting in a wood floor, since we have enough to do this room.

Meanwhile, The Boy got tired of saying he’s moving to Wisconsin and appears to actually be doing it. A friend of his says he’s lined up a factory job for The Boy (he works there too, juicy union wages), and The Boy says he’ll never get along here, so he packed his car last night and is cashing some checks for the trip as I type.

I’m of two minds about The Boy leaving: there are risks, but there are also risks in staying here and working a construction job. The difference is, he has a well-defined safety net here. On the other hand, it’ll be a good experience for him. If he thrives (and survives a Wisconsin winter), he will be happier than he was here. My family is across Lake Michigan, a long drive to be sure but shorter than all the way back to Planet Georgia. I ended up wishing him well, while Mrs. Fetched just hopes he’ll cough up some of what he owes us. Only one way to find out, I guess.

One thing I’m not conflicted about: the move has put a massive strain on his relationship with Snippet. She wants to stay where she already has a job, even if it’s a part-time retail job. More importantly, all her friends are here. (“All her boy-toys too,” said Mrs. Fetched.) She’s been the one putting pressure on him to stay — the exact wrong thing to do with anyone having the in-laws’ genetic code. Telling him (or Mrs. Fetched) something they don’t want to hear only makes them more determined to do what they’ve already decided. I didn’t bother to tell Snippet that, though… she doesn’t listen any better than The Boy.

Finally… we forklifted Daughter Dearest and her belongings over to the college to begin her senior(!) year on Saturday night. She’s staying with a lady from the church choir she sings in while at college, so we’re saving a ton of money on room and board while DD has a nice quiet place to study. The lady has no Internet access, but DD managed to “find” an unsecured wifi node…

So the manor has mostly emptied out for a while. It’s just Mason, Lobster (who is allowed to live here because he helps Mrs. Fetched with the chickens), and sometimes Skylar.

#FridayFlash: On the Georgia Road

This is the “crisis of confidence” story I referred to two weeks ago. After I thought it over, I decided to go with it. See (Late) Wednesday Wibbles (the previous post) for some details and an invitation to join the writing fun.

It’s a peak-oil story, similar to FAR Future, set in a slightly different alternate universe.

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“As much as we like to complain here in Atlanta about fuel rationing and long lines at the gas pump, it’s good to remember that there are people just north and west of here who don’t even have that. Some of them even still manage to commute to their jobs downtown or in the suburbs. Sean McKinzie has more, in our first segment of On the Georgia Road.”

Cut to: Sean McKinzie standing under a large road sign: CAUTION / UNINCORPORATED AREA / PROCEED AT YOUR OWN RISK / SERVICES MAY BE UNAVAILABLE BEYOND THIS POINT. “Thanks, Marcia. You’ve seen these signs before. You may have even passed one, for whatever reason. But people live behind them. Some of them pass these signs each day. On the Georgia Road, we’ll have a look at their lives.”

Cut to: empty retail strips, deserted housing developments, lonely roads, overgrown yards. Lights going out, huge stacks of firewood, horse-drawn wagons piled with hay. Voiceover: “The Emergency Services Preservation Act, or ESPA, defined what we now call the Georgia Quadrangle, bounded by I-75 on the west, I-20 on the north, and I-16 on the south. It includes the five-county metro Atlanta region as well as Macon, Savannah, and Augusta. Muscogee County, including Columbus and Fort Benning, is an enclave. These are areas that the federal government declared essential. The State of Georgia added Hall County to secure the Lake Lanier water supply, and extended the northern border to US-78 to include Clarke County and the University of Georgia. The rest is Unincorporated Georgia, nearly seventy percent of the state by area.”

Cut to: Sean McKinzie in front of the sign. “Roughly a third of Georgia’s population now lives in the Unincorporated areas. Some of it may have gone wild and is dangerous to outsiders, but the old bedroom communities still have commuters. For our first segment of On the Georgia Road, one of these commuters was kind enough to open his house to us for a weekend.”

Cut to: Sean McKinzie, turned in a car seat to face the camera behind him. Beyond him, the camera points up a four-lane divided highway. A few cars can be seen going each way. “It’s Friday afternoon. In metro Atlanta, people are firing up their grills, planning a night on the town, maybe a day at the park. We’re on our way to the Unincorporated segment of Dawson County, to see how our fellow Georgia citizens spend their evenings and weekends.

“Our host and driver is Rich Grey, a senior IT technician who works in Alpharetta. He moved to Dawson County in 1988… Rich, could you tell us why?”

Pan to: Rich, driving. “I wanted a garden and some shade. I couldn’t get either one in most subdivisions, and land up here was relatively cheap.”

“Is it safe to live up here now?”

“Sure. The county still has a functioning sheriff’s department, and ‘400 east to the lake is still incorporated. It’s a lot like the ‘30s: services are spotty, not completely gone. I can’t say what’s going on up in the mountains though.”

Cut to: Sean standing in front of a large Cape Cod house, beige with white trim. The front yard is a garden. “Rich tells us he works with missions and charities who provide food, candles, batteries, and other essentials to people in need. They bring items to him, and he delivers them where they’re needed.

“An hour north of Alpharetta, you might think you’ve left civilization entirely. Rich tells us that they get two hours of electricity in the evenings — this time of year, from eight to ten p.m. To conserve resources, especially heat in the winter, there are three households living under Sean’s roof: his own, his daughter’s family, and a single mother: seven people in all.”

Cut to: Rich grilling, a young woman picking produce in the front yard. “But as Rich says, there’s more than one way to do it. We found the extended family coping quite well, and even finding some comforts and enjoyment along the way. By turning their lawn into a garden area, they don’t need to mow grass — and this time of year, getting produce simply means stepping outside. People cook outdoors during the summer so their houses don’t get even hotter.”

Cut to: lights coming on inside, people moving quickly. “Suppers are often rushed, because nobody wants to be caught sitting when the power comes on. The dishwasher and clothes washer are loaded and ready to go, people get showers or baths, and most of all the indoor toilets are usable.”

Cut to: lights going out. For a moment, all that can be heard are katydids chattering. An LED light comes on to reveal Sean. “We’ve all experienced rolling blackouts, but in Unincorporated Georgia they’re constant, and take on a special quality. In the metro area, there are emergency lights and cars going by, and the sounds of the city are only dampened. Here… beyond the walls, only the sounds of nature are heard.”

Cut to: Rich in the dim light. “Nights can be lively in the fall or winter though. People have bonfires, play music, get drunk and loud. This time of year, it’s still pretty muggy at night and people either go to sleep or read.”

Cut to: Sean, exterior, creek. People playing in the creek. “On weekend mornings, after taking care of the essentials, days are spent at a nearby creek. They pack coolers with food and drinks, and stay until it starts cooling off. There’s a screen tent for when the kids need a nap, or someone just wants a little time to dry off.”

Camera pulls back to reveal Sean in swim trunks. “On the Georgia Road, I’m Sean McKinzie.” Lays down microphone, jumps in the creek.

(Late) Wednesday Wibbles

I got no new followers this week, so I don’t have anyone to shout at. Spread the word, folks, I’d like to have 100 followers about the time I publish White Pickups so I’ll have a good excuse for a giveaway.

Not much writing got done while on vacation… but hey, it was a vacation, right? I really do need to get cracking on Pickups and Pestilence though. Other things, that will take a lot of effort, are beginning to draw my attention. I just may have to start serializing the thing to get the incentive-to-finish going.

Speaking of vacation, here’s a cute anecdote: Mason was very comfortable at Dad’s place — comfortable enough that he’d go explore odd corners on his own, well out of sight of the adults. We slept downstairs, where there was also a large TV. So one morning, we were minding our own business; Mason slipped up the stairs, into the kitchen, pulled a quart of blueberries off the counter (fortunately a snap-top container), then carried them back down the stairs. He came walking up to us: “Berries?” That kid could just about live off fruit and cheese… and meatballs. He loves him some meatballs.


I mentioned having a “crisis of confidence” about the Friday Flash that I didn’t post week before last. I thought of it at first as a Vacationlanders fan-fic, but that isn’t right either. After watching both parts of the first episode, which are all that have been posted so far, I found myself objecting to some of the key points.

First off, while I could see the feds cutting off services to regions — or entire states, as was done to Maine in Vacationlanders — I don’t think that what comes after is quite so drastic as is depicted in the first episode. WARNING: SPOILERS AHEAD On the other hand, I have to wonder if the film crew has been set up from the get-go. If the UTM were as lawless and dangerous as it seems, I would think they’d have heard about it and gone in prepared. END SPOILERS

Even if the Feds cut off the power grid and fuel deliveries at the border, 1) any local hydro and alternative facilities would still be available; 2) state and local governments would attempt to function and preserve order as much as possible, just to justify their continued existence; 3) you couldn’t cut off chunks of the country without some kind of quid pro quo for the affected citizenry or civil suits, probably both; 4) politics would exclude wealthy citizens from the Unincorporated Areas; 5) there would almost certainly be commerce along the border, perhaps even people continuing to commute from Unincorporated Outer Suburbia into Atlanta.

Back in 2009–2010 when there was a lot of talk from the right-wing losers about secession, I concluded that Planet Georgia could secede without hurting the rest of the country much, if at all. Seriously: what do we have here that can’t be produced somewhere else? No oil reserves, the gold was mined out decades ago, and the only strategic industrial pieces we have are concentrated in specific locations. So I created this map (click to enlarge), designating the Georgia Quadrangle where there are still full services, and Unincorporated Georgia. The corners of the quadrangle are the primary cities, with Columbus as a separate enclave, and a largeish rural “heartland” to supply food.

So here’s the writing prompt: think about your own area and whether it would still be “incorporated” or not, and conflicts should be many and obvious. Post links to your stories here so I’ll see them. If you use the graphics, copy them to your own blog so they stay available. I’ll post one of the flash pieces I’ve written on this theme on Friday.

Some Vacation pix

Vacation must really be over, because I’m heading back to work tomorrow. Ick. The van’s A/C mostly worked; we found a few more glitches but that’s what a shakedown cruise is for, right? We took it back to the dealer this afternoon, to let them fix a few other things we ran across.

Mason traveled very well, much better than I expected. The girlies bought a portable DVD player to keep him occupied along the way, and that may have had something to do with it. He about drove Daughter Dearest nutz with endless requests to watch Cars though.

Let’s cut to the chase. Here’s a few of the best vacation pics:

A nice warm evening, a glass of wine, a lakefront view… what more could one ask from vacation?


Here, Daughter Dearest demonstrates her most excellent bubble-blowing technique. Mason loves it.


Mason loved popping the bubbles. I loved when they sailed off the deck and over the lake.


The public access site was a short walk away, and it had a sandy almost-beach area. Mason loved to pick up gravel and sand and throw it in the water.


It’s called Duck Lake, but that doesn’t keep the swans from coming around. They hung around for a while, and we speculated that they might have wanted to come ashore where we were. Oh well.

(The people in the background are property owners on the other side of the public access site.)


Mason got rather uncooperative after the first few family shots, but this one worked pretty well. Left to right: Other Brother, me, Mason, Dad.


On the way home, Daughter Dearest phoned a college friend who lives along the way, and she suggested we all meet for lunch. We ended up at the city park in Trenton, GA, which has a pretty cool carving (nearly 20 feet high).


We arrived in mid-afternoon yesterday, with Mason sound asleep. I got the van unloaded and managed to sit down for a while as he napped.

Escape from FAR Manor! 2011.1

Vacation has begun, says I, typing this in a hotel room somewhere in Indiana. (Jim, Andi, sorry I didn't arrange to meet, but it's for the best, as you'll soon see.)

Mrs. Fetched has been “griping” for some time about how we need (i.e. she wants) a minivan. I won’t argue that it would be a big help, what with two toddlers (Mason and Skylar) in the manor — you can stick two car seats in the middle buckets and have room for two more in the back — but like the Good Book says, “all things work together for Mrs. Fetched’s conveniece… or they’d better.” I think it’s in the Book of Hezekiah.

Now Mrs. Fetched is a tenured faculty member of the school of DO SOMETHING NOW (whether it actually solves the problem), and I soon saw the old pattern. I made a couple attempts to slip a little reality past her armor, but soon gave up and said que sera, sera. So her mom got in on that act, and in a mad rush bought a 1998 Grand Caravan on Thursday. Just in time to take it to Michigan! It had a cracked windshield, but the dealer said they’d send someone out to replace it by Friday afternoon.

So I got home from work on Friday, to find the windshield wasn’t replaced. I’m shocked, SHOCKED!!! not Since it’s on the passenger side, we all figured it wouldn’t be an issue. (Besides, the less Mrs. Fetched sees while I’m driving, the happier we all are.) So we spent much of Friday night packing. Saturday morning was chicken house duty for the girlies, while I watched Mason and took care of a couple agenda items (like printing out the new insurance card and loading luggage). I have to admit, you can stick a LOT more in a van than even a four-door Civic. We could have taken a bunch more if we’d removed the back seat, but we brought all we wanted. With the A/C more than overcoming the 95°F day outside, we got on our way around 3pm.

We soon ran into rain, and the first glitch with the van: the intermittent wipers “crash.” That is, they’ll work fine for a while, then twitch and stop. Flicking to off or always-on cleared the problem, so I lived with it. Then, around the time we crossed into Kentucky, the A/C stopped working. Mrs. Fetched, who had done pretty well up to now, suddenly got grouchy. Fortunately, it was getting dark and cooling off a little, and Daughter Dearest said the A/C in back still worked. Maybe it’s another crash issue.

As night dragged on, Mrs. Fetched’s questions about where we would stop for the night got ever more pointed. Why she didn’t just shut up and sleep is beyond me, but she mentioned a Comfort Inn and I agreed to stop there. Then when I went past an exit, she went “What do you think you’re doing?” in that tone of voice that makes me happy neither of us go around armed.

“Going to the Comfort Inn like you said.”

“I don’t care that it’s a Comfort Inn!” Well, that’s Mrs. Fetched: the Princess of Precision.

We ended up at a Best Western across the street, because I couldn’t get anyone at the Comfort Inn. Looks like the hotels are pretty well packed for a race in Indy today (which I didn’t know about or I might have stayed in Louisville).

It’s always fun to take a new used vehicle on a 2000-mile shakedown cruise…

#FridayFlash: I Quit

I had a crisis of confidence with the flash I was going to post, and didn’t remember I had this one until afternoon. It’s not any kind of “sign-off” — except that with impending vacation where I won’t have much Internet access, I probably won’t post (or read much) next Friday.

Anyway, this story was based on a writing prompt from Ian O’Neill. I’ve snatched a copy of the photo for the sake of convenience.

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Pat sat on the toilet, smoking a cigarette. He had the door locked, the window open, and the exhaust fan going — maybe Becca wouldn't catch him in the act again. He really wanted to quit, but it was so hard.

He sighed and shook his head, taking a final drag. He opened his legs and dropped the butt into the bowl.

The toilet exploded.

He found himself in the corner. The ringing in his ears gave way to a frantic pounding noise. “Pat! What happened? Are you okay?” He shook his head, trying to clear it as Becca stopped pounding at the door, probably running to get the key. He looked at pieces of the shattered toilet for a moment, then winced at a dark smear across the tile floor. That stupid statuette she’d bought was lying nearby, spattered with more crap but otherwise intact.

He pushed himself up against the wall and stood shaking, bent over from the pain in his legs and in between. I quit.

Wednesday Wibbles

Wow, two in a row! As always, welcome to the new follower:

• Luca Veste — book blogger, adult student… and father of two daughters! Oh, I’ll bet we have some stories to swap about our kids.

With the manor rapidly re-filling — The Boy and Snippet are back (sigh), and M.A.E. and Lobster show no signs of leaving anytime soon — I’m getting crowded in both time and space. M.A.E. in particular seems to always need something, and isn’t exactly Janie-on-the-spot about helping out. At least Snippet is showing some sign of wanting to take care of Mason… even if she’s inadequate about it.

Speaking of Snippet, she came in yesterday with an awesome sunburn. She wanted to show it to me, and first pulled down the front of her shirt to show her neck — then hiked up the back to show me her shoulders. As she wasn’t wearing a bra, it’s beyond me how I didn’t get an eyeful of boobage along with the acres of redness. I found her some spray-on burn ointment, and it seemed to help. At least she didn’t pull her shirt off again. This morning, she headed to work with plenty of coverage.

With summer in full burn (see above), I made a pasta salad this evening for tomorrow. FARf-alle (bowtie) pasta, sun-dried tomatoes, an onion, a squash, a bell pepper, some broccoli I found laying around in the fridge, garlic, mozzarella fresca, and Vidalia tomato-basil dressing. Lobster doesn’t want to wait for tomorrow, when the flavors will be blended — he’s grabbing a bowl on the way to work. (Oh… did I mention Lobster has a job? He’s working night shift as a welder.)

At least I got some writing done yesterday! I’m going to try keeping up the momentum tonight.

Amusing, but Only a Little

This evening, Mrs. Fetched and I went down to Big V’s with some chow — and Skylar. The big blond chunker is starting to think FAR Manor is home, but he’s always glad to see his gramma. Mrs. Fetched set up her morning meds — I think they’d be enough to fill her up and she wouldn’t need breakfast — while I had one eye on the Kindle (reading Seed by Ania Ahlborn right now) and one on Skylar. Meanwhile, The Boy was tasked with watching Mason.

We came home to find The Boy sacked out in the lounge chair and Mason playing quietly in the living room. He’d only pulled a few old VHS tapes off a shelf — and laid one on The Boy and two on the love seat. As I picked up the latter, he brought me the sleeves.

M.A.E. and Daughter Dearest were lurking nearby if anything came up, but Mason was being mostly good (if a little mischievous about the tapes). I’m glad it wasn’t Skylar; he’d have made a huge mess for sure and probably hurt himself. As it was, the results were only amusing. Yes, The Boy gets up really early for his job these days, but he needs to focus…

Wednesday Wibbles

At last, I sit down on Wednesday night to catch up on things. As usual, let’s start with greetings to the new observers at the free-range insane asylum:

• Cherie Reich — a fellow #FridayFlash’er, and reviews books on her blog as well. (I hope she gets to White Pickups when the time comes.)
• Craig WF Smith — Craig’s fantasy novels, The Red Stone and Zoolin Vale and the Chalice of Ringtar, are in print. Zoolin Vale is also available on Kindle (Craig doesn’t know why the publisher released his second book first either). Craig also writes some #FridayFlash.
• Tony Cowin — he writes horror! He reviews movies!

We went to the resort Sunday afternoon, along with M.A.E. and her new boyfriend as guests. I was surprised that Mason was reluctant to get in the pool, but maybe it was all the other people around. It took him about 20 minutes to decide he wanted to be in there, and that’s where he stayed until he was too cold to stay in. We did slather him up pretty well with sunscreen, so he didn’t burn.

I mostly had him through the afternoon, but Daughter Dearest and Mrs. Fetched did pitch in. I brought my Kindle, but never got a chance to do any reading.

On the writing end of things, my two #FridayFlash pieces Kate’s Wings and the follow-up Freak of Nature, gathered a lot of comments along the lines of “this would be a great YA novel.” That came as a surprise, as I never really set out to write YA. There are plenty of very good writers out there either publishing YA or trying to get published (some of whom commented on the two stories), and frankly the market feels a little crowded.

But… I did say a while ago that I felt like Something Big was brewing, and this could have been it. Almost against my will, I started thinking about how a story would develop — and things started click click click falling in place. But I’m committed to finishing Pickups and Pestilence, so it has to wait a while.

I remembered I’d downloaded a copy of a mindmap template called StoryMap a while ago, and decided to get the details organized so I could come back to it later (after getting the current project conquered and reading a couple YA novels to see how they go). The above is a screen capture of what I have so far — left side is world-building, right side is plot. You can tell what I’ve mostly focused on. ;-) I couldn’t remember where I’d found it, only that it was a guest post on someone’s blog. But when I posted on Google+, Trevor Mcpherson sent me the link, not realizing it was his template I was working from! By the way, StoryMap is a FreeMind map — FreeMind is free and cross-platform (a Java app) so you don’t have to worry about money or having the wrong OS.

Now if I could only find a way to download all this into Scrivener, with all the pieces in their proper pigeonholes. Scrivener has great organizational tools, but I prefer mind-mapping for initial staging. It just works better for me.

For those who think writing a story isn’t all that difficult, I refer you to John Wiswell’s How I Wrote My Novel, True Story of John 11 that he posted today. Even if you do understand what’s involved, it’s an interesting read and a great look behind the curtain as he wrote a 105,000 word first draft in five months. As he progressed, he talked about designating a day off from writing and sticking to it. I think that’s a pretty good idea, especially since I have a grandson (and a great-nephew) who are highly attached to me and a huge “to read” pile. So I’m going to designate an arbitrary day “Reading Day” and maybe another day “Me and the Toddlers Day.”

Speaking of toddlers, Skylar has the Screech of Toddler Rage™ down pat. If anything, he’s hit the Terrible Twos earlier (age-wise) than Mason. It won’t be long before they’re both bellowing, “MINE!!!”

Work… is work. Looks like I’ll be flying out to the west coast for training in late September. This will be my first flight post-bin Laden’s demise, but I doubt the TSA will act accordingly. Weather permitting, I’ll travel in shorts, a tight T-shirt, and sandals. Even with nowhere to hide anything, I’ll still get yanked out of line and probed. I may try to embarrass them, although I’m not sure they have that capacity.

The "Disposable" Price Point

J.A. Konrath is back from vacation, and brought home an interesting insight. He shares it in One More Nail in the Coffin. The heart of it is:

Kindles have dropped in price to the point where they've become disposable, like cell phones and laptops and digital cameras. Ever notice that you buy a new cell (or computer, or camera) every few years, even if your old one still works?

"Disposable" as a price point seems to have a pretty wide window. To me, it’s a lot closer to $20 than $114 (for the ad-bearing Kindle). Of course, I’m not the people he’s talking about: I’ll use a cellphone or computer until it wears out, or just won’t do what I need it to do. For me, MacBooks have a five-year use life (if they endure the life of hard knocks that laptops are heir to). Since I live in a rural area, and am often doing outdoor kind of things, my cellphones get banged around even more than laptops — if they last three years, they’re limping across the finish line with multiple injuries.

Yes, I’m a cheap so-and-so, and eBook readers are (IMO) nowhere near the “disposable” price point. But fear not, they’re following the same curve as calculators. When I was gifted a Kindle a couple years ago, it was 1974 for eBook readers: $250+, limited functionality. It's now 1976, maybe 1977: prices approaching $99 for basic models, features considered “premium” last year (touch, color) are rapidly becoming standard in the mid-range.

Come “1980” (3–4 years from now), the price wars and standardization shakeout will come. Most of us will have to replace our eBook readers, but that won't matter because they’ll be $49–$79 and will have tablet-like functionality yet with amazing battery life. If what I’ve been hearing about solar panel developments is true, we could see the high-end ($119) sporting a solar panel on the back (again, like calculators except for placement). Lay your reader face-down near a sunny window to recharge it while you’re off doing something else. If you read outside a lot, you could have potentially infinite battery life.

The next step is “1984.” That’s when I had a calculator built into my watch. I don’t know how the equivalent would work for an eBook reader — maybe a goggle display with controls based on eye motion? The end-point is around 1990, where calculators (with solar cells and lots of features) ended up in supermarket checkout racks at $19. The thing is, I don’t think it will take 16 years to get to that point for eBook readers… it might happen by 2020 instead of 2025. Either way, that’s when paper books will finish dying out — when eBook readers are truly disposable.

#FridayFlash: Freak of Nature

This is a sequel to last week’s story, Kate’s Wings. Sonia Lal opined, “this story needs To Be Continued,” and I immediately thought about that adolescent need to fit in. So we continue, nearly five years later…

---

Freak of Nature

The screen door slammed behind Kate as she stomped into the summer night, her frustrated growl trailing like a plume of noxious diesel exhaust. “Don’t you understand I just want to be left alone?” she muttered as she made her way to the treehouse, the gravity of the big oak pulling her in the right direction.

She put her hands on the ladder, then shrugged and pulled the back of her tank top down. Nobody could see out here, and it felt good to fly. Her wings, the source of her adolescent embarrassment, unfurled and she rose through the darkness and foliage into the tree house. She alit and sat cross-legged, looking teary-eyed over the endless rooftops; the new moon allowed a few stars to force themselves through suburbia’s glow.

After a minute, the screen door opened and closed again. Kate heard footsteps approach, pause, approach.

“Kate?” her dad’s voice carried up from below. “You okay?”

No, I’m not okay, I’m a freak of nature! she thought to herself. Aloud she said “Yeah.”

“Sweetie… listen. I know it’s rough on you. But… I’m here. If you ever want to talk about anything, and I mean anything. I promise, I’ll do my best to just listen. Okay?”

Kate heaved a dramatic sigh. “Yeah. Okay.” It must have been enough, because Dad turned and went back inside.

“That would be a conversation from Hell, daddy-oh,” she muttered. “You can’t possibly have a freeking clue what I have to deal with.”

“Maybe not, but he wants to understand,” a voice came from behind her.

Kate gasped and spun around, poised for flight. “Who’s that?” she rasped. “Mom?” That would be so unfair, Mom flying up here to continue the argument, but Kate wouldn’t put it past her. Then again, Mom hadn’t ever come up here that she knew of.

“Not Faye. She’s still inside. Trying to decide what to say.”

“Aunt Morgan? When did you get here?”

“Just now, dear.” Aunt Morgan rarely visited, but Kate felt closer to her than her own immediate family these days anyway. “I understand you’re going through a tough time of life.”

Kate sighed and sat. “Oh God, Auntie, you have no idea…” then she stopped. Like Kate, her mom and aunt were both what they called Enchanted Ones, and what Kate called freaks of nature — with wings and the ability to fly — and they had to be going on thirteen once themselves, didn’t they?

“I do know,” said Aunt Morgan. “That’s why I came. Your mom and dad don’t know I’m here yet, and that’s fine because I came to see you.”

“Why?”

“I want to show you something. Will you come with me?”

“Sure. Where’s your car?”

“We don’t need a car for this. Just…” Aunt Morgan’s wings whirred for a moment.

“Fly? Here?”

“Oh, don’t worry. It’s a new moon night, and nobody will ever see us. Even if they do… well, people are good at not seeing things. Come.” Aunt Morgan took her hand and lifted out of the treehouse. Kate followed without thinking much about it; as much as she hated her otherness, it felt good to fly and she’d resisted it for so long.

After a few minutes, the ground below them opened up and Kate realized they were over the Balsam Grove golf course. Daddy liked to come here on weekends to, as he said with a laugh, “hit a few balls in the water.” Aunt Morgan flashed a light in her free hand, and Kate nearly fell when a response flickered from a copse off to their left. They veered that way and alit on the ground at the edge of the trees.

A woman approached, first shining the light upon herself and then the ground between them. Aunt Morgan did the same with her own light, and the woman looked surprised then bowed. “Lady Morgan,” she said, “it’s an honor. What brings you here to grace us with your presence?”

“This is my niece, Kate Parr,” said Aunt Morgan. “She’s one of us, and it’s long since time she was brought into the fold.”

“I bid you welcome, Kate Parr,” said the other.

“What is this place?”

“This is a grove of the Enchanted Ones,” said her aunt. “We gather on new moon nights to talk, play, and not hide our otherness.”

As the sounds of chatter and high-pitched laughter came from above, Kate turned to her aunt. “Why did Mom never tell me about this?”

“Your mother…” Aunt Morgan sighed. “She’s always looking for just the right moment, letting the good-enough moments slip by. That’s why you nearly gave your dad a heart attack when you flew out of the treehouse on your eighth birthday.” She giggled, a most un-Morgan sound. “I wish I’d been there to see it!”

“Kate?” She turned to the new voice — a light shone in her face, then turned on itself, and there was Heather Smith from school! “Ohmygod, Kate, I never knew — you seemed so normal at school!”

“Normal?”

Heather didn’t have a chance to respond — in moments, Kate was surrounded by girls, many of whom she knew from school. They clustered around her, chattering. “Is Lady Morgan really your aunt? That makes you royalty!” “Your wings are so beautiful!” “How did you hide so well?” “I thought you were normal!” “You must hang out with us when school starts back!”

That word, normal, rung in Kate’s ears, nearly drowning out the chatter of her new friends. She looked around — “Hey, aren’t there any boys here?”

A wave of giggles and laughs washed over her. “All the Enchanted Ones are girls!” one of them said. “Boys never are. With girls it’s fifty-fifty. We all got lucky!”

Kate startled, then smiled. “Lucky. Yeah.” Suddenly, normal didn’t seem all that attractive anymore.

Aunt Morgan always gave the best presents.

Giggle Plus, and a Full Manor

Sometimes, the only way to get a blog post up is to just sit down and bang it out.

I got an invite to Google+ on Friday, and spent a lot of time this weekend setting it up, adding fellow #FridayFlash writers, sending out a couple of invites, and generally feeling it out. It strikes a nice balance between Twitter’s minimalism and Facebook’s overwhelming featurism. I’m using my real name there, as a warm-up to when I start putting my books on various sites.

It’s also a relatively quiet hangout — for now. It reminds me of when I was in high school; the local Baptist church had a “teen center” thing they did on Friday nights. Being in a small town with not much else going on, it was a pretty popular thing because there were lots of table games and a concession that sold various teen-ambrosia (pizza, soft drinks, snacks). It could get a little overwhelming at times… and that’s when a few of us would meander to the Congregational church’s version about a block away. It was much less of a “thing,” having (free) popcorn and a pit group to hang out on, with a checkerboard and chess board if you wanted a challenge. If you needed a place for some quiet conversation, that was it. And that’s what Google+ is like right now, with Facebook playing the Baptist version.

Right now, to get on, you need an invite — sent to an email address associated with a Google Profile. You have one if you have a Gmail address, or have a Blogger profile tied to some other address… which is to say, if you want an invite I’ll send you one.


The manor was pretty well packed when I got here. M.A.E. is here (with Moptop, oh joy) and her boyfriend (who is helping Mrs. Fetched with the chickens), along with Lobster, Skylar, and even EJ coming by. EJ and I hung out in the kitchen to chat for a while. The Boy and Snippet are visiting her mom in Florida, so they weren’t here, but they were here yesterday.

#FridayFlash: Kate’s Wings

A short one this week. I enjoy writing these sub-500 word pieces, not only because I can start and finish them in a lunch hour.

---

Kate’s Wings

“Daddy! Look at me!”

“Hi Kate!” As usual, his daughter was up in the tree house he’d built for her last summer. That big oak tree was her domain, and she’d live in it if only her parents would let her.

“Look, Daddy! I got wings!” Kate twirled at the top of the ladder, making him grimace. She did have wings, sprouting from the back of her sun dress.

“Is that what Aunt Morgan sent you for your birthday?” This was Kate’s eighth birthday, and Faye’s sister always sent her niece strange yet beautiful presents. He couldn’t see the straps — it was just like Kate to tuck them under her dress — and the wings themselves were gorgeous. Shaped like a dragonfly’s, they came from her shoulders a deep blue, shot through with streaks the color of Kate’s honey hair, and faded to a near-transparent blue at the tips. The network of veins made them look so lifelike.

“Daddy! Watch me fly now!” Kate hunched over the top of the ladder.

“Kate, no!” he gasped. He knew his daughter: even as a baby, she had no fear of heights, and the bruising mishaps of life had done nothing to teach her caution. He leaped forward, thinking at least I can break her fall. He’d have to tear down the treehouse after this, and that would hurt Kate more than broken bones, but —

She launched herself from the top of the ladder and soared overhead, her laughter nearly drowning out the whirring of wings. He could only stand gaping as she flew laughing under the tree, flitting through the branches as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

“Catch me, Daddy!” He instinctively reached up, and she alit in his hands. Still in shock, he hugged her to him, taking care not to crinkle those beautiful wings.

Kate looked over his shoulder. “Mommy! I flew! Did you see?”

Faye smiled. “Yes — you did very well!” She spoke like Kate had just tied her own shoes. “Your present from Aunt Morgan came, why don’t you go see?”

“Okay!” Kate squirmed out of her father’s embrace and ran inside, wings now folded against her back. Faye went to her husband, took his arm, kissed his cheek.

“Honey,” she said, “there’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you.”

#FridayFlash: The One-Eyed God

This is another one of those stories I started long ago, didn’t quite finish, then came back to. Maybe I just needed more practice writing before I knew what to do with it. It’s a little teen romance, post-apocalypse…

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The One-Eyed God

The family gathered in the living room for their evening worship. As always, Jason’s uncle Tom spoke the invocation to their one-eyed god:

“Oh SONY, hear our plea: be a light in our darkness, that you may return your light to our darkness. Awake, O SONY, and guide us as you did of old.” He ended the invocation with a snicker.

Jason gazed into the nothingness of SONY’s face, barely remembering when it last filled the living room with colorful images, before darkness filled the world. He was five then, seventeen now. His dad often said they were better off without “that idiot box,” yet come evening he sat in worship with the rest of the family. Jason’s mind, as usual, went wandering during worship time. Maribeth was… he’d begun to wonder if he really wanted her as his girlfriend, especially since this afternoon.


He’d been sitting on the sandy creek bank fishing, hoping to put a couple trout on the dinner table, when Heather Scott came walking upstream on the far bank. As suited anyone hiking the brush, she wore a loose shirt and sturdy jeans with boots, hiding a newly ripe figure.

“Hey, Jason! Catching any?” She swung an empty basket.

“Not yet. What’s up?”

“Just lookin’ for cress. You see any on that side?”

“I think there’s some here.”

“Good! Can I cross over? Where’s your line?”

“Don’t cross here, it’s too deep. Go a little ways upstream and you’ll see a place to cross. If you’re lucky, you won’t get your boots wet.”

“Okay!” She skipped upstream. She was fourteen, skipping was still allowed.

Staring at SONY’s blank screen, Jason guessed things would have been different if that trout hadn’t grabbed his hook just as Heather approached. She saw his fishing rod bend and ran to him, watching him reel it in. It was a perfect size, too: big enough to keep, not so big that he’d have to throw it back. She sat down next to him while he was distracted putting the fish in the creel.

“Ha, I’m good luck for you,” she said. Jason gasped; now he had to kiss her to keep the luck she gave him. In retrospect, maybe she’d played him like he played the trout. He thought, I can give her a quick peck on the cheek, no problem. Heather had other ideas, though: she wrapped her arms around him and locked her lips on his; in his moment of surprise, she unbalanced him. He fell back, with her on top.

What Heather lacked in experience (not that Jason was an expert), she made up in enthusiasm… and after a second, Jason decided he liked it. He embraced her and rolled her to his right, away from the fishing gear, so they were side by side.


A pillow caught him across the head, pulling him back into the living room. “Stop moaning,” his mom whispered.

Jason flushed, but nodded. He watched the blank screen and remembered.


“Maybe we shouldn’t,” he told Heather.

“I don’t think it bothers you much,” she grinned.

“You started it.”

“I guess.” She sat up and tugged his arm; he sat up and she scooted alongside him. “Well, I won’t tell. Are you taking Maribeth Collins to the Summer Day fiesta?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. I asked her, but she’s all maybe and I’m not sure and I’ll think about it.” He made a sour face.

“That ain’t right. Dad says say yes or no, and have done. If you asked me, I’d say yes. You’d have to talk to Dad though, he says I can’t have no skulking-around boyfriend.”


A rumbling noise: Uncle Tom snored, then jerked up and looked around before refocusing on the black glass that was SONY’s eye. Jason did likewise.


They got up; Heather found her cress before coming back and kissing him once more, but quick. “Thanks,” she said, wiggling her basket.

“Yeah. Thanks for the luck.” He grinned, then his second fish took the bait.


After worship, Jason hurried at the dishes; it was his evening to wash. “You must wanna go somewhere,” said his mother. “That Maribeth girl?”

“No. Not her.”

“Good. She’s just stringing you along.” She smiled. “Go do what you need to. I’ll finish this up.”

“Thanks!”


Jason found Mr. Scott fixing his old ethanol tractor, Heather passing him tools. She looked up and grinned. Her dad gave him a curious look.

“Can I ask you something, Mr. Scott?”

“I don’t have no extra work.”

“It ain’t that.”

“You want something to drink?” asked Heather. They both nodded and she sauntered up the yard to the house.

“Bring him what I’m having!” Mr. Scott yelled. To Jason, “What brings you then?”

“Um… Mr. Scott, I want to take Heather to the fiesta tomorrow. Is that okay?”

The farmer looked him over. “You don’t run the rabbit around the tree. I like that. You ask her yet?”

“No, but she said she’d say yes if I did.”

Mr. Scott reached into his tractor. “Damn fuel filter again.” After a minute, he pulled it out. “That’s Heather, she gets right to the point too. Well, consider all the my-precious-daughter sh– junk said. You know that spiel, right? Yeah. I mean it all, even if I don’t say it. Understand?”

Jason stood thinking for a moment. “Yessir. I think I do.”

“Good. Now your dad and me know each other, and whatever gets back to one will get back to the other. Right? Right. Well, here comes Heather. You walk her down to the mailbox and ask her. It’s a big deal, gettin’ asked to the fiesta, even if you know what she’s gonna say.” He grinned. “Then you walk her back up here and we’ll drink a toast.”

Jason came home, and saw the glint of SONY’s single eye in the dim light. He placed a hand on its dusty curved top. “Thanks.”

Nostalgia Trip

The Boy, like his progeny Mason, hated naps and would often fight sleep tooth and nail. But I had a secret weapon:



I had an Amiga 500 back then, and “demo” writers would compete to create the most mind-blowing graphics and sound effects that would run. You might not think it much, but remember this was running on 23-year old hardware. Amigas had special graphics and sound hardware built-in, taking the load off the CPU — the name “Wild Copper” came from the nickname of the graphics co-processor. Modern CPUs are hundreds of times more powerful these days, and don't need all the help.

Back to The Boy. At Mason’s current age, he was fascinated with “Copper,” with its spinning wireframes and scrolling text. When he needed a nap, I’d ask him “Do you want to see Copper?” and he’d sit still to watch it, sometimes bouncing to the music, until he slowly leaned back against me then turned around to fall asleep on my shoulder.

Display the video full-screen to get the full effect.

#FridayFlash: The Seventh Sage

An embarrassment of riches: I came up with three stories over the week, and still have a fourth in my head. But I’ll gladly take the hassle of having to choose which of several to post, rather than scrambling to get something — or worse, admitting defeat and skipping a week.

---

The Seventh Sage

Dobo grunted and cursed as he scaled the final barrier. “All your riddles… your puzzles… have not stopped me!” he panted. Looking up, he could see the keep once more.

At last! He threw himself up and over the edge of the precipice, onto a narrow path leading upward. He drew his sword, but sat himself in the shelter provided by two boulders. The gods provide, he thought: he could catch his breath and watch both ways along the path without being seen himself. Before him, the Snagtooth Mountains pierced the sky, disappearing into mist, uncounted miles away.

Dobo drank his last two swallows of wine, then clambered to his feet. Sword in hand, he marched up the rocky path. “Four years I have spent on this quest,” he muttered. “Four years. And soon I will fulfill the oath I have sworn —”

Standing before him in the path was a man much like Dobo himself, perhaps a little older. He was armed with a sword, but it was sheathed and he stood with arms folded. Behind him, an open portal.

“Stand aside or die!” Dobo shouted, raising his sword. “I am Dobo of the Northern Reach, and I will not be denied my destiny!”

“You seek the Great Treasure of the Ancients?” the man asked. “Of course you do. I am not here to oppose you, but to lead and guide you. I was once called Marsten of Gran Isle, and I will answer to that name. I remember the Northern Reach well, a land of honest and sturdy people. Come with me.” He turned and walked through the portal.

His innards shouted Trick! Trap! but Dobo was driven by his oath. He scowled and followed, watching everything. No boiling oil fell upon him as he approached the portal. No arrows hissed from hidden openings inside. No pits opened beneath his feet. Still the passageway continued, Marsten leading at an unhurried pace.

The narrow hall ended in a great room, well lit by means Dobo could not see. Armoires stood along the walls, seven in all; two stood open and empty. Hallways led left, right, and straight on. His — guide? host? walked to one of the open armoires and removed his sword belt and mail shirt. “That one is yours,” said Marsten, nodding to the other open armoire.

“I will remain armed, thank you.”

Marsten shrugged. “It is your choice.” He walked to the center of the room, where awaited two divans, facing each other across a low table. A bottle and platter graced the table. “Meat and drink? I suspect you have not had much of either this day. Or are you impatient to claim that which you have striven so long to find?”

Dobo nearly drooled at the sight of meat, but held firm. “We seven swore an oath that only death would stop us from beholding the Great Treasure! Snares and treachery have claimed the others, and only I remain. I may not leave this keep alive, but I will behold the end of our quest — then will I eat. And whatever trap you have set for me? I will face it.”

“There are no traps here.” Marsten pointed to the door opposite. “Through there. Then return and dine.”

Dobo growled, but crossed the room. Again, no traps or snares impeded him. No lightning flashed as he touched the door. He pushed and entered —

A vast library, with more books than Dobo thought existed. As in the great room, the lighting was hidden, and seemed to come from everywhere.

“This… this is the Great Treasure?” he asked the room. Then he considered: books were rare and valuable things, and books of the Ancients would be much more so. He could only carry away what would fit in his pack, but that would be enough to purchase a life of comfort. The Seven Sages and their guard could object, but would not stop him —

He turned at a sound. A group of men and women, including Marsten, stood watching him from just inside the door.

“Then you must be the Seven Sages,” he said, and they nodded as one. “But I count only six. Where is the seventh?” He looked around quickly lest their comrade lie in ambush.

“He lays dying,” said one of the Sages.

“He stands before us,” said another.

Dobo sighed. “Is there no end to riddles? Give me a worthy opponent to fight!”

“Did not dragons or demons stand in your way?” asked Marsten. “And what of men?”

“Not a one! As for men, only brigands and highwaymen sought our blood! Yet every step forward was bought by riddles and puzzles, riddles and puzzles — fatal to those who could not answer them! This was no quest for a man of arms, but a sage!”

“And here you stand. If it takes a sage to find the Great Treasure of the Ancients…”

“I? A sage?” Dobo gave a hearty laugh and sheathed his sword. “A fine jest, my friend! But do I look like a sage to you?”

“Look beyond our title,” said a woman. “Do we look like sages?”

Dobo shrugged. “I see four men and two women, sturdy and foursquare, some older than others. None of you would look out of place in a cohort. So how did you become the Sages?”

“By solving riddles and puzzles, finding our way to the Great Treasure. All began with companions, but all arrived alone.”

“Our lives here are long,” said Marsten, “but not eternal. Always, as one of our number dies, another comes.”

“And how do you eat?”

“We lack for nothing here. We live lives of comfort, studying the books that are the Treasure, and keeping our fighting skills sharp that we may defend this place if needed.”

Dobo remembered the armoires. “This is not what I expected.”

“Nor did we. So we welcome you, as those before welcomed us, as the Seventh Sage.”