Tag Archives: short story

BlogBattle, Writing

Ghost Orchid

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Blog battle – Pages tells me it’s exactly 1000 words. 

Genre: Action? Near-future sci-fi?

—-

 

by Mick Fournier, found on Wikipedia, licensed for Creative Commons usage
 
   Rough hands shoved Abby Spangler from behind, and she tumbled into the dark cell. Her shoulder smashed into the cement floor and she grunted.

  “Don’t bruise her,” a man’s voice commanded in Vietnamese–they hadn’t discerned her understanding of their language yet.
   The door slammed shut. Muffled voices withdrew.
   The dank air reeked of mildew. Flies buzzed around the single lightbulb hanging from the ceiling. Abby rolled onto her back and sat up with effort. She blew long blonde bangs out of her eyes and shook her head in a futile effort to manage her unruly mane.

   Her cellmate watched, head bowed. “You okay?” The voice came out as a sheepish whisper, its quivering pitch indicating recent tears.

   Tara hadn’t succumbed to the hopelessness of the other slaves Abby had seen. But she was on the verge.

   “Not too bad,” Abby answered with a forced smile. “Everybody needs some electro-shock now and then. Quiets the voices in my head.” She chuckled, hoping to lift Tara’s spirits. 

   But the teenager sniffed and kept her eyes on the floor.

   Abby groaned and slid into her corner. As planned, she whispered her callsign, briefed two months earlier before she let herself be abducted. “Ghost Orchid.” An image filled her mind–a white flower with long tendrils like frog legs hanging beneath a tree branch. Its roots blended so well into the tree that it seemed to float in mid-air, alone and unsupported.

   Like me. 

   Soft cries echoed through the thin walls of the holding cells–a former hostel near Cam Ranh Bay, judging by snippets of conversation in central Viet dialect and the few glimpses outside Abby managed thus far.

   Traffickers brought kidnapped girls from the airport, where they arrived on flights with handlers arranging passage and bribing security. The port city served the syndicate well, with vessels bound to all parts of the world.

   Here, at least, it would end today.

   “Why don’t you just shut up so they’ll leave you alone, Abby? When you mouth off, you’re just asking for it.” 

   Maybe Tara’s not doing as well as I thought.

   “No,” Abby said. “Nobody ‘asks for it.’ These are wicked men doing evil, preying on innocent victims. I don’t buy any logic that says it’s our fault we ended up here, no matter what led to this.” 

   She softened her tone. “Besides, they can’t afford to hurt us too much. They need pretty American girls–no bruises, no scars.”

   Tara sighed. “You sound so chipper. You realize you’re going to be sold as a sex slave to some dirty bastard in a third world country?”

   “Not today.”

   “Oh, yeah, take it one day at a time, right?” Tara rolled her eyes. “That’s not going to change how the story ends.”

   Abby felt a vibration in the wood at her back and looked at the ceiling. The lightbulb swayed. A distant rumble built into thunder, then dissipated in a loud rush of air.

   Tara glanced around the room in panic. “What’s happening?”

   Abby grinned. “‘Not today’ meant we’re not getting sold off. Not ever. None of these girls are. Relax, this will be over in about two minutes.”

   Or so the Colonel said.

   She fought sudden fear at the realization she had no idea what to expect. 

   Screams resounded throughout the building–shrill cries of terrified men instead of the young girls Abby had heard for the last week.

   Then the walls melted in slow motion, leaving soupy puddles covered in gray dust. Sunlight burst into the room, and both women blinked watery eyes to adjust.

   Abby stood and counted survivors. Within a minute of the initial impact, seventeen girls huddled together in the goopy remnants of the slave traders’ holding facility. No collateral damage, no civilian casualties… 

   Tara asked, “Where did the slavers go?” 

   Abby studied the wet mess and grimaced. “I think we’re standing in them. This looks like the results of weaponized nanotechnology. Uncle Sam has some new toys.” 

   The chop-chop of approaching helicopters caught Abby’s attention and quickly drowned out the sound of Tara retching behind her. 

   Abby shouted against the sound. “There’s our ride, girls! Gather up. We’re going home.”

   She helped the young ladies into open hatches where soldiers in active camoflauge scanned biometrics and guided them to seats. Finally, Abby took another look at the destruction and hopped aboard.

    Colonel Hunter Stephens shook her hand. “Got your signal, Agent. Great work.”

    Abby nodded and took her seat in a daze, struggling with confusing thoughts. 

   Stephens sat beside her and loosed a contented sigh. “Nice to do some good for a change.”

   “Colonel,” she said, “the Agency had no idea where we’d get dropped off. That’s why I got taken–finding where they operated.”

   “That’s right, Agent.”

   “So how could you plant listening devices advanced enough to pick up a whispered callsign?”

   Stephens said nothing, but his smile vanished. 

   Abby reviewed the preparation for her mission months earlier. Combat training, resistance techniques, a full medical check-up and thorough brainwave scan to set a baseline in case of traumatic brain injury…

   “Oh my God,” she whispered. “The picture of the orchid. You saw that somehow, picked up my thoughts, triangulated our position by tracking my brainwaves.” She glared at Hunter, who sat silent as a statue. “What the hell kind of system does the government have?”

    The picture of the orchid returned–a lone flower out in the open, seemingly unsupported yet held aloft and nourished by invisible roots, sustained by resources unseen at first glance.
   “Agent, Ghost Orchid was never your callsign,” Stephens said. “It’s the coverterm for a special access program you’re not cleared for. You’d do best to forget this and take comfort that we rescued these girls.”

   He flashed her a smile that any other day would seem charming. “Trust us, we’re the good guys.”

   She turned to stare out the chopper’s window, unsure what to think, but absolutely certain she didn’t want to think at all just then.

BlogBattle, Writing

No One Questioned It

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Here’s a Blog Battle short story (998 words, pushing my luck) for the theme: Head.

—-

Deep in the Utah boonies a ways off I-80 stood a little town–so small you’d drive past in the time it took to Google directions back to civilization. One lone church stood above the houses and shops like a shepherd over the flock. The town’s few heathens joked that even Westboro Baptist members thought Last Days Holiness Tabernacle a bit extreme.

Five years ago, Last Days’ new pastor Eli took that as a point of pride. On his first Sunday, he praised the congregation for following their late pastor’s example so well.

When the ladies of the church invited Pastor Eli’s wife Edith out for tea and gossip in the form of prayer, she graciously declined. “I’ll need to check with Eli about that. The husband is the head of the wife, you know.”

Mary the silver-haired organist chuckled. “Yes, dear, of course. But the wife is the neck and can turn the head whichever way she sees fit.”

Edith’s face blanched and she shook her head. She shot a quick glance at her husband, who stood in the foyer with the men discussing politics and such. When she whispered, “Perish the thought,” no one questioned it, though Mary rolled her eyes.

When Mary was asked to step down two months later, no one questioned that either. The pastor’s daughter Gracie was quite accomplished on the organ, even at age ten. Her youthful energy brought joy to the congregation, or so said Pastor Eli.

—

Three years ago, Gracie’s Sunday School teacher Rebekah asked her husband Levi over dinner to consider some strange things the girl shared in confidence.

Levi grunted from behind the sports section of the Herald, which Rebekah took as yes.

“I figure you might know best,” she said. “Gracie said her pa sometimes sends her upstairs to the attic for her daily Scripture reading. She hears Edith downstairs in the workshop crying out, even screaming now and then.”

Levi glowered over his newspaper. “I don’t think I ought to know the pastor’s private doings, ‘Bekah.”

Rebekah grimaced. “She said it only happens at the beginning of the week, because sometimes Edith can’t walk right for a couple days after. Her pa calls it cleansin’ Edith’s sin, scourgin’ away her transgressions. You an’ me both know Edith ain’t ever seen a sin no closer than the horizon.”

“Ain’t my place to judge another man’s affairs, ‘Bekah. Not yours either.”

When Rebekah brought her concerns to Pastor Eli, he smiled and assured her things were fine at home. Gracie had been reading some trashy novels she picked up from kids in town, that’s all.

And no one wondered why Gracie didn’t play hymns the next Sunday, what with the terrible fall that sprained her wrist.

—

Some folk did wonder at how fast Levi and Rebekah found themselves under the pastor’s rebuke two years ago. “She has a Jezebel spirit,” Pastor Eli said of Rebekah, slamming his fist on the pulpit. “No woman ought to manipulate the head of her household, and no self-respecting man should stand for such.”

For the next few Sundays, he read the Old Testament stories about Jezebel and condemned all the ways she usurped spiritual authority. He warned of the dangers of following in those footsteps. It all sounded pretty clear-cut, so no one questioned it.

Except Levi, who stood one Sunday with a page of notes. “I’ve been reading materials online, explaining what the Bible really means about being the head and all that. Pastor, it seems most teachers understand the husband’s role to be servant leadership, not tyranny. He’s to love his wife like Christ loves the church… to give his time and energy in serving her needs. Right before ‘wives, submit to your husbands,’ it says ‘submit to one another in the Lord.'”

No one thought it strange that Pastor Eli kicked Levi out right then. You can’t stand up in the service and challenge the head of the church without consequences. And they’d been warned by Eli not to trust just any so-called minister of the Gospel on the Internet.

So when Eli preached, “be the head of your house, not the tail” each year, no one doubted his judgment. They’d all seen how dangerous challenging authority could be.

—

A year ago, the wives whispered at how quickly Edith aged, how frail she’d become. But Gracie had grown into a beautiful teen, kind-hearted and meek. Still, her shoulders always seemed bent by an invisible burden.

Pastor Eli sheltered his family from the world, and no one questioned it, because everywhere they looked, they could see how corrupt the world had become.

Best to keep Gracie pure from all of that. Everyone said some day, she’d make an excellent wife for some lucky man.

“So long as she stays pure from sin,” Eli would answer, and people would nod in agreement.

—

Three months ago, the church secretary overheard Eli and Gracie arguing in his office. He promised to deal with her sins when they got home, said the time had come to cleanse her mouth and purify the rest of her from whatever vile wickedness had latched on.

She ran out the door crying.

Raising teens was hard work sometimes, everyone knew it.

When Edith showed up later, the secretary mentioned the argument. She didn’t expect the fire that flared in the quiet woman’s eyes, or her haste in returning home.

That night, the sheriff stopped by the pastor’s house. There’d been a gruesome accident in the workshop, Edith said. She led him downstairs and showed him around. He came up whiter than snow, wiping vomit from his mouth. The official report said “suicide,” even though all that remained was the pastor’s severed head. No charges were filed, but whispers spread.

In the months that followed, Gracie played hymns with a carefree passion like never before, and Edith sang louder than anyone else, her face alight with joy.

And no one questioned it.

BlogBattle, Writing

Hungry

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This is another Blog Battle entry, a military fiction or general fiction short story for the word, “Legumes.”

I almost let this one slip, because Mad Max came out yesterday and I just had to smash up some War Boys’ cars… 

But lunch is a good time to catch up. Here goes, with “Hungry” (996 words).

—

A cool breeze across the hilltop in Syria blunted summer’s heat and played through the green leaves blanketing the ground. Afternoon sunlight beat on two sentries patrolling the perimeter in full desert battle-rattle, carbines in hand.

The husky Airman Jackson squatted and ran his fingers over some violet-streaked white flowers. “Great place to set up a FOB,” he said. “Check this out, Sarge. You hungry?”

Young, with a deep brown complexion after a month of constant sun, Staff Sergeant Ramirez kicked his combat boot into the dirt, spraying dust into the air. “This is bull.”

Jackson ignored the outburst. “These look a lot like the kind we grew back home. Wild chickpeas, maybe. You know, garbanzos.” He said it with a heaping dose of hick, like it was an instrument in country music.

“Please, you think I don’t know what chickpeas are? Why you gotta use the Spanish-sounding word for it?” He took on a mock accusatory tone. “You a racist, Jackson.”

Jackson never took his eyes off the plants. “Screw you, Sarge. Just sayin’ I could pick some of these, soak ’em a while, make us a treat.”

Ramirez waved him off. “Man, I don’t believe in beans.”

“What? What does that even mean?”

A weak, choppy voice squawked over the radio, requesting status of all patrols. Ramirez acknowledged the call. “We’re on the southeast side of Hilltop Lima Seven-Two-Six. My squad established a position, and we’re watching for refugees.”

“Roger—advised, ISIL fighters have been spotted—five miles of your—hold Hilltop Lima Seven-Two-Six overnigh—air cav bringing reinforcements with the supply drop, how copy?”

“You’re coming in broken and stupid,” Ramirez muttered. Then he hit the transmit button twice, acknowledging the message.

“Heh,” Jackson chuckled. “Hey Sarge, it just hit me. Hilltop Lima has beans growing on it.”

“They’re not pronounced the same way, moron.”

Jackson’s cheeks flushed red. “I know.”

“Then you know your joke isn’t very funny.”

“Shut up, Sarge.”

“Aww, you go ahead and cry into your gar-ban-zos,” Ramirez said, mimicking Jackson’s pronunciation. “A little salt will help the flavor.”

 

A few hours later, as the sun melted into the horizon, Jackson reclined against a stone and popped chickpeas into his mouth from his canteen cup.

“Amazed you can cook anything in that,” Ramirez said. “Figured it might melt. You know, lowest bidder and all.”

Jackson smiled. “I remember an afternoon like this in Survival School. My partner an’ I found a patch-a wild strawberries during the field portion. Climbing up an’ down the hillsides of Spokane, picking our way through the woods, trying to evade the instructors, sweating our butts off in the heat…”

Ramirez glared at Jackson, but the man paid no heed.

“We settle down for a breather in a little patch of tall grass,” Jackson continued. “And my

partner says, ‘Wouldya look at that? Strawberries!’ Sure enough, there’s a bunch of ’em all around us. Tiny, sad things you wouldn’t pay money for in the market.” He held up two fingers pinched together.

“But after a couple days with nothing but MREs, we ate them berries like a Thanksgiving feast. Sat there an hour, I bet, evading view, just munchin’ and enjoyin’ the day–”

“Evasion?” Ramirez scoffed. “Not from infrared sensors on a drone or helo. Givin’ off all that heat, they’d spot you in seconds, day or night.”

Jackson sat upright and tugged at his camo blouse. “No, man, these uniforms have a special treatment that reduces IR visibility.”

“You believe that crap? ”

“That’s what they told us at Basic during Warrior Week.”

Ramirez rolled his eyes. “After Hiroshima and Nagasaki, the Japanese handed out white cloth sheets blessed by the emperor. They promised it would protect citizens from nukes. I’m sure those had a special treatment too… of bull.”

Jackson’s eyes narrowed and he pursed his lips. “You’re a real downer, you know that?”

“Yeah? So’s life. Come on, we should get back soon.”

The attack came ten minutes later, when darkness swallowed up the last glimmer of twilight on the horizon. Mortar shells scattered clods of dirt, cutting Ramirez and Jackson off from their team. Radio calls flooded the net with enemy sightings on all sides. Gunfire echoed across the hilltop, sporadic at first then more frequent, like a bag of popcorn in the microwave.

“I got visual!” Jackson declared. “My one o’clock. Three—no, four adult males carrying AKs.”

“Engage,” Ramirez shouted as he took aim and squeezed off a burst of bullets.

Another mortar shell exploded to their left, and Jackson screamed.

Ramirez shook off disorientation from the blast and opened fire once more. “I need you focused, Jackson! Guys coming up our right flank, I’m on them. But you cover our front.”

Jackson crouched and snapped off a few shots. “We need to regroup with the others, Sarge!”

Ramirez hustled backward up the hill, shooting whenever enemy fire revealed a position. “Let’s work our way back, nice and easy—“

He froze at the sharp whistle of an incoming shell. Then with strength beyond his thin frame, Ramirez shoved Jackson away.

A fuzzy silence and sudden numbness swept over Ramirez. He blinked at the stars in the sky. Then Jackson appeared over him, the young man’s white face speckled with blood. He pumped the sergeant’s chest in between bursts of return fire, and shouted something that looked like, “Hang on, Sarge.”

But the way his wide eyes took in the scene told Ramirez all he needed to know. Ramirez coughed up blood and gripped Jackson’s sleeve. “Just… please don’t tell my wife I died for nothin’ but a hill o’ beans.”

Seven years later, Technical Sergeant Jackson traced the white petals of a chickpea flower and planted a white wooden cross into the dirt. Behind him, a young woman watched the green slope below FOB Ramirez, her trigger finger ready.

Jackson called her over. “I told you they’d be here.” He offered her a wistful smile. “You hungry?”

Writing

Opportunities

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Here’s a fantasy entry for Rachael Ritchey’s weekly Blog Battle, this time centered on the word, “troop.”
Anyone who is willing to read all the short stories posted today (until midnight Tuesday Pacific time) is allowed to give three votes for their favorites. Check out the other participants’ works and let Rachael know what you think.

—-

Mokreesh watched the oncoming merchant caravan with hungry yellow eyes. His misty breath slipped through sharp teeth slick with saliva.

A line of human travelers wound its way like a serpent through the hills south of Aulivar’s glistening white walls. Several mules–tasty if stewed long enough–pulled creaking wagons burdened with crates and barrels. Human scrawl marked the contents, but Mokreesh couldn’t make any of that out. Besides, the mystery was half the fun of collecting the spoils.

First, we have to win… which means breaking the streak of bad luck. His gloved finger traced the scar tissue that covered the right side of his face, a constant reminder of an Arcanist’s fireball.

That was two months ago, Mokreesh thought. And every raid has gone to piss since. Supplies are dwindling, and anger is brewing.

His second in command Grunnash drew his massive blade. Metal rasped and gleamed in the afternoon sun. Grunnash stood with hands on hips, glaring down at the humans. Never one to stoop or kneel, even if it risks giving us away.

He grinned at Mokreesh. “These sheep are fat for the slaughter. Surely this opportunity is ours to seize. On your signal, my chieftain.”

The other marauders hunkered in the bush and bramble along the hillside, awaiting the word. Mokreesh looked on them with pride. He would restore theirs soon.

“Watch out for your troops” had been the previous chieftain’s last words so many years ago. Mokreesh understood. If you take care of your men, they’ll get the job done. In the two decades since Mokreesh became chieftain, that wisdom brought the clan greatness and wealth.

Until that old crone Kalgha cursed him as a stubborn oaf before the altar of Kurnn. Then the bad luck started. Broken weapons in the middle of a fight, unexpected enemy reinforcements when victory seemed certain, the stray spellcast with a one-in-a-million chance that “happened” to sear off half his face.

Mokreesh didn’t buy into all the spiritual mumbo-jumbo Kalgha used to keep the clan in line. But every time he passed the altar now, he felt the flaming eye of Kurnn watching him. And he’d even tried prayer once, using a young human merchant guard as an offering. The man seemed devout; for six hours he had cried out to his gods for deliverance.

Neither of them got the answer they wanted that day.

Today changes everything.

Mokreesh hefted his battle-axe and raised it high. All around him, his warriors tensed, ready for the charge. Bloodlust and hunger shone on their grinning faces.

Mokreesh opened his mouth to bellow a war cry–

A glint of bronze on a merchant’s face struck fear into Mokreesh’s heart like an icy spear. Unbidden memories of anguish and flame filled his mind. Is that an Arcanist’s etching? This caravan may have magic users protecting it.

He noted a flash of armor beneath a wagon driver’s cloak. Are those trained guardsmen disguised among the caravan?

Was that a Gracemark on that woman’s hand? What powers might she possess?

“No good,” he muttered. “No good.” He lowered his weapon to the ground. The thick axehead thudded into the dirt.

Grunnash hung his head and shook with rage. “Fifth time in a row.”

“It’s a trap,” Mokreesh said. “Let them pass. Let’s relocate to the north road. We might catch some craftsmen bringing wares to–”

A sudden searing pain flared to life in his chest. He blinked at the length of bloody metal thrusting out of his ribcage. Words failed him. Weariness rushed through his body, and standing seemed impossible.

Mokreesh slid down Grunnash’s blade and fell to his knees, clutching the gaping wound. His vision blurred, but he could make out his warriors turning their backs and striding away through the brush. Following Grunnash.

Breathing became beyond difficult, and no amount of pressure stopped the flow. Mokreesh gurgled in the leaves and grass. Stabbed through the heart, from behind no less.  

An image of Mokreesh’s former chieftain floated into his mind–a glimpse from the day Mokreesh bested him in combat and took control of the clan.

“Watch out for your troops,” he had whispered as he died.

And now Mokreesh understood.

Writing

Echoes part 1

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WattPad is running a contest / writing challenge for 2015. The goal is to write 10,000 words of a story within 30 days–originally within the month of August, but they’ve extended the deadline to September 30th to allow for those who may have started late. 

After NaNoWriMo last year, 10K seems like nothing!

I’ve posted the first chapter of my Echoes story to the site. I plan to have some fun exploring the world inside Hope’s head, and the interplay between Forsephore and her soon-to-be-revealed nemesis. I’ve already got the climactic confrontation sorted out in my head, more or less… but I feel there’s a lot of winding paths along the way that I can explore.

Care to join me? Check out Echoes. 

Here’s a glimpse of Hope and the host of Echoes that exist within her.

   

Writing

Watt a Bargain!

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So I joined WattPad and started a project.

I’ll be honest. At first, I was put off by grammar errors and amateur mistakes. Even more, the commenters who gush over the simplest sentences with “I so get u” and “omg this ^^^ right here” and other such text-style feedback.

Then my wife kindly reminded me that everyone’s on a journey to being a better writer, and any mistakes I see now are only because I’ve had quality writer friends supporting and educating me along the way. I’m guilty of some of the same–if not right now, then certainly in the past.

And let’s face it. Feedback is feedback. If a character, quip, or interaction resonates with a reader, I am happy, whether they tell me, “Poignant and touching; Splendid work” or “oh wow sooooo many feels.” Any connection with a reader is a good thing, and the teen fangirl who says “omg” today is the young adult who clicks “buy” on Amazon tomorrow.

The short stories I’ll be posting in “Pieces” aren’t all new. Many appear somewhere on this blog. But I figure WattPad is another avenue to gain a following, and a fun way of doing so. My “Echoes” story (mentioned in a few previous blogs) will be posted entirely to WattPad.

Plus, my wife’s comment reminded me of the point of all this. WattPad is full of unique content and interesting takes on existing material. It’s a bunch of people who are expressing their passion for good characters and stories. Is that what I find valuable? Is that what excites me? Or is it grammatically correct, properly formatted, everything-just-so writing?

No, the point is to have fun and share the experience with others.

So I went ahead and drew an amateur cover for my project, incorporating scenes of most of the various stories into sections of different puzzles. No, it’s not professional quality. No, it’s not what will garner attention.

But I loved the process of expressing myself through a different medium, and I’m having fun with my own amateur mistake.

Here’s the cover to Pieces:

The cover to my short story compilation on WattPad
The cover to my short story compilation on WattPad

I hope you’ll visit me on WattPad, especially if you have an account and post your own work.

Writing

Echoes of the Past

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Have you ever stopped and considered the “what might have been” options in your life? Those doors once open that now seem so unlikely? Those dreams and lofty goals that too easily find themselves set aside by the mundane demands of the daily grind?

“I want to run a marathon.”

“I plan to travel to Ireland, or Australia, or go backpacking through Tibet.”

“I could write a memoir.”

“I want to be an astronaut.”

I saw a link to a short story contest on my Stateside writers’ group Facebook page, and the urge to participate churned in my brain at once. And the more I thought about potential stories, the more my mind homed in on the concept of our deferred dreams and primary motivations. What are the principle visions of ourselves or beliefs about ourselves that govern so much of what we accept as possible or achievable?

We all have these grand plans and aspirations, but life sometimes buries them deep down beneath the crushing weight of bills, daily chores, menial but tedious work, and mindless entertainment to distract us from the numbing effects of our busy lives. Worse yet, there are “facts” we believe about ourselves that keep us from even attempting to achieve. “I can’t write.” “I’ll never have the time to spend on that.” “No one wants to see what I can create.”

For example, in my teenage years I distinctly remember a comment from my big brother telling me I couldn’t sing well. To be fair, my voice was changing, and everyone has bad days, so maybe his judgment that day was fair. Maybe it was an offhand comment or a big brother picking on little brother moment. He probably wouldn’t remember saying it.

That defined my ability in my head for several years. Rather than sing, I held onto the thought, the belief even, that I really ought not subject others to the sound. I could play piano really well; I should stick with my strengths.

It took a friend’s compliments and encouragement to get me to even try singing a duet with him in public. It took the praise of many members of the congregation to convince me I should keep doing it, and it took some time for me to really believe I could sing capably into a microphone where others would suffer the sound of my voice.

All because of an off-hand comment.

No judgment on my brother, whom I love dearly. I merely bring this up as an example of how easily certain parts of our personality can get crushed by the voices around us.

So my short story is going to be about these Echoes, the “could have beens” and “maybe one days” that all exist within the same jumble of emotions as “this is the best my life will get” and “who am I kidding, I could never…”

What happens to these Echoes when dreams die or when doors of opportunity close? What can motivate a person to change which voices hold sway in their mind?

When one of the Echoes starts to fade into nothingness, she finds a last chance at reshaping her Prime, the mild-mannered cubicle dweller to whom all the Echoes belong. To do it, this Echo has to avoid the judgmental ire of the current Alpha in charge, who is determined to maintain the status quo while enlisting the aid of other weakened dreams and forgotten hopes. Perhaps if enough of them come true, the balance of power can shift. But if not, then all those dreams might be lost forever.

Sound fun? If so, help me out… and maybe you’ll appear as one of the “Echoes” in our cubicle dweller’s head.

How? It’s easy to do, but maybe a little challenging to consider:

Leave a comment with a few of those deferred dreams or “I wish I had” hopes that you think might be clinging desperately to the thought of “maybe one day” in the mind of the cubicle dweller. These could be silly ideas you think a frazzled woman trying to avoid becoming a crazy cat lady might hang on to. Or on a more personal level, these could be your own thoughts of what could have been, wishes you never got the chance to fulfill.

I’d love your input.

Also here’s Shia reminding you to not let your dreams be dreams.

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.

Bordermarches, General, Writing

Shuuka

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This is a piece I wrote to introduce a villain for my Worldmender project. I aimed for a present tense “in the bad guy’s head” style that is different from my usual efforts, and of course this is about a villain so it’s a bit dark. I’d love to know what you think!

shuuka

“Don’t care ’bout the letter from Hagron,” Dagger Bandit mutters and draws twin blades.

He probably thinks I can’t hear him. He turns toward me, all thin and hunched over, ready to pounce on smaller prey. He’s breathing hard. I see it in the chill air. I hear his heart pounding.

“Letter from a noble or not,” Dagger Bandit continues, “Shuuka’s getting on my nerves.”

That’s what these robbers call me. They don’t know my name. They only know their boss sent me. I don’t know their names either. I don’t need to. Tools should be called by their function.

Maybe they think I’m not listening. Maybe they know I am. I keep playing my bonerattle to the Rhythm as I watch the firelight dance across the sands and the boulders.

shhuuu-Ka shhuuu-Ka shhuu-Ka shh…

It’s cold tonight. I see wisps in the wind when the bandits breathe. I can’t feel the cold, and the fire doesn’t warm me. I can’t feel anything.

Well, that’s not entirely true.

I feel the Hunger. My body needs fuel, so I take a bite of dried meat. It tastes like sand in my mouth. I can see the spices, but I can’t taste them. I can’t taste anything anymore.

The Rhythm is the only thing that keeps me calm until I can satisfy the Hunger.

Dagger Bandit hesitates in his approach and glares at me. The stocky bearded man next to him speaks up. “You saw what he did to Namir yesterday. Fought him one-handed, one blade against Namir’s two.”

I call this big one Meat-shield. He seems to be the smartest of the bunch.

He looks up at Dagger Bandit now. “You think you can take him, have a go. I won’t miss the noise.”

“Never seen Namir lose a duel,” Dagger Bandit admits and sits down.

“Lost his bleedin’ hand is what he lost.”

Meat-shield has a point. Plus he’s in charge.

I would have liked very much to take more from Sword-dancer, the one they call Namir. He sits in the shadows, nursing his bandaged stump. The Hunger clamors within me always, and Namir might have satisfied it. For a time. But I don’t want them to know about me yet. I kept my glove on during the fight, kept the Darkness hidden.

I chose to be patient then. To listen to the Rhythm a while longer. But I think today’s the day.

shhuu-Ka shhuu-Ka shh…

Footsteps rush toward us. My fingers rest on the pommel of my blade. Our scout bursts into the hidden campsite. “They’re coming,” he pants. His chest thuds in my ears like a horserace. My right hand twitches. I want to consume him. The Hunger roils within, and I suppress it with a shudder.

I focus on the rattle again.

“His letter,” Farsight blurts between gasps, pointing at me. “It’s true. The caravan, nearby, three guards, four others.”

Meat-shield hands Farsight a waterskin. Only a few drops in it. Enough for another day here in the Waste. Then Meat-shield hisses “Get ready,” as he kicks out the fire.

I stop the rattle and head for the dunes around the camp. It’s time. Away from the firelight, I remove my right glove. Shadows swirl and flow like oil in the shape of a hand. I’m not sure I really have an arm under there anymore. Only the Darkness remains.

I don’t mind the loss. The power is worth it.

Meat-shield is smart. Good position. The rocks and dunes hide the camp in darkness. Anyone would have to be on top of the nearest hill to see the firelight. But the robbers take no chances. Prey in the Waste is skittish and dangerous. Predators must be crafty.

Meat-shield sends archers to the tops of the stones where they can get a clear view of the merchant route. His best bowman has a monocle that Meat-shield got from Lord Hagron.  It makes night like day in the wearer’s eye. I can think of many uses for such a device.

Trueshot looses a flaming arrow to mark the caravan. I hear it sink into the wood of a wagon with a thok. Now everyone can see it. The travelers cry out. The four robbers on foot rush the prey while Trueshot and the others take aim at the guards.

I take aim at Trueshot. I creep forward, unnoticed, black hand extended.

His monocle slips into my open palm as he dies. I lay his body down atop the stone and turn to the next archer. The night makes it easy. The rush of adrenaline, the thrill of the kill–that makes my victims delicious. The Hunger feeds on life, but strong emotions and passions are the sweetest. I can taste those. I can feel them as they are consumed.

Meat-shield and his allies are busy fighting guards or chasing the unarmed. They don’t notice that the arrows stop flying. Three of the guards are wounded. One fights on. It’s easy to sneak up on the bandits.

Sword-dancer dies first. I catch him rifling through the goods in a wagon, out of the view of the others. Greed–lust for the prize–it’s not delicious, but it will do.

He expires with a quiet sigh, the noise lost in the din of the fray.

The lone guard shouts as he cuts down Mace. I’m not surprised. Mace isn’t a fighter. He’s Meat-shield’s cousin, or brother-in-law, or some other relationship with obligation. Doesn’t matter. With that steaming wound in his belly, he’ll be dead soon.

One of the other bandits is down. Arrow in the back. Maybe Trueshot or another archer had some score to settle. I don’t care. And now Meat-shield is fighting the guard that killed Mace.

I sense two more heartbeats, one pursuing the other. Dagger Bandit finished off a couple of the passengers and is chasing the last one. A woman’s scream pierces the night. I can feel Dagger Bandit’s lust building. The Hunger longs for him, and I shiver. He’ll be tasty.

But first, Meat-shield is fresh, and this final guard is weary. Not a fair fight.

I stretch my right hand toward Meat-shield. No one can see it in the dark, but I know tendrils of black are forming around him, slowing him, hindering him. I hear him rage against invisible bonds, swinging wild punches as he tries to break free.

The guard sees his opportunity and thrusts a sword into Meat-shield’s ribs. Meat-shield roars and draws a knife as he grabs the guard by the throat. I turn away, releasing the bonds. I hear choking and gurgling behind me, weak cries, labored breathing in the dark. They’ll both be dead soon.

Dagger Bandit’s heart is thudding in my mind. It’s all I can think of. Maybe it’s all the Darkness can think of. I’m not really sure how this all works.

All I know is I want him.

He has the woman cornered. I sense her fear. It’s a powerful emotion too, but it’s the only one the Darkness doesn’t like. She doesn’t interest me, not with Dagger Bandit near.

I hear his voice telling lies, his tone meant to soothe. I can’t make out the words. The pounding of his heart is so loud in my head. My shadow hand can barely retain its form. It yearns to stretch out and take him. I resist.

The woman cowers. Dagger Bandit steps forward, knife shaking with delight. He slowly reaches for her, and giggles as he grabs her shoulder. She writhes and screams, but she can’t get away. He raises the knife.

Now.

Shadows wrap around him, wracking his body into awkward positions. I think bones snap but I don’t care. His eyes are wide, reflecting firelight. His mouth is filled with darkness. His intense emotions are captured and consumed in an instant.

The lifeless body crumples to the ground. A wave of pleasure washes over me, the reward from the Darkness for such a perfect feast.

The woman sees me, knows that somehow I’ve saved her. She doesn’t question how, just bows and babbles profuse thanks. I am not interested.

…until the Darkness senses her overwhelming relief. Her fear is gone. I step into the light.

“I swear to you,” she continues, “I will tell my father of how you saved me and he will reward you with greater riches than what we carry here. I cannot thank you enough.”

“No, dear,” I frown. “You can’t.”

I stretch my hand once more and close my eyes, awash in satisfaction as she dies.

A minute later, the night is quiet. I start collecting provisions. I’m not sure where I’ll go. Before I came here, Hagron spoke of war in the city of Sulkath, and invading armies from Kandurien.

War always brings out strong passions. It sounds like the right place to be.

Meat-shield mumbles something behind me, dying on the ground, tangled with the body of the guard. “Hagron… that letter was fake… he didn’t send you…”

“No, the letter was real. But Hagron didn’t send me. I took it after I fed on him.”

He looks confused, so I explain. “You worked for Hagron. I killed him. So you serve me now.”

Meat-shield coughs up blood.

“Rest now,” I say as I turn. I can’t help a grin. “I have been well served.”

I take out my bonerattle as I walk away from the ruined caravan. The Darkness is sated.

shhhuuu-KA shhhuuu-KA shhh…

I can hear the Rhythm clearer than before. For now.

Bordermarches, Writing

Introducing D'Ten

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For this Storyline post, I thought I’d introduce a villain. I’ve had the idea of the Bloodsworn for quite some time, but they were a faceless foe and an alien culture to the characters in the Bordermarches. There’s no fun in that. It’s more interesting to see life from the villain’s perspective now and then (at least to me). So, allow me to introduce the new Chronicler of the Bloodsworn, D’Ten.

Saturday Storyline

From the Eldest, life was given to the Newborn;
To the Eldest, life is given from the Bloodsworn.

The Ancient Rede filled D’Ten with pride as he drew the sharp side of his hook-dagger along his forearm. His eyes widened as pain seared his nerves, but he kept silent as he finished the cut. Blood ran down his upturned palm, warm and wet, to drip off his fingertips onto the stained stone altar. A collective roar went up from the gathered crowd on the steps below, and D’Ten looked out over the masses.

Over my people.

They would follow him now. They would look to him as they once looked to Kasheta; they would trust his wisdom as they once hung on her poisonous words.

He raised a glittering goblet in his left hand, and the blood began streaming toward his elbow. Kasheta abandoned the old ways. She forsook the sacrifices meant for the Eldest Ones, dismissed the power and truth of the Rede. Under Kasheta’s guidance, D’Ten’s people were docile, quick to retreat and slow to respond as the bastard children of the Cerune Empire once again came across the mountains.

“Not the will of the Life-givers,” she would say whenever he pressed her to attack. “This Cycle will end in trouble enough for all; we need not add to it. We will depart, and not engage them.”

Foolishness. Weakness.

Kasheta was one of many Chroniclers to interpret the Rede in a figurative sense. She taught the people to give their lives–their time, their resources, and their energy–in service to the Eldest.

But D’Ten learned the truth. He knew how wrong she was, and the trouble that would come. He even knew the will of the Life-givers. One of them spoke to him directly, granting revelation about the long-forgotten paths his people once followed.

Blood was required, for the blood was life. For centuries, the devout among the Bloodsworn offered up a portion of their lives back to the Creators, a fitting tribute and offering of thanks for what the Eldest Ones first gave to mortals, a completion of the cycle that satisfied the Life-givers and turned away Their wrath.

D’Ten shuddered as he held the goblet aloft, almost spilling its precious contents. If the cycle was ever broken–if blood was no longer offered to the Eldest–then the Creators would return to undo what they began. The world would be shattered, all life extinguished… for those who gave life could surely take it away.

That must never be.

Kasheta had led the people astray. It was time to correct her error.

“Offerings shall be made once more,” D’Ten called out, “now and forever, in accordance with the Rede and the ancient ways, and in accordance with the words of the Eldest.” He tipped the goblet until a steady stream of crimson splashed across the altar, mingled with his own blood. Another cheer burst from the crowd, but D’Ten’s deep voice rose above them all.

“To the Eldest, life is given from the Bloodsworn!”

The words of the Life-giver’s visitation echoed in D’Ten’s mind as he poured out the last drop of Kasheta’s life from the goblet.

Who said that the offering had to be your blood?

As his people cheered, D’Ten grinned widely. They were focused on their ritual, but his mind wandered west, to the mountains where the Dunnestanni and their Cerunae allies swarmed like gnats in spring.

The offerings to the Eldest had been neglected for so long; D’Ten was certain he could feel Their anger.

You will have sacrifices. Many sacrifices. We will give You life for the life You granted us. The cycle will not be forgotten.