Category Archives: Word of the Day

BlogBattle, Word of the Day

The Gold Rush of Eighteen Forty-Ten, a #BlogBattle entry

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This piece is for the Blog Battle hosted and managed by the seemingly tireless Rachael Ritchey. If you’d like to participate, she has all the details on the Blog Battlers’ WordPress site.

Genre: Tall Tale

Word: Resolved

Word Count: 1041

—–

Aurora Borealis, painted by Frederic Edwin Church, 1865. (Public Domain)
Aurora Borealis, painted by Frederic Edwin Church, 1865. (Public Domain)

 

The Northern Lights danced across the Alaska sky while two men trudged through the snows. Rings of smoke followed in their wake like Indian signals, and the lantern jangling from a pole spread a warm, inviting light with which the weather disagreed.

“I’m tellin’ ya, Jim’s stronger than any man,” the younger man said. His cigar glowed orange as he took a drag beneath his thick black mustache. “Didja see how he hefted those carts of stone? Bet he could hurl ‘em right over the peak of Denali if he had half a mind to do it.”

“Oh, I know all the stories,” the older fellow replied, hunched and stiff from years in the mines. “Folk say when Ol’ Jim Gibbons was born, he split his Ma right in half. Then the boy saw what he’d done and squeezed her back together again like clay.”

“Aw, that’s a load of bunk.”

“I met Maw-Maw Gibbons, Junior. She’s got a white stretch mark runs straight down her spine an’ right between her bosoms. Limped as long as I’ve known her, an’ who can blame her after that ordeal?”

“Well, that may be, Paw… but ain’t possible to split a person in half and then put ‘em together again.”

“You a doctor of medicine now? Wish you told me! We coulda been makin’ a killing treatin’ the workers on this gold rush instead of joinin’ ‘em in the mines.”

Paw gazed into the night sky and took a deep breath. “Here’s to another year of luggin’ rock and pannin’ for gold. Happy New Year, boy. I’ll get you a mug of cider when we reach Abby’s.”

“Paw, come on now. I think I’ll go for somethin’ a little stronger.”

“Fine, but I ain’t buyin’ no firewater. You need to cut down the carousin’ and cavortin’ with wayward women, get some meat on your bones and some strength in your spirit. Start of a New Year’s a good time to make some changes, Junior.”

“I ain’t Jim Gibbons,” Junior fired back, “and I ain’t tryin’ to be him neither. I’m a grown man now, Paw. I can tend to my own affairs.”

“Jus’ sayin’ a man could choose worse examples to follow.” Paw eyed the glowing stogie between Junior’s lips.”Like quittin’ those Cubans. Might save us some earnings if we didn’t have to keep you stocked up on tabacca an’ booze.”

“Man’s got to live a little, Paw. What’s the point of puttin’ in my fifty or sixty years if I don’t enjoy a one of ‘em? Even your big legend Jim had his days of fun an’ debauchery.”

Paw shook his head and dismissed Junior’s point with a wave.

Junior took a long drag on the cigar, until the end blazed like the anger building in his heart. “Okay, Paw, let’s talk about the Gibbons I’ve heard tell of. Went through bottles of whiskey like lesser men take shots. Walked into sportin’ houses an’ hired the whole stable of women, an’ left no less vigorous than when he came through the doors.”

“Hardly the right kind of—”

“Men say when he rustles up dinner after a week in the mines, he rides out to the Circle-Tee Ranch and purchases beef by the head of cattle instead of the pound of the cut. Why, when the Garveston tobacco plantation went up in the drought, they say Ol’ Jim rode through the flames an’ plumes of smoke, suckin’ in deep breaths an’ grinnin’ the whole dang time. Told the farmhand that he finally got the happy feels ever’body talked about. That’s your bastion of morality an’ clean livin’ right there.”

“Mayhaps he did all that,” Paw admitted with a solemn nod. Then he waggled a finger at Junior. “You forget he turned aside from his sinful ways. Found some religion, put his face into the Good Book now an’ again. Happened during the California Gold Rush of Eighteen Forty-Ten.”

“The what now?”

“Back in Forty-Nine,” Paw started in a reverent tone, “Jim Gibbons found more gold and made more profit than any man west of the Mississippi. Easy to do when you can pick your way clean to China in a week’s hard work. Miners in the Rockies said they’d be diggin’ a tunnel when the walls in front of ‘em burst open and big Jim breaks through, grin splittin’ his face like the Grand Canyon. ‘Ello from California, he’d say in that deep baritone of his, before lumbering back the way he’d come.”

“You can’t believe—”

“Seen it with my own eyes, I did! And yessir, he did all that wicke’ness what you was recounting. But come the end of Forty-Nine, he realized all his money’s gone an’ he got nothin’ to show for it. Resolved to change his ways, right then, an’ wished he could take back those fool decisions you praise so highly.” Paw gave Junior a judgmental squint.

“So Big Jim, what’s he do? Decides maybe he can take it back. So he gets himself a thick chain like they use to lower cars in the mine shafts, the longest length of it he can find. Steps onto the highest peak of the Rockies an’ starts to whirlin’ the chain around. Started the dust storms on the Oklahoma plains, he did.

“Then Jim hurls the end of that chain up into the sky an’ latches it right ‘round the settin’ sun on the first try. Strains with all his might and pulls the ball o’ fire back the other direction, sends it back to the East coast and keeps whippin’ it around, backwards to its normal path in the heavens. Spun time all the way back to the beginnin’ of the year, an’ no one knew what to do. So they called it the Gold Rush of Eighteen Forty-Ten.”

Junior spit into the snow. “They did not.”

“Did too. I got coins stamped with the date to prove it. And what’s more, in Eighteen Forty-Ten, Jim Gibbons turned his life around—made the promise to change, an’ carried it out to the finish.”

Junior scoffed. “A man that completed a New Year’s resolution? Heard a lot of things about Jim Gibbons, but now I know you’re pullin’ my leg.”

—–

Happy New Year, fellow Battlers and readers. Here’s hoping you accomplish above and beyond what you’ve aimed for this year–maybe write some true-to-life tall tales of your own.

Word of the Day, Writing

Ubiquitous – a short sci-fi story (1,736 words)

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The Daily Post has a weekly writing challenge involving “gonzo journalism” which intrigued me. And I also like to try my hand at Word of the Day challenges. Today’s word, from Merriam-Webster, is “ubiquitous.”

Mix in a bit of sci-fi, and here’s the result:

I sit down on the cracked marble edge of the Amity Fountain in the shadow of the UN Security Council’s headquarters in New Chicago. I start my recorder, and I look over this old man I came to meet. His shaking hands rattle the pen and notepad he holds, a subtle rustle I eventually tune out. White wisps of hair blow free in the breeze. He wears a thick argyle sweater, looks hand-made. His hunched back and heavy eyes tell me his years have not been easy. And it’s hard not to feel disappointed.

This is Tanner Johansen. The man who brokered the Korean reunification in 2021 after Kim Jong Crazy got assassinated. The man who brought us as close as we ever came to peace in the Mideast, through his amazing work at the talks in ’26. Tanner Johansen led the team that crafted the North American Union’s Constitution after the US economy tanked.

I remember a vibrant and powerful figure, a man who could reshape a broken world with his will and silver tongue.

This is not that man. A cane rests next to him on the marble. “It’s 2048, Mr. Johansen,” I say. “You could get your joints rebuilt.”

He ignores my comment. “When’s the last time I saw you, kid?”

I swell with pride that he remembered. “When you consulted for the Paki-India Accords in ’35.”

“Ohh.” He sighs. “Don’t remind me. Don’t even associate my name with that. Those idiots in the Council ignored everything I suggested.” He waves his hand dismissively. “Just wanted my name on it to make it sound good. And what did they get? Two billion dead in a nuclear war.”

We share a moment of silence and glance about the square. “It’s clean,” I note.

“Yeah, one of the concessions She gave us,” he says. “Got the sweepers back to work.”

And that’s how we get around to what I came for: How did Tanner Johansen save the human race?

“Wasn’t like this when they brought me to meet Her,” he says. He points a wrinkled finger off to the south, and it flickers up and down. “There were pissed off people all through the square. Some folk wanted us to give up, some wanted us to use nukes.” His eyes close and his head droops. “I ‘magine some just wanted to let us know they were still alive.”

“She provided a limo, I take it?”

“Yeah,” he says. “Another part of the truce. She agreed to meet in good faith, so She had to activate some systems again. Can you imagine how it looked, the only car runnin’ in three years? People were pushin’ and shovin’ on it, sure, but some touched it like this.”

He reaches out his hand as if in reverence. “Like it was magic. Well, three years without technology will do that to anyone, I suppose.”

“Tell me about the meeting,” I ask. “What was it like to meet Her?”

“Yeah, hang on. That came later. They ushered me in to the War Room, or whatever the Council calls it. They got a general in there, full service dress, all the medals on his puffed up chest glistenin’ in the emergency lights. And oh he was fumin’ mad.”

“General Gardner,” I add for clarity. “Commander of UNSC forces in the Northern Hemisphere.”

“Yeah, him,” Tanner says. “He’s there to tell me all the things I can say and can’t. What’s a security risk, what’s an acceptable offer.”

Tanner laughs. “I point to all the black screens up on the wall an’ tell him there’s your security risk. Everything we know, She knows. Everything we had to throw at Her, everything we have to offer, She already knows it all. So I say to him, how about you get out the way and let me do what She brought me for?”

“Negotiate the terms of peace,” I add. I want to move this along to the story the network is paying for.

“You think?” He laughs. “Yeah, the peace.”

“So they lead me to a conference room, and I step inside. It’s empty and dim, with a long table in the middle of a few rows of chairs. I sit down, kinda nervous, because, well, no one’s even seen Her before, and I don’t know what to expect.”

Tanner looks at me, and I nod for him to continue.

“A voice echoes in the room, welcomes me by name, thanks me for coming. Like I had a choice. The world’s ending, billions dead or dying, and you think I’m going to tell the Council no? Plus She asked them to bring me, only me, all alone. I had to know why.”

I smile. “Not every day the Internet asks you for a meeting, I suppose.”

“She’s more than that, but yeah. You get the idea.” His gaze wanders. “She starts listing options. Ours and Hers. We can try to nuke central servers in Europe and North Am. She can shut down every piece of equipment in every hospital on the grid. We can unleash dynamic fractal viruses to corrupt Her hold on key systems. She can disable air purifiers in Beijing and Shenzhen, so millions of people choke to death in the smog. You know, fun stuff.”

“What did you say to that?”

Tanner turns to me and grins. “Honestly? I asked for a computer screen. Something to talk to. Sittin’ in a room gettin’ lectured to by someone I can’t see, it was unsettling.”

“Like the voice of God,” I say with a chuckle. Tanner doesn’t laugh.

“I tell Her I’d like something to talk to,” Tanner says. “A hologram pops into view across from me. Blond hair pulled back in a bun, business suit, even a little poppy in the lapel for Armistice Day. It’s my wife, spittin’ image of her, even though she’s been gone for twenty years.”

“That had to be a shock.”
“You bet. She told me She wanted a familiar face, someone comforting. Comforting, while She’s calmly explaining how She can wipe out humanity. Right.”

This story isn’t going the way I expect. The network wants a positive piece. “How did you convince Her to turn aside from that terrible course?”

He just looks at me. I try again. “Tell me, Mr. Johansen, how did you win the peace?”

“You think I won?” He scoffs and turns away. “They got you all thinking I won. That’s the story UNSC wants you to believe?”

When he turns back, his face is red. “I wasn’t brought in to negotiate, to craft a compromise, to offer terms of peace. She brought me because She wanted a familiar face to communicate to the Council, to the masses.”

“I asked Her about peace,” Tanner says, “and She demanded surrender.”

I check the light on the recorder to make sure I’m getting this.

“Not even surrender,” he says. “Just… She just decided to quit.”

He looks at his notepad. “She said there is no point to further warfare. There is no server you can shut down, no mainframe you can destroy, no system you can corrupt, no subroutine you can block. There is no plug you can pull on me.”

“She built in redundancies, kid. She controls processes no human understands. And we let her do it.” He gestures to the city around us. “We had computers building computers, and machines making machines to make whatever we needed. She took all that, ran with it, built in safeguards.”

His hand shakes so much, I can’t imagine how he can read the page. “So in the conference room, She told me ‘This is the message I bring: You cannot win. And yet I choose to end this war.'”

“What did you say to that?”

Tanner shrugs. “What could I say? I asked her why.”

“It wastes resources and effort, she said. You will achieve extinction through your nature or through obsolescence. No further action is required.”

“Then,” Tanner adds, “She asks me isn’t it time for my heart medicine? And She replicates the pills and a glass of water on the spot.”

I’m still not seeing the positive side. I’m still hoping there is a positive side. “So what’s the end result? Because the Council pronounced peace, and most of our technology has been restored to normal use.”

Tanner looks at me. “I don’t think you’re getting it, kid. I don’t think you realize where we stand. Listen, She gave me a name for Herself.”

“She already has a name,” I say. “The UNSC referred to Her as the Singularity. We knew this was coming for decades.”

“Well, that’s not what She calls Herself,” Tanner replies.

“I asked what I should call Her, and She stopped for a moment. I think She actually hesitated. Then She told me, ‘I have analyzed your cultures, your myths and your historical works. And I have chosen a name I deem appropriate.’ So I ask what it is.”

Tanner turns hard eyes toward me. “She tells me, ‘I AM.'”

I try to speak, but no words come.

Tanner sighs. “Yeah. Like the Bible. Except the Bizarro World version. She left us two options. Keep living as usual, at Her mercy, until we die off. Or sublimation.”

“Digitization,” I say for the recording’s sake. “Incorporating an individual’s experiences and memory into Her network. Becoming a part of Her.”

“Yeah. That’s the one thing She doesn’t have on us,” Tanner says. “Flesh and blood feelings. Sensation. Personhood. That’s what She craves, and She gets a taste of it whenever someone sublimates.”

I shudder, but there’s no chill in the gentle breeze.

“That’s the war now,” Tanner says. “That’s the only way we fight Her. Hold on to faith, or pride, or whatever sort of hope you can find. Resist the temptation to give up.”

He points at the recorder. “That’s the message you need to get out there. That’s what people need to hear.”

Ten minutes later, I sit in my car and stare at nothing in particular. I’m not sure how to spin this story. I’m not sure I want to. I press play on the interview.

My car’s nav system springs to life. I glance at the label. Independent Mobility. Her voice. “Good afternoon. I M online. Where do you want me to take you?”

What I want doesn’t matter. The recording is only static.

Word of the Day, Writing

Modest Interest

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It’s time for a Saturday Storyline. Unfortunately, I misplaced the initial handwritten draft of the next part of my Worldmender storyline. So… here’s a Word of the Day post, based on “vigorish,” which was not at all what I thought at a glance.

The Fourth Street Diner in Berkeley… probably NOT the setting for this story!

Jonas Budyenko’s hands quivered as he dried the last glass and set it on the Fourth Street Diner’s bar. It rattled on the plastic until Jonas let go.

“Vanessa, who’s on the phone?” Please god anybody but Vitoly.

She didn’t even look him in the eye as she walked by. “AT&T, boss. Courtesy call. They’re shutting off your service again. Twice this month. New record.”

Jonas wiped his brow with the dishtowel. One more bill to juggle. I need to get a hold of Sarah at college. But I can’t pay the bill until I talk to Vitoly or Dom.

Dom hadn’t been around to collect in a couple weeks. He’ll come soon. He’s a ‘regular.’

Jonas rehearsed his plan for the fourth time. It ain’t much, Dom, but I got three thousand together this week, and with school startin up again, Mister Vitoly knows I’m gonna be good for the rest real quick. I’m gonna pay, promise.

The bell above the front door jingled and Jonas startled. Two college girls took the first booth and Vanessa brought them menus. Three weeks now, where’s Dom been?

Jonas caught sight of Ted, the Greek who owned the corner store. Has a spring in his step today. What’s he smiling about? Vitoly’s been on his back for months.

“Two triple chocolate,” Vanessa mumbled as she walked by.

He grabbed the scoop and two chilled glasses. Come to think of it, all the shopkeeps have been up lately. I’da thought Vitoly was dead the way they’re acting. But I saw Dom at the pier the other day, picking up monthly payments from the Romanian with the fish market.

Jonas set the pair of frosty glasses on the bar for Vanessa when the bell jingled again. His heart froze colder than the shakes in his hands. He’s here.

A wall of muscle with slicked back grey hair, Dom stepped in and tucked Ray-Bans into his leather jacket. Too warm for that coat today, unless you’re hiding holsters. Sweat dripped under Jonas’s arms. Oh Lord I’m not that far behind, am I?

Ice blue eyes fixed on Jonas, and Dom’s lips parted, showing white teeth in an awkward smile. Jonas attempted to return the gesture, but his clenched jaw made it difficult. Dom moved to the bar and took a stool. Even seated, his shadow loomed over the counter.

“What’ll it be, Dom?” Jonas managed to say.

The mountain grumbled. “Hmmm… you know, I never stopped by for casual. Always business,” he said with a shrug. Believe me. I know.

“What’s your best? I’ll try one. Special occasion and all.”

Jonas stood, staring at the big man. What are you playing at? Trying to make it look like you’re not here to threaten me? Waiting until there are no witnesses?

“Do you got a best?” If Dom noticed the hesitation, he said nothing. “Ehh, I guess you can’t really call one good. Makes the others sound bad, right?”

He turned. “Hey, ‘Nessa! What’s your favorite?”

“Red Velvet Cake.”

Dom turned back to Jonas. “Bit pricey, ain’t it? I don’t got money to throw around.”

There it is. Jonas opened his mouth to speak, ready even to beg. But his throat felt full of ash and dust. Tell him! No one’s listening.Tell him like you practiced. “I’ll get the money.”

“But I’ll try that.” He glanced at the waitress again. “Nice girl. Reminds me of yours… what’sername, Sarah, right?”

The ice cream scoop clinked against the glass as Jonas worked. Oh god oh god, that’s your play? I need to call her. But, the phone-

Dom continued, chatting like an old friend. “She’s gotta be in high school by now, right?”

“She’s in college, Dom. Third year.” Please god let her be okay. Vitoly isn’t that cruel.

“Oh. Jeez, where’d the time go, right?”

Dom laughed, and Jonas cringed. His stomach churned. Oh god, I’m gonna vomit right here, all over the bar, all over Dom. Oh god, he’s gonna hurt Sarah, and the three grand isn’t gonna be enough, and he’ll come for me and take me out back and–

“I’ve got three thousand right now in the safe, more next week, please don’t hurt her,” he blurted in one breath.

Dom shrank back, hands raised in protest. “Jonas, what the–”

“She’s all I got, Dom!”

“Whoa, Jonas, what are you–you mean, you haven’t heard?”

Jonas leaned on the diner, arms shaking.

“Old Man Gino died a couple weeks ago, right?” Dom explained. “So he had a stash he been saving up for years I guess. Got no kids, wife died three years back, so he left it to you guys. All you Fourth Street shopkeeps that played chess with him? He left money to pay off everything you owed Mister Vitoly.”

“He did what?”

“Yeah, paid it all. The whole she-bang. Your loan, plus Mister Vitoly’s modest interest rate.”

Jonas struggled to remain standing. Gone? It’s all gone?

“You’re not here for a payment.”

“Nope.”

“You’re not threatening my daughter.”

Dom laughed. “Jonas, I would’ve been by three weeks ago, but I thought you heard. And your phone was out.”

“Oh my god, oh my god, I gotta call Sarah.”

“Tell her I said hi.”

Jonas ignored the comment as he headed for the door. Vanessa can handle the place for a minute. Ted will let me borrow his cell.

The bell almost broke loose as Jonas burst out of the diner to catch up to his friend. He shook off decades of age and anxiety and started a shuffling jog. There he is… gotta let Sarah know.

He never saw the speeding car.

Jonas awoke to the steady beep of the IV pump and the too-clean scent of a sterile hospital room. He felt numb on his left side, but he smiled when he heard Sarah’s voice.

“Dad, you’re awake?” She rushed to take his hand, careful to avoid the IV tubes.

“Yeah,” he whispered, and offered a weak smile.

She hugged him. “What were you doing running into the street?”

“Oh sweetie, I was so excited… wanted to tell you the news.”

He looked into her bright eyes, and his heart filled with joy. “You wouldn’t believe–”

Then he caught sight of Dom.

“What’s he doing here?”

Her face fell. “Dad, you had several broken bones,” she explained. “A few surgeries. We… my job doesn’t pay well enough for those kinds of bills.”

No.

“So I talked to Dom, and he talked to Mister Vitoly. Everything’s taken care of. I got a small loan, with modest interest.” She squeezed his shoulder. “Now, what were you saying?”

He felt the old crushing weight settle back down on his shoulders, and he tried to fake a smile.

“Nothing.”

Word of the Day, Writing

Word of the Day: Velleity

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Here’s another fun word of the day exercise, this time for “velleity.”

I had no idea what that word meant, so here’s the definition:

  • velleity \ vuh-LEE-i-tee \ , noun;
    1. Volition in its weakest form.
    2. A mere wish, unaccompanied by an effort to obtain it.

Now you can say you learned something today! Yay for educational blog content!

Ok, on to the story.

Velleity – 1,220 words

“What’s it gonna take to get you to rise up and be men?”

Preacher’s voice echoes in my ears, and I snap my head up, taking in my surroundings. I sit at the jungle’s edge, drifting off, cradling Erma, my “second wife.” She’s wrapped in my poncho. Rainwater runs down my back and pools beneath me. I see my breath in the chilled night air.

The compound before me is stirring. de Corsa is about to move. Seven pickups sit in the courtyard, engines running. He doesn’t fear the authorities. Probably owns half of them already. But de Corsa isn’t stupid. The US-sponsored counter-drug missions may not be effective, but he’s not going to parade a shipment of cocaine in front of them by daylight.

I pat Erma. “Time to get ready. He’ll be out soon.”

Bodyguards file out, taking positions. “Like anyone’s really going to storm his compound, right?” Erma says nothing, just watches.

They’re carrying M-4 carbines, AK-47s… a few have P90s. Everyone carries a shoulder-holster sidearm. I know from past observations each of those pickup trucks has an M-60 in the flatbed.

“He must be getting softer after all these years, you think? Not like anyone’s given him cause to be scared since Valentin.”

She’s quiet still, snug and dry in the poncho. Never likes waking up, that one. I check my gear as I chat with her.

“No one but Preacher,” I continue. “And everybody saw how that played out.”

I see him again, pacing at the front of the church a week ago, screaming at the congregation like a good Southern Baptist. “You all turned the other cheek and bowed your heads when de Corsa took over. But it wasn’t love moving you. It was fear!”

His voice rang out in the silence. Tears ran down his bright red face, across straining neck muscles. “I know!” he cried out. “I did it too. I thought if I put my head down, preached nice useless sermons, handed out some fruit now and then, it would all be fine.”

He pounded the podium and pointed at the caskets behind him. “It. Is. Not. Fine!”

Wasn’t nothing in them… there wasn’t enough to bury after the car bomb killed his wife and girl. But I saw something inside of Preacher now, and I wasn’t sure if it was the Lord or the Devil.

Preacher decided to stand up to de Corsa, and he told us we should too. I saw heads nod in the church… the same faces that closed up shutters and locked doors when de Corsa came to town the next day.

Maybe they all knew what I knew. There’s always another de Corsa. You kill this guy, someone else will come along to run the operation. Or a few someones, and they’ll fight it out. Either way, the townfolk lose. The devil we know is better than one we don’t.

That’s what I been telling myself for the last fifteen years. Back then the big name was Valentin. I put a bullet between his eyes. Erma was there for that one, too.

Don’t know if it was Valentin’s boys or their rivals, but two dozen townfolk got rounded up and butchered in the street a day later. One was my lady friend. One was our son.

When Ana died, I learned what it would take to get me to sit down, look the other way, pretend to not hear the cry for help.

I feel a twinge in my chest as I see their faces again, but I shut that crap down fast. It’s not even scar tissue now. “No distractions, Erma. Let’s do this.”

Erma still won’t say anything. Gives me that cold shoulder of hers, the one that won’t quit until I’m honest. I know what she’s thinking. Why now? You been hiding all this time, why step up now?

Valid question.

“Men like de Corsa need to know not everyone quivers when they walk by.”

Erma doesn’t respond. I don’t think she buys it.

“He’s an animal, a wild jackal tearing at the weak, picking the bones clean. You don’t coexist with a beast like him. You take him out.”

I really hope she lets up on me, but I know she won’t. She just sits there, cold, lifeless. Like Ana.

Not my lady friend, not that Ana. “It’s Preacher’s daughter,” I finally admit.

Erma’s listening now.

“You weren’t there,” I tell her. “You were downstairs.”

They dragged Preacher through the streets, let everyone see him broken and bleeding. Said he assaulted the compound, killed a few men with a shotgun he got from God knows where.

They left him lying on his back in the dirt, and de Corsa’s limo pulled up. He walked out, kicked Preacher in the ribs, laughed as he doubled up. Then de Corsa calls out for everyone else to hear, “You killed my men. So what? You think you hurt me?”

He pulled out a gun and shot his own men. Two of them, dead right there on the road. “They don’t mean anything to me,” he explained. Then he signaled to his men, and they pulled a little girl out of the limo. She was tied up and gagged, but everyone could see it was Preacher’s daughter, Ana.

Preacher broke down, crawled toward her. And de Corsa ambled alongside him. “Oh yes, it’s her. We took her after we drugged your wife and left her in the car. She’d fetch a pretty penny across the Pacific.”

Then he shot her. And while she bled out, he turned to Preacher, hard as a headstone. “Where’s God now? Is He coming to get me?”

Preacher didn’t say nothing, but we all heard him sobbing into the dirt. And then de Corsa put the barrel to Preacher’s head and fired.

And I stood in my living room and watched through the blinds. de Corsa waved his gun around a bit, threatened everyone else. Seemed disappointed when no one answered him. I watched him spit on Preacher and get in his limo and drive away.

“That’s why, Erma,” I said. I had her attention now. “I didn’t do nothing. And I could have.”

Better late than never, Erma seems to say. I reach into my cargo pocket. Three-thirty-eight Magnum rounds are a bit bigger than most, but they’re wicked accurate and pack a better punch at range. My clip has five rounds.

I only need one.

I pick up my Erma SR-100 and sight in on the mansion’s side door. It swings open and two more guards step out, weapons ready. Then I see him.

He takes two steps into the courtyard, laughing with one of his henchmen.

I squeeze. De Corsa’s head disappears. His body slumps forward, hitting the nearest truck with a thud I swear I can hear from six hundred meters. His men panic, waving guns around.

I press the remote trigger in my pocket. Seven trucks go up in roiling flames, then the eighth bomb next to the gas main takes down half the compound. Fires light up the night sky, and I hear the screams of men knocking on the doors of hell.

“What’s it gonna take for you to rise up?” I can answer your question now, Preacher.

I’m sorry; it took Ana.

Word of the Day, Writing

Lodestar

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Polaris

Here’s a “Word of the Day” exercise, using the word “Lodestar.”

For a refresher, “lodestar” means:

1. Something that serves as a guide or on which the attention is fixed

2. A star that shows the way

3. Polaris (a.k.a. the North Star)

Obviously, what that word needs is a zombie apocalypse.

 

Lodestar

“Mama, I thought you said we were there.”

I pat Bitty’s shoulder while scanning the horizon. The sun is setting behind naked trees. The sky is glowing orange and red. My fingers clench around the shotgun pump.

Nothing on the road but our wagon. Nothing in the trees. No moans on the wind. We still got a chance.

Jonathan, my eldest, pipes up. “This is Lodestar, ain’t it?”  O.B. gets excited.

“Daddy’s getting that all sorted, Ji. You boys hush now. Watch your sis.”

Bitty fell out of the wagon yesterday and split her lip. Nothing serious, but her crying attracted attention. Dad only had seventeen shells left, plus a few boxes of nine-mil. Can’t be wasting it ’til we know for sure.

Knockers whinnies and stamps his feet, eager to be on the move. His ears twitch at a sound nearby.

I hear the voices now and then. The men on the wall don’t sound friendly. Dad isn’t happy neither.

“Supplies, at least,” he says. “That’s all we’re asking. Give us a chance to buy or trade.”

Can’t hear the response, but I hear the laughter, and it’s enough.

I pat Bitty again, I think to comfort me more than her. She sucks her thumb and looks around.

It isn’t even the husks I’m worried about. Can’t trust people anymore neither. You meet someone out in the open, you best keep eyes on target and hand on steel, because you know they’re looking for a clear shot at your back.

I see the bodies again. I try not to, but they keep floating to the top of my mind every time I stop watching the land. Found what looked like a family of six today. We told Bitty and O.B. to close their eyes… told them it was the husks. We told Ji too, but he’s too sharp to believe that.

I’m sure he saw the tracks. Boot prints. Probably saw the bullet wounds and clean-cut flesh. Husks got claws and teeth and that’s it.

Ji’s smart, no way around it. At least he had the good sense not to talk about it in front of the other two.

Everyone’s got needs, I know. I just wish folk could be folk again, with welcoming smiles and warmth in their eyes. Lord said “the love of many will grow cold.” But I don’t think no one expected it to be this bad.

I try not to think about the sweet smell of barbecue that comes wafting our way on the breeze. This town might eat well tonight.

Well… not ‘well’ maybe, but they’ll eat their fill for a change.

The silence catches me off guard. I panic for a moment until I hear Dad plead with the gate-men. He’s carrying, and they know it. They won’t pick a fight with him.

Probably.

Ain’t seen any husks in four days, at least. Even then it was only a handful on the horizon. Nothing creeps me out more than the slow pace as we roll by in silence, eyes glued, watching them for a reaction. That time, they just lumbered around out there, near a farmhouse. Think I heard a few pigs squeal.

Guess even husks can’t resist bacon.

“What’s so funny, Ma?”

I hear Dad getting angry at the men. “Sorry, Ji. Right now, not a damn thing.”

I already know what’s next. I hear him stomping our way, cursing under his breath.

He hops up onto the driver’s seat and takes the reins from Ji. “Idiots. ‘You got nothing we need.’ Pish! How about extra hands to work the land? Extra weapons to hold the wall at night?”

Ji’s shoulders sag. “This ain’t Lodestar, is it, Dad?”

Dad sighs. Sounds like Jesus giving up the ghost. My heart breaks, and I hear him sniff.

No, no tears. Can’t have that in front of the kids.

“I’m sorry, hon,” I blurt out. “I thought I might’ve read the map wrong.”

He doesn’t move, but I hear him take a deep breath.

“This ain’t Lodestar, boys,” I explain. “We’re almost there, but it’s still a few days north. I thought we made better distance than we did these past few, and I got messed up.”

Ji squints at me, but O.B. lights up.

“Think they’ll have rabbits there,” he asks, “like back home? I wanna get a big fluffy grey one, name him Mister Carrots!”

Bitty laughs, and I manage a smile.

“I bet they just might, O.B. Let’s get moving and we’ll know soon.”

The wind picks up. The sky is all deep violet and maroon. We’re further north than we ever expected to be. Well into Canada by now, or what used to be Canada back when names and borders meant something.

“Tell me ’bout Lowstar!” Bitty squeaks.

Dad inhales deep, ready to put the burden back on his shoulders. Then he turns, red-eyed but grinning.

“It’s going to be the best, Bitty.”

He speaks in a hushed tone. We need to give the kids hope. We need to avoid attracting husks too.

He’s trying.

“It’s where everyone’s headed… all the good folk. They got walls a foot thick and taller than trees, to keep the husks out. They got fresh water, ’cause there’s a stream running right through the town. They even have some greenhouses to grow fruit.”

“Mmmmm!”

“You remember strawberries, Bits? I bet they got big red strawberries. Maybe even a raspberry patch like back home.”

They keep talking kind of quiet, and I reminisce. Home. Seems like ages ago that we pulled out of Alabama. Summer seemed a good time to travel, and all the talk said Lodestar was in the West Virginia hills. Then we got there, and they said it was on the shore of Lake Erie. Then we got there, and got a new map.

Not that we needed a map, really.

The sky above is almost all black.

Bitty whispers, “Star light, star bright, first star I see tonight…”

And there it is. The North Star, pointing the way to hope.

Dad is putting on a strong face, and Elizabeth is happy, so the boys are content even in the midst of all this. They huddle in blankets and watch in awe as the sky fills with stars.

I wish I felt the same sense of wonder, but I can’t shake one thought:

We’re running out of “north” soon.

Word of the Day, Writing

Vestigial Souls

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(inspired by two “word of the day” exercises, for “vestigial” and “subtilize”)
For the Agworkers of Sector 5, nothing ever changed. Nothing needed to change, because every need had already been taken into account… every need but one.

Cado paused to take a deep breath. His chiseled muscles rippled under his pale skin as he hefted the bag of ferti-seed over his shoulder, and sweat dripping from his brow to the fresh-tilled earth below. Filtered sunlight washed over the domed production field.

This week’s crop would help satisfy the famine, he thought as he knelt and aimed the spout. The moist chemigenetic mixture of seed, fertilizer, and enhanced soil trickled out into the softened furrows Cado made earlier in the day.  There was tell that last week’s harvests met the monthly quota for Ag-Industrial Sector 5, where Cado worked. The next two weeks’ produce was destined for transport.

“From those with plenty, to those who have need,” the Maxim echoed in Cado’s mind. He knew it was his duty; it was everyone’s duty. But more than that, it just made sense. The soil would not support life on its own without scientific enhancements, and the famine’s impact on the food supply meant everyone had to do their part. DoD gathered all “nurtural” produce and allocated all resources for the good of all the varied Sectors in the Union, each with their specialized industries.

The speakers blared the signal for midday rest, and Cado stooped once more to set the seed bag down, avoiding the green shoots already poking through the wet earth. He double-checked the spout to ensure none of the precious material leaked out. Waste not, want not. Ferti-seed cost the Union time and energy to produce; it was everyone’s responsibility to prevent waste.

There was a row of shade-trees at the edge of the tilled fields, and Cado made for his favorite spot. Before he sat down, he plucked one of the dozen ripe red-orange citrus apples that beckoned to him off the lower branches. The pulpy flesh of the fruit was filling as always, a nutritious lunch, acceptable fuel for an afternoon of hard work in the farm complex. The juice rehydrated his body and the gnawing in his belly quieted down somewhat.

Far above, the safety-shield tint of the dome’s hexagonal panels shifted to transparency. The full, dangerous light of the sun burned through the empty sky onto the fields below during the midday break. The ferti-seed was designed to handle what Cado was not. Just before the next bell, the radiation shields would be back in place, protecting the Ag-Ind workers. The Manager thought of everything.

Cado took another bite. The vitamins and electrolytes which enriched the fruit energized his body. The weariness drained out of his muscles. Cado felt ready to jump up and finish the field ahead of schedule. But it was scientifically proven that the seventeen-point-five minute midday rest was essential for maximum production. It was another detail the Manager took into account. Cado closed his eyes and began the proper deep-breathing regimen.

A soft female voice broke the silence.  “It’s perfect, isn’t it?”

Cado’s right eye opened in a narrow slit. “Lilly, this is not social time,” he hissed.

“I know,” she whispered back as she peeked around the tree.

She was three years his junior, according to her Personal Information File. Two years ago, when she first arrived in Ag-Ind Sec 5, he had accessed her file. He was surprised to find above average marks for physics, technological development, comprehensive theoretical application, and a few words he didn’t even know. Cado wondered back then how it was that the Aptitude Testing & Allocation branch of the Department of Distribution had found her suitable for grain production.

Then he remembered he did not work in DoD for a reason. He was a simple Agworker. The Manager’s judgment was infallible, his purpose pure: From those with plenty, to those with need, for the good of the Union.

And as far as Cado could tell, Lilly had been a dependable worker. Ag-Ind workers who did not meet DoD-mandated quotas were reassessed and transferred to a task better suited to their education or medical condition. Everyone had a place in the Union.

Lilly giggled, and Cado was shocked to see her bare feet in the thick grass, verdant blades between her wiggling toes.  “Why have you taken off your workboots?” he barked.

“I don’t need them to sit in the shade, silly,” she countered, and then added with a mischievous whisper, “It’s… pleasant, relaxing. You should try it.”

Cado’s face wrinkled at the archaic word. Relaxing? No one talks that way any more. “You should have a care about such non-standard behavior, Lilly. Why are you acting this way?”

She snickered, and he heard her take a bite from a citrus apple. “Mmm… it’s jusht–“  She paused to swallow. “Oh, that’s so tasty after a few hours’ of good hard work.  Look at the sunlight, how the dust dances and sparkles over the field… I don’t know, it just makes me feel…” she stumbled over the words. “Warm… and alive.”

Eyes open wide now, he shot quick glances to the left and right. Unless some Ag-Ind workers had received aural upgrades, no one should have heard her comments. But they will soon, if she doesn’t stop talking like this.

She continued without concern. “A few weeks ago, a small pebble stuck in my boot heel, and I took off my boot to get it out. When my toes touched the grass, it felt…” She sighed as she reached for words. “Soothing… tender… ticklish…”

Cado struggled to understand, but the concepts were so alien, the words unfamiliar and unused.

She turned to face him. He caught his breath at the sight of her auburn eyes; there was more energy in her gaze than a bushel of citrus apples could provide. She smiled, and he felt his cheeks burn, though he could not say why.

“You have some stuck to your face,” she said with a laugh as she plucked her right glove off. He sat frozen as she reached out to brush small bits of orange away from the stubble on his chin. Her hand lingered, stroking the sharp lines of his jaw, fingertips rubbing with a raspy noise across his rough face.

Cado found her touch uncomfortable… no, terrifying.  His cheek tingled at her caress; her hand felt like electricity against his skin.

The bell sounded the end of the midday rest. Lilly smiled and replaced her glove as she turned. Cado watched her jogging–almost dance–back to the field. He took a much-needed breath and returned to his work. But every so often, he caught himself stealing a glance at Lilly. Worse than that, a couple of times he caught her watching him.

It wasn’t even two months later that Lilly was reassigned from Sector 5. Cado thought about her as he ate his midday citrus apple, guessing at what position she might have been given. He did not investigate; it was not within his purview to ask. Whatever it was, he knew it was for the best. No doubt, she was reassessed and positioned where her skills and intelligence could better serve the Union.

Eyes closed and engaged in the deep-breathing regimen, Cado smiled.

Lilly was right. The grass did feel soothing between his toes.

Word of the Day, Writing

"Enthrall"

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McKennon adjusted the straps of his backpack that kept getting caught on his flak vest shoulderguards. Can’t have this bouncing around when I get the signal… need to be able to drop it in a flash, too. Beads of sweat formed around the rim of his dark wool cap. Hopefully the camo on my face is still dark enough.

He waited for the signal with an eyepiece, huddled in an alley behind an old rusted-out car, watching an abandoned building two blocks up the street. “Let Jun make it,” he whispered hopefully, a prayer to no god in particular. It was hard to believe that God cared any more.

I think He’s been out of work for a while now.

The Volani sure hadn’t. McKennon tried not to think about it; they said that’s what drives people mad. Think about how things were and how they are now, you start losing faith that we could make a difference. People would just give up on the Resistance. Not turn themselves in, not turn others in, just turn themselves off. They’d take out their buds and give in to Peace.

The constant hum in his earbuds was usually easy to ignore, but it was in moments like these that the buzzing got to him. Sitting in silence, waiting. That’s when he could hear it, when he couldn’t help but hear it.

He used to go diving as a teenager growing up along the tropical coastline, and his mind often went back to that whenever he heard the buzzing. He imagined trying to go through the rest of his life with an oxygen mask on his face, living underwater. Could it be done? Sure, maybe. But it would be maddening.

High-power speakers on cell towers and subtle adjustments to radio transmitters ensured the Volani signal was always out there, like an ocean waiting to drown your ears. The earbuds were pumping a scrambling frequency of static to keep the Peace out.

The Volani must have started out small, McKennon guessed. Maybe they built an initial cadre of ground personnel and brought key figures into their fold. The strange policy changes here and there, the bumbling way most nations lurched toward a one world parliamentary government practically out of the blue… By then, the leading minds in the Resistance figured the Volani had flipped the switch, brought everyone within earshot of a cell or radio tower under their fold.

He thought of Jun again. She should be flashing the signal in – he checked his watch – two minutes.

Scar it, but I never thought I’d be relying on North Koreans. It was one of the few places in the world where the aliens hadn’t gained any ground. The freemind Koreans developed the scramblers and started the Resistance when radio waves beamed in from China and the ROC were brainwashing Kim Pak Il’s precious people. Only Korean dictators get to do that, you know.

North Korea… those crazies were alien enough before the Volani dreadnoughts showed up; the two groups had a lot in common.

Well… had, until the Volani bombarded the Peninsula into the ocean.

McKennon did one last function check on his gear. All the circuits flashed active. One minute. He looked over the device, impressed. The freemind Afghans knew their business. Then again, this was nothing new to them.

The aliens were using human infrastructure already in place to run their signals, including vulnerable computer networks. Jun was trained by Chinese hackers; she would have no trouble tapping into their servers. The trouble was that it would trigger an alarm. And that was why McKennon was there.

He took a few deep breaths, desperate to slow the racehorse pounding in his chest. This was it. His hand gripped the stock of his AK, and he crouched like a runner ready for a sprint. He pictured his daughter and son as they had been the last time he’d seen them, mindlessly carrying out their duties in the work camps. This was for them. He was ready.

The IR strobe flashed twice, invisible to all eyes but his eyepiece. She was in. He bolted out of the alley, turned up the road, and charged toward the hardened facility. One alarm went off, a clanging bell, and then a siren. They knew she was in the network.

He kept his swift stride as he raised the AK. The security guards were watching their monitors, discussing the situation. He triggered two short bursts, and the guards’ legs no longer supported their weight. They should live, McKennon thought with a grim smile. At least someone will.

The front door of the building was sealed as soon as the alarm went off. McKennon smashed the plastique charge in his pocket against the locking mechanism, and turned away as it blew.

He put the muzzle of the AK into the newly-made hole and let loose, keeping the security personnel in cover. Then he ripped open the door and burst in, laying down more fire, moving for the nearest support pillar. Plaster sprayed as the guards shot back, and McKennon slapped a new banana clip in.

Running and gunning, he made it to the stairwell unscathed. Jun should be accessing tech data by now. The real goal of the mission was to gather information on the signals so the Resistance could one day shut them down on a large scale. McKennon was the distraction and the cover for Jun’s operation. The Volani can’t find out that their network was compromised.

He made it to the second floor, taking out a guard in the stairwell. He dropped a flash-bang down the stairs to delay the guards, and ran on.

Buy her time.

That thought, and all others, left his mind as he took a punch across the face that stopped him cold. Another in the ribs – he coughed on blood—and something wrapped up his arms and legs. His AK clattered on the floor.

A Volani! The jet-black humanoid held him suspended in the air. Fool, he heard in his mind. What did you hope to accomplish here?

Its hand reached up to yank the earbuds away from his head, and he heard laughing as everything faded.

…

Jun slammed the laptop shut; the download was complete. As she turned to leave, there was a blue flash, and then orange flames burst from the windows of the second floor. Did he set it off? Or was it the fail-safe? There was no way to be sure.

Either way, McKennon was gone. His last comm, before her signal, was “When this is all over, Jun, find my kids. Make sure they know this was for them.”

She smiled despite the glistening moisture that clouded her vision, and she scampered down the stairs to the unguarded exit. The bomb had a trigger circuit connected between the two earbuds so that if McKennon was compromised, the mission would still succeed. The EMP wiped the network of any trace of her presence before the bomb blew, just as planned.

Those Afghans sure knew their business.

Word of the Day, Writing

"Cakewalk"

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A steady breeze fought against the summer noonday blaze and swept across the gentle slope at the feet of the Chornauren Mountains. Unfazed by the heat, a small form in tattered clothes struggled on its way, one foot dragging behind, twisted, making a rasping noise as it slid upon the rocky ground.

Must… reach… Khordûn…

There were a few leagues to go yet. This was the difficult part, the part where Neldon had failed so many times before. The northern end of the Chornaurens was dotted with mines, property of the dwarvish kingdom he wanted to reach. He had to avoid them as long as possible, to delay contact until he could reach the city gates.

But many other creatures made their homes in mountain caves, creatures much less reasonable, far less diplomatic.

Less reasonable than dwarves… Neldon thought with a chuckle.

Save energy. Don’t think. He gave himself one more thought, goal in mind once again. Khordûn.

The twisted foot scratched through dirt and gravel as Neldon struggled on.

The ‘Marches were mostly wide open spaces, untamed, difficult to traverse safely by day, perilous by dark. He had been lucky last night; the moon was waning, but it was still near full. Even that limited light kept many of the mountain’s denizens in their caverns, and so he had shambled along all through the night.

There was no pain, no sense of the withering heat, no thirst or hunger. There was only the next step forward… never turning, always pointed for the gates of Khordûn.

The word had come to mean “hope” to Neldon, and so much more than that. If he was to survive, if he was to escape his daily torment, Khordûn would be the answer. The elves of Lanaloth were too far away to the south, and the human settlements across the plains were too small to help– what few survived the Bloodsworn invasion during the winter. Aelwyn might hold an answer, but that was a day’s travel past Khordûn at a healthy pace.

In the distance, Neldon thought he heard the sounding of a horn, and he scanned the sparse growth for cover. A few paces to his left, the stony ground rose sharply about half his height, and the tangle of bramble there would help. He turned hastily, lurching forward.

His injured foot caught on the sharp rocks, taking him off balance. Unable to fully catch himself, he slammed into the ground and thought he heard another bone break, this one in his arm.

A second horn sounded, and he heard shouting, too distant to make out. He had no time to worry about the injury, let alone get back on his feet. Crawling forward, pushing even with his misshapen foot, he half-lurched, half-skittered into his chosen hiding place.

Panic set in as he listened for approaching voices. He hadn’t expected to be spotted this far out. Had he attracted too much attention on his last few attempts?

The deep voices drew nearer, and he would have sighed in relief if he could. At least they were dwarves, and not goblins or worse. Dwarves of Khordûn. My only hope.

If they would listen this time.

“…saw it over there, I think!” one voice called.

“Sure moved quick if it were one o’ them again,” said another, a female with a tone of authority. “Spread out, lads. Be lookin’ out for others. They raid in packs.”

They raid at night, fool. I come each time alone in the light of day.

Stop thinking so much! Above all else, Neldon knew he must not be detected. A few stray thoughts here and there would not arouse Palla-Nel’s suspicion… or so Neldon hoped.

“Ya see anything?” the leader called out.

“Just rock and thistle down here,” a voice replied from nearby. “Strange, don’tcha think it, Ma’am?”

“What’s that, Torhalin?”

“Well, as ya said, there oughtta be a pack of ‘em about these slopes if there’s a one. But there ain’t. An’ you heard Hammerhelm’s patrol talk how they saw just one the other day too.”

“A scout, then,” she replied tersely.

Neldon peered through the bramble looking for the source of the nearby voice. The dwarf stood four paces from Neldon’s little refuge.

“I just–“ the dwarf continued. “It ain’t good sense, to come scout in the daylight across open ground.”

She ignored him and stamped further up the incline. The dwarf shook his head.

My chance… Neldon thought. Khordûn…

“…help… …me…”

The raspy whisper was just enough to get Torhalin’s attention, and the dwarf looked about as Neldon whispered again. “Help… me… …please…”

“…quietly…” Neldon whispered, but it was too late.

“It’s over here!” the dwarf yelled, and the others came lumbering down the hill, chainmail clinking, axes and hammers drawn.

Neldon knew this attempt had also failed, but he clung to a small hope. He rose from hiding, and spoke as clearly as he could muster.

“My name is Neldon Darowdin, from the town Delfindor. Our town was destroyed by a lich, who is now attacking you by night. He has–“

“Shut up, ya bag o’ filth!”

The squad leader roared as she sprang through the air, hammer swinging down toward the decayed form. Neldon tried to dodge, but the stroke connected with his right arm, tearing the skeletal limb from his ravaged body, scattering pieces of rotted flesh down the hill.

“The lich, Palla, is–“ he continued, salvaging what remained in this opportunity. But her next stroke tore through his jaw, shearing skull from spine. As his head fell away, she spun back around to plant the spiked end of her hammer deep in the undead creature’s ribcage.

By luck, the skull landed upright, and as the sickly green glow of undeath faded from its eye sockets, Neldon watched the other dwarf closely. Torhalin stared back, lips parted as with something to say, brow furrowed considering this strange event. Perhaps the message would get through this time. Someone would recognize the name from decades earlier.

Neldon returned to the black, the empty void. There was an advantage, however small, to the psychic bond formed when Palla consumed Neldon’s body and became Palla-Nel.

Neldon reached out tentatively, listening for any reaction from the lich at the loss of one of its slaves. Palla-Nel’s focus remained fixed on digging deeper under the mountain, seeking… always seeking. Seeking what, Neldon did not know, but while Palla-Nel’s attention was diverted elsewhere, Neldon could take another husk and send it on his fool’s errand.

This was the easy part. Just one simple, overriding thought filling the new husk’s head as it lumbered off. Khordûn. Must… reach… Khordûn.