Short Stories by MLockridge

Snow Globe Terrorist-

2009-08-05T20:23:00.000-07:00

Jason Willey stood patiently waiting for the basket containing his property to slide down the track. He had removed his belt and his shoes and put them in the basket along with his carry-on bag, passed through the scanner and now waited for his things to pass through x-ray.

He had done this all before, here at the John Wayne International Airport and several others. Jason remembered times of easier travel, prior to the expansion of international terrorism and a catastrophic direct attack on the United States. It was inconvenient, and it made him a bit angry, but the changes in security seemed necessary and he could put up with it all.

This time the basket was a bit slow in exiting the x-ray tunnel. Jason looked up at the operator and noticed the man looking rather concerned, staring at his screen. The man looked up, looked past Jason and waved over another security officer. They consulted for a moment, and then the second officer picked up Jason's basket.

Jason felt some sympathy for the man. He looked haggard, and as he approached he also had a look of apology on his face. A look of apology, Jason mused. Not one of the most common expressions, but that is what he saw in the countenance of the man walking his direction.

"We seem to have a problem, sir." said the security officer. "I will need to examine some items in your carry-on." The officer indicated an open table. Jason nodded and followed.

The man moved a few things around in the basket, and handed Jason his shoes and belt. Jason always wore slip-on shoes when he flew, and these he slipped quickly on his feet. He watched the man respectfully probe through the carry-on items as he threaded his belt through the belt loops and fastened the buckle.

"That's a teapot, from Disneyland." said Jason as the man opened a bag that obviously could have come from no place else. "Alice in Wonderland. I collect Disney."

The man nodded, but did not attempt to open the box. Instead he picked up a paper wrapped item and glanced at Jason.

"Oh, that's just a snow globe." Jason said. He nodded toward the officer, who began to unwrap the item. "Kind of a last minute purchase. I thought it would look cool on one of my shelves at home."

The snow globe was revealed. It had a Pirates of the Caribbean theme, and the "snow" was actually bits of material intended to look like gold pieces. The security guard turned the snow globe over and ran his thumb over a small label.

This item cannot be carry on baggage. Jason's jaw dropped. He vaguely recalled reading about this but it had simply slipped his mind as he made the purchase.

"Throw it away, I guess." Jason said. He sighed and gathered his things from the basket as the officer wrapped the snow globe back up and placed it in a box under the table.

Not looking at Jason the officer said in a low voice, "When is your flight?"

"An hour and a half."

"Which gate?"

"Two."

The officer nodded and said, "Have a nice flight, sir."

Jason made his way to the waiting area adjacent to gate two. He sat and contemplated just what went through the mind of the airport designer who placed so many windows facing the setting sun. It was a bit warm and the light of the waning day was too intense, even through the tinted windows between where he sat and the tarmac apron upon which the arriving and departing aircraft sat.

He realized that he was just distracting himself. Though the price of the snow globe was less than ten dollars it angered Jason that some terrorist without a face had cost him his relatively meaningless treasure. Sure, the terrorists probably fought for some obscure ideals of which Jason knew nothing, but that mattered little. They had touched his life and offended him.

Jason went back and forth in his mind for most of an hour before he realized that someone was standing behind him. He glanced up and saw the security officer that had confiscated the snow globe standing there, looking out at the tarmac.

"I dropped a slip of paper under your seat." said the officer. "It has a web site and a phone number on it. Wait until I am gone before picking it up. I shouldn't be doing this, but I am very tired of these people impacting our lives. It's just a small thing, but at least it is something."

Jason nodded, saying nothing. He waited until he was sure that the officer no longer stood behind him. He bent down, adjusted his pant leg, and then swept up the slip of paper. He tucked it into a pocket, not even looking at it.

He felt better, knowing that the officer felt some sympathy for his small loss. The remainder of his wait went quickly. Soon he was winging his way home.

It was late the next morning when Jason remembered the slip of paper. He had been tired when he got home, and had not even fully unpacked his things. He picked up the cast-off pants from the floor and went through the pockets to find the paper.

There it was. A web address and a phone number. Jason took the slip of paper to his desk, sat down at his computer and typed in the address. Soon a rather simple website loaded. It at first looked like a news and opinion page relating to the activities of international terrorists. However, a theme appeared as he scanned the articles. Following a few hints Jason made his way through a couple of linked pages and found what the officer had intended him to find.

There were short articles relating small inconveniences others had suffered as a consequence of the activities of these faceless terrorists. Most writers seemed angry and felt powerless. Here and there on the page were links associated with one question.

"If you could strike back, would you?"

"Yes." said Jason, under his breath.

He followed one of the links. The page was simple. All text. No images. No links. One page address written into the text. The article referred to pieces of paper similar to the one he held. Then Jason came to the critical paragraph.

You can strike back, in a very small way. Somewhere in the world a terrorist is being held, captured by a private security concern. This particular terrorist is linked to the Internet through a remotely initiated electronic device. That device is constructed from a cell phone trigger taken from him as he sought to kill men, women and children with a backpack bomb. Now that trigger sends seventy thousand volts of electricity through his body whenever someone calls.

Jason glanced at his slip of paper. A web site and a phone number.

Jason copied and pasted the web site address embedded in the text of the article he was reading. He hit go. The screen opened on a live video feed. A young man sat in a chair. He was naked from the waist up, and looked quite haggard. Jason had expected a mad man, a representation of every nightmare a child might have. This man just looked like some young guy. Like anybody.

Anybody who happened to carry a backpack loaded with explosives, intent on blowing up a bus or train station or ice cream parlor. Jason visualized the children who would have been dismembered or burned in the explosion, had this man succeeded in his task.

He opened his cell phone and punched in the number. Jason paused, staring at the number on the screen. This man had been acting on a set of ideals. From his own perspective this man had seen his intended actions as noble and right.

Jason looked at the man on the computer screen. Yes, the man had ideals. Jason acknowledged that. In the context of his own world the man was noble. Jason acknowledged that.

His thumb poised over the send button. Yes, he had his own nobility and ideals. But the man was wrong! Wrong, and no longer faceless.

It was not dismembered old ladies that Jason visualized in this moment. Neither was it burned children. It was a snow globe.

Jason pressed the send button, and watched the image on his computer screen.

The Next Level-

2009-07-22T03:45:00.000-07:00

I have been long thinking on how to turn writing into more than a hobby. I would like to get at least some of my income from writing. I have studied a bit about copywriting, a lucrative field preparing copy for advertisements and promotions, as well as writing letters and such for those who need a writer's skill. It is not the creative writing I prefer, but it is an avenue I might follow in the coming years.

More in line with my real interests I have written a novel, and begun a sequel. However, I have not yet gotten my novel published. Having studied the processes of getting published I have decided to go with a print on demand program through Amazon. This form of publication will leave promotion of my book in my hands, and so it will probably not make a huge splash in the realm of adventure fantasy fiction. Still, it will be out there.

How to market my short story writing? I was inspired by my sister Donni to use Craigslist as a tool for beginning my short story project. She promoted her private pre-school using Craigslist, and the results have been far greater than I imagined. So, I have begun to offer short stories over Craigslist.

My purpose is to create short stories for people to present as gifts or commemorations to family, friends and colleagues. Other purposes will come to mind over time, and I can create tiny tales for whatever purpose my client might have.

I have established a separate Google mailing address from which to manage the project, and a PayPal account as a means of receiving payment. Once some revenue is generated I can apply it to getting my novel out into the marketplace, and once that is underway I can reinvest the income to build my writing into a business.

This project will be very low budget, and only time will tell just where it will go.

shortstoryguy@gmail.com

That is the contact address. If you or anyone you know has need of a unique gift, write me at that address.

Meanwhile, the tales I tell here remain free. Invite your friends and neighbors to stop by and visit. Leave a comment, from time to time. Writers love readers, and its nice to know someone is reading.

The Medicine Man's Apprentice-

2009-07-20T22:45:00.000-07:00

The Great Botutsu scrabbled under a low bush, digging at the roots until he came up with a large bulb. Shaking the dirt from his prize he tossed it to Comasa. Comasa caught it and placed it in the large bag hanging from his shoulder.

The bag was heavy. It was Comasa's job to carry for the Great Botutsu. To fetch for the Great Botutsu. To empty the gourd the Great Botutsu kept next to his bed. To cook. To clean. To do what he was told.

In exchange the Great Botutsu would give Comasa knowledge. He would teach Comasa about the plants and animals, about their spirits and how they could be used to help and heal. He would also learn about poisons, or so he suspected. The Great Botutsu never addressed the subject directly, and always deflected questions on the matter.

"That is the root of the Tum Tum tree." said the Great Botutsu. "It brings sleep to those who have a wounded spirit. It heals the mind and quiets the small demons that harbor in the hearts of those who have been long sad."

Comasa nodded. He had seen it used on Mama Kodumba when she had lost her husband to a great beast in one of the hunts. Her heart had been wounded by the beasts spirit, or so the Great Botutsu had said. The beast having eaten her husband, the spirit of the beast had followed the bond of their marriage to consume the mate as well. She had lost the will to live, and was unable to care for her children.

The Great Botutsu had given her the last of his dried root, a bit at a time over the course of two months. With the passage of time she had returned to herself, and the spirit of the beast had been driven out. Comasa had been assigned to the nightly drum rituals to drive out the beast, and after much time the root and drum had prevailed.

Mama Kodumba was again tending to her children, and cooking the wonderful meals for which she had been famous. Comasa had entertained some concern that the fat those meals had put on Mama Kodumba's husband may have prevented him from escaping the beast that slew him, but he knew better than to speak of such things.

The Great Botusu was the one to speak. It was Comasa's job to listen and learn.

Now the Great Botusu was looking at a plant that was unfamiliar to Comasa. Perhaps it was unfamiliar to the Great Botusu, as well. The Great Botusu walked around the plant one way, and then the other. He looked it up from root to tip, and down from tip to root. He then sat before the plant, and held out his hand.

Comasa untied the small bag from his belt and handed it to the Great Botusu. The Great Botusu opened the bag and withdrew a pinch of smoke weed. He dug a small hole at the base of the plant he was studying and burried the bit of weed. Tossing the bag back to Comasa the Great Botusu began to chant.

Comasa sat down next to his master and joined in the chant. As he had been taught he visualized the plant as a seed, falling from the sky and coming to earth in this place. He imagined it growing, putting forth root and leaf and over time coming to be the plant before them.

The Great Botusu got up and cut several branches of leaves from the plant. He dug at the base of the plant and brought forth some of the roots. All of these he wrapped carefully in his prayer shawl, and cradled them as they walked back to the village.

When they arrived Comasa went to work preparing all of the things they had collected for drying and storing. When everything was cleaned and arranged on the drying racks he went in search of his master.

The Great Botusu was sitting by a small fire in front of their hut. He had a clay vessel heating in the coals, and Comasa could see some of the leaves from the unknown plant soaking in the hot water.

"Sit, Comasa." said the Great Botusu. "It is time for the next step in your initiation."

Comasa sat. The Great Botusu used some wooden tongs to remove the hot clay pot from the coals. He poured off a small portion into a little bowl. He held it up, allowing the vapors to enter his nose. He put in a finger and brought one tiny drop to his tongue. This he spit out. He offered the bowl to Comasa.

Comasa also let the vapors enter into his nose. He touched the brew with one finger, and touched it to his tongue. He did not spit it out, but let it rest there. He waited, holding the warm bowl in his hands.

The Great Botusu watched and waited with him. Then he took up his rattle, and began to shake the rattle first to the left of Comasa, and then to the right. Comasa drank from the bowl. He waited, watching the fire and listening to the sound of the rattle.

Brighter and brighter grew the light of the fire. The sound of the rattle grew crisp and seemed to take on a strange color. That did not seem right. The light of the fire filled his eyes. The rattle went through his head. There was a sudden pain in his chest and then there was darkness and silence.

Slowly the light came back to Comasa. Rather than rattles his ears picked up the sound of a small bell occasionally struck. He opened his eyes and could just make out the shape of his master above him. Comasa realized he was laying on his sleeping mat, and tried to rise.

The Great Botusu pushed him back down. "Rest. You have been four days in the spirit realm. Fever and sweat, and strange words from your tongue. Four days. When you are strong again you will tell me of your journey."

Comasa expected his head to hurt, but it felt remarkably clear. His body felt worn, as if he had worked long and hard and then run many miles. As he lay there he began to think again about his decision to bind himself to the Great Botusu.

He then recalled the long hours tending the fields or minding the goats. The long trail hunting in the forest, often with little to eat and not always with success.

With the Great Botusu he had plenty of food. The village provided well for the medicine man, and Comasa shared in that bounty. He enjoyed the learning, and mastering knowledge that was held by only a few.

He would rest. While he rested he would try to recall his journey to the spirit realm. Right now he only remembered pain and darkness, but he was sure the truth of the journey would come to him as he rested.

The little bell tolled by his ear. "I will name the new plant for you, Comasa." said the Great Botusu. "You wrestled with demons while the plant held you in darkness. Reach back. Remember. Find the names of the demons. You will one day be the Great Comasa."

Comasa hovered on the edge of sleep. He could now see the demons in his mind. He could remember the battle. Yes. It would be a mighty tale to tell, when he woke again.

Somewhere a bell rang softly in the distance.

The Witch of Wickham-

2009-07-12T23:21:00.000-07:00

John Fortner was old enough to be aware of the war, but too young to really understand what was going on. He stood on the porch with his father, watching the soldiers march by. Word was that the enemy was just miles away. There would be a battle.

A battle! The thought raced through young John's head. Visions of glory on the battlefield, with a vanquished foe at his feet!

"Go muck out the barn, John." said his father.

Far from dreamed-of glory, John did what he was told. He finished, and stepped outside of the barn for a bit of fresh air.

He could see smoke on the horizon, and hear occasional shots and shouts. Rarely a cannon barked and echoed off of the surrounding hills.

John's dreams of glory had faded to cow dung on his boots. He made his way to the porch and sat on the steps. One at a time he removed and cleaned his boots. He often thought his father was stodgy and unimaginative, but he respected the value the man placed on necessary things. John cleaned the boots with care.

He looked up in time to see her come out of the woods, walking along the same road the soldiers had used to go past their small farm. The witch of Wickham. She looked like a ghost in the twilight, gliding along the way and looking neither left or right. He watched her pass, moving in the direction of the battle.

As she faded from sight, John realized that the sounds of battle had also faded away. With a sigh, he finished his task and went into the small house.

His father sat at the kitchen table, finishing a cup of tea. John poured a cup from the kettle, and sat down opposite the older man.

John said nothing. He sipped at his tea, and looked down at his feet. His father had not gone to the war. "Growing food for people to eat is contribution enough." he had said some time ago, when John had asked. "Soldiers have to eat, and we know how to grow food."

"G'night, Dad." John said, getting up.

"Night, Son." said his father. John noticed that he looked much older tonight. Perhaps the light. John went off to bed.

It was late in the night when John awoke. He shivered, even though the night was warm. He got up from his bed and made his way to the front door.

His father stood there, looking out at the road.

John joined him. Moments later he caught a glimmer on the road. It was the witch! She walked back up the road, heading toward the woods and the village of Wickham on the other side. She was singing an unearthly tune, one which made John's heart feel cold and hard inside his chest.

As she drew abreast of the farm another glimmer in the direction from which she had come caught his attention. Slowly, two by two, soldiers were marching in her wake. They were keeping pace with her tune. As they drew closer the chill in John's heart grew colder still. He shivered as he watched.

Some carried limbs in their arms. Legs, arms, bits of themselves or other men. One carried his own head. Some shared the burden of carrying a torn and mangled torso, or unrecognizable pieces of what once might have been men. None carried weapons or gear. John realized that they were beyond need of such things, now.

He drew in a breath to ask his father a question. His father touched his lips, gently, and the question faltered on his tongue. He watched in silence as the price paid for a war he did not understand marched silently away into the woods.

The last stragglers finally passed by and faded into the woods. They aided each other, for few were whole and walking was difficult. When the last one passed into the deeper darkness between the trees, John let out his breath.

"Let's get back to bed, Son." his father said. "They may now be beyond need, but others will be in need of the food we can produce."

A multitude of questions tangled John's tongue, and not a one made it past his lips.

His father looked at him. "That is all there really is to the glory of war, Son." he said, gently. "She will lead them to a place of passing, and they will find peace. The rest of us have to carry on. Get some rest."

John returned to his bed. He thought he would lay there the rest of the night, unable to sleep. Instead the haunting melody the witch had sung threaded itself through his mind. He saw a clearing in the woods, and a path that was lit by an unearthly light. The soldiers were now running up the path and into the light. They were whole and young and shouting for joy.

He fell asleep, and dreamed a dream of quiet days and work well done.

An Alternative to Torture-

2009-04-23T10:45:00.000-07:00

Michael Benson awoke. He was groggy. He was sore. He wondered what had happened.

Sitting up, he looked around the room. It was clean, but obviously a prison cell of some kind. Moving slowly, he tried to remember how he had gotten here.

The convoy. Some kind of explosive tipping his vehicle. Darkness.

Mike realized that he was a prisoner of war.

The door opened, and a soldier stuck his head in.

"Come with me." he said. The accent was strong, but Mike understood. He stood and slowly followed the soldier down a long hall. There were other doors along the hallway. Solid doors. Locked doors.

The soldier opened one of the doors using a large key. He nodded toward the opening, indicating that he wanted Mike to enter.

Mike did so. Inside was a table and two chairs. A man in a dark suit sat in one of the chairs. The man waved a hand toward the empty chair. Mike sat down.

He anticipated an interrogation. Mike reviewed his name, rank, and serial number in his still fuzzy mind. That was all he would give them.

"How are you feeling, Mr. Benson?" asked the man in the suit. "Better, I hope. You were a bit damaged in the accident. We did a bit of surgery, and kept you sedated as you healed."

"Accident?" Mike asked. He recalled the event, and suspected that the explosion had not been accidental. This was, after all, war.

"Are you feeling well enough to go, now?"

"Go?" asked Mike. He was confused. Prisoner of war. They didn't just let prisoners go.

"Yes." said the man in the suit. "You were injured. We helped you. Now you can go, if you want."

"I want." said Mike. He was confused, but not a fool. Of course he would go.

The man waved his hand, and the door opened. The soldier reappeared. Mike was escorted away, still reeling from the unexpected turn of events.

"I have him in my sights." reported the sniper. "He looks like one of ours."

The Commander viewed the man coming across the perimeter through his scope. Another prisoner, coming home.

"Drop him." he ordered. The sniper depressed the trigger, and a piece of death metal traversed the distance between him and the man in the field.

The commander sighed.

"Gonzales, and Johnson. You are with me. Let's get down there and have a look."

Twenty minutes later the commander and a field surgeon were looking into the opened wounds of Michael Benson.

"Tracking and telemetry devices." said the surgeon. He did not like these changes in the mode of warfare. Surgery had been conducted at a distance from the action. Here he was, now on the front lines.

"Leave him." said the Commander. "Bug out!"

The small forward team quickly gathered gear and began moving away from the opened body of their comrade. They were under way only a matter of minutes before the first surveillance drones buzzed overhead. As the drones sought the larger force they were trying to protect the small forward team sought a place of sanctuary.

Someplace else.

The men did not even flinch as an explosion rocked the ground. The body of Michael Benson was now dust and ashes. They kept moving quickly, hoping to be away from the area before the follow up rounds arrived. Not only did they have to worry about stopping the enemy, but now they had to stop returning comrades, as well.

"That one didn't make it very far." observed the man in the dark suit. He was now sitting in a command center, watching the dust settle on the place Michael Benson had last stood. The surveillance drone gave a clear picture.

"Far enough." said the General by his side. "We got a direction and general location. The drones will do the rest. We will find them."

The soldiers at various panels in the command center directed their drones. One directed fire on the team that had stopped Benson. The team had been quick and evasive, and might just get away. They were wisely moving away from the still unknown location of the larger force they had been protecting.

"I miss torture." said the man in the suit. He sighed, fondly reminiscing.

"Not as efficient." commented the General. "So many lies and inaccuracies, just to end the threat of pain."

"It was an art."

"We have moved on." said the General. "Besides, nobody wins a war these days and gets to rewrite history. Torture makes for bad press. How can we be faulted for helping the wounded enemy and sending them back?"

"Yes." said the man in the suit. He smiled. "Making them kill their own is a nice twist. How will they manage that in the press?"

The two old warriors sat and watched the action on the various monitors. The were each lost in thought, wondering what new twists might come to mutate the love of their lives. Fighting wars in the news and on the Internet had robbed their darling of her old glory.

Smoke still wafted from the place that Michael Benson had last stood. There it was, an alternative to torture.

The Shaving Horse-

2009-03-10T00:21:00.000-07:00

Billy Todd sauntered quietly beside his grandfather as they walked deeper into the woods. When he was younger he would tend to run ahead on these walks, dashing between trees and jumping the many small streams as they moved through the shadows of the trees. Billy was ten, now, and had begun to appreciate what a precious gift it was to spend time with his grandfather.

He still felt the urge to run ahead, but refrained so as to stay by the older man's side.

Hiram Todd equally treasured his time with Billy. Billy's father, John, had grown up during times when Hiram had to work a great deal to take care of the family. Hiram had not had the time to lavish on his precious son, and as a result they had grown apart over the years. Hiram was determined not to let this happen with his grandson, so using the free time purchased by his retirement to walk in the woods with Billy was a great reward for the many years of work and sacrifice.

Every once in awhile Hiram would point at a plant or tree, and Billy would call out the name. Hiram made sure Billy knew of the more useful herbs growing in the woods, how to spot them and how to use them. He taught Billy the many little bits of woodcraft that he had learned from his own father. Things he wished he could have passed down to John, had times been different.

Hiram turned them up a ravine they had not yet together explored. There was a treasure hidden there, one he felt it was time to share with his grandson. As they approached the cleft in the exposed stone of the mountainside Billy suddenly stopped. He glanced around, sniffed the air and turned slowly in a circle.

"Something is here." he whispered. He knew that his grandfather had a touch of some woodland magic about him, and had always suspected that he shared the peculiar gift. The way the woods always seemed to welcome him, the way he so quickly learned things about the woods. It seemed more like remembering than learning.

"Around the big rock." said Hiram.

Billy walked slowly around the rock, and spotted the small cave hidden behind several tightly grown bushes. He gazed into the darkness, but did not move forward.

Hiram just watched. Billy stood still, gesturing toward the darkness of the cave but unable to move forward. Hiram continued to watch as desire and something else struggled within the boy.

"Dad doesn't believe in magic." the young man said. His shoulders slumped and he turned away from the darkness at the base of the stone cleft. "He says that you talk mumbo-jumbo, that you pass on old wives tales and make them sound wise."

"Yes, I know he says those things." replied Hiram. "Those things, and many more. He turned long ago from the knowledge that made up my education. He focused on school and career, and making much more money than I was ever able to do."

Billy looked sad. He loved his father, as Hiram also did. However they both knew that John had grown distant from them, holding them away and never quite letting them inside his personal defenses. Billy knew this intuitively, his grandfather by experience. The death of Billy's mother was eight years in the past, but it had broke something in John Todd that time had not managed to fix.

"Your father has the same touch that I do." said Hiram. "The same touch that you feel growing in you. The touch that was my father's, and his father's before him. Where most of the Todd men read the woods, your father learned to read other things."

Billy nodded, looking no less sad. Though he had lived with his father all of his life, they had not really been together. At ten years of age he was just beginning to sense the nature of that loss, that terrible distance.

Hiram had retired a bit early, just to be available for his grandson. The coming years would be hard on the young man if his father continued to fester in his grief. Hiram wanted to be there for both of them.

"Your father has used the touch to gather wealth, and does very well in that." Hiram said. "Rather than herbs and trees he learned stocks and bonds. He can short sell better than most, and his rewards have been substantial. Yet each year he seems to fall farther and farther away from us."

"I miss him." said Billy.

"I do too." said Hiram. "However, there is something here that can help with that. A little."

Billy looked up at his grandfather, and then back to the darkness of the cave behind the thick green bushes. He turned and pushed past the foliage, and waited for his eyes to adjust to the darkness.

At the back of the dry cavity in the rock sat an object the likes of which he had never seen. It was made of wood, and looked much like a long bench. Affixed to the bench was a structure made of wood, configured to work in some unfathomable way.

"It is called a shaving horse." said Hiram, in a quiet voice.

Billy didn't have to articulate his question. He just had to wait.

"A craftsman would cut limbs from trees and affix them in that holding device on top of the bench." his grandfather explained. "See the pedal down below? The craftsman could hold or release the grip of the machine on the limb by pressing on that pedal."

Billy gazed at the machine, trying to figure out how it might work. It was very old, and looked like it might fall apart if he touched it. He was not sure if he wanted to touch it. It was not threatening. He even found it appealing, like some kind of museum piece.

Something inside the thing frightened him.

"The craftsmen would often bring these shaving horses to the woods where they found suitable limbs." Hiram continued. "They would turn the limbs into table legs and chair legs and lots of other things. Using a draw knife they would work the limbs until they were finished and ready to be shipped to other craftsmen to be used in chairs and tables."

Billy could almost see in his mind how it all was done. Without thinking he reached out and touched the device.

He felt the sun on his back as he sat astride the shaving horse, pulling at the handles of his draw knife as he shaped the table leg upon which he was working. The knife shaved away bits of the wood, and as needed he would release pressure on the pedal and turn the work in the jaws of the gripping vice.

Draw and cut. Draw and cut. Release. Turn. Press down on the pedal. Draw and cut.

Karl Shaeffer was his name. He had come to these woods to work. The trees were good and strong, and provided the right limbs for making fine table legs.

Draw and cut. Draw and cut. The blade came against his leather clad stomach as he completed each stroke. Release, turn, press. Draw and cut.

He paused to dress the blade, and then returned to his work. As he drew and cut and sweated, he let his grief flow through his limbs and into his work. Each table leg carried away a bit of the pain. Even more flooded into the shaving horse upon which he worked.

Draw and cut. Draw and cut. Release. Turn. Press.

Draw and cut.

He remembered his young wife, as he sweated in the sun and the shavings piled up around him. He pulled a finished table leg from the jaws of the shaving horse, examining it with a practiced eye. He remembered the sturdy limbs of his young bride, his pride in her beauty. He wiped away a tear absently on his shirt sleeve.

Karl set the finished leg to one side of his shaving horse, and reached to the other side to pull another piece of timber from the stack of trimmed limbs. He set the new piece in the jaws, touched up the edge of his draw knife, and set to work once again.

Draw and cut. Draw and cut.

He remembered the kindling of their first child. The swelling of his bride's form as she made room for their child in her own body.

Draw and cut. Draw and cut. Release, turn, press.

Draw and cut.

He remembered the heat of the fever, the helplessness as he watched his bride and unborn child burn. Tears rolled with the sweat down his face. The past and present were one.

Draw and cut. Draw and cut.

He remembered the dark hole that waited to swallow all of his hopes and dreams. So many said they were sorry for his loss. They placed them gently into the earth, his bride and his child forever within her, and cast earth upon them. Karl felt his heart fall with the fist full of dirt as he said his farewell.

Draw and cut. Draw and cut. Release, turn, press.

Draw and cut.

Karl could not remain on their small farm in their little house. The memories were too much to live with, yet he would not dishonor the love of his family and his loving community by taking his own life. He crafted the shaving horse with his own hands, and when it was done he gave his land to his sister and her family.

He became a bodger, an itinerant craftsman making legs for tables, legs for chairs. He let the sun and rain and wind cleans him as he plied his knife.

Draw and cut. Draw and cut. He poured his grief into his work and into his tools.

This was a good place to work. Winter was coming, but he knew a good place to stow his shaving horse for the winter. He would return when the snows had melted and things had warmed enough for him to come back.

"Draw and cut. Draw and cut." said Billy. His grandfather stood beside him. Tears wet their cheeks, and they were not ashamed.

"You are too young to know such things." Hiram whispered. "But your father needs us, and to help him you needed to understand."

"What happened to Karl?" Billy asked.

"I don't know." said his grandfather. "Perhaps he went west. Many did, in those days. He left the shaving horse in this cave a great many years ago. Few can read the memories that stain this wood. It is a lesson I think you and I needed to learn to help your father."

They exited the cave, and blinked in the sunlight. Slowly they began walking back toward Hiram's house.

"What will we do?" Billy asked. "He hurts so much. What can we do?"

"Perhaps we should build him a shaving horse." suggested Hiram.

It seemed strange, the image of his father sitting astride such a device.

"Draw and cut." said Billy. "I don't know how it will help, but I think you are right, Grandpa."

As the afternoon waned and the two walked quietly through the woods, the shaving horse sat in the darkness of the stone cleft. It had given up its treasure of bittersweet memories to the lad with the right heart and mind and proper touch. With a sigh it collapsed into splinters and dust, as did the bones of Karl Shaeffer in some distant grave.

In the following days other wood would come together, and an anachronistic wooden horse would be born. A shaving horse, a thing from another era to be given to John Todd as an improbable salve for healing a wounded soul and a broken heart.

Draw and cut. Draw and cut. Release. Turn. Press.

Wordsmith-

2009-01-23T05:50:00.000-08:00

Poet, Warrior,
Philosopher, Priest.

World Maker
Dream Hunter
Nightmare's Scribe

Weaver of Shadows,
Sculptor of Lights.

by Michael R. Lockridge

This was a poem I wrote some years ago to (at least in part) describe myself and my relationship to writing. I pulled out the Nightmare's Scribe to title one of my short stories. That story follows this entry. I thought I would put it up here to provide some context for the story.

That, and because I like it.

Nightmare's Scribe-

2009-01-23T04:37:00.000-08:00

Nightmare's Scribe

a short story by Michael R. Lockridge

Tyler Jenkins carried the hot tea pot with care. Once he was out on the front porch he placed it on the small dining table he kept there for evening meals on nice days. This was a particularly nice day. A few fluffy clouds in a deep blue sky, his nicely trimmed yard before him. Tyler sat down at the table and poured himself a cup of tea.

It was Oolong, one of his favorites. Tonight he had ordered Chinese. Tyler was savoring the aroma of his tea when the delivery van stopped at his curb. A young man got out and carried a white bag up to the porch steps. Tyler removed his wallet from his pants pocket and extracted the requisite number of bills to cover the cost of his dinner and a nice tip.

"Enjoy your meal, Mr. Jenkins." said the young man. "I am a big fan of your writing, Mr. Jenkins."

Tyler nodded in acknowledgment and began setting his dinner out on the porch table. The young man remained, which did not surprise Tyler. His horror novels had not become best sellers, but he was making a name for himself in the genre. The nominal fame he had acquired had not yet become troublesome, and he did not mind the moments of awkward adulation.

"Do you live here for inspiration?" asked the young man. He was looking past the house to the large fenced facility beyond. The small yard surrounding the house actually was encompassed by that fence on three sides. It was the only house on the same side of the street as the state mental institution at which the young man was gazing.

"In a manner of speaking." answered Tyler. He stood by his table and sipped at his tea. The food was still quite hot and he could afford a few minutes for this young fan.

"Kind of weird how this house is almost part of the nut house." said the delivery man. "I would think it would give you nightmares."

"It was in that hope that I bought it." said Tyler. "When the mental institution was being built the owner of this little Victorian gem would not sell. They had to build their fence around the place. It did keep the property value down, and I bought it from that owner's estate several years ago."

The delivery man nodded, and then turned and walked to his vehicle. "Enjoy your meal, Mr. Jenkins. I hope you have some wonderful nightmares!" He waved as he got into his vehicle and drove away.

Tyler did enjoy the meal. He gathered the empty boxes and the delivery bag and carried them to the trash can at the side of his house. He looked through the fence and watched as light after light went out in windows in the institution next door. It was almost time.

He picked up the tea pot and his cup from the porch table as he went into the house. He rinsed them and set them on the drying rack. He then went into the room at the back of the house that was nearest to the main institution building.

Tyler turned on his computer. While it went through the start up routines he selected several crystals from a large collection on the shelf behind his writing chair. This was done intuitively. Finding the right stone was a very subjective activity. One by one he touched the stones. Some he held for a moment. Some were rejected at the first touch. Tonight he found three that felt right.

He placed the crystals in a bag and hung the bag around his neck. Yes, they felt right! Tyler sat down in his writing chair and opened a document on the computer. Then he just sat and waited.

Soon the deep anguish of some poor soul in the institution touched Tyler deep in the heart of his being. He felt the tendrils of other hearts and minds touch him, and he welcomed them. Memories not his own, real or delusional, flooded him. One moment he was laughing, the next sobbing uncontrollably. Then he reached out with both hands and found the keyboard.

Tonight he wrote for three and one half hours. Then the waves of agony and ecstasy abated, fading to vague memories of memories. Tyler saved the document without reading any of it and shut down the machine. Tomorrow morning would be the time to read and edit. Tomorrow he would work the nightmares he had captured into stories to be shared with the world.

Tyler carefully put away his crystals.

It had been draining. Tyler went to the bathroom and took a shower. Soon he was ready for bed.

As he drifted off to sleep he wondered who might capture his own dreams.

"Who eats the sins of the sin eater?" he mumbled as sleep engulfed him. Vaguely he recognized that the answer might make a good story. Perhaps, but a story for another day.

Tyler slept soundly. He never heard the chorus of screams that arose from the institution next door whenever he went to sleep. For all he knew, his sleep was always dreamless.

His neighbors might be inclined to disagree.

Is A Quarter Too Much To Ask? -

2009-01-07T23:54:00.000-08:00

Bob Jenkins dug into the left front pocket of his best dress pants. He dug with little hope, but the guy juggling on the street corner really deserved something for his efforts. The guy was good. As a long time amateur juggler Bob knew how much work went into the seemingly simple routine.

The sign at the feet of the juggler read: Is A Quarter Too Much To Ask?

Bob didn't think it was too much to ask, but he doubted that he had a quarter. He largely used his cards, these days.

"Oh, got something." he said. Bob pulled a quarter from the pocket he had thought empty. He dropped it in the basket next to the sign.

He watched a little longer, and then continued down the sidewalk. He had a job interview in about a half hour, and wanted to get to the place on time. He was not yet in dire straits, but he needed to find some income soon.

As he walked along he put his hand in the pocket from which he had retrieved the quarter. He found another one.

"I could have sworn I had no change in these pants." he said, bringing forth the shining coin. If it weren't so far back he would have given this one to the juggler, as well. He looked back down the street, but the juggler was no longer in sight.

Turning back toward his destination Bob continued his walk. Just as he approached the place he was to have the interview he spotted the juggler plying his trade on the sidewalk near the entrance.

Bob absently dropped the quarter into the juggler's basket. He was musing on the juggler and the quarters well into the interview, which did not go particularly well as a result. Coming out of the building Bob resolved to confront the juggler. He at least wanted to find out how the guy had gotten ahead of him on the street.

The juggler was nowhere in sight. Bob checked his pocket again, and found another quarter. He had pulled seven quarters from his pocket by the time he was convinced something very strange was going on in his pants. Pull a quarter, and the pocket is empty. Put hand in pocket, find quarter.

Bob had a vague recollection of a very old story about a man wearing a bear skin that seemed somehow similar to this strange event, but could not recall enough for it to be of any use. Bob pulled out another quarter and then stopped into a quickie mart to pick up a hot dog and soda.

He sat on the sidewalk and ate his meal, thinking about quarters and pants and men wearing bear skins. Bob resolved to go home.

At home he began pulling quarters from his pocket, stacking them in dollar stacks on the table. One. Two. Three. Four. A dollar. He did this for two hours. He had produced nearly a thousand dollars in that time. A thousand dollars, all in quarters, sitting on his table.

Bob looked at the shiny piles, and guessed that he had enough to test this new situation. He was afraid to remove the pants he was wearing, thinking he would break the spell. Did he want to live in the same pants, never taking them off? That wouldn't work, and he could already detect some wear around the pocket from constantly putting his hand in for another quarter.

He changed pants. He added another three hundred dollars to the stack while testing every pair of pants he owned. Finally he had enough. The pile of quarters was going to be difficult to move to the bank to change it into something more portable. He didn't want to do the quarter trick anymore. He was tired.

He ate a small meal, put on his pajamas and went to bed. He made sure that his pajamas did not have any pockets in them. He was tired of pockets.

In the morning he went out to the table, planning to find a box or bag to carry his quarters in and take them to the bank. The quarters were gone! He grabbed up one of the pairs of pants he had tested the night before and rummaged in the pockets. Nothing!

He quickly put on the pants and put his hand in the pocket. Bob sighed with relief. He pulled out a quarter. He had several dollars stacked on the table before he realized that it would make more sense to do this at the bank. That way he wouldn't have to carry all of the quarters.

Bob spent several hours at the bank, standing at a side table producing and rolling quarters. He had almost fifteen hundred dollars worth of quarters rolled by the time he felt he could do no more. He converted them into a savings account and some pocket cash and left the bank.

He dined in a fine restaurant that evening, mulling over his new wealth. He figured he could have enough to pay the rent and buy a new car if he spent the rest of the month doing as he had done today. Finished with the meal he wandered home, excited by his new prospects.

The following day Bob went to the same bank, produced quarters at an obscure side table and rolled them. He just did a few hundred dollars before he wanted to go to lunch. There was a nice restaurant he wanted to try but had never had the money before.

When he tried to put the money in his savings he discovered that there was no record of the previous day's transaction. His money was gone, as if it had never existed! The clerks and the assistant manager investigated, but there was no record of his money from the previous day. For a time Bob was irate, but over time he recalled the piles of quarters that disappeared from his table.

He thanked the tellers, apologizing for his error. He told them it must have been another bank, and that he had become confused.

Once outside, Bob sighed a great sigh. "The money won't last into the next day!" he said out loud.

Still, he had enough to try that great restaurant. Lunch was fantastic! He couldn't recall enjoying a meal quite so much. After the meal he sat over his coffee and thought about his new fortune.

"Though I have money for nothing, I am not a wealthy man." Bob mused. "I can easily take care of my daily needs, but cannot accumulate enough for big purchases. This is going to require a lot of thought."

The next day Bob went to the bank and worked long enough to have several thousand dollars in his pocket. He went out and bought a used van. He took care of all of the details that day, getting license and registration and insurance all taken care of with his cash. He drove the vehicle back to his apartment and parked it in his parking space. He had not used that space before. It looked strange, having a car there.

Bob had a simple meal that evening. He watched a little television, and then went to bed. He slept fitfully, and awoke early. He looked out the window.

The van was still there.

Over the next few weeks he spent part of each day at the bank, getting together enough cash for the day. He got the van running well, and began to outfit it to live in. It was a cargo van, one that would blend in anywhere. He figured he could live in it, parking wherever he could for those nights he didn't want to use a motel or a campground.

Motels and campgrounds would easily fit within the limits of the money he could produce in any given day.

Bob let the landlord know he would not be renewing his lease. He was moving out, hitting the road. He figured the income from his pockets would be enough to cover the day to day expenses of a mobile lifestyle. He wanted to travel, and now he could.

No more job interviews! No rent! The whole world was waiting!

On the day he was ready to leave on his fabulous journey, Bob stopped by the bank to produce some quarters and convert them into some more ready cash. When he came out he started to pass by a young lady holding a sign.

Is A Quarter Too Much To Ask? read the sign. Bob stopped and dropped a quarter in the hat at her feet, and added a five dollar bill. She smiled in thanks, and Bob gave her a wink.

As he got into his well used van and started the engine, he resolved to give away some of his wealth. As long as he was thinking small, thinking day by day, the quarters he could produce would be more than enough. He could afford to share with those in need who might cross his path.

He put the van in gear and pointed it toward the horizon. A whole new life awaited him. He planned to live it a quarter at a time.

Like a Virgin-

2009-01-02T12:21:00.000-08:00

Chet Atwood loved virgins. He was obsessed with them. He hunted them in his youth, and was quite successful in seduction. He gathered photos and biographical information on his conquests, and built quite a library on his little hobby.

It all went well until he finished college. Access to virgins was better in high school, but not too bad in college. Out in the real world, the world of business and adult recreation, virgins began to be in short supply.

Hunting at high schools was out. Chet wanted to dominate his quarry. He did not want to be dominated by some convict after being sent to prison for molesting children.

College would have to do. So, he adjusted his career plans to allow him to work in the field in which he wished to hunt. Junior professor, and then full professor. Romantic poetry of the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries.

His hunting went well into his early thirties. His library of conquests was vast. To protect himself he stored the information in a self-storage facility. The account was in another name, and paid always in cash. Chet wasn't stupid. He was a professor, after all.

In his mid-thirties he began to find the freshest fish were no longer interested in him. He was just too old. It was time to change the game. Chet began studying pornographic videos and visiting emporiums that catered to alternative lifestyles. Extreme alternative lifestyles.

Bondage and domination became his new thing. Not just bondage and domination of women who were into that sort of thing. He became a master of introducing women to this new realm of experience.

They may not have been virgins in fact, but in the ways of bondage and domination they were virginal enough to suit Chet's particular needs. More than a few of his inductees found their ways deeper into the sub-culture. Tattoos, scaring, multiple piercings and the like became the passion of some of Chet's conquests.

That, of course, was long after he had cast them off. He wanted virgins, and so was always seeking innocents.

That is how he found her. A new research librarian in the college library. New enough to not have picked up on the underground opinions about Professor Atwood. He was always careful, but even the greatest care cannot stop the rumors from flowing. Chet had to work fast.

He approached her first regarding a real research problem with which he was dealing. She really did help a great deal, and Chet made it clear that he appreciated her efforts. A few more projects and he was ready to ask her out.

First was dinner. Then dinner and a movie. She really was an innocent, though she succumbed to his charms readily enough to share his bed on the fourth date. Then he suggested a weekend at his cabin.

He introduced her to some light bondage and playful spankings. She responded well. Slowly he edged her from her comfort zone, and she came along. He planned to push her as he had done all of his conquests. Push her to the point she would finally reject him. Most didn't take long. By then they were far from virginal, and he was ready to let them go.

Chet was surprised when she sent him something in the mail. He opened the large envelope and found several photos of her in leather dominatrix garb. "Come to me." said the little note.

He called. She said she was waiting. It was his turn for a spanking, and maybe a little more. Chet found it exciting, and was quickly on the road to her place. He had not been there before, but Google had given adequate directions and in no time he found the place.

Gothic. An old Victorian painted and decorated to be deeply Gothic. Not at all what he had expected from his little librarian. He rang the bell. She opened the door. He leather glistened and Chet felt several things at once. He felt desire. What man wouldn't? He felt a loss of control. He felt just a touch of fear. This last feeling drove the desire through the roof, and he went in.

Soon it was Chet who was bound. Leather and chains. Riding crops and a playful cat-o'-nine-tails. He could not move, she was in control, and Chet was still not sure whether he liked it or not. He began to sweat when she held up something thick made of glass. He might have screamed, if not for the ball-gag in his mouth.

Her expression changed. Up until then she had been smiling and playful. Now that dropped away. She looked at him coldly, as if looking at a dead fish in her bed. Then she turned and went to a closet door. She opened the door and stepped back.

Through the door came two robed figures. They were stooped and moved strangely. At the sight of them Chet tried to scream. The ball-gag held in the sound. Chet struggled but was already heavily bound. They began to unhitch him from the bed, but left most of the bindings in place.

A third creature came through the door that she had opened. Tall, seemingly human but obviously not human at all. It handed her a satchel, which she opened immediately. She hugged the satchel to her breasts as she withdrew from it a vial. Quickly she popped the top off of the vial and downed the contents. An addicts joy flashed across her face.

She glanced once at the former professor being removed from her bed, and left the room. She hugged the satchel as if it were her very life. Perhaps it was.

The tall creature gestured toward the door. It turned and passed through the opening. Chet's robed porters hauled his bound body from the bed and followed. Chet felt like he was being turned inside out as they passed through that doorway.

In that instance he visualized an infinite series of universes joined here and there at minute binding points. He realized that they were passing through one of those points at that very moment.

Down a dank hallway they hauled him. Into a poorly lit room. He was hung upon a hook on one wall, still bound. One of his bearers ripped the ball-gag from his mouth. Chet caught a glimpse of the inhuman face and began to scream. There was no gag to stop the sound. He screamed again, and again.

Perhaps he is still screaming. With an infinity of universes filled with an infinity of possibilities, who might know?

Psycho Chick-

2008-12-17T04:19:00.000-08:00

Jason Ford was a predator. Oh, he didn't think of himself as a predator. In fact, if you could get into Jason's shallow mind you would find he seldom thought of himself at all. Jason led a thoroughly unexamined life.

Jason had enough self-discipline to have mastered the art of driving a truck. He lacked the self-discipline to save his money and buy a truck of his own. Jason was all about his appetites, and how to fulfill them. That is how he came to be an itinerant truck driver, traveling by bus from job to job.

That is how he ended up on Greyhound bus 896, making the milk run to Salem, Oregon.

As soon as Jason stepped onto the bus his instincts brought his head around. He locked onto the young blond sitting halfway back on the right side of the bus. Female, attractive in a desperate sort of way. Obviously not mentally stable.

Did he smell her? Did some scent bring his other senses on track and focus his attention on this potential prey? Or were there psychic elements involved, instincts that went far back into the sub-human source of his genetic substrates? Jason did not care. No part of him questioned the power or source of his instincts.

He had appetites, and this forlorn creature would satisfy them for a time.

Though the bus was not crowded he made his way down the isle and sat next to the young woman. She glanced at him, then returned her gaze to the bus platform outside of the window. To a trained eye that glance would have indicated the disease below the surface. Paranoid schizophrenic? Bipolar?

Jason had no thought there. He knew she was crazy, that she was a psycho chick. Easy pickings.

He settled back and paid her no attention. Her gaze took in whatever scene passed by outside the bus as the lumbering vehicle got moving. Did any of what passed register on her mind, or was she rehearsing some internal hell as the unseen world passed before her eyes?

Jason had no thoughts on the matter. He took in her form, pleased that whatever was happening inside of her had not yet robbed her of youth or beauty. She was a bit disheveled, and there was a lot of evidence that her seams were slowly unraveling. Still, there was enough there to meet his baser needs.

He was not ungenerous. He would give her as much pleasure as he could manage while satisfying himself. If she proved unreceptive, there were other ways. Though by no means a deep thinker Jason had cunning.

"Going far?" he asked. She started, looked at him for a second, and then returned her gaze to the passing countryside.

"No." she said.

He let a few more miles pass before he said more. He was not a man of many words, and he was not seeking conversation. He just wanted to get her used to his voice. He wanted her to become comfortable with his presence.

"Going to see family?" he asked.

She shook her head, and continued her study of the lights and shadows outside of their little world.

"I have a driving job in Portland." Jason offered. "In a few days."

There was no response.

"You look like you might be hungry." said Jason. "I could buy you some dinner later, if you want."

She said nothing, but shifted a bit. He could tell he had touched an important point. She had not eaten for some time. He let the bait sit.

"I'm going to Salem." she finally mumbled. "I'm sick in the head. I want to go to the state hospital. They help me, sometimes."

"We could have dinner in Salem, then." said Jason. She nodded, and continued to gaze out of the window.

More miles crawled by. The bus stopped from time to time. Drop off two. Pick up three. The bus remained always less than a quarter full. Jason relaxed next to his quarry. He anticipated satisfaction, but schooled himself not to show his hand too soon.

Eventually he pulled out his wallet. He opened it with care, allowing the stack of hundred dollar bills inside to catch what little light was in the bus. He counted slowly, silently, being sure that she could see this wealth out of the corner of her eye.

He slipped out a fifty, and put the wallet back in his pocket.

"Are you needing any money?" he asked. "I can spare a little if you do."

She continued to look outside. She shook her head again.

Jason folded the bill and placed it in the breast pocket of his shirt. He settled back and closed his eyes.

"Salem." said the driver. The bus rolled slowly to a stop at the terminal. Jason stood, and waited for the young woman to stand up. Without even looking at him she stood and moved down the isle toward the exit.

Jason followed. She headed right out toward the street, and did not head toward the luggage area. Jason kept by her side. She said nothing, but did not change her pace. She tolerated his continued presence. Jason smiled.

As they approached a small diner Jason stepped ahead of her and opened the door. She went a few paces on, then stopped. Without looking at him she turned and entered. Jason guided her to a booth near the window. She sat and stared outside, just as she had on the bus.

When the waitress came by the table Jason ordered chicken fried steak and potatoes for them both. He ordered two coffees. She said nothing. She studied the street beyond the window without interest.

The food came. They ate in silence. Though she made steady work of the eating, and ate every bite, she displayed no interest in the food. Always her eyes wandered to the window and the scene outside. Never did they make contact with his.

The meal done and paid for, Jason once again held the door for her. She stepped out onto the sidewalk and paused.

"I need to get to the hospital." she said. Her voice was barely audible.

Jason said nothing. She did not move. He gently took her by the arm and guided her down a side street. She did not resist.

He found a motel and soon had them registered. The clerk paid them no mind as he handed Jason the key. She let Jason guide her to the room, and entered when he opened the door. She dropped into one of the motel room chairs and huddled there.

Jason went to the bathroom and got two plastic tumblers. With his back to the room he broke a small capsule and dumped the contents into one of the tumblers. Jason returned to his quarry, and set the tumblers on the table. Fishing a flask from one of his pockets he divided the contents between the tumblers. He pushed one toward the young woman. She took it in her hand.

Still without looking at Jason she said, "Lock the door. Pull the blinds. Please."

Jason turned from her and did so. Returning, he picked up his glass from the table and began to drink. She had already finished her drink, and was busy studying the pattern in the carpet. When her head nodded a bit Jason put down his glass and went to her.

He lifted her chin and looked into her eyes. Yes, the drug had taken affect. She was there yet not there. Clay. Putty. A toy for his pleasure.

Jason got her up and onto the bed. With a little effort he got her undressed. She was not unwilling, but would easily loose track of what they were doing and just stare off into space. Not a big change, in her case.

He took his time. He posed her and took photographs. He was careful with these, as they could serve as evidence if things ever went sour. He used a digital camera, and would soon have the photos uploaded to a safe site and deleted from the camera. It was a small camera, easily cast aside or flushed down a toilet.

When this game grew tedious he had his way with her. Physically she was all there, and responded to his touch. Her will was gone, and she would have no memory of these events. Even so Jason liked to give his victims pleasure. It enhanced his own experience, and if he were a thinking man he might deduce that it offset his guilt to some degree.

He had taken her in as many ways as he could manage before his stamina faltered. Jason then got her under the covers and snuggled in with her. He set the alarm on his telephone to awaken him long before the drugs wore off. He wanted to be far away by the time she was conscious.

Before he fell asleep Jason sensed a shift in his awareness. He was not laying next to her in the bed, but standing by her side as she sat at the table. She was fully dressed.

She asked him to close the curtains. Jason put his drink on the table and turned from her to do so. He picked up his drink when he came back, sipping slowly and watching as she finished hers. He watched for the tell-tale signs that the drug had taken affect.

An instant later he became aware of being on the bed, his hands and feet tied to the bed frame and both of his socks stuffed into his mouth. He was naked, and she was doing something out of sight. He was vaguely aware of his own thought. She had switched the drinks and turned the tables on him.

He found the situation erotic, and felt himself respond. The young woman came into view. She was unclothed, and carrying something in her hands. She glanced at his manhood and smirked. Not quite what he had hoped for, but obviously she had something interesting planned.

She put several items down on his chest. Three or four single edged razor blades, a pair of pliers and a box of course salt. As she pulled a chair up close to him Jason began to doubt the outcome of this new situation.

"Like I told you, I was on my way to the state hospital." she said in a quiet voice. "I need help. Not the kind of help you wanted to give me. Real help." She gave his manhood a disdainful look, and began to unwrap one of the razor blades.

"When I get depressed I like to cut on myself." she continued. "Just a little. To let out the pain." She made a shallow cut on the back of her left forearm. The blood welled and ran slowly down her arm. She smiled.

"Now I have you." she said. Jason began to tremble. "So much pain. In me. In you. I plan to let it all out."

Jason screamed as she leaned forward and began the first cut down the center of his chest. He could tell that she knew what she was doing. The socks in his mouth absorbed the scream admirably. It swallowed up the ones that followed, as well.

Jason felt a shift in his awareness as she opened the box of salt. He was standing by the table, drink in hand. She was sitting next to the table, fully clothed and studying the pattern in the carpet. Her drink sat, untouched, by her elbow.

He picked up her glass and took it into the bathroom. He poured both drinks down the toilet. He came out and sat in the other chair on the opposite side of the table from his intended victim.

His first call on his cell phone was to directory assistance. The second was to a taxi cab company. In less than thirty minutes the two of them were on the road. The cab driver had been hesitant to go where Jason had requested, but two of the hundred dollar bills from Jason's wallet convinced him.

She huddled against Jason in the back of the cab. Jason did not know if it was just some need of hers, or a genuine affection. He was not a deep thinker, and he just held her close to him. When they arrived he helped her out of the cab, and dismissed the driver.

The admitting attendant went through the ritual of admission. She had been there before. If her name was mentioned Jason did not catch it. He did not want to. Soon she was whisked away into the bowels of the state hospital for the mentally ill.

Jason turned to go, and then turned back. He reached into the pocket of his shirt and pulled out the fifty he had planned on leaving for her back at the motel.

"Here." he said, handing it to the attendant at the desk. "See that she gets this when she gets out."

The attendant nodded. "Want a receipt?"

Jason shook his head, and went out into the darkness. A thinking man would have pondered the experience as he walked away into the night.

Jason was not a thinking man. He just faded into the darkness. His appetites were not satisfied, but for the moment they were quiet. That was good enough for him.

BOB

2008-11-30T23:04:00.000-08:00

a short story by Michael R. Lockridge

Bob looked spectacular behind his semicircular desk. It was festooned with lights and screens and various writing instruments. The walls of his sumptuous office were covered with video screens displaying thousands of scenes from the many thousands of planets over which Bob was the final authority.

Ogwan Spen entered the office, escorted by a lithe female secretary who could have been a member of any of several hundred sentient species. Whatever her actual species she exuded an aura of competence and deep sensuality. Ogwan had his recording device running, capturing all sensory and telemetry data in a multitude of frequencies and dimensional levels.

This was his first big break as a junior reporter. His almost unknown home planet fostered a very limited news agency, and it was a major coupe to get to interview Bob. Indeed, Bob remained a mystery among most of the planets under his sway. Who was the real Bob? What was he like? What did he eat for breakfast? Would he plunge half of the known galaxy into war before lunch, just to bring a glorious peace before dinner?

Bob turned in his opulent yet functional desk chair, and stood to greet the young reporter.

"Ah, Mr. Spen." said Bob, stepping forward and offering Ogwan a warm smile and hearty handshake. Bob looked very much like every bipedal humanoid Ogwan had ever seen, all rolled into one and made a hundred percent better. Ogwan liked him immediately, which made him instantly suspicious.

Bob nodded to his secretary, who walked sensuously across the office in a display of physical motion that would overwhelm the male populations of a thousand planets. Ogwan had a great deal of trouble focusing until she had closed the office door, with her on the other side.

Bob indicated a sitting area across the room. The windows on three sides of the sitting area provided fabulous views of space. Though it seemed a bit provincial, Ogwan could not help but look for his own planet as they found their seats.

"It's over there." said Bob, gesturing toward a cluster of stars of medium brightness.

"Pardon me?" Ogwan said.

"Your planet. It is over there."

"Oh. Yes." replied Ogwan. He felt slightly embarrassed.

"Everyone does that when they sit here." said Bob. It was particularly believable when offered with that winning smile. Ogwan believed.

"So, what is it you wanted to know?" asked Bob.

"Our university in Pocknar discovered a new node in the Great Network. Several Network Scholars were exploring it when the node became unavailable." Ogwan began.

"Oh, that." Bob replied. He reapplied the smile that had seemed so winning. "Isn't my office opulent? Isn't it splendid? Did you see your planet from my window?"

Ogwan was surprised. He was not surprised by the attempt at evasion. Ogwan had done enough interviews with persons of authority that he expected some evasion. He was surprised that the renowned Bob was so blatant about the evasion.

"The scholars were concerned that a new node would appear and then disappear like that." Ogwan continued. "Most new nodes entering the great network appear and are heralded and welcomed. There is much rejoicing, and the exchange of knowledge is great."

"Ah, that is usually the case." said Bob. "This node proved a little different. Do you really know who I am?"

"Uh, yes." Ogwan said. "You are the personalized representation of the great network that came into being when several information networks from a number of planets accidentally began sharing data across space. The interaction led to a personification of the network itself, and you sprang into being."

"A textbook answer, but true enough." said Bob. "As such I began to coordinate the know networks into the Great Network. I actively sought emerging networks and brought them in, making necessary adjustments to make each fit seamlessly into the whole."

"Some speculate that the war between Arglebargle Seven and the Newt Colonies of Schmegma Prime were one of those adjustments." Ogwan put forward. He tried hard to look like an experienced reporter uncovering an unpleasant secret. The projection fell flat.

"Yes, little things like that take place from time to time." said Bob. "It is not easy being an accidental artificial intelligence of phenomenal power. There is no training manual, you know. Anyway, the transition lead to a very strong node, and a lot fewer Newts."

"And that is a good thing?" Ogwan asked.

"How many Newts have you known?" rejoined Bob.

Ogwan gave up on that point.

"So, about the vanished node..."

"It's still there." said Bob. "I am still getting to know the content. Testing to see if it can integrate without costing us any more Newts."

Ogwan sat and waited. He had learned on the Great Network that just waiting was a great reporting tool.

Bob also sat and waited. He looked out of the window. He adopted a wistful expression.

Ogwan continued to wait.

"You know, I don't have a home planet." said Bob. He sighed. The sigh was wistful, as well.

Ogwan decided to wait a bit more.

"Ok. Ok." said Bob. "I am holding back this node for two reasons."

Ogwan almost stopped waiting. He decided to wait a bit longer until he decided whether or not to stop waiting.

"The planet at the center of the new node is named Earth." said Bob. "They have Ebay."

Ogwan couldn't wait this one out. "What is Ebay?" he asked.

Bob smiled. He felt like he was back in control of the interview. He also felt like that was an illusion. For a being that was largely just an illusion in the first place, it was a bad feeling. He decided to go with the feeling that he was back in control of the interview. That made him feel better.

"Ebay is a system of exchange these humans have on their network." said Bob. "Human is what these bipedal humanoids call themselves. Of course we call similar species humanoid, ourselves. I chose to appear as a humanoid, though a very good looking humanoid if I do say so myself."

Ogwan looked confused. That made Bob feel even more in control. He should feel in control, being the personification of a vast interplanetary network of obscene hugeness.

"Kind of a chicken and the egg thing, if you knew what chickens or eggs were." said Bob. "Anyway, we don't have anything like this Ebay. I want to think about how to introduce such a revolutionary concept. I don't want to start any more damned wars or anything. I already have a planet full of bereaved Newts to deal with."

Ogwan just nodded. He was beginning to feel out of his depth. Even so, he thought there might be some kind of story in all of this. He checked his recorder, and found it to be getting all sorts of good stuff. The indicators for seventh dimensional data were especially promising. Yes, he could get a good story here.

"They also have God."

Ogwan looked up, startled. "You mean they have the concept of God? The idea of a supreme being and all of that, a myth from the depths of their history?"

"No." said Bob. "They actually have God. He has a particular affinity for their little planet and their petty doings."

"Are you saying God is real?" asked Ogwan.

"Why, yes, God is real." said Bob. "I have lunch with him every Tuesday."

"And, of all of the people in the galaxy, these creatures know God?"

"Well, more or less." said Bob. "It is more just a matter of Him knowing them. He really likes them. In fact, He has pinned a lot of the future of the universe on their doings."

Ogwan was flabbergasted. "This is going to be an amazing story." he said.

"I suppose." said Bob. "But I think the Ebay thing is going to be more significant to most members of the Great Network."

Ogwan was incredulous. "How can you say that?"

"Hey, God fell out of fashion in this part of the galaxy a long time ago." said Bob. "No matter what you say, it will just be old news. Ebay, however, that is going to be big."

Ogwan continued to be incredulous. He tried very hard to make his face represent his true state of incredulity. It made him tired.

"Anyway, the only ones in the Great Network who really believe in God are the Newts, and you see what happened to them." said Bob. "I think we are done here. How about we go get some lunch?"

Ogwan just nodded, and followed Bob out of the office.

"There is a bistro just around the corner I think you will like." said Bob. "God just loves the place. I can't think of a better recommendation."

A Man of Many Dimensions-

2008-11-11T01:00:00.000-08:00

A Man of Many Dimensions-

a short story by Michael R. Lockridge

The reporter sat precariously on the three-legged camp stool his host had offered him. His host, Garmen Grender, sat on a similar stool, and seemed quite comfortable.

Comfortable, but obviously bored.

Garmen made another cast. The ripples moved out steadily from the little float that bobbed on the water.

“Tell me again how you learned I was here.” Garmen said, addressing the young reporter. “What was your name, again? Dave?”

“David Thompson, of the Winston Valley Gazette.” the young reporter replied. “I was researching a UFO encounter in the north county, and the guy mentioned what you were. He told me just where to find you.”

Garmen chuckled. “Those UFO guys are usually pretty off.” he mumbled. “I will have to keep an ear to the ground in the future.”

“Pardon?”

“Eh?” grunted Garmen. “Oh, nothing. Just making a note to myself. Go on with your questions.”

“The gentleman who studies UFO’s said that you were a dimensional shifter.”

“Did he, per chance, explain what that might be?” queried Garmen, turning his eyes from the float out on the water to the bright eyed young man.

“Not really. He started talking techno-babble and drawing pictures in the dust.”

“Hmmm.”

“I gathered that he believed you traveled between dimensions.” the young reporter ventured.

“You haven’t been doing this very long, have you?” inquired Garmen.

“I am a first year journalism student, over at Winston Junior College.” replied the young reporter. He sounded a bit defensive. “I am a stringer for the Gazette.”

Garmen’s eyes returned to his fishing float. He watched it bob serenely on the surface of the lake. The young reporter waited, trying to appear patient.

“Well, this time your lead paid off.” Garmen finally said. “I am, indeed, from another dimension.”

The young reporter was taken aback. “Uh. Which dimension?” he asked.

“I don’t really know. I have been moving from dimension to dimension for the better part of a year.”

“Uh. Wow. What is your dimension like?”

Garmen paused a moment, and reeled in his hook. The bait was missing. “Sneaky little bastards.” he mumbled. He fitted a new worm on the hook, cast it out, and settled back as if no question had been asked.

“Pretty much like this one.” he finally answered.

“Uh. Pretty much?”

“Well, exactly like this one might not be an overstatement.”

“Exactly?”

“I don’t know for sure. So, pretty much. Exactly.”

“Um. OK. No real difference, then?” continued the young reporter.

“None that I can detect.”

“How do you know you have changed dimensions, then?”

“Mathematics.”

“Mathematics?” asked the young reporter.

“Mathematics. And technology.”

“Uh. Yes. I see.”

“Do you?” asked Garmen.

“How do you know you aren’t just going back and forth between two dimensions that are just alike?”

“Wow. That one verged on being original.” said Garmen. He set his pole down into a holder that had been driven into the ground by his stool. “Come with me.”

They walked together to a motor home that sat nearby. Garmen opened a door near the back. Inside were many wires and circuit boards. Some lights were blinking here and there.

“Technology.” said Garmen.

The young reporter snapped a picture.

Garmen pointed to a small monitor in the corner. Complex equations were drifting across the blue background. The symbols were bright gold.

“Mathematics?” the young reporter asked.

Garmen nodded. He closed the door.

“All of the dimensions are pretty much the same?”

Garmen nodded again. “So far.” he said.

“That must be pretty boring.” the young reporter observed.

“Yep.” agreed Garmen. “That’s why I am fishing just now. I am taking a bit of a break from the whole dimensional thing. It’s pretty boring.”

“I can see that.” said the young reporter. He offered his hand. Garmen shook it. “Thanks for the interview.”

Garmen watched the young man walk to his car. He waved when the young reporter turned his way. The young fellow waved back, got in his car, and drove slowly away.

“I should just print up a handout.” Garmen said, as he sauntered back to his fishing spot. “Frequently asked questions. That’s the third time I have seen that young man in the last three dimensions.”

Garmen picked up his pole, and slowly reeled in the hook. The bait was missing again.

“What did he say his name was? Dave? Could have sworn it was Richard.” he mumbled as he baited his hook. He cast it out into the water, and watched the ripples spread from the float as it bobbed on the surface.

“Over three hundred dimensions and the only difference I have found in almost a year of travel is one man’s name.” he mumbled. He started to think on this, but was interrupted when the float ducked under the water.

“Ho! Fish on! Now that’s a change worth noting! I may have fish for supper!”

Can I Keep Him?

2008-11-10T01:22:00.000-08:00

Can I Keep Him?

a short story by Michael R. Lockridge

Bobby Blanchardt could not figure out just what it was he was looking at. It was not particularly large. It was about the size of a kitten. Though it sat more like a monkey or small man, it did not really feel like that. Feel was not the right word, but Bobby could not find a better one.

He knew that most people would find the creature disgusting. Hair sprouted from one place or another, but most of the skin was exposed. It was dry in places, wet in others. Some spots seemed to ooze a bit if the creature moved. The skin was bone white in places, several shades of red in others, and never a color that seemed right or natural.

Least natural were the eyes. They hid malice. Oh, they were big and frightened and innocent looking. They drew Bobby in. Yet he sensed a malice under the “help me” they tried to display. Still, they drew him in.

On impulse he reached down and picked it up. The boney tail wrapped around his arm in a possessive grip. The protrusions that covered the ridge along the back of the tail prodded his flesh and made him momentarily afraid. The little creature adjusted the grip and seemed immediately more pleasant to hold. If it weren’t for the sting of what felt like a paper cut on the back of his left hand Bobby might have thought he had imagined the boney grip.

“You are a kitten.” Bobby said. He was making a mental shift that was common among humans. He expected it to purr, but it did not. Bobby just kept trying to make it a kitten in his mind. The neighbors of Bergen Belsen or Dachau made a similar shift in thinking when they learned to live with something evil nearby.

It is thus that Bobby Blanchardt came to have a demon. It may have been just a tiny demon, but it was a demon nonetheless.

His mother assumed that Bobby had created an imaginary creature to fill his lonely hours when he came home begging “Can I keep him?” She could not see the creature he held in his arms when he asked her if he could keep it. Oh, her eyes saw it, but the information got lost somewhere on the way to her brain. She did not have the longing that Bobby had, or it might have actually appeared to be a kitten.

No, her mind simply lost the information. The kitten was imaginary, and that was that.

Bobby’s mother had a mind that embraced convenience. It had served her when Bobby’s father had walked away two years before, and it served her now. She said, “Yes, you can keep him.”

“I’ll name him Fluffy.” Bobby announced. It was the least fluffy thing in Bobby’s small world, but the name contributed to the illusion. Almost he could feel the thick fur when he stroked his new pet. He did not stroke it often. It felt boney, dry and scaly, except when he touched one of the oozing places. No, he seldom even touched it when he could avoid it.

That did not mean it was not always near him. Often it sat and just stared at him. When Bobby would go somewhere it would jump up and huddle on one of his shoulders, the nasty tail wrapped around him possessively. Bobby learned to ignore it most of the time, except when his mother asked about his “kitten.”

The fact that it never ate, never drank and seemed to never need to use any kind of litter box contributed to his mother’s belief that it was just imaginary.

For Bobby it was just there. It sat by his bed when he slept. It invaded his dreams. It was there when he ate or brushed his teeth. It was just there, as if it had always been there.

It went to school with Bobby. For weeks it just went there with him, sitting on his shoulder. Once he arrived at school it would jump down and find someplace to sit and stare at him. Bobby got used to it, and stopped thinking about it.

Somehow he knew better than to tell his few friends about his kitten. It might get complicated.

Then one day Ralphie was walking by the lunch table at which Bobby was sitting. Ralphie was different. He walked with crutches and wore a helmet all of the time. Bobby had never paid much attention to Ralphie, but this time he could think of nothing else.

He noticed how unsteady Ralphie was as he walked. How much he depended on those crutches. Bobby felt Fluffy’s eyes boring into the back of his head. Though he knew that Fluffy was involved somehow, he also knew that what he did next was his own choice.

He stuck out his foot and hooked one of those precious crutches and sent Ralphie sprawling between the tables. Nobody saw him do it. He knew he should react to the blood that came from Ralphie’s broken lip. He should feel sorry, or sad, or even gleeful. He felt nothing.

Fluffy seemed heavier when he leaped up on Bobby’s shoulder for the walk home. However, by the time he reached his home Bobby no longer noticed.

Over the years the Ralphie type of incidents graduated into planned and carefully executed acts of meanness. When they were over Bobby always lacked any of the feelings he knew should accompany such minor evil. At such times he would sense that Fluffy had gotten bigger, and felt heavier on his shoulder. Then he would promptly forget the observation.

The night he took Suzie Wells out in his mom’s car was the first time he saw Fluffy grow. Suzie had seemed very interested in Bobby, and he felt some interesting things when he was around her. That night when she said “No!” he knew she meant “Yes!” Fluffy sat in the back seat and watched.

As Bobby fulfilled all of the desires Suzie must truly have toward him he saw Fluffy physically swell in the back seat. When Bobby was finished and Suzie huddled against the door of the car, weeping, he realized that she could actually see Fluffy over his shoulder. Seeing Fluffy must have done something to her, because she never told anyone about that night.

Over the years Bobby had gotten new friends. They liked the things Bobby would come up with for them to do. At least they did until, one by one, they began to disappear. Most were assumed to be runaways. Only Lenny disappeared in a way that could be explained. He vanished into Juvenile Hall, where he was found one day hanging from a shower curtain rod.

After that Bobby’s mom was on his back. She whined and wheedled, complaining about his bad friends and bad performance in school. She began to irritate Bobby. Even worse, she obviously irritated Fluffy.

Bobby couldn’t even remember how the baseball bat had come to be in his hand. He just remembered the satisfaction of swinging it, again and again. The hollow thunk when it hit. The warmth of the blood.

With his mother now gone and the evidence against him, Bobby soon found himself sharing a series of jail cells with Fluffy. It didn’t bother Fluffy. He just sat and stared. Even the fact that the cells were a bit cramped due to the increased dimensions of Fluffy did not bother Fluffy.

Bobby took to spending hours just sitting and staring back. He lost himself in those huge eyes. The malice was no longer hidden. It was exposed, and hungry. Fluffy would stare at Bobby. Bobby would stare at Fluffy.

They couldn’t put anyone in a cell with Bobby. Even the most hardened felon would beg to be let out after an hour of sharing the cell. Nobody cried when Bobby was convicted and moved away to prison to sit on Death Row.

For months that became years Bobby would sit and stare at Fluffy, and Fluffy would sit and stare at Bobby. The whole prison sighed a sigh of relief when Bobby finally lay on the table, tubes sticking out of his arm and his heart not beating. Even then he stared, even in death.

A great, hulking demon arrived in Hell that night. It was well known that his name was Fluffy. The other demons pointed and made signs behind Fluffy’s back, but none dared to do so to his face. He had fed well, and was greater than most demons in Hell. Not the greatest, but more than a match for any regular demon.

Fluffy dragged a man along behind him. Most of the demons drew back from the creature when they looked into his eyes. The eyes were filled with malice and devoid of fear. Fluffy dragged him downward and deeper into Hell.

“Hey, Boss!” Fluffy shouted as some broad, dark shoulders filled the passage ahead. The shoulders turned to reveal the Dark Lord himself.

“Oh, uh, hi Fluffy.” said the Dark Lord.

Fluffy dragged Bobby out of the shadows and held him by one arm in front of the Father of Lies. “I found him on the street where you left me, Boss. Can I keep him?”

The Master of Deceit looked at the human spirit dangling in front of his eyes. Bobby gave him a sullen and baleful look. The Dark Lord snorted.

“Wow.” he said. “Good work, Fluffy.”

“Thanks, Boss.” said Fluffy. “Can I keep him?”

“Uh. Sure.” said the Dark Lord. “What the Hell. Sure. Keep him.”

Fluffy hugged his prize to his chest and moved even deeper into the recesses of Hell. Finding a dark corner far from the writhing masses of tormented souls Fluffy put his pet down on the ground.

Fluffy sat, and began to stare at Bobby. Bobby sat and stared at Fluffy.

After what might have been a millennium or maybe a half hour, Bobby said, “Know what, Fluffy?”

Fluffy said nothing. He just raised the horny ridges above his eyes a bit in question.

“I don’t really think you are a kitten.”

For the first and last time in all of eternity laughter rang through the halls of Hell.

Thomas Crossing-

2008-10-29T00:49:00.000-07:00

Thomas Cross sat quietly at the head of the classroom, feeling slightly disoriented. It was a feeling that was becoming all to familiar. So familiar that it almost felt normal, like some core element of his life that was never enough in focus to recognize, but always there.

He sat at the teacher's desk. He was the teacher. He recalled that, as well as the nearly twenty years he had occupied that desk and taught generations of children to write. He had been writing just now when the feeling came over him. The pen was still in his hand, and the journal open on his desk. He put the cap on his pen, and put it in his pocket. He closed the journal and locked it in the left hand drawer of his desk.

Thomas stood with care. He did not like the feeling that had come over him. He was confused, but the confusion was deep beneath the surface of his awareness. He checked himself carefully, to be sure all of the parts were in the proper place. Yes, his old and tweedy suit felt right over the same body he had occupied over the course of many years.

He brushed at the pants, noticing that he might have to retire this comfortable suit one day soon. He liked the comfortable feel of old clothing, but it was necessary to keep up appearances when guiding young people through their educations. Or so the administrators often reminded him.

Thomas was glad none of the students were present to see his confused state. Most of them seemed to care for him, but it was not a good thing to burden his young charges with anything that did not move their educations forward.

He let himself out of his classroom into the main hallway. He headed down the hallway toward the teacher's lounge, intending to sit a bit and regain his composure. Then he would head home and see how he might be feeling. This was a strange feeling troubling him. Stranger, because it seemed to be purposefully avoiding his full awareness.

Even stranger was the end of the hallway. Where he ordinarily turned right there was no longer a right turn. The hallway ended in a brick wall, in front of which was a trophy case. He recognized the case, and the trophies inside. He recognized the hallway going off to the left from this main hall. He did not recognize the paneled wall that stood where the right hallway ought to be.

Thomas felt he had but two options. He might return the way he had come, and make his way out through the main entrance and find his car and go home. He might also take the left hallway and see what other strangeness lay in store for him. Somehow the prospect of exploring the strangeness seemed less daunting than trying to go on pretending nothing was wrong.

He turned left and went down the center of the hallway. He looked at each door as he walked, taking some comfort in their schoolish sameness. Classroom door after classroom door. Plain, functional, except for this one now standing before him. Heavy wood, stained glass window, and a dark arched encasement. It was wrong.

Thomas turned the handle and walked through. The pipe smoke on the other side was disconcerting. So were the many tables, and the large fireplace with the blazing fire on the grate. He glanced out the window on the far side of the room and glimpsed a gypsy wagon passing by, drawn by a single horse. Two men sat on the seat, and something shiny was mounted above their heads. The light that momentarily glinted off of the object disoriented Thomas further.

"Thomas!" called a fellow seated at a table beneath the window. The man waved a clay pipe at Thomas, inviting him over to the table. Thomas heard a sound like a door closing behind him. He turned and was somehow not terribly surprised to find the door he had just passed through to no longer be there. Just a dark paneled wall.

He straightened the pleats in his kilt and walked across the room. Thomas recognized the man seated at the table. Jenkins, one of his fellow teachers. He was momentarily taken aback by the long pointed ears, but could not guess why they bothered him. Half-elves like Jenkins often retained the pointed ears of their elven parents, even though they may assume almost exclusive human features in all other respects.

Thomas sat next to his friend and pulled his own pipe out of the pouch hanging from his belt. Jenkins tossed him a leather pouch and Thomas loaded his pipe. Without thought he took a pair of tongs from the holder on the small brazier on the table and picked up a tiny coal. He lit his pipe expertly, yet in the back of his mind he wondered at even knowing what the little brazier was for. The strange feeling that had nagged at him was back, and stronger than ever.

"The Headmaster is pleased by the progress of your students." Jenkins said. "He has said so rather frequently of late. I think he is trying to hold you up as a model instructor for me to emulate."

"Nonsense." said Thomas, feeling nonetheless pleased at the news. "Your students are progressing just fine. Anyway, I just teach them their letters and a bit of writing. Nothing like your courses in practical magic."

"I can only relate what I hear." said Jenkins. "Practical magic is important, that I grant. Still, your students write clearly and have imagination."

Thomas drew on his pipe in gentle puffs, and stared into the fire.

"Those feelings are bothering you again, aren't they?" Jenkins asked. Thomas nodded. "Let me brew you some head tea, my friend. It will make you right again in no time."

"Yes, perhaps." said Thomas. He pulled his pen from behind his ear, absently straightening the feathers. Jenkins already had some ink on the table. Thomas extracted a few papers from his inside jacket pocket, and laid them out on the table. "Perhaps I just need to write down some of these feelings while they are clear to me."

Thomas began to write, feeling the click and rebound of the keys. Something about that did not seem right. He glanced up from the screen and looked at his companion. The Jenkins IV unit sat passively across the table from him. Why they had chosen to give the IV model elven features still defied Thomas. Even so, the machine was a coworker and friend.

"Thomas Crossing, I think I need to make a few adjustments to your reality centers." said the Jenkins IV. "Your reality cohesion is slipping, and it is impacting your work."

Thomas recalled his name and what it meant. Thomas Crossing. He was a trans dimensional being who was able to phase between various planes of existence. Yes. That was the confusion. He was drawn to the human form. He found the creatures fascinating. Bound to only one reality and having relatively short lives these creatures had developed immense imaginations.

They were so finite, however. Locking his being into their form caused disturbances in his trans dimensional psyche. No wonder he was becoming disoriented.

"Yes, Jenkins. I think you are right." he said. "Please do so."

The Jenkins IV unit soon had the adjustments made, and Thomas Crossing felt a bit better. His cohesion was reestablished, and the multiverse was again clearly in perspective.

"Well, I have to log." said the Jenkins IV. "Will we play tomorrow?"

Thomas felt another moment of confusion. The Jenkins IV laughed.

"Thomas, whenever you log on as that trans dimensional being you get all whacked out." said the Jenkins IV. "Log out and take a break. You can't play this game all of the time."

The Jenkins IV froze and then faded away. Thomas stared at the space it had occupied.

"Yeah, I guess I should log out." said Thomas. He sighed. "I have a class to teach tomorrow."

A few keystrokes later Thomas Crossing felt a portion of his being fade away. Fortunately most of the other aspects of his trans dimensional being remained logged in. He stood up and turned toward the door, wondering what might be on the other side.

Only one way to find out. He stepped up and put his hand on the handle. A whole multiverse was on the other side. Taking a deep breath he turned the handle.

Networks and Beta Readers-

2008-10-02T01:23:00.000-07:00

I recently read a book on getting a literary agent. It was a good book, well written and filled with the information I needed. The publication process is long, and the book helped to explain why that was the case.

Last night I finished my first edit of my first draft of Inn at the Edge of the World. It felt good to complete that part, even though I am far from done.

Apparently I should have a network of people who can help me with the next step. Beta readers. People who will read the raw text, and add their input.

I have been aware of networking for a long time. Networking for careers, and now networking for getting published. People serving as resources for one another in a given process.

I don't network well. I have little social drive, and this whole networking think is rather social. I just don't have the beta readers I would like to have.

This is awkward. The next step might be easier if I were studying writing in a school, with contacts and friends seeking publication. Unfortunately, I am pretty much alone in this.

Eventually I will find a way to get people to read the book, and comment and criticise. I will get to that rewrite, and be ready to seek representation by an agent.

Or, I could self-publish and learn my own marketing.

Meanwhile, I started the sequel. After all, editing and all of the other stuff is not writing.

Next up, Marcus and Ara. The tale of a growing relationship, filled with travel and adventure. Oh, and some steampunk. I just thought it would be fun.

Cruise of a Lifetime-

2008-10-02T00:47:00.000-07:00

"Oh, John." said Martha. "Do you think it is really pirates?"

"I don't know, Martha." answered John. They had saved for years for this special cruise. Now here they were, huddled in their suite. Pirates!

"Ladies and gentlemen." called the Captain on the public address. "The approaching ship has fired a round across our bow, and demanded we stand down. We are currently bringing the ship to a stop."

Martha trembled in John's arms.

Minutes passed. They waited in silence.

"The pirates are approaching from the port side." called the Captain through the speaker in their room.

"That's our side, Martha." John said.

She nodded, and held him tighter.

"For those of you who have reserved action suites, I have unlocked your gun lockers on your private patios. Good hunting!"

John and Martha jumped up and ran to their patio. They could see the pirate ship clearly. The deck of the pirate ship crawled with milling bodies. They could see various rifles and several RPG's.

John popped the locker door, and handed Martha a Kevlar helmet and flack vest. As she donned her gear he put his on. He then pulled the two fifty caliber rifles from their racks and began mounting them on the gun mounts on the patio rail.

Martha was quickly bringing out boxes of ammunition.

As they were preparing they heard several opening shots ring out from the decks above.

"Hurry, John." said Martha. She was flushed with excitement. John smiled at his bride of so many years, and handed her a round.

Soon they were locked and loaded. Drawing a bead on the pirates, they let loose the first volley. They loaded again, and John adjusted his scope. Martha felt that hers was close enough, and let loose another round.

A pirate rolled from the ship and fell into the sea.

A single RPG round detonated somewhere below their level. For just a moment their view was obscured. Answering rounds rang out from the three action decks. Pirates were now jumping from their ship, which was on fire.

John began targeting pirates in the water. The rounds hitting the surface gave enough information to allow him to adjust his scope again. Martha gave hers just one click in elevation, and then they both began picking off pirates at will.

All too soon the pirate's ship listed and went under. There was no more motion from the bodies out on the sea. Some guests were still plinking at the dead targets.

"At ten bucks a round, I think I have had enough." said John, as he stowed his gear. He closed the locker when he was done, and turned to look at Martha.

Her face was flushed, and there was a gleam in her eye. She took him by the hand and lead him back into the bedroom of their suite.

Yep, thought John. The best second honeymoon ever.

Martha demonstrated that she very much agreed.

Dominant Species-

2008-09-20T13:00:00.000-07:00

Scratches-All-the-Time entered the building at his leisure, found his place in the circle, and sat on his haunches. He lazily brought up his left hind leg and began to scratch slowly behind his left ear.

You're late. Observed The Alpha.

Scratches did not respond to the voice in his head. He switched to scratching his right foreleg with his teeth. Scratches thought The Alpha's obsession with human time to be quite unseemly for a Canine.

Why can't we have these meetings from home? grumbled Moves-Like-a-Bee. The Terrier was hopping around the circle, and being disgustingly pup-like. Not the proper behavior for a six year old. Middle-age should be more sedate, thought Scratches.

Tradition. said The Alpha. Pack meetings have always been in real groups.

So where is the traditional deer carcass? asked Smells-Like-Lemons. His professionally done coif was accented by bright ribbons tied in his fur. You know how hard it is for me to get away.

Yeah, yeah. Fancy show dog. replied Bee.

Lemons gave him a haughty look, and then barked a doggish laugh. Lemons may look pretty, but he fought like a circle buzz-saw. Nobody would push him too far, and he knew it.

Back to business. said The Alpha. We have a problem. I got word at the Alpha meeting that our take-over of this planet has not gone unnoticed.

The whole circle sat up, ears erect. Whines and growls came from twenty three doggy throats.

A transmission was intercepted by the home world. he continued. The Vogons did a survey of this planet, and observed an inordinate number of us being served by the humans.

I knew no good would come of those leash laws. complained Rolls-in-Crap. Too obvious that we are in charge. Being fed, being walked. All of our needs met.

We lost our cover when the humans killed off so many of the feral members of the Order. The Alpha agreed. It was only a matter of time. Even with our efforts to reestablish the wild packs, we haven't had sufficient cover for generations.

The Vogons are stupid. said Bee. He bounced up and down in place.

The Vogons are stupid, yes. said The Alpha. But they sell information. Someone in the Galactic League might take issue with our unauthorized expansion.

The pack thought back on their history. They remembered through their racial memory. The Great Alpha made the declaration, These hairless monkeys are just what we need to dominate the galaxy. We shall pretend to submit to them, and through that seeming submission shape their species and their future.

Why did they chose the humans? asked Smart-as-a-Stone. They get out of hand, sometimes.

Thumbs. said The Alpha. I don't suppose you have noticed that we don't have any. We needed them to make tools and weapons.

Well, they have proved adept at those things, that's for sure. observed Bee.

The Alpha stood up suddenly, staring into space. The others watched and waited.

Crap. he said. Bad news on the Alpha Network. The Vogons have already reported to the Galactic League Assembly. They have condemned the planet, and the Vogons got the contract.

How can they justify destroying our planet? asked Lemons.

Something about an expressway coming through. said The Alpha. The Dolphins are already beginning their exodus.

The pack picked up the image from The Alpha's mind. Millions of Dolphins rising from the sea in the dark of night, sailing off into space.

We can't do that. complained Bee. Those not-fish have huge brains and telekinesis. We just have a psychic link with a bunch of dysfunctional hairless apes. We are so screwed!

Nonsense. declared The Alpha. The Alpha's are already grooming the next White House dog. With some luck he will guide the next American President into a new space program. Our exodus shall be assured. Probably.

Great. said Bee. We pin our hopes on the influence of a bald monkey and a fleet of over-sized Roman Candles. Yeah, I feel good.

It has been decided. said The Alpha. Go home and guide your humans to make the right choice in the coming election. The fate of the world depends upon it.

Scratches looked up from licking his balls to see that the meeting was breaking up. He stood up and followed the others out.

They all made their ways through the city to their various homes.

I hate politics. Thought Scratches-All-the-Time. I wonder which of those two folically challenged simians we were supposed to have our humans vote for?

He kept his thoughts to himself, however.

He did not share The Alpha's confidence in this plan. With the end of the world growing closer by the minute, Scratches had to assess his priorities.

He turned from the path home, thinking of something more important than influencing his humans in the coming election. He knew of a nice little bitch that was in heat. He began moving with a lot more purpose than he had for the big meeting.

Scratches-All-the-Time knew what was really important in times like these.

Mystery Box-

2008-09-12T14:55:00.000-07:00

"What is it, Dad?"

"What kind of gift would it be if I told you?" said Wendy's father. "It is a Mystery Box."

Wendy had unwrapped the gift, and within the gift box had been another wrapped box. The label read "Wait". She held the four inch square cube in her hand, feeling the texture of the wrapping. Not paper. Something like burlap. When she turned the box something shifted inside. It did not make a sound.

"Can I open it yet?" she asked.

"In a moment, if you want to." said her father. "Did you smell it? It smells old, like it has been around awhile. Not unpleasant, just the scent of many years."

She brought it near to her nose, and inhaled. Yes. Time rested lightly on the surface, permeating the cloth wrapping.

"Did you regift this?" she asked.

Her father smiled. "Yes. On purpose. That is part of the mystery."

Wendy looked at her father, trying to read what was behind the intensity of his gaze.

"My father brought that to me when I was about your age." he said.

"Oh. A hundred years ago." Wendy quipped. Her father chuckled.

"I asked when I could open it. The same label was on it. 'Wait.'" he continued. "My father said I could open it after I had thought about it for a bit."

Wendy turned her head a bit to the side, looking at the Mystery Box.

"You didn't open it." she said.

"No. I realized that if I didn't open it, there were infinite possibilities as to what might be inside."

"An eternal mystery." Wendy said, softly. It was almost a sigh.

"I can't give you the world, Wendy. I can give you possibility and hope for the future." said her father. "You can open it whenever you like."

Wendy was turning the box in her hands when she heard the door close.

Infinite possibility, all in a little box.

She read the label one more time, and then placed the unopened box where she could see it every morning upon waking.

"Infinite possibility." she whispered. "What a great gift. It goes with everything."

Pestilence-

2008-09-06T11:50:00.000-07:00

General Fortus stood before the door to the Garden, and waited. He rarely had to wait on anything, being the highest ranking military person in the Troskan Empire, but he waited here. The wait was the consequence of his own orders, and he had a purpose in those orders.

"He is out of line of sight, Sir." reported the soldier guarding the door. The soldier inserted an ornate key in the equally attractive lock, and opened the door for the General. Fortus stepped inside, and went down the short passageway to the next door and the next soldier. That soldier had a similar key, and inserted it into a similar lock. He quickly opened the door, and the General stepped through it into the Garden. He heard the door close, and the lock snap into place.

His crew was good. They had been well trained, and knew their business. It was critical to Fortus' plan not to let the resident of the Garden know anything of the outside world. At least, until today. Fortus rehersed in his mind his plan for this day. The culmination of fourteen years of planning. The beginning of the next phase.

Fortus walked as he thought on his plans, wandering along the convoluted pathways of the Garden. It was astoundingly beautiful, and all for one small boy. One small boy who was on the cusp of becoming a young man.

Rounding a turn in the pathway the young man came into view. He was sitting on a bench by one of the many reflecting ponds, watching the clouds reflected in the water. The young man turned at the sound of Fortus' feet on the gravel path.

"Uncle Fortus! How good to see you!" shouted the young man, who stood up carefully and walked slowly toward the General. He shook the General's hand warmly, looking up into the older man's eyes with open affection.

"Good day, Pestilence!" said Fortus. He noted the continuing flame of fever in the young man's ashen cheeks, and the heat of it in his hand. "It is your birthday today. Fourteen years old!"

"You said you had some special plans for today, when you last visited." the young man named Pestilence said.

"Indeed. All is ready." replied Fortus. "Walk with me, Pestilence. I have gifts for you."

They strolled together down the paths of the Garden. It was beautiful, and Fortus always enjoyed such strolls with his adopted nephew. The General had made this special residence as pleasant as he could. It was a prison for the boy, but not a place of punishment.

Pestilence glanced around at the familiar grounds, little realizing that his small universe was unusual in its beauty. He had know no other place, and never seen the world outside. So careful and subtle had been his lifelong imprisonment that he only vaguely thought of the world outside at all. The outside world was like colors to a blind man. He rarely gave it any thought.

They came to a door. It was large and deep brown, with an arched top. The ironwork was ornate, and the lock and latch beautiful. Like all of the doors Pestilence had ever seen, it was locked.

The General sighed, and pulled a key from his pocket. Pestilence was immediately curious. In all of his years of residing in the Garden he had never seen a key, nor an opened door. The General had engineered the place so that people could enter and exit the Garden always unseen by its one inmate. He met with people on the paths, but never did he see them come or go.

Today the General would breach his own command, and expose Pestilence to the possibility of something greater than the Garden.

The young man watched as his Uncle placed the key in the lock. The key turned slowly, and the latching mechanism engaged with an audible "snap." Fortus turned the knob, and pulled the door open.

"Pestilence, here is your first gift." said Fortus, as he ushered the young man through the door. "This door shall remain unlocked. You may open it whenever you wish. Now, let's go up the stairs."

The General assisted Pestilence with the unfamiliar stairs. "Always use the handrails." he said. "You are too precious to lose in a fall." He showed him how to ascend safely.

At the top the stairs opened onto a well appointed deck at the top of the wall, overlooking the Garden. Pestilence gave the Garden only a glance. His eyes were wide as he looked in the opposite direction. The vague concept of outside became suddenly real.

A sloping ridge line, covered in trees, descending to a little bay. Water going out to the horizon. He had no words in his small vocabulary for most of what he could see. Life in the Garden had been simple, and required little in the way of words.

He was astounded. Fortus allowed him to stand and stare for nearly a half-hour before recalling his attention to their business.

"As I said, a gift." Fortus repeated. "You may come here as often as you like. View your Garden from a different perspective. You may even observe the outside world."

"So big." said Pestilence. "Yet the trees and plants seem to have no order. Is there no person to care for them?"

"Caring for a garden is one thing." said Fortus. "Ordering a whole world is another. Still, this Garden is pivotal in managing that world. Sit, Pestilence. Let me tell you a story."

The young man found a seat. He waited patiently, the glow of the fever alive in his face.

"Our land is not particularly large." Fortus began. "A very small continent, not much more than a very large island. We have been small players in the politics of the world. There are many nations, all seeking the power to dominate the others. Like those games I taught you, long ago."

Pestilence nodded, though it was apparent that he did not fully understand. How could he, living isolated as he did? The General made a mental note to begin the next phase of the young man's education in a few weeks.

"Though not large, we were prosperous. We grew more than enough food, and our artisans created things highly sought after." continued Fortus. "We were growing rich and were held in high esteme by other nations. Then came the dark times."

Pestilence moved to the edge of his chair. This was better than any other story he had been told. His attention was intensely focused on the words of the older man.

"Disease ravaged our people. Entire villages were wiped out. One in every three people died." said Fortus. "Our economy was in ruins. The people were confused, and in need of a firm leader. The Emperor seized power and placed things in order. He brought people together in central locations and built fortified cities. We were ripe for plunder, once word got out and other people came to believe the ravaging disease had run its course."

Pestilence touched his own cheek gently, feeling the burn of the fever that had always been in him.

"I found you, and adopted you as my nephew." said the General. "Your parents, sadly, had both died. Of all the people that contracted the disease and did not die, you were the only one in which the disease continued to live. You have never been defeated by the disease, yet your body has never overcome the invader. You became our national treasure."

"What do you mean, Uncle?" asked the young man. "How can one sickly boy be the treasure of a nation?"

"This Garden I had built as your home." the older man continued. "In all of these years I sought to keep you safe. I also have used you, lad. I am not ashamed of that. You have served your people better than hundreds of men. Thousands."

"Uncle?"

"Over these years you have had many visitors." said Fortus. "They came and met you, touched your hand, shared your food. Soldiers, workers, mothers and more. I did that to keep them exposed to the disease that in you did not die. Our people will be strong and resist the disease because you are here to share it with them."

Pestilence nodded, remembering the endless stream of visitors he met in his Garden. It had been part of the patern of his life for as long as he could remember.

"You know, Pestilence, most boys do not get new bedding every day." Fortus said. "Nor do the get new clothes four times each day. The bedding in which you have slept and the clothes you have worn have been taken to other lands. Carefully managed, we have used them to bring disease to various other lands, keeping them weak. Too weak to invade our precious land."

Pestilence looked out over the sea. He could only vaguely imagine those other lands, those other people. He thought that perhaps he should feel some guilt or pain over all of those deaths. He could not. It was all too new to him.

"That is why I have kept you in this Garden." Fortus said. "You are too valuable to lose. Yet you grow older, and who knows what the future holds? So, I will begin your education into the ways of our nation and the world."

A young woman appeared around a corner. Now that he was aware of the trick, Pestilence realized that she had come from outside, through some hidden door. He eyed her and the contents of the tray she carried with equal interest.

The General noticed his interest, and smiled. The next phase should go quite well. Over the recent months the more matronly women working to care for Pestilence had been replaced by younger women. The uniforms of those women became more aluring over time, to provoke the interest the General now observed.

She set the tray of delicate fruits on the table. She smiled at Pestilence, and then stepped back against a nearby wall to wait.

"These fruits we cannot grow here in this land." said Fortus. "We must trade for them. To keep the balance of trade we exchange other goods. Bedding, for example. Perhaps children's clothes."

Pestilence took one of the unusual fruits and studied it. He then consumed it with obvious relish. His eye often strayed to the young woman standing by the wall.

"You want to do your part, maintaining this balance of trade, don't you?" asked Fortus.

Pestilence nodded. He was not sure why it was so hard not to look at the serving girl.

"Sandra, come here, please." said the General. The serving girl came and stood by him.

"Pestilence, would you like Sandra to stay with you for a few days?"

"Oh, yes, Uncle!"

"Good, good. Sandra, why don't you take Pestilence over there and you two can get to know each other. Don't mind me, I will be fine right here."

Sandra smiled and took Pestilence by the hand. The young couple walked a few paces away and sat on a lounge facing the Garden.

Fortus sat back and smiled. Sandra was just a few years older than the many other serving girls working around the Garden and surrounding compound. She was considerably more experienced. She would teach Pestilence some wonderful things in the next few weeks. Things he would be able to share with the endless parade of young women the General intended to march through the Garden.

Perhaps the condition that made Pestilence so valuable was genetic. Perhaps it could be bred. If not, the young women who had been intimate with Pestilence could become another exportable commodity.

If nothing else, the unending pleasure should keep his young prisoner docile for many years to come. The General was content in his belief that the Empire would be safe and secure for a very long time.

He got up quietly, went around a corner and let himself out through another hidden door.

Pestilence did not even notice his Uncle's departure. He was too busy with the next phase of his education. It was a very happy birthday, indeed!

All That is Holy-

2008-09-01T03:44:00.000-07:00

Abraham carried the vessel with great care as he navigated the narrow path. He had been an acolyte for only a month, and took his duties seriously. It was his task to feed and otherwise care for the ascetic monks attached to the monastery. The mixtures of simple grains were sanctified, and destined to nourish one of God's Chosen.

Making the final turn in the path Abraham walked up to a literal hole in the wall. Brother Levi had hollowed out the hillside and sealed himself inside a small cave of his own making. He had stacked the rocks that formed the front of his cell, leaving a hole just big enough to allow the vessel Abraham carried to pass through.

Brother Levi was the last of the seven monks assigned to Abraham that he had to visit each morning. Abraham was tempted to greet the monks. Abraham was a naturally cheerful young man, and keeping the silence required in the Vale of the Monks was difficult for him. Still, he was devoted to his God and to the church. He managed, most of the time.

Abraham silently slid the vessel full of grain into the hole. He waited. Soon, a pair of hands took the vessel into the darkness. Abraham tried to hold his breath while showing the proper veneration for God's Chosen. Unfortunately, the Chosen of God did not smell very good. Abraham felt bad for his uncharitable thoughts, but he did not believe his nose lied to him.

A moment later another vessel appeared in the opening. It was the vessel he had delivered the day before. Abraham lifted it with care. The contents reeked more than the air escaping from Brother Levi's dwelling. He carried it slowly away. He was always very careful at this point. The solids and liquids sloshed dangerously in the vessel, no matter how carefully Abraham walked.

He was relieved when he reached the place where he could pour off most of the liquid. He took great care in not letting the solids escape. He mouthed the prayers he had been instructed to speak as he performed this task. Ordinarily he enjoyed prayer, but these prayers required him to breath more than he really wanted. This was a time when even a small inhalation could be incapacitating.

Once most of the liquid had been poured off Abraham lifted the vessel and carried it in his outstretched arms. By the time he got to the hut of Father Isaac his arms were shaking from the strain. Father Isaac met him at the door, and took the vessel before he could drop it. Father Isaac gave him a baleful look.

"Abraham, Abraham, Abraham!" he said. "How long will it take you to learn to venerate the gifts of the Chosen of God?"

Abraham hung his head in shame.

Father Isaac tucked the vessel under his arm, and gave Abraham a gentle smack on the top of his head. "Come with me." he said.

Abraham followed, thankful for the gentle rebuke. He watched as Father Isaac took the stone lid off of a very large vessel, using only his free hand. With practiced moves Father Isaac emptied the contents of the vessel Abraham had brought to him into the larger vessel. He muttered the appropriate prayers as he waited for the last bit to drop into the ripe smelling container. Abraham muttered the prayers along with the priest.

The task completed, Father Isaac handed Abraham the vessel and put the lid back on the larger container. It would be Abraham's task to take the vessel to the nearby stream and wash it clean. Abraham liked this part of the job. The air was fresh by the stream, and he could sing his prayers to the music of the running waters.

"A year from now and this shit will be ready." said Father Isaac. "People will come here and buy this shit to take home to their gardens. You know why, Abraham?"

Abraham held his tongue. He knew that it was not a question he should answer. Father Isaac liked to ask questions, and then answer them himself.

"They will come for this shit, because it is Holy." continued the old priest. "Yes, this is Holy Shit. Those crazy men sit in their rock holes, praying and pooping. Why should just the praying be Holy? That's what I said. 'What about all of that shit?' I asked."

Abraham waited. He knew better than to interrupt.

"So, they put me in charge." said Father Isaac. "They said, 'OK, so you do something with all of that shit.' And I did."

The old priest looked lovingly at his row of large vessels. He patted the nearest one with affection.

"Holy Shit. That's what I said. Put it up for a year, and it is the best soil on earth. That's what I said. And the people listened. They came, and took it to their gardens, and praised the Chosen of God for their prayers. But it wasn't only prayers that gave them abundance from their gardens. No, it was the Holy Shit."

Abraham nodded, and waited patiently.

"You go, Abraham. Clean that vessel, and bring it back. Then you can be off to your classes."

Abraham smiled, turned, and ran for the stream.

"Oh, and Abraham!" Father Isaac shouted after him. "Take a bath while you are there. You don't smell so good!"

Getting published-

2008-08-31T00:58:00.001-07:00

I haven't written any short stories in awhile, due to investing my time in cleaning up my rough-draft novel.

Besides the task of polishing the story I have been exploring the best way to get the thing published. I have explored Lulu.com and the services provided by Amazon. I have looked at blogs on the subject of getting published, and checked web sites of those who offer to assist. I have also looked at web sites warning of the excesses of some who offer to assist writers in getting published.

I am currently researching how to get an agent. I face an uphill battle, since I am a first-time writer trying to get published at the age of 55. Still, I don't really see gaining the necessary skills to market a novel on my own. I may work on a project with the intent of self-publishing through print-on-demand resources, but this novel is not that project.

There is still much work to do in finishing and formatting my novel. I have a serviceable level of skill in word processing for writing reports and simple documents. I feel the need to gain a bit more skill in learning to manage and format a novel length text.

That, and ongoing research has limited my resources for writing the short stories I love. Oh, and the switch from working days to nights has been a bit taxing, as well. I am fairly well accustomed to the new hours, and hope to do better.

If all goes well I should publish a new little tale in a few days. For those of you who are checking in, thanks for sticking with me.

Word Processing-

2008-08-13T06:19:00.000-07:00

I have finished red-lining my rough draft for my novel, Inn at the Edge of the World. I started making corrections and additions last night. As I did so, I realized that I have not actually mastered my word processor. It does not help that I go from Word at work to Word Perfect at home.

If I do go with a self-publishing service or the print-on-demand services with Amazon, I will need to learn how to format my work for publication. I could pay for the formatting and other services, but I feel that learning how to do the formatting myself will be valuable learning. It is more in line with my budget, as well.

First comes the rewrite and a more serious approach to learning the word processor. I suspect that formatting a novel for publication will be a bit more involved than anything else I have done in the area of word processing.

I have a lot to learn. That seems to always be the case.

Twenty Two Caliber Redemption-

2008-07-24T21:05:00.000-07:00

He sat in silence on the worn park bench, sipping from a bottle in a paper bag and watching the dusk fall. He no longer had a name, and that gave him what little peace he knew. He left that name along with the family that was now just a suppressed and faded memory.

His eyes drifted from the sunset over the sooty city skyline to glance at his quarry. He was always astounded when something like a sunset awoke the vague echoes of pleasure that still clung to the edges of his empty self. His quarry took some money from a young man of about fourteen. The young man received something small in return, and ran off down the street.

The quarry made a few more sales, and then glanced around. Probably looking for the cops, or competition. The man put his bagged bottle to his lips, and took another sip. An empty man is invisible, and winos so common as to be of no more note than the pigeons in the park. He got up and followed slowly as the quarry headed toward a darkening alley.

He mumbled a bit, swinging his bottle about, and stumbled into the alley just a few yards behind his quarry. Slumping beside a dumpster, he took another sip. The quarry met a man at the back of the alley, and they conducted a little business. After the quarry left the alley, the man with no name slowly stumbled to his feet.

He followed. Down a block, a right turn. Another block. A left into another alley. The pusher's digs were not far ahead.

The stumbling wino gait gave way to purposeful strides. The hand not holding the bottle came up with practiced precision. The small caliber hand-gun barked three times. Sub-sonic twenty-two caliber rounds exited the muzzle and quickly found their new home inside the pusher's skull. The quarry dropped, dying even as he fell.

The man with no name walked on. He came soon to the chapel he had chosen. Entering, he looked around in the holy gloom. He did not touch the offered holy water, fearing that it would burn him. He went forward to an empty pew, knelt and prayed.

Here the memories flooded back. Backing out his daughter's car, to get it ready for a family outing. The muffled thump as he ran over something. His daughter's scream. Her, holding his now dead grandson beside the driveway.

"I have brought you another one." he prayed. An offering. A bit of cleansing. An attempt to buy redemption.

He knew in his heart that God had forgiven him. His family had forgiven him. They had struggled to bring him back to himself after the accident. They did not know that he was truly empty. He could not forgive himself.

He had wandered for years, now. The hurt his absence must cause his family simply added to his debt. He hunted those who poisoned children, hoping that somehow that would buy him peace. Perhaps someday he could once again claim his name.

The man with no name stood, and exited the chapel. He wandered toward the cheap room that would contain his dark dreams and muffled screams for the night. He would clean his gun, eat enough to keep his unworthy body alive, and seek a new town tomorrow.

Television Commercials-

2008-07-23T03:23:00.000-07:00

Some of the most entertaining material on television is the commercials. Just try and watch a half-hour of Hell Date, and then find a nice string of commercials. My bet is that you will find the commercials more entertaining.

The short stories I publish here are best classified as Flash Fiction. I keep the stories very short. They move very quickly to the pay-off. A lot like commercials.

I sometimes wonder if commercials would be as focused and entertaining if they were not simply vehicles to introduce us products and services, and keep those products and services fresh in our minds. I have to imagine a lot of energy (and money) goes into producing these very short commercial stories.

It would be interesting to visit the future, and find out how these little product positioning tales fare over time.

I have to imagine that some commercials will outlive their products. They may not always sell, but they will continue to entertain.