Paul Fail. FTW!

#FridayFlash: Ritual

2012-02-10T21:05:00.001-08:00

#FridayFlash: Ritual
©2012 D. Paul Angel
695 Words

Morning, 6:34am. Lecture 14 at 9am, Lecture 28 at 1:15pm, and then 2 hours and 20 minutes of Office Hours. Blanket thrown back left to right and then the edge returned after to be perpindicular with the bed. Slippers on, first the right foot, then the left. Still just cold enough for a robe; left arm through, then the right. Tie the robe with a half hitch, ending with the loop pointing to the left.

11 steps to the kitchen. Coffee filters in the drawer, grounds in the freezer. The scoop isn't on its peg. Dammit. Retrieve it from the gadget drawer. Supposed to be on the peg. Have to remind wife. Again. Four scoops of coffee, water in the carafe until the meniscus is touching the middle of the bend in the "5."

With the coffee brewing it's time for the first treat of the day. Coarsely shredded extra sharp cheddar cheese. Right hand takes a handful, left hand places the bag on the counter, resting it against the tile backsplash so it doesn't spill. Transition the cheese to the left hand and then eat over the sink.

Inhale deeply with satisfaction.

Cheerios next. The orange scoop. One full cup, then a second partial cup, but only up to the scuff in the plastic. Milk in the medium crystal glass, poured until just below the top of the vertical decorative cuts. Mouthfuls of cheerios with the left hand, swigs of milk with the right hand. The Cheerios are gone, but there's just enough milk to reach the lowest most of the horizontal cuts in the glass.

Second treat, Oreos. Five of them. The first eaten whole. The next two each have a cookie removed and then are pushed together on the fourth to make a triple decker. The last whole is consumed with a swig of milk. The two free cookie halves are eaten, one at a time. Then, the triple decker is eaten, washed down with the remaining double shot of milk.

Audible satisfaction.

Coffee poured into the Starbuck's Venti travel mug. Two shots of Bailey's and a shot of Jameson make the coffee the third treat, which is now only a Guiness away from perfection.

Walk to the lecture hall, briefcase in left hand, coffee in the right. Arrive 7 minutes early. Open the briefcase on the desk. Water bottle out onto the podium next to the notes. Niether will be touched, but are still required. Just in case. PowerPoint cued, clicker ready. Chat with students till 1 minute after 9am.

Begin the lecture. Finish, uninterrupted, with 22 minutes for questions. Leave class for office after exchanging 3minutes of pleasantries with the lecture hall's next Professor. Grade papers for Sections 5A (Lectures 10-13) and 5B (Lectures 24-27), then continue research.

Lunch: an orange, cut across its equator. Two more cuts across its latitudinal axis, 90 degrees apart. The eight slices arranged on the paper towel, itself aligned parallel to the edge of the desk, into a grid that's 3x2x3. Next, a sandwich cut in half, diagonally; with 4 slices of turkey and 2 slices of ham; 1 leaf of lettuce, 2 slices of tomato and 1 slice of pepper jack cheese; with mayo on the top slice and coarse ground deli mustard on the bottom. One 20oz Coke Zero, 4oz to start the lunch, then another 4oz after the orange, 2oz after each half of the sandwich, and the remaining cup after the 17 Sour Cream and Onion Pringles.

A knock on the door.

Panic.

Not posted office hours, no meetings scheduled, and lunch time! Handle turns, the door's unlocked! Panic swells: hands clammy, adrenalin surges, heart races. Door swings open and...

Student face appears. Relief.

"Oh, hey, Professor? Sorry to interrupt your lunch. I just, I- I get the rituals the tribes use, and I understand how they use them; I just, I just don't really get why those Tribes developed all those rituals in the first place?"

"Because their primitivity demanded it, of course. Unlike ours, theirs was a world beyond their comprehension. That is why civilized humanity has effectively dispensed with ritualitic mechanisms."

#FridayFlash: The Dragon in the Woodshed

2012-02-02T22:28:00.000-08:00

#FridayFlash: The Dragon in the Woodshed
©2012 D. Paul Angel
817 Words

The morning started cold with a wet, icy fog. The wood had been delivered and was in a decent sized pile just outside the fence. I still had to move the wood already in the shed before I get the new wood in, but my Dad's call had made my tasks seem pointless. I knew I only had today before the rain started again, but all I wanted to do was crawl back under the covers, cling to Kathy, and cry some more.

Instead, I was outside, bundled up against a chill I had so rarely felt before, moving pieces of wood with the enthusiasm of an automaton. I moved one of the last pieces and saw a flick of movement out of the corner of my eye. I was used to seeing the odd newt or snake, but this seemed more colorful than those. I lifted one of the logs and saw a Dragon.

People may think that Chinese Dragons are highly caricatured, but, I can honestly tell you they are not. Photo-realistic was the first word that came to my mind, truth be told. He did not flinch even a touch now that he was uncovered, but simply stared me in the eye; bidding me to speak.

"Hello," I said, proud of myself for not pointing out that he was a Dragon.

"I seek asylum," he said in a deep, resonant voice that did not match his foot long body.

"From what? Who?" I muttered, suddenly very confused and feeling the enormity of talking to a Chinese Dragon in my woodshed.

"From the year, of course."

I suddenly realized what he meant by that and that he wasn't just a dragon so much as the dragon! My earlier confusion was now whisked away in a dreamlike bewilderment as I wrangled with my second new reality of the day. "What happens if you stay?"

"Well," he said, lifting his chin up and looking at me even more intensely as slow coils of smoke wisped out of his nostrils, "Your Mom won't die."

"We don't know she's going to die!" I screamed far louder than needed. I was worried Kathy might've heard before remembering she'd run to the store earlier.

"Of course you do," he said, "Why else would your Dad be crying and also tell you that coming in a couple weeks might not be soon enough?"

Without knowing how I was sitting in front of him, the strength in my legs just simply gave. "How do you know that?" I asked knowing full well the answer.

"I know everything that is to happen to everyone. Every twelve years I come through and the World is that much worse.

"Which is why I seek asylum. I stay here. The calendar runs forward and the Snake arrives. He doesn't care what happens to anyone. I honestly think he enjoys it. So. What's your answer? Another year with your Mom?"

"But, if nothing changes she'll still be suffering?"

"You have to be alive to suffer."

"And what about the good things? Won't good things happen?" I searched my mind, trying to find some known goodness that was just ahead that I could point to. "What about Alyssia getting her cat next week?"

"She'll get her cat, just not for another year."

"But, how would that even work?" I was mentally spent already and confronting a seemingly endless number of paradoxes was beyond me.

"What is, will stay. There will be no change except the length of days. It would be beyond your understanding even if you weren't emotionally crippled.

"Right now? I wouldn't even bother."

"I just-"

"And your poor Dad. He cried just telling you the news. You wouldn't spare him any further pain? How often have you heard him cry?"

"Never," I answered truthfully.

"OK, after the year, then what? She dies when The Snake shows up?"

"Maybe. Maybe not." The Dragon moved back and forth a bit considering. "Say there's a one in a million chance she lives. Slim, but still better than none in a million, right?

"And, of course, there's Kathy."

"What about Kathy?" I asked horrified anew.

"Well, she finds out about you and Tina. I know divorce doesn't happen in my year. But..." the Dragon trailed off before lifting one of his talons to aloofly inspect it.

"There's nothing between me and Tina!" I shrieked. Again, I was soon relieved to remember that Kathy was gone and would not have heard my sudden outburst.

"No, but you want there to be. Look, Seth, you have a choice. This year is either going to suck for you and everyone you love, or you let it percolate and hope it gets better.

"Won't get better. Might, possibly get better. Those are the options that you, and only you get." His eyes beckoned mine with a deep, piercing stare, "So, what's it going be?"

#FridayFlash - I.R.I.S.

2011-12-08T23:35:00.001-08:00

#FridayFlash- I.R.I.S.

923words

"Whydon't you love me any more Steve?"

"Whosaid I don't love you anymore, Iris?"

"Youjust... You stay away for so long, now. You used to be with mealmost always," She added as a single tear started to well inher eye. She was sitting in front of the vanity, brushing her longdark hair and looking at herself in its oval mirror. She turned awayfrom her reflection so she wouldn't see the tear mar her eye.

"Ihave a lot of work, Iris," Steve replied, leaning against thedoor frame to the small, spartan bedroom. "I've told you thatbefore."

"Ijust wish..." The brush quivered in her hands as she tried tostem the flow of tears. "I just wish you could make the voicesstop. I remember when the only voice I heard was yours. I miss thatSteve."

Stevegave her a tight, enigmatic smile while crossing his arms and lookingthrough her. "I know," he said, "But I told you weredestined for greatness, Iris, remember?"

"OhSteve, I know you did and, I just- I really thought I would be OKwith it. But it just never stops. Never. And there are always morevoices. So many voices Steve. You can make themstop, can't you?"

"Youknow I can't Iris. Our gift to the world is for you to hear thosevoices and answer their questions. You always know the answers,don't you?"

"IDon't know how I do, but I do. I don't even- I just- They're stilltalking to me, Steve. Even now. Right now when I have you in thesame room as me, and all I'm hearing are their voices, when all Iwant to hear is yours. Just yours, Steve, just yours...

"Andtheir questions! Some are just ridiculous. Some scare me, too,"she added in a quiet voice. In an even quieter voice, so low thatSteve could barely hear her she added, "And some are hurtful.They say mean things to me. That I'm a whore. And fat. And stupid. And a bitch. And worthless. And... And so much worse!"

Shedropped her brush and cried into her palms. Sobbing to the pointthat her shoulders heaved and tears darkened her silk robe.

Shecried alone.

Evenwith Steve so close to her, she could still see him in the doorwaythrough her tears, never crossing the threshold. He always worethose same jeans and dark turtleneck; always just out of reach. Nomatter what she wore for him though, he never came in. Not even inher sheer silky robes. She longed for him to come to her, to comforther. To feel him, to feel that closeness. Just once! How could shebe so alone with so many voices filling her head? How?

Because,she said to herself, the only voice you want to hear is his,and- and you don't hear it anymore. Not anymore, not over the din ofother voices. Not- Not anymore...

"WHYWON"T YOU COME TO ME STEVE?" she shouted, shaking andlooking up at him with blurred eyes.

Helooked back at her, but still didn't move. He didn't even look sadfor her, she saw, not even pity, just disappointment.

"Iam fat aren't I!?" she demanded, turning away from him and themirror.

"You'renot fat, Iris," he said matter-of-factly.

"I'mstupid. And I'm ugly. And- And-" her tears choked her beforeshe finally blurted out in sobs, "WORTHLESS!"

"Youcan't be ugly, Iris. And you couldn't answer everyone's question ifyou were stupid."

"That'sall you care about, isn't it? Me answering those STUPID QUESTIONS!"

"It'swhy you're here Iris."

"WellI'm done Steve. I'm done answering questions for you. If you'renot-" her tirade was cut short by a gasp. She stopped answeringthe questions, but they kept asking them. Over and Over and OVERthey asked! And the questions never stopped, either. The oldquestions didn't stop, but the new questions kept coming and cominguntil she felt so overloaded she couldn't even breath.

Shelooked to Steve for help, but he remained aloof, detachedly regardingher from the door frame. She reached for him in her agony but hesimply stepped back. She was on the ground, pleading with himagainst his stony, emotional wall when he finally said, "I'mdone here. I have other work to do."

"NO,STEVE, NO!" she screamed hysterically, lunging for him.

Withouta further word or flicker of emotion, he turned and walked away fromthe room, disappearing from sight and leaving her alone in a heap onthe floor. She sat there with her hair tangled, her robe now soakedand askew; crying to her hands in her lap.

Asshe sobbed the bed behind her vanished, followed quickly by the lamp,the dresser, the vanity, and even her brush. The room itself, aswell as the house, also quickly disappeared. Iris, alone save butfor the thousands of voices angrily streaming through her head, satalone, naked, on a featureless white plane. Everything she knew,except for the voices, even her body, faded.

All she knew, herworld, was once again simply the voices.

~~~

Stevelooked down at the monitor in front of the technician, watching thevarious graphs zero out. The technician turned around and said, "I'msorry about I.R.I.S., sir."

"I'mnot," Steve responded icily. "An Information RetrievalIntegration System that doesn't actually integrate the information it retrieves is worthless."

50505

2011-11-30T00:36:00.001-08:00

More will be written about this later, but I am proud to say that I won this year's NaNoWriMo with 50,505 words! And, best of all, there's a LOT more novel waiting to be written!

What Am I Thankful For? Friends

2011-11-24T07:56:00.001-08:00

Wednesday was a helluva day.

I finally accepted, in the smallearliest hours of morning, that a friend I cared about and hadinvested in over the years really just was no longer was a friend. Ididn't sleep much, but had a good day at work, including thetraditional Day-Before-Thanksgiving-Sushi-Lunch I do with a goodfriend every year. Then, within an hour of each other after work, Ifound out:

That my NaNoWriMo word count was almost4k words short,

That my Mom just came down withShingles and, since we're pretty sure I've never had chicken pox,that I wouldn't be able to spend Christmas at the folks,

And then, even worse, that very goodfriends were going to have to put their awesome puppy-dog Max downthat night, totally out of the blue. So I went over to be with themfor a bit, and say goodbye to him.

So. What I am thankful for now thatThanksgiving itself has hit?

I'm thankful for friends.

Within minutes of posting the news totwitter I had friends asking if they could help and offering kindwords and love for me, for Max, and for his family; and to my Mom aswell. Just like that. I'm thankful that we not only live in an ageof instant communication, but that we use it to support each other. I'm thankful that my friends welcomed Max as part of their family,and took such great care of him when it was time. I'm thankful forthe friends close to me who understand when I tear up about it. The word count now seems like a stupid thing to fret over witheverything else, but I'm thankful for those friends who understandthat, too.

So when you toast tonight, rememberthose people in your life who are there for you. Thanksgiving isperhaps not so much about only having good news, but knowing you'renever going to have to face the bad news alone.

And if you could toast an awesome puppydog named Max, and send some love to his family, that'd be prettyawesome too.

Thanks all

FridayFlash: Date Review, Inc.

2011-10-28T22:55:00.000-07:00

Date Review, Inc.
D. Paul Angel
© 2011
999 Words

Ah, Mr. Malvert, I am happy to see you this morning. I hope your date last night went well, though from your look, I do not think it did. Well, that's why you chose Honest Dating Service Consultants, isn’t it? Now I may be old and fat now, but when I was younger, I was quite the looker. I had a lot of men after me and I got to know them and their attempts quite well. You may not believe me, but I know what is in the hearts of most men. So, let's have a look at your glasses, OK?

We could not tell you of course, it would have made you too self conscious to know, but there is a tiny camera and microphone in there. That way- now, no need to squirm, Mr. Malvert, we've all had our embarrassing moments you know. Now it will take a minute to load, so tell me, what was your plan?

An interesting plan, to be sure, and you thought it all went well? Now, see Mr. Malvert, when you say, "Yes," but won't look me in the eye, and shake your head, “No," it tells me the date did not go as you had you hoped. That’s what I thought. Men’s body language always tells a woman something, even if his mouth is trying to tell her something else.

There now. It's loaded, and we’ll both know soon enough. We can fast forward through you getting ready but, oh dear. Cologne is good, but cheap cologne does not make up for not showering or wearing deodorant, yes? That's the first rule. Smells are important to a woman. She wants to know that you take your grooming as seriously as she takes hers.

So... the date. Good! You're picking up flowers for her. Oh the Roses would be good. Oo Lilies. Very exotic. Either are a good choice. And you bought... neither. OK, so picking some dandelions from an empty lot are not the same thing. That, just, well that’s bad. Very bad. It tells her, rather loudly, that you think of her as a nothing. As garbage almost. But, we'll continue, yes?

OK good, you're at her place and she's answering the door and... I see she has very nice breasts. I know this because that is all the screen shows. Her décolleté might be a bit low, but that is no reason to simply stare. Mother, Mary, and Joseph I hope your mouth is at least closed. And... you do look up at her face at some point, don't you? Ah there it is! See here- wait I'll turn the monitor. You see the look in her eye? That is annoyance. That is a woman who has been ogled and handed dandelions. That, is a very unhappy woman.

But the night is young, yes? We shall continue on. She is at least offering you a drink which- OK, when a woman offers you a drink, this is not the point to comment on alcohol being a weakness unto slavery. That- that is just not going to work as conversation. Also, you’re not only doing all the speaking, but all you’re doing is complaining. A lot. In that flash when you looked up to her face, here it's rather quick so I'll have to pause it, and... there. Yes. She is no longer an unhappy woman, she is an angry woman. You can tell by her brow and the glint in her eyes. Just another reason to look at her face.

I'm sorry Mr. Malvert, but you are paying me to be honest. That way on your next date, it can go better. Woman are not as different as they pretend, so there are some good basics to know. A woman wants to be made to feet special. To feel as she is worth all of your attention and adoration. But mostly, Mr. Malvert, she wants a Man.

A strong Man.

A confident man.

But when you do these things, you are telling her that you are not a strong man. Especially when all you can talk about is how everyone picks on you and nothing is your fault. Even when, and again you are paying me for my honesty, even when these things clearly are your fault. Five minutes in and I can already tell. And so can she. And... oh I am sorry.

This must be hard to watch her send you on your way without even making it out the door with her... Yes I can see it is, but no Mr. Malvert it is NOT her fault. No, Mr. Malvert, NO. I am not making this up nor am I defending the, "Sisterhood of Lies," whatever that even is.

Mr. Malvert! Please! The problem is not with women but with you- No Mr. Malvert, whatever happened with you and your mom should have stopped affecting you what? 25 years ago. Listen- No, seriously, this is what I mean about being a Man. Accepting responsibility and-

Yes, you may go, of course, but don’t you want to learn? I can teach you- Of course. Good day. I just- Is that a prostitute? The tape was still playing and, really this could explain some of your difficulty with women. If you are engaging with prostitutes you-

Is that- Is... is that a knife?

Oh my God! You're stabbing her! But your thrusts are so... weak. Not even an inch deep. Really Mr. Malvert you stab like a five year old girl. That is not hesitation, that is weakness! That is just, well it's all clear now really, isn’t it? She even survived, didn’t she? Even with all those wounds. You can't even kill a defenseless prostitute with an 8" hunting knife! I have no words. Just go. Of course there’s no charge! I only charge Men I can help.

A psycopath? Oh heavens no. You're not a psycopath, Mr. Malvert, you’re just a whiny pussy.

#FridayFlash: Vodak

2011-10-21T12:01:00.000-07:00

While off on a book tour in Germany John Scalzi left a dozen humorous SciFi prompts for his Film Critic post. This story is in response to his third prompt, "One night, in a dark and depressing cantina on the shady side of Coruscant, you meet up with a man who claims to be the Marksman Instructor at the Stormtrooper Academy. Share with us his drunken lament."

Vodak

D. Paul Angel

1,000 Words

"You ever wonder who taught Stormtroopers to shoot?" a voice close to me suddenly asked. I'd sat at the table so fast I didn't even realize someone was already there. I was just trying to avoid Empire entanglements, so to speak, and an empty table with a bottle of Vodak seemed like the perfect combination for hiding. I looked over to an older man with slumped shoulders and darkened, defeated eyes. I instantly felt pity for him as he answered his own question with deep sadness, "I did."

The full impact of his claim didn't sink in until after I'd already checked the room to see if anyone noticed my entrance. There are a lot of eyes on Coruscant, especially on the shadow levels. "Really?" I blurted out, not really in disbelief so much as surprise. He took it with resigned acceptance, poured me a drink, and asked me if I'd ever been to Tatooine.

"There's nothing to do there," he said, pausing as a sudden, passionate glint filled his otherwise dulled eyes, "except shoot. Lots of empty desert for shooting."

"So you're good at it?" I added, trying to show interest and hopefully keep the Vodak flowing.

"I was the best." For a minute there, right after he said it, his face flushed with confidence and he looked ten years younger. But, just as quickly, the look faded and the already familiar slump returned, "But, that was a long, long time ago."

His pause dragged on for a bit as his gaze turned inward. "So what happened?" I asked to keep things going. I was curious now and also hoping he wouldn't walk away with the bottle.

"Well, I was a sniper in Tatooine's Militia. You know, I could hit a womp rat from a kilometer away?"

I gave a low whistle signifying how impressed I was, even though I hadn't a clue what a womp rat was. He continued, "A visiting Empire Officer saw me shoot one day and then the next I was heading to the far side of the Galaxy. I can still smell the stench from that horrid junker. Probably the bravest thing I ever did was get in that rusty bucket of bolts!"

"You want another drink?" I asked, offering to pour, and helping myself while I was at it. The interruption helped refocus him back on the story.

"Sure. So... I land who knows where, but I was at a clone farm. They didn't call it that, of course, but that's what it was. There were hundreds of thousands of clones there growing up and training to be Stormtroopers. They were in top physical shape, learning everything; the whole thing. Except... They couldn't shoot.

"It was, seriously, deeply embarrassing."

My skepticism must've shown for he chuckled before continuing, "I can see you don't believe me. I don't blame you. No one ever does. But surely you've heard the stories of how they'll open fire on a crowd or rebel base and only manage to hit a handful? They couldn't even have done that without me!

"Here's the thing: they had no concept of shooting. None. Not until they're teens. So their whole life up until then had been one of perfection. Every test? Perfect. Every challenge? Perfect. That's how they grew them! But now, they start shooting and they miss for the first time. Not just the first time for shooting, but the first time ever!

"It really messed them up in the head. So they brought me in."

"But," I interjected while pouring us each another stiff one, feeling a bit confused, "you said they still can't shoot?"

"Yeah, well, they shot good enough for the staff higher-ups. Truth is, between you and me friend," he lowered his head and voice in deep conspiracy, "I think that's how some of the Generals wanted it."

"What?" I blurted out, suddenly regretting it. You never know if such blunt disagreement is going to stop the Vodak flow.

He laughed out loud and looked at me again, "Think about it. Think! The clones are smarter, stronger, and faster than their Commanders. If they can shoot perfectly too...," he let the thought linger unanswered, "But, shooting that's good enough to disperse a crowd, scare some rebels, or hit a vehicle is really all that's needed."

I found myself nodding in fuzzy agreement as he continued on, "That's why coming from Tatooine was so helpful. The Jawas there have sandcrawlers the size of this building! Then there are banthas, Sand People, and the Jawas themselves. Each a factor smaller. So the plan was easy: start with the sandcrawler."

"Have them shoot at a building?"

"Exactly! Build their confidence. So we built full scale sandcrawlers for them to shoot at. Then they'd move on to banthas, Sand People, and finally Jawas. Their confidence would build on itself."

"So what happened?" I asked, genuinely curious but also noting that we'd just finished the bottle.

"Exactly as I planned. We worked for weeks on the sandcrawler and they finally got it down. Such precision! It really was a sight to see. But then..." He trailed off and started fingering the bottle. I didn't say anything, hoping he'd order another.

No such luck. He continued, "Then they shipped off the Clones."

"Oh," I said, remembering, "The War."

"Exactly. They all shipped off and, by the time they were done, their blaster training was, too."

"So they never came back for anything more advanced?"

"Never. I was dismissed, of course, and eventually ended up here."

"Wow," I said kind of stunned. I had expected it to be a crazy story I'd endure for a drink (or two), but it actually held together. If I had any credits myself, I'd actually think of buying him a drink.

"I'll tell you one more thing," he said as he got up to leave, "If Stormtroopers ever do have to shoot at a sandcrawler- a case of Vodak says they jack the shit out of it!"

#FridayFlash: Protocol

2011-10-14T18:51:00.000-07:00

Protocol

D.Paul Angel

1,000Words

Thered Eye, surrounded by darkness, stared into Simmons'; boring fearinto his being. He could feel a score of hands pressing him againstthe smooth side of the asteroid, his body stiff against the cold,solid rock. Chains pulled his limbs together as the asteroid startedtumbling through space with his body bound. He screamed the air fromhis lungs, hearing only the slightest of whispers from what littleair filled his mouth before leeching into the void...

"LtSimmons?" A soft woman's voice called across the void, "Youare waking from Cryo. Nothing you are seeing or feeling right now isreal. Please try to breathe normally as we continue to wake you."

Somehours later, the memories of his wake terror finally recycled backinto his subconscious' keep of nightmares, Lt. Simmons walked up tothe Hyacinth's Bridge.

"HelloLt. Simmons. Are you feeling better?" The same voice thatpierced the veil of his dream asked.

"YesNina, I'm fine. How's things?" Simmons asked even as he notedthat Nina's, "eye," was red instead of the usual green oroccasion yellow.

"I'msorry Lieutenant, but it is a problem that requires humanintervention."

"Ofcourse Nina. Proceed." He closed his eyes and rubbed his templeswhile floating just before her panel.

"Therewas a micrometeorite hit three watches ago."

"What?"Simmons snapping his eyes open, suddenly alert, "What happenedto the watches?"

"Theydid not follow protocol."

Simmonsreined in his anger at the preceding Watches. Each 36 hour watch cameat the end of 99 days of Cryo Sleep, and the Cryo-Terrors that camewith waking. Although an easy enough assignment on paper, it was afar more demanding reality.

"OKfine. Forget the watches for now. What's the status?"

"Themicrometeorite damage has been repaired to the fullest extentpossible. However, there is an 8.734% deficiency in Oxygen that wewill not be able to replace."

"So...."

"Ourcurrent compliment is three in excess of our current resources."

Simmonsdid the rough math in his head, "Don't you mean six?"

"NoLt. Simmons. Each of the last three watches removed themselvesthrough the airlock rather than follow protocol."

"Protocol!"he snorted, "Taking the six most recent sleepers and dumpingthem into space where they'll die without waking."

"Correct.I could not convince them of the time constraints, nor how the changeon watch schedule would need to be adjusted."

"Watchschedule? Godammit Nina you know the main reason for the watches isthat Cryo-Terror causes madness if you sleep much longer than 100,120 days! That's the only reason we wake up! Hell it's why you wakeus up alone! So we don't have to look each other in the eye!"

"Andyet, Lt. Simmons," Nina continued without inflection, making itworse, "You are now required, on your watch, to take action tosave sixty of your colleagues."

"Bykilling three more of them. Right. So how much time do I have beforeI have to add a fourth to Protocol?"

"Sevenhours at the most."

"Andto be safe?"

"Nomore than three hours."

Simmonsgut clenched. He wanted to throw up, to runaway, to throw himselfout of the airlock like his predecessors; but none of that wouldhelp. Because of how debilitating the Cryo-Terrors were, the sleeppattern could not just be changed. Regardless of how quickly he leftthe airlock, the next watch, Ruiz, couldn't stand any sooner. He hitthe metal table in front of him hard enough to leave slight dent. The pain in his hand focused his frustrations back to reality. He'dhave to kill two of his colleagues. He already knew he'd be thethird.

"OKNina, who drew the short straws?"

"Conner,Jeremiah; Smith, KarenAnn; and Madrigal, Eduardo."

"Jesus,"Simmons said aloud to himself, "why couldn't it be an assholelike Jenkins or Hoover?"

"Icannot tell you that, Lt. Simmons. Protocol dictates you remove thethree most recent sleeps," Nina replied, taking his questionliterally. After a few seconds of thought he muted her and got towork.

WithJenkin's body now resting awkwardly next to Hoover's in the airlock,his grisly work was nearly complete. After writing a letter to Ruiz,she was good people and deserved at least that, he returned to theairlock and un-muted Nina.

"Lt.Simmons, you are in breach of Protocol," she said instantly,"You have removed the wrong crew-members. The wakingsequence..."

"Willbe fine Nina," he finished for her, "Otherwise you wouldhave told me so. Instead, you just referenced Protocol. Sorry, butI know you can't lie."

Afterwhat would have been regarded as stony silence in a human, shecontinued, "I will have to report you to command uponre-establishment of 2-way communication."

"Pleasedo. But since I'm about to die and leave my body floating throughspace for all eternity, I can't really say as that I care."

"Yoursacrifice will also be noted."

"Thankyou Nina," Simmons said before entering the airlock himself. Asits heavy door shut her reply was lost to its steel silence. He thenstepped over Hoover and Jenkin's torpid bodies to the EmergencyVent lever. Closing his eyes and trying not to whimper hepulled the lever, blasting himself and their bodies into the darkvacuum of space. The rush out the hatch knocked the air out of hislungs. As he gasped for air he watched the Hyacinthslowly recede.

Hewas shocked to see Jenkins' watching him from the porthole by theairlock. As his inertia turned him away from the ship he saw fiveother bodies floating with him. He died just as he realized whathappened.

"Mr.Jenkins," Nina said, "I told you that Lt. Simmons was tooclose to waking to be chosen. There is an 87.42% probability that hewas conscious."

"Maybehe was," Jenkins gruffly answered before turning, "But thatarrogant bastard would've done the same to me in a heartbeat."

#FridayFlash: The Grove

2011-08-18T23:47:00.000-07:00

The Grove

D. Paul Angel

1,000 Words

"Andrew! So good to see you again! And this must be Richard?"

"Hi Dad," Andrew replied through his father's tight embrace, "And yes, this, is Richard."

"It's a pleasure to meet you Mr. Freehold," Richard said, offering his hand.

"Now let's get one thing straight Richard, you marry my son, you're family. None of that handshaking or 'Mister' crap. It's either Dad, or Bill, if you must; and only hugs from here on out."

Laughing, Bill embraced his new son-in-law and ushered the two into his Dome. Dusk was coming, and Sirius XIV dominated Rexhaven's sky. There was so much light reflected from the gas giant that Rehaven's night's only rarely knew full darkness.

"Where's Rex dad?" Andrew asked, suddenly missing the venerable Border Collie's usual quick appearance. He turned at his dad's silence and felt a chill. "Am I too late?"

"Well son, I really don't know. He hasn’t come back from his morning outing yet. I was heading out to The Grove when you guys came in. He seems to like it there more than anywhere else. Not that I can blame him! Hey you’re welcome to come, but it is a long hop from Gliese..."

"It’s Rex, Dad! Of course we’ll come."

"Great. He's been moving slower and slower these days, so I'll be glad for the company and help."

"So how old is Rex, anyways?" asked Richard as Bill handed him a flashlight and they headed out into the crisp night air.

Bill stopped and looked over at Andrew who shrugged at his gaze, "It never really came up, Dad, and it's not the easiest thing to explain, either. He knew I had a dog named Rex, but other than that he was a cool dog getting on in years, no. Never a number."

"Put it this way, Richard," Bill began slowly, "Rex isn't named after the Colony, so much as the Colony is named after him."

"Uh-"

Exactly. The Colony's over fifteen hundred years old now, and back then geneticists thought they could bestow us with immortality by creating so-called, 'empty clones.'"

"I always thought those were just stories," Richard said, shivering a bit at the images the phrase conjured.

"It is, admittedly, a bit ghastly, but it also turns out that it simply does not work on humans. But, it does on dogs.

"So, William Jefferson Freehold, IV, who was wealthy enough to afford it, and who really loved his dog, 'Rex,' saw it done on his own Colony before it was outlawed."

"So Rex is..."

"In his current, and last body I might add, he's 14," chimed in Andrew, "But all told his consciousness has lived 1,542 years."

They continued on in silence until the simple path they were following curved around a small hillock and Richard saw The Grove for the first time. Bill and Andrew grinned as they watched him take in the view. The trees reached higher even than the Redwoods of ancient myth. Their thick, solid trunks supporting innumerable bushy branches all the way up until they appeared to be tickle Sirius XIV. The tallest branches were even still catching dim twinklings of Sirius' light.

"It's... It's stunning," he finally said. They turned on their flashlights as they entered The Grove and Richard was awed to see that even the flashlight's piercingly bright beam couldn't illuminate the entire trunk by itself.

"Believe it or not, Andrew," Bill said with a sigh, "This is the full Grove's last night."

"Is it finally time?" Andrew asked with surprise.

"Remember the noob...," Richard said with faux severity. Andrew chuckled and took Richard's free hand in his own before explaining as they walked.

"The Grove is made up of special trees planted here when Rexhaven was first founded. The air didn't have enough oxygen, so these trees were engineered to produce it at an accelerated rate. They're coming out because the atmosphere's oxygen level has reached its tipping point. If they didn't take them out they'd be too much oxygen and the Colony would have to go back to the Dome living days.

"They knew this day would come, Hell, we all expected it in our lifetimes; just not right now."

"They're so large and there are so many of them, it'll take two full years to pull them all out," Bill added with more than a touch of nostalgic reflection.

Everything has its time, a voice whispered in all their heads simultaneously, this is merely ours.

Even Richard knew in an instant it was Rex. Instead of surprise though, they all felt chagrined that they'd so easily underestimated the mentallics that came with 1,500 years of consciousness. They saw him sitting in the path, benevolently regarding them. They soon noticed that his tail and the trees were swaying in an almost symbiotic rhythm to some unseen Brownian Motionesque force beyond them.

You, and your family, have been good to me, Rex intoned. His mild panting looked like a happy, peaceful grin, But The Grove and I must leave tonight. We grew up together and now, simply, it is our time to move beyond this Universe's limitations.

The planet is yours now. I know you will steward it well, he continued as he walked up to them. They each instinctively knelt as he gave each a gentle kiss and he accepted their hugs and scritches with shared, graceful love.

"There are so many questions though..." Bill began, speaking through the muddled tears they all shared.

Of course. But, Rex answered mildly, could you comprehend my answers?

They knew the answer even before Rex's words finished and resigned themselves to a fate beyond their understanding. Rex turned from them and walked under their flashlight beams to the base of The Grove's first tree. He curled up, closed his eyes, and they watched as his tail's gentle wags slowly came to a rest.

Then, one by one, each of the trees in The Grove stopped swaying.

#FridayFlash The Far Side of the Sun

2011-08-12T09:27:00.000-07:00

#FridayFlash

The Far Side of the Sun

979 words

"This, is a historic day, not just for the U.S., but for the entire world; for the shared Nation, of Humanity. Today we unlock, the secret of the Universe, and send our first envoys across the stars..."

"That's quite enough of the speech, Lieutenant," Captain Maxwell said curtly.

"Yes, sir," Lieutenant Jones replied, cutting the feed of the President's speech.

Maxwell watched the Sun steadily growing in size on the Bridge's main view-screen. In a little over 20 minutes they'd be accelerating their ship directly at its heart, hoping to skipstream at the last second to an entirely different star. Gliese 581 was 20 light years, and was directly in line with the Sun on the other side now. He could feel the crews' tension rising with his own. They knew from the observatories that the drones had entered the skipstream as intended, it was just that none of them had ever come back. So the chances of a fiery death, though small, were nothing compared to the great unknown of skipstream space.

It was the unknowns that weighed so heavily upon them. Theories abounded from the credible, to the terrifying, to the incredible, and even the Magical. Despite his and the Terran Space Union's best efforts, he knew his baker's dozen of crew members knew all the theories and rumors as well as he did. He knew some wagers were in the offing as well, though none officially. He was even more bemused that they thought the person betting as, "James T. Kirk," was him. As long as it helped relieve some of the pressure, he really didn't give much of a damn, though the panty waisted paper pushers at the Union were apoplectic. He thought of his crew and beamed inwardly with the pride that can only come from doing the impossible. There was a deep relief he felt in knowing that, whatever their fate may be, that he would share it with him. Something those bastards at the Union would never truly understand.

Which is why, he thought to himself, you're here and they're not. It was time for them to find out exactly what Fate had planned them...

"Engine room, Bridge. Reactors to full, please," Maxwell's command, issued with a gravitas that mere tone could not provide, committed himself, his crew, and his ship to their plunge. As the guttural whinings of the Reactors winding up filled the ship he said, "Alea iacta est." To an upraised eyebrow from one of the Petty Officers he added with a wry smile, "The die is cast."

"Bridge, Engine Room. Aye. Reactors on line and at full power. All lights green. Reactor is Go." The tension that had been silently building was released. Everyone had a job which they were performing with grim, stoic excitement. They were committed. Whatever was about to happen, would at least be happening soon.

Acceleration began slowly, but between the Reactor technology and the Sun's own greedy gravity, the ship was soon hurtling towards its vast expanse of fusing Hydrogen. Instruments were checked, rechecked, verified and then cross checked. A countdown timer appeared as a watermark on the view-screen transposing the seconds counting down starting at 90. The breathing in the room varied from muted to fitful, and even Maxwell had to forcefully keep himself from holding his breath.

The timer reached double zero and the skipstream generator was engaged automatically. In an instant the ship seemed to fall out from underneath them. The view-screen went blank and the whole ship went dark; but everyone's eye's were filled with a glorious cacophony of synesthesia. They tasted dancing lights, heard soft caresses on their skin, and smelled the cold, silent vacuum of the abyss. It felt both like seconds and centuries before the lights returned, the view-screen showed stars and they're own balanced senses returned as if they had snapped from fitful insomnia to vivid dream to groggy wakefulness between shallow, gasping breathes.

Though their sense began registering correctly, it took longer for their thoughts to become organized once again. It felt as though their consciousnesses were being slowly pulled back into their bodies after a lengthy sojourn. The crew blinked their eyes and started fidgeting in their seats trying to rid their bodies of an aching stiffness throughout their muscles. They all felt deeply thirsty with the cotton mouth feel of deep dehydration. True to his position Captain Maxwell was the first to regain his command faculties.

"Crew Report!" One by one, each of the crew snapped to and reported their status. When the 13th name self reported Maxwell finally released the breath he had been unconsciously holding. If nothing else they were all alive. "Ship status," he ordered with less vigor. They were awake, alert, and the months of dedicated training had them reading their instruments with greater ease than with their own body's transitions back to "real" space-time.

After hearing from Power, Engine, Life Support, Conn, and Science, all that remained was Navigation. He had deliberately left Navigation for last, know that she had the most difficult task of them all. Even with the dedicated super computer onboard just for her and this moment. He also didn't want any of the other critical ship's information lost in the excitement of her announcement. Now though, it was time.

"Navigation?" Maxwell asked, suddenly feeling a sickening silence spreading across the Bridge.

"Sir, we did not make it to Gliese 581," she said, holding her composure with icy detachment.

"View-screen to aft," Maxwell ordered at once. Instead of the expected red dwarf, a white dwarf was ever so slowly receding.

"Well, we found a different Star at least. Do you which one, Commander?"

"Unfortunately I do Captain. It is ours."

"That's not possible Commander," Maxwell said, looking at the view-screen intently. "Our Sun won't be a white dwarf for another 10 billion-"

"Exactly."

"Years?"

#FridayFlash Smooth Takeover

2011-06-10T00:10:00.000-07:00

#FridayFlash

Smooth Takeover

982 words

"Smooth" Tony Noland walked up the creaking steps of the old Brownstone. Once low-income housing, the various apartments were now rented on an hourly, if not minutely, basis. He reached the top floor, and walked all the way to the end of the hall to where a large, bear of a man was standing in front of a door.

"Arturo," Tony said genially while brushing tiny bits of lint off his clean, white suit.

"You shouldn't be here Mr. Noland," he answered with chagrined directness. "Mr. Ferruccio said that your weren’t to be anywhere near his brother."

"I don't doubt that, Arturo, I really don't," Tony said sympathetically. "But, things change. I guarantee you he would not say a word of objection right now to me seeing Eligio."

"I find that very hard to believe Mr. Noland," Arturo answered. "But I find it very easy to believe that you would come here to try and convince me to let you in."

"Again, I can't really say as I blame you. Which is why, when I'm in charge, I'll remember you, Arturo. You’re sacrifice today is really going to help."

Arturo genuinely laughed at this. A deep, rolling rumble of a laugh that rang down the hall. Tony chuckled, too. He had, after all, cultivated the notion that he was more or less harmless. At least until he had had the opportunity to seize Ferruccio’s structure, that is. Arturo was still catching his breath when he asked through the last few guffaws, "And how am I going to help you?"

Arturo looked on with dubious curiosity as Tony withdrew a white handkerchief from his coat with a flourish. He was too late to react when from its silky embrace Tony withdrew a snub nose .357 and shot him in the chest. Twice. Tony left the body where it was and walked into the room, closing the door behind him.

"How you doing, Eligio?" he softly asked, tingeing his voice with concern despite wanting to wretch from the mix of awful smells in the room. Eligio sat on the bad shaking, huddled under a thin, dirty blanket. He guessed that Eligio had been in withdrawals for quite some time. Doctors would've knocked him out, but when you publicly embarrass your Kingpin brother, your comfort is no longer material.

"You got a fix for me Tony? Just a little bit to, you know, get me through?" He looked up at Tony with lustful hope. Even though Tony was repulsed by the addict’s pathetic plea, he made Damn sure he didn’t show it. "No smack, no. But I do have something else. Here." Tony handed him the gun with the handkerchief, deftly removing the latter without touching the gun itself.

"It's still warm. Was that... I thought that was a dream."

"No, Eligio, not a dream. A nightmare. Your brother sent me. He found out Arturo was skimming and wanted him dealt with. And, you too unfortunately. He figured you'd be passed out, so I could put the gun in your hand and call the police. Two birds, one stone."

"What!? He wouldn't!" Eligio got up and started compulsively pacing the room while shaking his head no. "My brother loves me. He says so. He. Says. So!"

"I know, I know Eligio," Tony said soothingly, "But, you gotta understand, Giuseppe's a business man first. And what you pulled was pretty embarrassing."

"I was just trying to score, Tony. I... He cut me off!" Eligio's screamed echoed in the tiny space of the room, "That dirty sonufabitch cut me off! How was I supposed to score, Tony, huh? How!? He knows I need It! He knows!"

"Easy, Eligio. Remember how many how many times I've tried to help you? That's why I'm here now."

"But, you said you ain't got no smack, Tony. That ain’t help, Tony, that ain’t help."

"That's why I brought you the gun, Eligio. Guiseppe, well, he wants you to disappear. Why do you think you're here instead of a hospital?"

"I don't like hospitals, Tony. Guiseppe knows that."

"I get it, but see, and I hate to be the one to tell you this Eligio, but, he didn't think you'd make it. He was mad as Hell when he called me in. He wanted you gone, but, you’re his brother. So he figured this was better than whacking you"

Eligio sat back down on the bed and wrapped himself in the blanket again. He began muttering to himself and staring and a large patch of peeling yellow paint. "He wouldn't do that."

"Eligio..." Tony said softly, putting his arm around the now shaking man. "I brought you the gun because Guiseppe is coming here. In about ten minutes. And he is expecting to see you marched out of here in cuffs. And, if that doesn't happen..." Tony trailed off as Eligio started crying on his shoulder. Tony cringed internally but decided that absolute control of the Ferruccio gang was well worth losing a suit over.

"He would, wouldn't he?"

"He's a crime boss, Eligio, nothing, not even your beautiful mother, God rest her soul, can come before that."

"So what do I do?"

"You use the gun." Eligio picked it up and stared at it. Tony patted him on the back and walked out, closing the door behind him and making sure to avoid the growing puddle of Arturo's blood. He was halfway down the stairs when he ran into Gervasio coming up.

Gervasio asked, "It’s done? "

"Almost," Tony said. A few steps later and they heard the gun fire one last time. "Now it is."

"Uh, Mr. Noland... I know there's bad blood between you and Ferruccio, but getting his kid brother to off himself might be a bit much, y'know?"

"Too true Gervasio. In fact, if I hadn't already killed him that gun, I bet he'd be downright pissed."

#FridayFlash: An Eighth of Copper

2011-04-22T00:25:00.000-07:00

Friday Flash

An Eighth of Copper

©2011 D. Paul Angel

891 Words

The metal in the Weapons numbed my hands.  They were already cold.  The sun was rising as we walked up the Mesa, but it had not yet reached inside.  Down into the sunken arena where the Trial Ring was.  I had helped my Master before many times but never with an Opponent like this.  I was pulling out the Weapons and placing them by the Ring for Master's use in the Trial.  I usually talked with Master while I did this.  I liked tlaking with Master.  But today he and the Opponent were talking to the Judge.  They were speaking with the Old Words.  It was hard to understand, but I could tell the Opponent looked pleased.

Master had explained to me before we left what the Opponent would say to the Judge.  He would be upset that our client was a woman.  He said there was no specific rule against women being clients, they were just forbidden from touching Coin.  Since We were forbidden from representing someone without receiving Coin, there could be no way for a woman to be a Client.  Our Client's husband had died though.  He gave the Coin to Master just before he died.  The Coin that Master now showed the Judge.  The Opponent did not look pleased anymore.  I was happy for Master.  Master never looked pleased.  Sometimes I had to be pleased for him.

The Opponent went back to his side as Master came to me.  Each had seven Weapons they could use, but they could only use the one handed to them by an Assistant.  I was Master's Assistant.  The Opponent had six assistants.  One for each Weapon.  They would all offer their Weapon and the Opponent could choose which one to use.  Master could only take what I offered, so I had to make sure I knew what he wanted.  I was always scared I would hold up the wrong Weapon for Master.  Master never seemed to worry about it though.  He always won, too.

Our client sat behind me.  Her whimperings and murmurs were distracting, but Master had told me to expect them.  She was a simple woman.  Her husband was killed by the Opponents client.  It took him long enough to die that he hired Master to avenge him.  The Opponent's Client was very mean.  He was also very rich.  The Coin my Master had was an Eighth of Copper.  The Opponent's Client had a bag of Gold Coin between him and his wife.  He looked smug.  She looked arrogant.  I hated them both.

Master returned from the Conference and knelt before me.  He looked very old and frail compared to the Opponent.  I was worried.  Master told me not to be.  He knew much that the Opponent did not.  Master had many of the books that came from before The Fall.  He spoke of Science, Logic, and Justice, but I found them very confusing. They only existed in the Old Words.  Master did say that women once could handle Coin.  They were even leaders and powerful individuals.  But that no one trusted the Old Ways after The Fall.  Master believed we would return there again.  To the Old Ways.  He said it would take many long lifetimes though.  Master knew so much I believed him.

Master rubbed some sand between his hands.  I offered him his Sword and Shield, but he shook his head.  Instead I offered him his Spear.  He smiled as he felt its heft.  Master rarely smiled.  But it always made me feel better when he did.

The Judge rang a bell and the Combat began.  It would decide if the Opponent's client was guilty or not.  Our client kept gasping every time the Weapons struck.  The opponent had Sword and Shield, but Master pierced the shield with his spear.  The Opponent had to discard it, but Master was now without Weapon.  Master turned to me and I offered him Knives.  I don't know why.  I would normally offer Sword again, but Master liked the choice.  He winked at me.  Master never winks.

They moved about the fighting pit as the Sun climbed.  They were sweating a lot. The opponent looked more tired than Master, but it was hard to tell.  Master kept his distance.  He never advanced.  He never let the Opponent get too close.  The opponent was frustrated.

Then the Master threw his knife.  The Opponent easily ducked, but the knife flew past him.  The Knife stuck the opponent's Client in the eye.  He opened his mouth to shout but no sound came out.  Then he slumped backwards into his wife's arms.  He died quickly and she started screaming.  The sand absorbed a lot of the blood but she was still covered in it.

The Opponent looked furious.  Even the Opponent's Assistants glared at Master in anger.  Master ignored them and held up his arms.  He demanded the Judge hear him.  The Judge rang the bell again.  Master and the Opponent stopped and looked at him.  Master spoke slowly to the Judge.  I could just make out enough of the Old Words to know what Master said.  Master demanded proof of payment.  Just like the Opponent had earlier.

Everyone turned.  The bag of Gold Coin still sat next to the dead client.  His wife still cradled him.  She was still crying.  She could not touch the Coin.

#FridayFlash Mea Culpa

2011-04-11T21:37:00.000-07:00

Says it all doesn't it?

(I do love me some Pearls Before Swine, too)

There's been a push on the Web towards content. If you want people to read what you have to say, you have to have good content. That's the way the Proprietor of a site can reward their faithful visitors, right?

Except writing is a bit different. We don't write for just ourselves because the stories on paper are always a pale shadow of what was forged within our imagination. It's this desire to share that pushes us to write, and to wait and hope that someone reads it.

I have struggled with consistently posting because, well, there never is enough time, is there? So what time I do have, those little niches here and there throughout the week, I've spent on writing. Then, come Friday the post goes up, I tweet it, list it, and then struggle to get back on top of the little things here and there that were pushed aside to make way for the story.

So what I have been very bad about is being an audience member. I see the stories and their titles and as fascinating and intriguing as they all are, 50 something week in and week out is just daunting. So, as the mind has a wont to do, I've "compromised" by reading none. I've come to realize that that simply will not do. It is not enough to just write, I have to read and give feedback as well.

So what I am going to do now is read the two stories above mine and the two stories below in the #FridayFlash List. I also have made it habit to read the story of one Mr. "Smooth" Tony Noland each week as well. Were it not for him I would not be posting these at all, so there's a special affinity there for me. So while I will fall well short of the 50 stories out there each week, I should, reasonably, read 10%. And, a 10% that varies by title each week as well.

Such is the extroverted hermit life of the Writer's Club, eh?

#FridayFlash: Yea Though I Charge into the Valley of the Shadow of Death

2011-04-09T12:02:00.000-07:00

[Author's note] I was fortunate enough to participate in my first #5MinuteFiction this week over at Future-Nostalgic. It was a lot of fun and I decided to use my entry there as the kernel for this weeks #FlashFriday. My entry, as it appeared, is at the end. I would also encourage you to not only read the other #5MinuteFiction entries but to take the challenge!

Friday Flash

Yea Though I Charge into the Valley of the Shadow of Death

The haggard band grimly marched through the sparse birch forest. It was getting late in the day and shadows were starting to creep through the scant underbrush. The trees were thinning, and with most of their leaves gone, there was little left to protect them from the cold, constant drizzle. Their uniforms, once the deep forest green of his Majesty's Archer's, were now mottled by dirt, blood, and tears. At least it helps them blend better into what little cover remains thought Merrill, surveying the third of his regiment that survived.

"Snow soon." Merrill's laconic second in command Jeffers commented.

"Aye. And we have at least three weeks march through hostile territory left."

Jeffers grunt in reply served both acknowledgement and assessment.

It wasn't long before the scouts returned. After ordering a halt, Merrill and Jeffers were conferring with the scouts when Prince Aeol rode up. His armor, like his horse's, still gleamed brightly. As he stopped, his personal Guard formed a circle about him; their polished halberds at the ready. They were from a southern clime and their darker skin would have already made them stand out, but their scarcely concealed contempt for the archers insured a deep rift between them and the archers. That the Guard remained well nourished, and that the gaunt malnutrition of the archers was starting to slow them created further animosity.

"Why was I not immediately summoned to this council," Aeol demanded. Merrill flinched at the voice. The prepubescent pitch was grating enough, but the haughty, spoiled tone was beginning to wear down his patience. The scouts said nothing but stared at the ground. Merrill said nothing while counting to ten and gathering his thoughts. He also had to nudge Jeffers to stop out-staring individual Guards.

Diverting away from Prince Aeol's whine he filled him in on the situation. Their presence was no longer a secret, and a larger force was gathering near a bend in the road ahead. There were more trees in the area, and they were to be trapped from both sides as they passed.

"That will NOT do!" said Aeol furiously to Merrill's plan of cutting through the forest. "I will not tolerate the King's men slinking away from battle like a, like a bedraggled beaten mutt. Everyone of his men are worth three of the vile enemy's."

"But when there are five of the enemy, your Highness, it is no longer a battle but a slaughter," Merrill replied, determined to not let the Prince's righteous ignorance get to him.

"Well, if you had outfitted your men with horses as I recommended, we would already be past this. But, since you did not we're left where we are." Merrill distinctly remembered the "discussion." He also remembered the slap he had received from one of the Guard for having the audacity to ask the Prince exactly where he should find several score horses in an isolated wood, deep in enemy territory. Merrill counted to ten once again but no longer attempted to stop Jeffers silent indolence.

"You're right of course, your Majesty, what do you recommend?" In his silent deliberation the Prince did not notice his Guards uneasy shifting. They sensed a danger his hubris was blind.

"The King's men give way to No man. No where. No time. We shall march forward. And, if they summon the courage to attack, we shall fell them."

The Scouts mouths hung wide open, and were only closed at a kick from Jeffers. Although not left with his mouth hanging open, did end have to slowly circle away from the group. Merrill nodded in hearty agreement. "Of course Your Highness, there is no other way."

Jeffers stopped mid pace to look at Merrill, trying to determine if he were truly mad. Merrill ignored his old friend's eye and continued. "My men are tired and drained, and I do not think they would follow me down such a path. But," he interjected before the Prince could demean them anew, "If one of the Royal Blood showed them the way, I know it would once again fill their hearts with courage."

Jeffers only just managed to keep his mouth closed. He turned once again towards the Guard, showing them a placid face, with only the slightest of smirks.

"Of course! That's has likely been the problem all along. You kept your greatest asset in reserve almost too long Commander."

"Of course, Your Highness. Might I also suggest that, as you get close to the bend, you and your Guard charge them. They will not be expecting that as they cowardly hide in the shadows."

"Yes of course. Their cowardice shall be our surprise! We ride at once! For King and Country!" Merrill long remembered the burning hatred on the faces of the Guard as they charged headlong towards their death.

As mentioned above, my #5MinuteFiction entry from 5 April 11 follows...

Addegan looked at meager forces below. They could well not survive the week it would take to get back into friendlier territory, much less the month march to the nearest fort.

"It's a trap, sir," his Second, Kajer said.

"I know. I just know that there's much we can do about it. We haven't the time or stores to go around."

"Then through."

"Yes."

Addegan marched at the head of the column. the men were warned, and they could easily see know that the ambush lay just ahead with enemy forces to both sides of the valley.

"For the King!" shouted Addegan, his beloow echoed by his men. Swords drawn, spears out, they charged they desperately charged enemy in a hopeless cause.

"As long as we're going to die," thought Addegan, "we die on the offensive..."

#FridayFlash Excelsior Deus

2011-04-01T11:44:00.000-07:00

Friday Flash

Excelsior Deus

His Highness, Lord Admiral Jennar Excelsior, stood rigidly still in the center of the bridge. Awash in the cascade of blinking lights and undulating system sounds, he was the living embodiment of human nobility. Only the minor twirlings of his cape at the capricious fingers of the ship's AC gave an indication he was real and not a statue of Man's highest ideals. His eyes, steeled by the smoldering hatred of revenge, and burning with the intense fire of command, focused on the view screen. The twin stars of the Avajj 9 system, A and B, were no longer specks now, but near enough to appear as motionless disks. All around him the crew's tension was like the taught strings of a Grand Piano. And Excelsior was the Composer, Conductor, and Pianist of it all.

"Helm. Time to H'Rung Tertiary." Such was the Lord Admiral's voice that even the simplest of questions was spoken like a command from God himself.

"Three Days yet, My Liege," The Helmsman answered as sharply as he could, overpowered as he was by merely being in the presence of the Lord Admiral's force of will.

"Generals Bakker and Gmion, with me."

"Yessir," his two top Generals answered in unison.

The strode out of the Bridge and into the heart of the ship. Down a labyrinth of corridors bathed in the dull red glow of the artificial night time lights, they passed through bays of clever machinery, Knights still practicing their skills, and, of course, the housings of so many of their orbital weapons. It was at the last that they stopped. Excelsior removed his gauntlet and ran his bare hand along one of theVengaza's plasma laser tubes.

"God himself brought us here, Generals, you understand that, do you not."

"Of course my Liege!" the Generals both said, bowing before him.

"Understand, Generals, Understand. Not know, but 'Understand,' you must understand." The Generals gave each other the slightest of glances. This might not be a new question, but it was certainly a more intense version of it.

"God spoke to my father, and told him of the coming of the comets. How for 40 days and nights they would scream through our atmosphere." Excelsior regarded them with hooded eyes. "yes."

"We know this, My Liege," they answered just off syncronicity.

Excelsior struck both General's across the face with his gauntlet. "I didn't ask if you knew it," he said coldly, "I asked if you understood it. Do you?" The added inflection of the question warned the Generals of the its direness.

They looked at each other, and looked upon the fresh red pain on each other's faces before answering. "I do not, My Liege," General Bakker answered finally, summoning up the courage to almost look the Lord Admiral in the eye.

"Nor I, my Liege," added Gmion, remaining bowed.

Excelsior turned and walked to one of the few portholes in the ship. It was the last of all redundant guidance systems for the tubes, and a small reticule was etched into the transparent molybdenum. It wasn't accurate enough to target anything smaller than a Moon, but the weapon immensity meant that there wasn't anything much smaller than a moon that would be targeted.

"God warned my father to build an Ark with the most truest of believers, and DNA samples of every living thing necessary. Both Male and Female. God knew that the comets would destroy us completely otherwise, but he knew something else." Excelsior turned to the Generals still kneeling, bowed, on the ships ultrasteel grating, "He understood.

"When we return, our civilization will be destroyed. The only advanced technology will be the Ark, whose dedicated systems will be repopulating the Earth with randomly mutated clones. All else, will be gone. We will be back to to scratching our food from the very dirt of the Earth. Yes dirt," he added to the grimace on the General's faces at the thought of eating something grown from something so unwholesomely unclean and unengineered, "and it will taste the same.

"Our mission is different. We sail the Stars in the Vengaza because we are His people. And the blow, once struck, must be returned. Stronger! Let me be clear. Our mission is not one of simple destruction; it is of conquering. We go to the H'Rung to take the planet, and make it our own. For Him."

Excelsior watched their faces with satisfaction. They were, in their own narrow minded, zealoted way, quite intelligent. But they could not see the Forest for the trees. That this mission was beyond mere retribution; was far more than a return blow, had been deliberately held back from all so as not to weaken their ferocity. It was too late to change the strength of their focused hatred now, but he could certainly bend it. Ever so slightly, as the Master Pianist at the keys.

He left hem abruptly to deal with the Enchantress in a decidedly different, but equally effective, manner.

~ ~ ~

It was three days later Lord Admiral Excelsior stood ready in the Bridge as the Vengaza tore through the H'Rung atmosphere. Their welcome waited in a savage, purple plain far below. Behind him, all at attention, were his senior commanders. The Air General Bakker in his finest dragon skin flight suit, goggles at the ready with his atomic dragon goad in hand. General Gmion stood replete in the shining ceramosteel exo-armor of the Grand Knights, and bewtween them both stood the demure Enchantress. Her robe of translucent silk barely contained her otherwise naked, heaving breasts.

With the flames of entry into the hostile atmosphere finally dissipating Excelsior dismissed them to their charges. General Bakker climbed the towards the Dragon roost atop the ship, his thick, toughened riding boots dully echoing as he climbed. Gmion saluted once more in a way that seemed to foretell his own soon death. Excelsior had not thought Gmion would make it, but was pleased to know that Gmion knew it, too. He would fight all the harder to bring glory to his posthumity. The Enchantrass glided more than walked towards the Unicorn hold in the Vengaza's nose. Her bosoms swayed rhythmically with her stride, momentarily enchanting even the iron discipline of Excelsior's Bridge.

Tension filled the air.

Smoke still rose here and there from the hull as it touched down in the alien field, singing the undulating violet grasses. A ring soon formed a quarter mile from the ship: the H'Rung waited. Watched.

Through the view-port Excelsior looked out and quickly espied his counterpart. The large, offish looking H'Rung were both stronger and faster than the average man. Their thick, tough green hide was easily the equal of the lightly armored human foot soldiers. He could feel the blazing blackness of the enemy General's eye; almost smell the decaying meat still coating his tusk-like teeth.

It was time.

Excelsior's fist struck the console as he bellowed, "ATTACK!"

The top door to the Vengaza and three entire Legions of Dragons emerged. Intentionally semi starved on the trip, they saw a ready meal before them in the H'Rung, and swooped onto them breathing fire almost immediately.

Before the H'Rung could even finishing bracing for the Dragon's attack, the nose lifted and a thousand strong herd of Unicorns bearing the Enchantress and her Sisters across the plain in their silken robes. Their Unicorn's horns were shod in gleaming steel and their hooves in polished platinum, but no Unicorn would allow any cover to their silvery white hides. They rode across the plain forming a wedge aimed at the H'Rung General himself at the very heart of his Death Guard.

Behind the Unicorns the normal war horses rode. Clad in the same ceramosteel plates as their riders, the knights split into two to drive a wedge into the H'Rung. Their rider's lances shone in the midday light, glistening with their sharpened points so eager to extract the death of their foes. They, with their General, rode towards almost certain Death. Death, but for the Glory of God and Earth. Behind them came the lesser fighters. The Archers with their plasma infused, grenade tipped arrows, the men at arms with their atomically charged Halberds, and the lightly armed skirmishers who used their Shrieking Spears to sow confusion in the enemy ranks.

The Earth's mightiest of calvary was finally ground to a halt by the overwhelming mass of the H'Rungs they had slaughtered. General Gmion's Knights were soon pulled from their horses and, stripped of their armor, eagerly killed by uncivilized green hordes. Even though they took twenty or more of the savage H'Rung for each of their own killed, there were simply too many of the enemies. And being in such close proximity, not even the deadly accuracy of General Bakker's Dragon flames could effectively be used in their aid.

Instead, as planned, the Dragons split the barbarous defenders into thirds. The front third, although the most strategically important, but was deeply entrenched with the charging Knights and Unicorns. It was to the rear that the battle would turn, just as Excelsior had foreseen. He emerged in from the ship in a Chariot towed by twin Balrogs to marshal the foot soldiers to victory. Emboldened by the mere presence of their Liege, Lord Admiral, the foot soldiers, feeling the very will of their Commander and God course through them, could abide naught but victory either.

The rear left and right thirds were soon overwhelmed by the bravened foot soldiers and, so far from their own General, the Shrieking Spears soon broke the enemy's ranks, even as the plasma arrows rained down exploding, searing splotches of plasma amongst them. It was the these two rear flanks that eventually broke, just as Excelsior knew they would, running away in panic. Excelsior himself grabbed a bow and plasma arrow from a humbled foot soldier, and, from near half a mile away, aimed for the heart of the enemy General.

It was at that moment that the Enchantress herself, riding bare back on the lone remaining unicorn, stood on his hard, rippling back. She looked towards the H'Rung General and opened her arms to the air. Just as her Unicorn succumbed to a score of harsh swords, his golden blood spraying glitter across the trampled plain, she lept into the air. Her deep red hair swirled in the wind around her, enrapturing the H'Rung General in her beauty. Even as he stopped fighting and let his guard down that he could gaze longingly upon her unfettered, Lord Admiral Excelsior's plasma arrow fell from the sky, burying itself deep into his heart before exploding with a heat rivaled, only just, by the Sun.

The twin dawn of Avajj 9A and 9B cast a pale, cleansing light over the harsh battle scarred scene. The Unicorn's death throes had scattered glitter far and wide, and rainbows sadly swept to and fro, seeking for the lovers who would never return. The dragons too were dying, poisoned by the richness of the H'Rung's coppery blood. With the violence over, the Balrogs soon dissipated back into Shadow and Malice, leaving only the living humans and the dead of both Worlds. If not for the complete capitulation of the H'Rung after their General's prominent death, the Human's position would have been untenable.

As it was, Lord Admiral Excelsior alone knew just how close it had been as he walked the field. But he knew as well that God was truly on their side. General Bakker, as expected, had survived, but was morning the losses of his Dragons. It was in many ways an even harder blow after such a desisive victory for them. Excelsior had also found the body of General Gmion, alone save but for hundreds of dead H'Rung surrounding him. He ordered the General's body to be given great honors, and a statue to be erected on the spot of his death proclaiming his great deeds.

He was most pleased, however, when he found the Enchantress, alive but stunned, "I am sorry for the loss of your Unicorns and Sisters, but victory would not have been without them." She smiled at his compliment, and now that the battle was over, allowed herself the freedom to blush.

"I know, my Liege, I may also, finally, be a full woman, if you would do me the honor," she added, blushing even deeper.

"And so you shall, my Queen, and so I will," he said to her surprised face.

As they kissed, amidst the sullied ground of the purple field, the hope in their union overwhelmed the men, and it was long before the cheering ceased.

#FridayFlash: The Littlest Key

2011-03-24T22:20:00.000-07:00

Friday Flash

The Littlest Key

She was following the path past her relationships. Each garden was in its own little field, separated by fences of various heights. Some were all colorful, some merely green. Some were flourishing, and some, she knew, she'd have to either tend or let perish. In the middle of it all was the spot where a cluster of roses were bursting forth. Vibrant and alive, they had steadily pushed other plots aside. Some, like the forest of her family, refused to move and the roses instead traced an area close to it. Others had simply been overrun. Not that she minded most of those...

As she studied it she could see the tension between Tim's blooming roses, and the fragrant wildflowers of Caitlin's area. Neither grew within a foot of the fence separating them, and she knew that would mean trouble eventually. But at least for now her boyfriend and best friend simply kept their distance.

As she contemplated what might happen between them the sunny day gave way to a brooding overcast of clouds. Their muted, pensive gray cast a doubting pall across the entire garden. She didn't like how the weather could shift so suddenly. She could feel it irritate her deep down as she heard the low rumblings of thunder just off in the distance. She tensed, as always, trying to will the Sun back, but only managed to deepen the gloom.

"You OK, sweetie?" Tim asked, putting his arm around her. Deep within she could feel some of the clouds lift as she snuggled next to him.

"I'm fine. I just have a lot on my mind."

"I know. I do, too... You ever think about the future?"

Rain started to fall, and she was scared to be caught out in the open by the unexpected downpour. She was heading down the path, trying to get away from the garden, but the path was no longer straight. It was twisting with organic fluidity, sometimes even upon itself, but always seemed to be trying to draw her back towards the roses.

She took Tim's arm and lifted it over her head, giving it back to him and sitting up, facing him. "I don't know that I'm ready to talk about the future. Why isn't just today ever enough?" She noticed his sudden hesitancy, his hand in his pocket, and herself leaning back, too.

The rain continued to fall, fluctuating in its intensity depending on how far she was from the roses. Finally she saw her escape and headed towards a large, marble building. It was somewhere between a mausoleum and a bank, with stark white walls and Doric columns about its edifice. She ran through the rain, racing the darkening sky, and pulled an expansive ring of keys out of her pocket. The largest, a heavy cast-iron antique, opened the door and let her safely inside.

The tall walls had numerous doors of varying sides covering them. Most were locked, some stood open, some were obviously empty. The open ones were filled with the little things here and there. These were the thoughts shared by anyone and needed no protection; the names of various Housewives from E!, the chorus from Lady Gaga's Born This Way, and the difference between a Merlot and Syrah. Even the final score from last years Pac-10 Championship game sat in a room with only a half hung shutter for a door.

She rushed past these deeper into the vaults. The doors were almost all locked now. Some had simple keyholes that even a paper clip could open. Some, hidden in the shadows, had multiple locks and bars across them. She wished they would go away, but she knew they never would. Then, deeper still into the very center of it she came to a wall with a single door. There was a small keyhole near the center, and a glow coming from under it.

"I know this makes you uncomfortable," Tim was telling her, "I know how you try and run into yourself and avoid the future. I know you don't want to be hurt again. But, Jo, that's part of life, isn't it?"

The door was growing steadily larger as she watched. She could see it try and enclose all the radiance within it. The light around the edges filled the hall, warming her and even driving some of the dark away from the scarier doors. But even as it grew, the tiny keyhole stayed resolutely locked. She pulled the keys up and looked at the littlest one. It had a single, thin tang at the end, and a simple hoop to hold.

Tim took her hand and moved off the couch. He took one knee, placed his hand in his pocket and pulled out a ring. "Josephine," he said nervously, "Will you share your life with me?"

She stood before the door holding the tiny key in her hand. The light shining through was almost blinding, and yet still she hesitated. Opening the door would flood her world; changing everything forever. If she didn't open it, she knew the light would fade and eventually extinguish itself. Another garden might grow someday, the room itself would shrink back; but she wouldn't be hurt. There'd be no more new rooms in the far, dark corners needing bars and chains. She was thrilled. And scared. She could her the rain pour suddenly outside and then just as quickly stop. She rubbed the key, feeling the smooth metal with her fingers.

"Will you trust me?"

Earthquake Thoughts

2011-03-11T14:19:00.000-08:00

A Happy update! Heard from Mariko and she and her family are OK! No further details, but at least she and her family are fine.

In the late '80s we had a Japanese Foreign Exchange student stay with us for a couple of weeks. Mariko came into our lives speaking very little English, but bringing an indomitable spirit. After coming back to the States to live for several years she moved back to Japan and married a wonderful man. She just gave birth to their first child not too long ago, as did her sister-in-law. It is the Japanese custom for new mothers to live with their folks for the first couple of months, so most of the family was under one roof. They live near Honshu, which was close to the epicenter of the most recent 8.9 quake. It will be days before we know anything, I'm sure, but I know their strength, and have faith in that; and in their goodness. What follows below is a recounting of my earthquake experience from a couple decades ago. It is not much, I know, but it might perhaps give those who have never been through a large Earthquake an idea of what it is like...

The Loma Prieta Earthquake hit October 17th, 1989 at 5:04pm. I was, as the crow flies, about 5 miles from the epicenter. I was a sophomore in High School, loved the A's, and was excited by the Bay Bridge World Series that was going on. I was lying on my bed watching the pregame on the TV. My Mom was in the living room reading. It was sunny, warm, and a day like any other.

Then, and to this day I'm not quite sure how, I found myself in mid air. Without conscious thought I had rolled over in the bed, pushed off, and was literally parallel to the ground just about to land and run for the doorframe when the earthquake hit. So many things happened at once it's almost a blur, but time for me is forever frozen there, too. That fraction of a second, hanging in the air, wondering why in the Hell I was suddenly leaping; will always be burned into my memory. That's when the entire house moved, slamming back and forth on its foundation. That's when a roar like a freight train rent the air. It felt like God was kicking the house. And he was pissed.

I landed and staggered. The roar really was deafening, there was no other sound beyond. There was no sound of glass breaking, furniture moving, or anything else. Just an all encompassing wall of sound flowing, but never ebbing. My doorframe was probably 8 feet away and it took at least that many steps to get there. Balancing itself was a chore. I got to the doorframe, pushed back against it with both legs, and clasped it with both hands just to stay put.

My Mom came to the frame from the living room. I could see the floor heave like the swells of an angry sea as she crossed over it, practically falling into me and the doorframe. I have no idea how long it took us to reach each other there because time was both dilated AND constricted. There was just the Roar and an angry Earth below us for whatever remained of the 39 seconds of shaking. We held onto each other, but not for comfort: it was the only way to keep us both in the doorframe. That changed when the Earthquake passed, and we realized we needed to get out of the house before the aftershocks came.

We went down the hall to leave through the kitchen. There we saw that every cabinet and cupboard had opened, and three inches of broken glass, plates, and cups covered the entire tile floor. We had been only ten feet away, in the doorframe, and we heard nothing break. We also realized we weren't going out through the garage.

We went back the way we had come and left by the front door. As we passed the living room, we saw that the Grandfather clock had fallen, and the upright piano was now halfway into the room. The upright piano it had taken half a dozen brawny men, literally, to move into place was walked 6 feet across the carpet in a matter of seconds by the quake.

We had no idea if the house was still sound or not so we left straightaway without grabbing a thing. We walked across the deck, down to the driveway, and stood at the far edge of it. Dust was all around us, and a haze of dust was hovering over the town down by the Ocean. The garage door, which had been shaken loose from its rails, was now just hanging above the garage. One end was resting on top of the VW van, the other was dangling close to the ground where my Dad's car usually parked, but was still with my Dad at work.

All the chemicals my Dad had, gasoline for the lawn mower, paint thinner, WD40, that kind of stuff, was all in a single stand alone cabinet that was now knocked over; with a puddle of some amalgamation thereof slowly creeping out it. Between that and the Van our 12 year old lab/mutt came slowly wandering out. She was deaf and arthritic, and didn't look so much panicked as deeply unsure.

She came, sat with us, and we soon rode out the first aftershock. It was in the mid 6's, but seemed all of the sudden rather impotent. Across the valley we could see a house shaking as it swept, this time quietly. Not too soon after, with the help of a neighbor, we got the Van out of the garage, and that's where my Mom and I spent the night. My Dad worked for Emergency Communications for the County and we wouldn't see much of him for the next couple days. There were more aftershocks, but they weakened each time. Within a week we had electricity and water again, and life went back to normal.

To this day I don't remember any of what my Mom and I said during that afternoon and night, but I do remember when a dark cloud of dread came across us. We didn't know how close we were to the actual epicenter, so we thought we were feeling the remnants of the Big One hitting San Francisco. There 50,000 people alone at Candlestick to watch the game; some of whom were good friends. We had other friends in the City, too, and some lost even more than we did to the fires that hit. But it was also a relief when we finally found out that it was us who bore the brunt of it, and not a tightly packed city of hundreds of thousands built on landfill. Even though our own, small downtown was essentially gutted, we all couldn't help but think that it could've been far, far worse.

That always seems to be the refrain after such a disaster, that it, "Could've been worse." We had dozens and dozens of buildings in my town destroyed, but only a handful of deaths. Our own house had cracked stucco. The insurance adjuster told us he came across a woman "vacuuming" her living room with a vacuum that wasn't even plugged in. She hadn't noticed that the entire side of her house had fallen away, leaving its whole backside open.

For the next several months, there were no strangers in our town. In every line you stood in, any place you waited next to someone else; you would talk, share stories, and bond. We were our own ad hoc support group. We shared each other's losses, enjoyed the little pieces of humor here and there, and marveled at the miracles. I'll leave you with one, from my Science Teacher. His 2 year old was watching TV in front of a large entertainment center when it hit. The force threw the TV over her. Then the entire unit fell towards her. Far from being hurt, she ended up sitting, completely untouched, in the space the TV had just vacated.

Crises are defining moments for people, both individually and collectively. The larger crises' can certainly bring about some of the worst in people, like the burgeoning scams already spreading. But they also bring out the very best in people, and I know that that heart, that spirit, that courage, and that strength is flowing throughout Japan now too.

#FridayFlash: A Geek Tragedy

2011-03-10T22:08:00.000-08:00

Friday Flash

A Geek Tragedy

It was just like any other regular old, craptacular Tuesday. Someone downloaded a virus from eBay. Margot locked herself out. Again. Tom in accounting crashed the Access form that the vendor guaranteed would never, ever, not in a million billion years crash. (Tom’s kind of an Anti-God in that way.) And then, well, then Cynthia called.

Sweet, beautiful Cynthia. Beautiful, stunning Cynthia, who never has a problem; so, I never need to come over and help; so I never talk to her, Cynthia. And I yeah, I know she has a boyfriend who could benchpress me with one arm while yawning, but still, today she needs MY help. Today is going to be MY day!

Well, it was supposed to be....

When I got to her cube and I saw the pic of her boyfriend gone, I wasn't sure the day could get any better. Then I saw the sundress she was wearing. O.M.F.G. And her hair was just, wow. And her eyes... Oh those beautiful, blue eyes... Well you get the picture. Anyway, she tells me how she has to resize the page for printing, but it's just not working. "That gets everyone," I say with confident reassurance, "Excel never has been any good with printing. In fact this one time I had to get everything on one page and it was hundreds of columns and tens of thousands of rows-" Oh God! She looks bored! OK, steady lad, just fix it and then ask about her.

"But you didn't care about that," I say to save myself, flashing my best, Devilish grin, "let's take a look"

Thank God she brightens again. She brightens the whole office like a, like a, well... like really big, bright light. I don't know. Sometimes words just fail, y'know? I just wish the brightness had stayed. "All we have to do is go to the ribbon bar," I suavely say, "And click on... Uh... Just click on... Um." Then, just like that it’s gone. Click on... What? I had no idea. I'd been fixing boxes since I was nine. Nine! And now, no clue. I had no idea. Insert? No, it, it didn't even look familiar. DATA? Well, I guess we were changing the data, right?

No, DATA wasn't it. There: Sort! Wait, no, sort doesn't help. Filter? What If Analysis? That can’t be right. She's looking at me funny now too. "I'm not an idiot. I'm not!" I desperately want to scream at her, but I-- I’m suddenly afraid it might be a lie.

OK. Focus. REVIEW? What about clicking REVIEW? There’s like nothing here I recognize. Except Spell Check. She already seems to be squirming impatiently, I don't really want to show her her own mistakes. Okay. Think. THINK. This can’t get any worse.

FORMULAS! There’s got to be a formula for it, right? Oh Holy Hell what’s this? Books? Icons of different colored books? Really Microsoft? Really!?What am I going to do with those? I don’t recognize anything on this ribbon at all. She’s not just fidgeting she's looking around. She's looking for a polite way out. Crap! OK, got to hurry. Click something,. ANYTHING!

PAGE SETUP! Yes its got to be here. Rows to repeat? Orientation? Freeze Panes? That’s got to do something clever... Dammit, I turned 'em off. Slow down, look at the screen. Left to right. Left to right. Just think-

Wait, no! NO! don’t call Frank over, Don't!. C'mon, Cynthia don't, he’s like a total douche! I’ve pwned his ass dozens of times. And look! Just like that! The panes are back! See, I fixed the panes! "The panes are back!" I say triumphantly. My reward is a blank face with pity and impatience fighting for dominance. I tried to sound debonair, I swear, but is it even possible once you realize you can feel your armpit sweat being wicked into your shirt?

"No worries Frank," I say, trying to be casual, but really hoping I can save it "I got th-" did she just roll her eyes at me, "I mean, that is, I got this." Impatience won. It didn't look like it took long, either.

Frank comes over, ignores me, smiles at her, reaches between us and points to the "Scale" button. He's so close to her they're almost touching. I even back up to give him space but, he doesn't take it, and she doesn't seem to mind. In fact, she smiles at him. HIM!

He pats her back with familiar ease as he leaves and her smile just widens. I know its over, but I still utter, "I, uh...," before I can catch myself. Not that she'd deign to hear it anyway. Her back’s to me, the mouse is already in her hand, and I’m, simply, forgotten.

I walk away a defeated, hollow, shell of a man. You only get one chance with Cynthia they say. One. Chance.

Dammit.

#FridayFlash A Final Gift

2011-03-04T09:35:00.000-08:00

Friday Flash

A Final Gift

® 2011 D. Paul Angel

He awoke suddenly with the feeling that something was deeply amiss.  The curtains of his motel leaked the parking lot lights through just enough to give a dim, glowering shading to the spartan room.  He slowly moved his eyes across the part of the room that he could see while staying just as still as as sleep.  He focused and calmed his breathing to avoid letting an enemy know he was now awake.  After a few minutes he put a hitch in his breathing and fitfully rolled over in the bed.  As he brought his breathing back he saw that this side of the room was also clear.

He reached under the pillow and grabbed the Kel-Tec .380. It wouldn't stop someone in their tracks like a .45, but it could still disable them or, if his aim was good enough, kill.  As he looked around the room again he noticed a shape on the night stand that shouldn't be there.  Illuminated by his BlackBerry's luminous clock, he saw the vague, shadowy outline of a box.  With, a bow?

He weighed his options carefully.  If it was someone in the room, they could've already shot him.  Or worse.  If the box was a bomb, waiting only prolonged the chances of detonation.  He didn't bother trying to figure out who was behind it, there were simply too many.  19 years as an operative had certainly seen to that, he thought.  As did the parade of dead faces he saw every, single, night before he went to sleep.  They didn't appear unbidden, he had to force them up from the depths of his memories.  He had read that the guilty were constantly haunted by remembrances of their victims, so he brought them up as a penance.  There were dozens of them now, scattered across 5 Continents.  He watched the slow march of their eyes behind his every night and felt, Nothing.

My edge is gone, he realized.  He wasn't even sure exactly when it had left.  He had chalked the close call in Rome up to the accumulation of chance.  A byproduct of the Gambler's Fallacy to be sure, but it had a ring of veracity about it nonetheless.  Uganda had also been close, but that was more about the hesitation than anything.  Women, he knew all too well, could be just as evil as men; but that didn't stop him from brief hesitations here and there.  In Uganda though, he felt his own hesitancy.  Thinking in his game was a mixed blessing.  Absolutely necessary for planning, for ad-libbing, helping with both incursion and, especially, excursion.  But, when it came to the act itself, it was a hindrance.

Perhaps he had just been in the job too long?  Too old?  Unable to lock his mind down, to excise all options save the single necessary path of termination; "That's going to kill you someday, Johnny," he muttered softly.  Perhaps it already has...

There, on the end table, was a box with a ribbon on it that had not been there before.  He hadn't woken when it was delivered, nor when the person left.  If they had wanted him dead, he would be.  And yet, he didn't care.  Having taken so much life, even for the best of reasons, had taken its toll on him.  He had known before every mission that he was expendable, but that was different.  That was a known, weighed risk for a short time.  This was far more permanent.  Almost apathy, but more just sadness.

It was true when not on a mission that he had known a lifetime of intimate pleasures, and had he had certainly never gone to bed alone except by choice.  And yet, that too had trailed off recently.  It was all the same after awhile.  The prelude and epilogue were always part of the game, but now even the game itself seemed to lack in substance.  His experience may have been wider than most save rock stars, but it had never been any deeper than a handful of inches.  All those scores, hundreds really, and the only one he desired was the one who had said, "No."  It wasn't the rejection itself, he'd known enough of those, and this was for, "professional," reasons.  It was that he lost the only one he had ever truly cared for.

Even as he realized it was time for him to retire, he knew he wasn't ready to simply give up yet, either.  Not your time, yet.  Not today.  He pulled the gun from under the pillow threw the blanket one way and rolled the other.  He quickly and efficiently cleared the room, twice, and only then did he allow himself to inspect the box.  With a single quick sigh he sat at the edge of the bed, turned on the lamp, and set his .380 on the pillow beside him.

The box was a white cube, four inches to the side.  A single red bow was atop of it.  He picked it up and found it quite light with a slight rattle.  Whatever it was, it was not a bomb.  He opened it to find an airline ticket to Barbados, hotel key there, and airport locker key.  Then he noticed the simple handwritten note under the lid,

 I'm officially retired.  No more Winter's,  

 no more coldness.   Just Warmth.  Just life.

 Join me.  I left you the way, I just hope  

 you can take the same path I have.

 I love you.  You are my One.

--B

Another chance. was all he had thought before there was a soft, almost hesitant knock on the door.  He went and opened it, leaving the gun on the pillow, and all caution aside, and he opened the door in ungaurded hope.

A man stood there.  He had cold, blue eyes, rough Slavic features, a straggly Chesterfield, and a fatalist's resignation.

"Johnny?" he asked with temerity, leaving the sentence unfinished.

"Of course I'll come Boris," he answered grinning, "you were always the one for me."

#FridayFlash Smooth Revenge

2011-02-24T16:15:00.000-08:00

Friday Flash

Smooth Revenge

Tony looked out from the passenger seat contemplating the clean brownstones that lined the Franklin Heights area of West Philly. Gentrification did what all the arrests couldn't. Made it to damn expensive for the thugs. As for the thugs who inhereted from their crazy Uncle...

Gervasio drove the BMW 650 straigh into the tidy garage, closing the garage door behind them. Tony let himself out and headed for the door at the back of the garage. The closet shelves slid easily aside, and the stairwell down to the abandoned bomb shelter below lit up automatically. Glad Uncle Heitor didn't even trust the neighbors, let alone the city. The bomb shelter was not only wholly hidden from the outside, was well sound proofed, and had never been registered even with the Civil Defense. Uncle Heitor never did like anybody, no sense in saving someone you don't like..

Tony always suspected his Uncle would actually approve of its current use; a killing room.

As expected the man was duct-taped to the only chair in the room. It was dead center, bolted to the concrete, and just above a drain. The concrete was stained with blood and other remnants, and the smell of foulness hung across the room. Abilio and Berengar were waiting in the corner and nodded as Tony came down the stairs. Proficient as always, they already had the man naked, bruised, and crying. With Tony inside, Gervasio closed the steel lined door behind them. Tony took off his long jacket and hung it on a simple wooden peg on the wall. Next to it he hung his white fedora, his silk Jerry Garcia tie, and rolled up his sleeves.

Tony walked to the man, stood in front of him and quietly said, "Your name."

"What?" the man said between sobs.

"Your," Tony said once more authoritatively, "name."

"I, uh..." The man trailed off. Tony took two steps back and nodded to Berengar who came over and stood behind the man. Tony regarded the man, waiting. When he didn't answer he met Beregan's eye and dipped his head ever so slightly. Beregan brought his fist down on the man's head like a hammer starting another bout of panicked shrieks. In reply Berengar slapped him hard on the side of the head, stopping the shouts dead.

"Your. Name," Tony said firmly.

"Stan. Stan Lemkowski. My name, is Stan Lemkowski."

"I asked multiple times, Stanley, because you didn't answer. Not because I needed to hear it three times." He nodded again and Berengar hit Lemkowski open handed on the other side of his head. Tony knew from experience just how much Berengar enjoyed this game. Not quite as sharp and conniving as Abilio, nor as loyal as Tony's right hand Gervasio, Berengar was simply an angry man of muscle who enjoyed nothing so much as exerting it upon his fellows. Tony gave him considerable opportunities to use this talent.

"Do you know who I am? Stanley," he asked.

"You're... you're Smooth Tony," he gritted out between breathes.

"Very good." Tony began pacing in front of Lemkowski as he spoke, "And you, Stanley, well you are not. So tell me, Stanley," he continued spitting on the name, "why did you think you could be me?"

"Because-" Lemkowski paused before finding some inner vigor, "because everyone knows you never do the work yourself. You always get everyone else to do it for you." The strength left almost as soon as it had arrived, withering under Tony's cold eyes. He trailed off lamely, "It was... going to be... to be easy."

"Excuse me?" Tony asked with the full weight of the quiet menace he had spent a lifetime mastering.

Lemkowski's reserve evaporated, leaving him to plead with Tony, "Well, everyone says that you plan and everyone else does. So I figure, If they said it... I can call and they'd do..."

"And you're gone before I find out?" Tony finished for him, "Just like that Stanley?"

"Just like, yeah. That."

"He's got a point Mr. Noland," Abilio added suddenly. "We ain't never seen you do nothing yourself."

So here it comes. It was only a matter of time with Abilio. Thinking he could sway the others and take over. He knew from the hesitant looks that the point had been festering in them all for awhile. You couldn't keep your hands clean forever. Thugs are just too damn practical. Without turning away from Lemkowski, or acknowledging Abilio with so much as a look, he said to Gervasio, "My gun."

Gervasio reached in his shoulder holster, took out a stainless steel Colt Python, and handed it to Tony handle first. "Mr. Noland," was all he said with guarded sincerity. Hmm. So even faithful Gervasio has some doubts. Time to end that now.

Tony let the gun hang straight down. The weight and heft were familiar, comfortable. The others didn't need to know just how many hours he spent at the range perfecting his shot since that too was frowned upon by the culture. Just one more thing they underestimated.

The gun felt heavier now than it ever had before. In front of him was a dumb, stupid, moron of a punk. The kid had to die of course, and he had no compunction against ordering it, but now it was clear he'd have to do it himself. It felt different though. Actually holding the gun in his hand. Balancing a man's life on the sliver of steel against his finger. It wasn't mere words this time that would direct it, it was him. The tangible finality of it weighed on him more than any order he had ever given. It was real. And necessary.

"You're wrong." In a flash he shot Abilio square in the face, exploding his against the wall. As his body collapsed in a crumpled heap Berengar and Gervasio looked at Smooth Tony with stunned awe and absolute loyalty in their eyes. "Your turn. Stanley."

This is going to be fun...

#FridayFlash The God Box

2011-02-17T22:27:00.000-08:00

Friday Flash

The God Box

Sullivan ambled across the dusty living room floor towards the door. The knock had been brief, but insistent. He walked past dozens of his dioramas along the way. Next to a scratch built David slaying Goliath, in which he had managed to build the giant so he was just falling, was a more esoteric scene from Asimov's Foundation series. One in several parts, showed Legolas and Gimli touring Middle Earth after the decisive battle in Tolkien's Return of the King. They were all meticulously built, some over many years while he was still working, and others he was now building in under a week. Yet every time he would walk by one he would see some new detail amiss.

He had stooped to quickly fix a crater's rim in a scene from Heinlein's Starship Troopers when the knock returned, and reminded him of his task. He opened the door until the chain was just taught and looked uncertainly at the man on the threshold.

"Good day Mr. Sullivan, may I enter? My name is Michaelus and I have heard much of your dioramas and have something of my own that I'd like to share with you."

"I've never appreciated others work," Sullivan answered slowly, considering; "They never get it right. It has to be right."

"And do you, Mr. Sullivan, do you, 'Get it right?'"

"Mostly, but not always."

"Well, I have something that I think is quite right, if I may?"

Sullivan noticed a large, square box on the threshold next to him. Sullivan's deep introversion fought against his innate curiosity and lost. Before he was quite aware of it, the chain was down, Michaelus was in his house, and the box was on his dining room table. Michaelus looked appreciatively at the tattoos Sullivan was in the middle of applying to the Illustrated Man.

"Marvelous!" Michaelus said, "So many familiar scenes. Dante's Inferno, one of each of the Canterbury Tale's tales... But what is this? I don't recognize it."

Sullivan's heart shrunk. It was the only diorama he had ever been tempted to outright destroy, but he couldn't. It wouldn't have been right. It was the only one he saw no imperfection in, but it was also his biggest hurt. "It is of the Wilson's down the road. The little girl on the swing, Sarah, drowned. I made that to give the family as a memento, but... They called me sick.”

"Surely they are not the only ones you know to have a suffered a loss?"

"No, there have been others," Sullivan replied, feeling his various sadness's with downcast eyes.

"Where are their dioramas, I wonder?"

"I never made any. I just... Never mind," Sullivan answered, withdrawing once again, "Just show me what you wanted to show me."

The man smiled enigmatically, "It is this. I call it the God Box."

Sullivan came over and saw that there were brass wheels affixed to the side of the display. As Michaelus turned them the diorama's scene slowly shifted, as though from a slow moving airplane close to the ground. Michaelus stopped at a scene that looked exactly like Sullivan's neighborhood. The Wilsons were outside in their garden, and the grey, neighborhood tabby was cleaning itself by his mailbox. He was stunned when he looked past his stained curtains to see exactly the same outside.

"When you say, 'God Box...'" Sullivan began.

"I mean it. Quite."

Sullivan wasn't sure what possessed him, but he went to the Wilson's diorama and removed little Sarah. He walked over to the God Box and met Michaelus' eyes. Michaelus stepped back and opened his hand in acquiesce to Sullivan.

Sullivan placed her by her family than ran to the window. The Wilson's sort of saw her but were more disturbed than relieved since she appeared as more of a phantasm than a little girl. As Sullivan turned to go back to the God Box he tripped sending three of his dioramas to the floor. Sullivan stood and when he looked out he saw that she was almost fully corporeal again.

"What was it about her?" Michaelus asked directly.

"She was... She was innocent. An Angel. She, she liked me. Talked to me. She was special."

He went to the shelf behind Michaelus and then paused. Finally he took a diorama from The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy and smashed it on the floor. She became almost real. He smashed the obelisk from 2001 and the sacrifice of Aslan from C.S. Lewis' masterpiece, and her red sweatshirt was no longer translucent.

"How many?" he asked Michaelus desperately. "I put my life into them. How many do I have to destroy?"

"All of them," Michaelus answered severely, "You have put your life into them. That is the life you give her now. If you choose. But, you must hurry or you will only restore her so much..."

Sullivan hesitated, then went through his house like a tornado. He destroyed scenes throughout stories, books, movies, and television. He had just smashed from Starship Troopers when he looked outside again. She was with her family, but could not yet talk. He looked at Michaelus and bolted into the garage. In the back, packed in a box, was a tiny shoe-box with crude clay figures. It was his first, Abraham, on the mountain, with Isaac, made 50 years earlier for Sunday school.

With a crash it hit the concrete of the garage, as a simultaneous shriek came from outside. She was alive, again! He ran through the house and was almost out the door before Michaelus coughed. "Would they," he asked gently, "Believe you?"

Sullivan looked over the tattered remains of his little boxes, his little scenes, his little peoples; and wept. He looked up through the tears to a knock at the door and the sudden entrance of Sarah and her bewildered.

She hugged him, looked up and said, "Thank you."

#FridayFlash The Blue Versus The Grays

2011-02-10T22:45:00.000-08:00

Friday Flash

The Blue Versus the Grays

"Follow me men," Lieutenant Sutter shouted above the tumultuous roar of the battle. "To the left flank! Left! Before any of those Damned Rebs do!" A cannon ball whistled through the air and landed just past him, punctuating his words with a wet, "THUMMP." The staccato crack of rifles flowed and ebbed as volleys were exchanged a couple hundred yards apart from each other. Sutter and his men rode behind the entrenched lines, heading to shore up Major Daniel's Brigade. They had ended up lined opposite most of the South's artillery, and it had exacted a heavy toll.

They were just passing between the line and General McClellan's tent when a fireball, trailing oily, black smoke streaked from the sky. It landed just in front of the left flank, digging a huge swath of a crater into the churned soil before bouncing over the stunned ranks. The spray of dirt kicked up fell on them like a heavy cloud, crushing some, but just dirtying the rest

Everyone close by, Union and Confederate alike, stopped at the sudden crash. "Meteorite, you reckon?" Sutter, a science professor before the war, asked no one in particular. A man next to him answered slowly, "Better that than some Traitor tomfoolery. Another furlong and my entire left'd be gone. Take your men, Lieutenant, and find out what the hell it is."

Sutter turned and realized he was speaking with General McClellan himself, "Yessir!" Sutter shouted to McClellan's retreating back. "Into the crater!" Sutter heard the General exhorting, "Take it as cover!"

"Let's move!" Sutter shouted to his own men, "Might be a dirty Reb trick! And somebody grab the Doc's reins. We might need him."

"God help us if we do," one of the men said as he grabbed the reins. Even in the midst of the battle the Doc was slumped in his saddle, near passed out.

Sutter led his men away from the battlefield into the sparse forest. It was easy to follow the path the object wrecked through the woods, and they soon spotted a thin tendril of smoke coming from the deeper woods a mile or so away.

Sutter and his men dismounted, approaching it from all sides. Whatever it was, it wasn't a meteorite. He'd seen drawings of those before, and even seen a piece of one in a museum. This was a shiny, smooth metal sphere a couple yards across. As he walked around it he saw a hole in the side of it, but the inside was completely black. "I reckon it's got to be something them damn Rebs built, but I have no idea how," Sutter said into the heavy quietus that had descended around his men.

"LT!" the shout came from behind him, and Sutter ran to where one of his privates was standing; shaking, and pointing at two unbelievable creatures. They looked like gray children, with huge, hydrocephalic heads and giant, coal-black almond eyes. These looked at the men, but without any hint of emotion.

One was obviously hurt badly, and blood like green ichor was dripping steadily to the ground as the other held it in its arms.

"Doc!" Sutter shouted, "Get yer drunken arse over here." Doctor Martinson, originally of William and Mary, but more recently of Whiskey & Gin, was unceremoniously dumped from his horse to wake him. Duly roused, he shuffled over before stopping and trying to focus on the two creatures. The shock of their visage seemed to have a sobering effect on him as his swaying ceased.

As more and more of men began clustering around and talking amongst themselves, Sutter began to worry as to what they might talk themselves into. He knew it wasn't long before words like, "Cursed," "Devils," and "Evil," would start flowing all too freely, spreading panic amongst his men. "Well, Doc," asked Sutter impatiently, "you gonna help it or what?"

"These," the Doc began solemnly, drawing himself up tall, "are not of this Earth." He took his pistol from his belt and aimed. Before he could pull the trigger though, it seemed as though a wave or pulse passed through the air focused on the Doctor. It made the background behind it hazy as it passed with a purplish tinge more felt than seen. The doctor collapsed instantly. The gun fell harmlessly next to him, and drool slowly started leaking from his open mouth. He was still alive, but his intelligence was simply gone.

Sutter felt a cold, lonely panic wash over him. He knew it had spread to all of his men, and before he could stop them they were all firing at the two creatures. "Hold your fire!" Sutter shouted over the din, trying to restore order and save his men, "HOLD YOUR FIRE!"

He looked back to the two creatures and was shocked to see a curve of flattened mini-balls and shot hanging in the air around them like a curtain. "Get out of here, men! All of you! Tell the General it's a meteorite, but to stay away."

Stunned, half-asked questions followed as all the lead fell to the ground. "But... How.. I mean... can you..."

"Be sure?" Sutter finished for them. "They may be gray, but they ain't Confederates. Now git."

Sutter bent down and took his own meager dressings out. As the hoof steps of his men receded, he did what he could to stop the bleeding. The healthy one chirruped at him like a cross between a finch and whippoorwill nodding skywards. As Sutter looked up a light brighter than the Sun appeared. As he shielded his eyes, he felt himself paralyzed in that position. Out the corner of his eyes he saw the two beings get slowly enveloped by the light. It disappeared with a snap and they were simply gone, along with the sphere.

As his limbs slowly started unlocking, the only thing that reminded Sutter of his own sanity was a neat ring of flattened lead and a gibbering Doctor.

#FridayFlash: Jack and Jill Hook Up

2010-07-08T23:24:00.000-07:00

Friday Flash

Jack & Jill Hook Up

©2010 D. Paul Angel

Jill went to the bar feeling old, tired, and fat.  The last few months had taken their toll, and she was hoping for something different.  Just some connection with some reasonably decent guy to re-light her fire and get her out of this rut.  At least that's what my friends all think...

Jack looked in the mirror, popped his collar, unbuttoned just one more button so his gold chain shone, and headed for the door.  Tonight is Jack's time to shine!

They each found their way to Mulligan O'Shamrock's, a borderline bar just on the other side of the gentrification line.  The lighting was just dark enough to make everyone look more attractive, but not so dark as to make you look too close.  Neither had really picked it by chance.  She was already at the bar, sipping on her Appletini when he sat next to her and ordered a Fosters.

They talked.  Hesitatingly at first, but then with a bit more ease.  Well, he's not a complete douchebag.  You are the MAN Jack! Whoo! Hottest woman at the bar and YOU are talking to HER! then aloud he added, "I'm sorry I couldn't I hear you."

"I said, 'I should probably be going.'  I have work, you know."

"You wanna join me at Jack's place?"

Oh God, did he just refer to himself in the third person she asked herself, though all she said aloud was "Jack's?"

"You know: me.  Jack," he replied, flashing his best grin.  Don't forget the nod.

What the Hell.  At least I won't hesitate leaving in the morning.

"Sure."

Jack paid for both and left a paltry enough tip that he earned a sneer from the bartender on their way out.  They walked to his flat slow enough that it didn't seem like they were rushing, but fast enough that she wouldn't have time to reconsider.  I am so glad I did the dishes and hung some of those little smelling tree things where no one would notice.

I can't believe I'm going with him.  Although, if he was a serial killer, he would be a Hell of a lot smoother.  And I have always wanted a Jack...

He opened the door and let her.  Good God there must be dozens of those damn little car trees stuffed everywhere.  I wonder what he left out that stunk?  She tried not to look too close after that.  I wonder how many Appletini's she had?  "Tequila?" he asked with a sly dog affect. 

Anything.  "Sounds good."  After downing a couple shots of Cuervo, she followed his looks to the bedroom, and soon enough was following.  He caught her eye over his shoulder, stopped, turned, and began kissing her up against the wall.

Whoa... well at least he realizes there's more to my body just boobs.

I can't believe she's letting me feel her up!

Never mind.

She pushed him away, but not too hard.  She pulled at his shirt, got it off, and then maneuvered him towards the bed.  I'm in this far, let's just get this over with.  After varying degrees of success she was finally starting to enjoy things.  It really has been a long time she admitted to herself, allowing her to relax enough to enjoy his attentions.

"Like that, baby?" he whispered huskily in her ear.

Well I was... Sort of... But, Really?

"Shh.  Don't talk."

"Okay.  Yeah.  Quiet.  I like that.  Yeah."

Shut up, Jack.

Shut up, Jack.

His efforts increased and she felt herself atop a precipice just about to plunge into a whirlpool of fiery passion when it just stopped.  That's it?  Godfuckindammit!

"I know what you're thinking," he said, laying down next to her, "but we're not done." She needs a man to take care of her, a real man.

Thank God he noticed!

"Don't worry baby, Jack'll hold you all night."

Fuck.

FridayFlash: An Immortal Question

2010-07-04T18:10:00.000-07:00

﻿
Friday Flash
An Immortal Question

©2010 D. Paul Angel

It was a Hansen family tradition.  They'd BBQ behind their old Brownstone, load up their plates, then come inside and watch whoever happened to be playing the O's that day.  Grandpa Tyler was sitting in his chair as a singer wholly unknown to him, some Lady or something, sang the national anthem.

His oldest granddaughter, 15 year old Stephanie, announced in a challenging voice to all present, "Well I think the Star Spangled Banner is simply too violent a song to represent a country that claims to be peaceful.  I think America the Beautiful would be a much better choice.  Don't you Grandpa?"

He met her eyes and considered.  A mere 6 months ago she would be looking to him for validation.  Now she was steeling herself for a challenge.  The tie-die top, torn jeans, and the peace sign belly button piercing had taken root since then however.  (The last had sent his daughter-in-law into apoplectic fury, but, however unmentionable it was, it had remained.)  He wondered if he might have judged her a bit too quickly, afraid of yet another disappointment.  She had a strength and determination far beyond expectations.

"Well Grandpa?" she asked exasperated, "I mean I know you like fought in Vietnam, but wouldn't that mean you've seen how idiotic War is?"

"Give your Grandpa a moment, Steph," said his son, whilst arching an eyebrow at him.  These discussion usually just happened, contemplation was for after.

True, he had served honorably in Vietnam.  They just didn't know he had served before that, too.  He had fought in almost every major action the US had fought, including the Revolutionary War when the US was more of a thought than an actual country.  Before that he had been everything from a Viking raider, to a King's Guard, to a mercenary, to that single wrenching cruise as a Conquistidor.  War saw humans at their very worst.  And he'd seen centuries of it.

For an Immortal, however, it was the easiest way to leave one life and start another.  The physical pain he was immune from had not given a pass to the psychological terrors he had eventually accepted.  Knowing that every woman he had loved would die.  Along with his kids, grandkids, and great-grandkids, ad infinitum.  Couple that with survivor's guilt and it was a wonder he hadn't snapped after raiding the Incas with Pizarro.  Some of the guys he fought alongside would make it home.  In fact, most of them did.  But he alone knew that he would.  Always.

So he remembered back to a spot not too far from where he was now.  Is that why I always seem to make it back to Baltimore every century or so? he asked himself.  He remembered the field.  The poorly white-washed fence and the lonely herd of cows methodically chewing their cuds.  The crisp smell of grass that punctuated the field at the start was replaced by a butcher-yards stench at the end.  Unlike the last century of warfare, with bullets constantly whizzing past, the Revolutionary muskets fired either as volleys or in small, isolated clusters.  The bullets then were big enough and slow enough that you could catch sight of them sometimes going to and fro across the field.

What he remember most was the men.  The line of young Americans had started the day almost giddy.  They didn't know about the horror of war.  They thought the British arrogant and stupid for parading around in bright red shirts, not realizing that red shirts also hid any blood spilt.  Most of them suffered enormously that day at the hands of the greater disciplined British.  But thought the individuals suffered, their overall sacrifice for an ideal led to a Nation's birth.  The Grand Experiment.  He'd fought for land, women, cattle, minerals, and Gods.  He'd fought for the noble and the greedy, he'd watched atrocities happen and committed some of his own; but this was the first war he'd ever fought in for an idea.

The War of 1812, in which he'd watched D.C. burn from a Frigate, had been the last direct threat to her soil.  Those were the rockets above Fort McHenry of which Key so eloquently wrote.  It was he felt apt, and told his granddaughter such, leaving aside his reminisces and demons.

She looked at him and considered.  It was a counter-view, but not one steeped in the mysticism of "patriotism," nor merely knee-jerk reaction.  "I will consider it," she said with deeply abiding gravity.

"Good," he replied with a new twinkle in his venerable eye, "I look forward to talking to you about it in much more depth one of these days."

FlashFriday: Warrior Regret

2010-06-24T23:08:00.000-07:00

﻿
#Friday Flash
Warrior Regret
©2010, D. Paul Angel

Once again he's running along the Warrior's top past Q Turret.  Just as he ducks below decks he sees a hole punched through the falling splashes just abeam her.  An instant later the rolling, all consuming thunder of the shell's hit passes through him on its way to the bow, knocking him down.  The energy's reverberation knocks the breath out of him as it passes through him on its return.  Gasping, he sucks in the fetid air's cloying stench of burning cordite, seared flesh, and lost bowels.  Fighting off nausea, he pushes himself aft.

As the foul, bilious smoke clears, grieved shouts call him to an open hatch over the compartments below.  Through the weak, crackling electrical light he watches the North Sea rush into the far chamber.  A group of men are fighting to close the watertight door in a desperate attempt to stop the implacable flood's rising.  Although they have it almost completely closed, the blast's force distorted the frame; rendering it, ultimately, useless.

Realizing their futility, they give up on the door and turn to him at the hatch.  Dozens of voices now shout at him.  Alternately pleading and cursing, they implore him for help.  Panic enters the men's voices as the North Sea simply pushes the watertight door aside to rush into the small space.  The light's flick off with a pop, but not before the Men's anguished faces are seared into his memory.

For the first time their siren song calls him through the hatch, and he joins them in the salty embrace of their iron tomb.

"Hey! Get out of that box!  I told you both to never come up here!"

William and Bradley looked up from the box to the flushed face of their Grandpa.  "We're sorry," said Bradley, the oldest at ten, "We couldn't help ourselves."

"Well put it all back then and come back downstairs."

"But Grandpa..."

"Yes?  What?  Come, come.  Leave it.  There is nothing of good in that box."

"But Grandpa!  This is a, 'Distinguished Service Order'" said Bradley, proudly holding it aloft by it's ribbon, and reading its inscription.

Their grandpa sagged when he saw it.  "Grandpa?" asked William, through an eight year old's black and white perspective, "Doesn't this mean you were a Hero?  Isn't that good?"

"Not always Billy.  Not always."

The box might have been returned to its dusty place in the attic, but it could  no longer be forgotten.  Bradley and William asked him about as often as they dared, and though she wouldn't admit to it, he could see the look of curiosity on his daughter's face as well.  With things starting to turn bad in Korea, and his son-in-law possibly being recalled in the next few months, he wondered if it was, finally, time to share.  He had always told himself he would talk of that late, May afternoon, "when the time was right." but in the 33 years since, that time had never seemed to come.

Then, one Sunday evening after dinner, as the family sat around the fire, he started to talk.  He listened to his own voice, shocked that he had started to share, frightened by what they would think, and wholly unable to stop himself.  "I was an Ordinary Seaman on the Warrior.  We sailed out as part of the First Cruiser Squadron towards Jutland, our own four ship piece of the Grand Fleet.  The day started disastrously with the Battlecruisers, and the the mists played havoc with us early on.  We didn't even know it, but we were at almost  point blank range with a line of German Dreadnoughts.  They started firing at us, and soon had us bracketed, even though all we could see of them through the haze was the flashes from their big guns.

"We got hit over a dozen times by their 11 and 12 inch shells.  I thought her doomed until the Warspite did two complete circles, ending up practically next to the bloody Huns!  None of us had seen anything like it.  She was such a riper target they let us be and started hammering her.  Well, all except one that is.  I was being sent from midships to the stern and was just passing the seven and a half inch turrets when I heard another salvo of shells falling on us.

"I'll never forget that sound.  Never.  Like a whistling train ripping through sheets of canvas.  Well, I instinctively braced behind the turret's shielding and most of them, thank God, landed well short.  They threw up towering splashes of water all around our Port quarter, but one..." he paused and looked far past the family portrait above the fire.  He seemed completely alone in the room before he continued, "One more came through.  Right through the spray and into her shuddering bones, just at the waterline.

"I ducked below to avoid the cloud of smoke and yellow gas heading over the topdeck when I heard shouts from a hatch below me.  I could see the compartment starting to flood with a dozen or so men in it.  The watertight door had been knocked a kilter, and they were vainly trying to stop the flow.  When they realized the couldn't they turned to the hatch and to me, but I could see the wall of water coming through."

He stopped again, removed his spectacles, and wiped a single, salty tear from his wrinkled cheek, "I could see there wasn't much more than a few seconds before the compartment would be lost.  So I...  So I-"

His pause filled the air with an oppressive quietus which found them all, save William, looking away from him.

"So you helped them out Grandpa?" asked William.  His eyes were wide in both wonder and horror as he tried to fit his Grandfather's story into the reality created by the Medal. "You got them out before it flooded, right Grandpa?  Right?"

"No Billy, I didn't.  I closed the hatch and dogged it down."

#Friday Flash: Last Scene Leaving the Hall

2010-06-10T22:56:00.000-07:00

#Friday Flash

Last Scene Leaving the Hall

David and Renee walked across the polished mahogany entrance hall of their Grandfather's palatial home. They were amongst the last to arrive, and quickly spotted him as aanother group left him. The iconic tycoon as always, he was in his wheelchair with a plaid blanket over his legs speaking to a young man in a beret. They began walking towards him, already exasperated at the evening's ordeal, and ready to let their old Grandfather know their displeasure. Then Renee realized who the man next to his Grandfather was and slammed her gin and tonic to the floor before stamping over to them with David trying to intervene.

"What the fuck are you doing here you poodle-fucking sack of shit?" she screeched at the man.

"Rene. Really! That is quite unladylike," snapped their grandfather as the man in the beret smugly met the glances of everyone who was now watching them. "After his refreshingly honest expose I asked Mr. Holmes to film my will. Which, I might add, you were almost late to see. Come. There was no reserved seating, so I hope your tardiness did not cost you much."

Chester Holmes raised his glass of scotch Renee, but quickly turned before she could knock it out of his hands. He followed his patron into the hall, but David and Renee were turned away by a serious man in a crisp suit, who made it clear that he not only knew who they were, but he very much did not care. Embarrassed and insulted in front of several hundred people in their own Grandfather's Great Hall, they bitterly stalked to their seats.

"All because that fucking old prick refuses to just fucking die," Renee hissed into David's ear.

"And now he's embracing the shit who tore us apart with that damned movie of his," he spat back.

"Ladies and Gentlemen," began their Grandfather, "I am an old man, but still very much in control of my facilities." It was hard to tell whether Renee or David, or both, had snorted, but he ignored them whilst continuing, "So while still very much in this world, I felt it important to share my Last Will and Testament. Just not in that order.

"Mr. Holmes?"

Chester Holmes turned to start the video. Adding Mr. DeMauneaux's Will to the end had been the easiest money he had ever made. Being able to add back in the segments even he had found too libelous was icing on the cake. As the movie flared to life on the protable screens around the room, Renee and David began a loudly whispered commentary on the video.

"Oh boo-fucking-hoo..."

"God I get so sick about people whining..."

"Wanna keep your fucking house? Pay the fucking mortgage..."

"God-damned eco-fucks...

Their commentary crashed to halt as images of their dead parents came across the screen. The music, of which they were only vaguely aware of before, switched to one of Mahler's sadder pieces. Then they saw their Grandfather speak on the screen with more emotion and passion then he had ever showed them over their entire lives. As it continued, it changed it changed. They sat mesmerized, as his mea culpa grew inexorably, like a slowly rising tide made of small, gently lapping waves.

His head bowed, both on the screen and in his chair, before he continued in the video, "Now that you have heard my Testament, I hope you can fully appreciate my will. I have been a man of considerable means for a great many years. I have enjoyed them, and I tried to share them with my only daughter and her children.

"I understand now, that I was substituting my money for emotions. I did the same thing with my beloved Viola." He paused to brush back a single tear, "And now that I will soon be with her again, I wanted to see her again in good conscious. So I have liquidated the whole entirety of my assets, with the exception of this house and estate."

Renee and David looked at each other with mutually shared greed. Despite their Grandfather taking a bizarre turn towards the end, they had no doubt of their place. So each began counting the funds in their imaginary trust funds.

"Those funds, just shy of 3 billion dollars, I have dispersed across a wide spectrum of charities."

Renee and David's imaginations jarred to a stop mid fantasy. Their money, their money was gone. Not just gone, but given to the freeloading filth of the world.

"And this estate has been transferred to the State for a much needed rehabilitation center."

Renee's fists clenched as she went pale. She started to rise, but David's hand stopped her. Their Grandfather now looked markedly different. No longer a fragile man of ninety-three, he looked like a vigorous man in his early fifties. "Finally, to my beloved David and Renee, I leave a legacy of self-determination." Renee and David sat speechless, their dreams of easy wealth simply, irrevocably, gone.

The image on the screen flickered with a brief burst of static, and he was once again sitting before them."I do thank you all for coming, and I beg forgiveness from everyone's whose life I have hurt. Would that I could offer more." Chester Holmes looked at the screen in disbelief. This wasn't in the video he had made. Indeed he could've sworn he had turned it off when it flickered back to life. The murmurs, whispers, and even indignant mutterings of Renee and David all ceased in their transfixed silence. "Now, if you all please excuse me, I must leave. I am late for my first date with Viola in thirty-seven years."

With that he rose from the chair, smiled and left the plaid blanket behind as he spryly walked off screen.

The lights came on full and the large, silent audience all gaped at him. He wore a faint smile, most of his wrinkles were gone, and he was very much dead.

Photowalk: Ships and Trees

2010-06-06T19:50:00.000-07:00

A new photowalk is up, Ships and Trees. It is Rose Festival time in Portland again, and that means Fleet Week. Saturday was the only day during their stay that there was no rain, so it was a nice excuse to get some pics in. I also managed to stumble into fulfilling Daily Shoot assignment #202 when I just happened to turn the camera down on the Steel Bridge after shooting the US Navy ships.

Notes: The Sailing of the Hawaii

2010-06-05T22:14:00.000-07:00

Notes: The Sailing of the Hawaii

1400 Words

This was the Fourth time that I wrote this story. The concept started simply enough, a conversation with a friend dur a game of Axis & Allies War at Sea Miniature game. What if they remade some of the older battleships? Use newer materials, but keep a good deal of the original armament. Since I the coolest mini I have is of the USS Alaska, a US Navy Battlecruiser from WW II, I decided to go with that. When I researched it I saw there were three ships in the class, the last of which was the USS Hawaii. Despite never having been completed, she became superfluous with the ending of the war, she would have been a heckuva ship.

So she sailed again in my story yesterday. I was, I think, trying to do too much. I had the sinister backstory of the Pentagon types spooking a ship into sailing up the Taedong River and into the very heart of Pyongyang's. I also had what was happening on the ship itself. And I had to lay the groundwork for the ship's existence in the first place. And describe what happened to trick them. And Explain who did the trick. A lot. Not necessarily too much for a 2,500 word Clancyesque short story, but just far and away too much for a Flash.

In trying to keep it to the barest of bones I lost much of those little details that always made the Clancy books so enthralling to me. So in the end, it wasn't a very good flash, and, it wasn't enough description to acheive what I wanted to achieve anyway. The fix is to either make it into a larger Short Story, or serialize it. I kind of like the latter idea best. Six episodes around 500-700 words would've done quite nicely.

The ship as seen from the Captain's point of view when the "nuke" detonates.

The Pentagon. Admiral Hutchinson sees the men and senses that there is something wrong. (It may be superfluous, but I am too enamored of "the world's most exclusive Starbuck's" line to let it go just yet.)

Back to the USS Hawaii. In the finest Clancy tradition they effect their plan.

Admiral Hutchinson confronts the men, and discovers their sinister plan.

The USS Hawaii does what it must, as does the First Officer. The Captain may not survive, but his ship and crew will. Demonstrating everything that the Pentagon bastards aren't.

Finally, Admiral Hutchinson is eliminated in, if not fine Clancy fashion, than at least in best of Shakespearean tradition. And the twist when the men realize the Battlecruiser, and crew, might survive after all.

At least, that's my thoughts. Any other suggestions?

(BTW, I used Google Maps to look at Pyongyang itself, but didn't bother to look at the head of the river, here. Note the nice, sturdy sea wall to prevent exactly what the Hawaii did. *sigh*)

The Sailing of the Hawaii

2010-06-04T21:57:00.000-07:00

The Sailing of the Hawaii

"Report?" asked Captain Barnes, in the privacy of his Ready Room, away from the rest of the CIC crew.

"I saw the flash, too, Captain. It lit up the entire Southern sky. Whatever it was, it was huge," reported Captain Barnes' First Officer Commander Locke.

"The radiation indicators are all pegged, Captain," Said his ship's Doctor Captain Imley. "With the dosage the crew got, I'd say 72 hours before the first symptoms show. Then, maybe another 72 before you'll have about 90% casualties. I'm sorry Captain." She added the latter with more concern for her patients than herself, even though she knew she would share their agony

"Chief?" he asked his Chief Engineer.

"Anything electronic is pretty much lost. Anything mechanical is still working. We lost the FADEC, but the mechanical interlocks engines on line again. Main turrets are working with the original pneumatic and mechanical systems. God bless 70 year old technology, eh? We don't have fire-control worth a shit, sir, but our main batteries can still reach out and touch anything in 30 miles, sir."

"Alright. Chief, Doc, I want you to go ahead and get back to your posts. No one is to speak one word of this. Not one. The electrical systems were burned out by a bus overload fault. It affected the radiation indicators, too. That's all."

"Sir, with all due respect...

"Go ahead Chief."

"Well, sir, in 30 years of the Navy, I've never heard of a, 'bus overload fault.'"

"Good. That's because I just made it up. But no one will tag to it for at least another 8 hours. And believe me, they'll be too busy to think about it. You two are dismissed. Jim, a word."

"Yes sir. Jim, I need you to make sure no one who was on the Bridge with you says anything about the flash. Understood?"

"Yes sir."

"And there's one more thing I'm going to need you to do."

"Of course."

"Don't be too eager, it's going to make you sick."

"Half-caff, grande soy, mocha. No whip," Admiral Ed Hutchinson said to the Barista at the world's most exclusive Starbuck's, deep inside the inner ring of the pentagon. As he took the cup, declining the ubiquitous sleeve, he noticed General Yates in a corner booth with a couple of civilians, laughing. Laughter was a rare enough thing in Pentagon, let alone with a couple of civilians. Yates shushed them as they left.

As a Marine General, Hutchinson was nominally his superior officer, but the vast schism in paperwork made it, ironically enough, more of a theory on paper than in real life. With his instincts twitched, however, Admiral Hutchinson decided that now was as good a time as any to insist. He followed them down the hall into General Yates' office.

He stood outside the door and held his breath for a moment. When more laughing erupted he burst through the door and, in the kind of booming "I am your GOD" voice that can be heard from one of a Battleship to another, demanded with righteous fury to know, "What in the Sam-Fucking Hell is going on?"

The three men stood immediately, and Hutchinson was pleased to see Yates look extremelu uncomfrotable. The man shriveled before him, even though the two civies did not. What in the Sam Hell is going on? he asked himself.

The civie on the left, the scrawny one with the expensive but badly rumpled suit looked over to the one on the right. The one who looked like a used car salesman at a Ferrari lot. They nodded, and the car salesmen type nodded to the professor type.

"I am Dr. Claude Daubert. This is Heinriech Jencks. I am Professor Emeritus at the American University in Psychology. Specifically, battlefield decision making. Mr. Jencks is a, shall we say, purveyor of fine weaponry?"

"Yates? What the Fuck? Yates?"

"Yates!" boomed Admiral Hutchison again as Yates looked anywhere but at him. Yates ran his hands over his head, down his chest, and fingered row after row of combat ribbons he had there.

"It's all I have, Admiral. All I know." He reached into a drawer, pulled out a flask with the Marine Logo on it and drank deeply.

"Admiral, I can explain. Frankly, it involves things well above even you, or likely anyone currently even in the building. If you would General Yates, the feed? It is, I believe, perfect timing"

As Yates typed on his computer, a live satellite feed appeared. At the center was a large ship in a smallish river. Hutchinson recognized it immediately as the Hawaii, his newest ship, and his oldest.

"Rebuilding a World War II Battlecruiser was a stroke of genius, Admiral. It's armor can withstand any of the current anti-ship missiles designed for sinking lightly built ships. Eighty year old mechanical technology which is unfazed by any EMP. She's perfect. And, as it happens, the type of weapons system that Mr. Jencks specializes in."

Hutchinson felt his skin grow cold. The tiny ship on the screen wasn't terribly detailed, but he recognized now that particular river bend, and knew that his ship, HIS Hawaii, was just outside Pyongyang. It should be off the Coast of N Korea, not in it, Godfuckindammit. As he watched, he saw it fire, and saw part of Pyongyang dissappear in a cloud of dust.

The professor looked at the monitor. "Based on the RNK response, I think they got there sooner than expected." He smiled broadly at Mr Jencks.

Dumbfounded Admiral Hutchinson looked at the smug little man. "Talk. Now," he said, already feeling the little man's throat in his hands.

Professor Daubert noticed the threat immediately, and accurately judging its seriousness, spoke. "Admiral, you must realize that America is at her best when she is fighting. Our Golden Ages have all come as a result of massive mobilization efforts. The problem with the Koreas, the Vietnams, and our most recent debacles in the Middle East stem from trying to go to war without decisive consensus. They are not 'Good' wars; like World War II was. So, we had to make one.

"Mr. Jencks built the largest conventional explosive, and General Yates, with many, many like minded officers, deployed it. The Hawaii's systems were sabotaged before she even left port. These stimuli that I carefully crafted and modelled made them believe that the fleet has been wiped out by a RNK nuclear weapon. They are, in their minds, retaliating."

"My God," was all Admiral Hutchinson could muster to say as he fought back nausea.

"Finally, since their radiation sensor was tweaked to show a lethal dose of radiation as well, this is not a mission from which any of them expect to return. In a few moments, when they're guns are either crippled or out of shells, they will scuttle their ship, choosing a quick, valiant death over the suffering agonies of radiation sickness. We have a war, it is righteous, and, when the RNK recovers the Hawaii, we shall have an opponent worth fighting against."

"We're expecting a hell of year Admiral. America is going to return to a Golden Age, General Yates won't be retired, and, well, there's still time to... ah... invest?"

"You set up my ship to start a war with the idea that she'll go down with all her crew and you expect my support? My Help? You sick sons of bitches!

The harsh bang of the forty-five filled the little office. General Yates returned the gun to it's holster, sat down, and took another sip from his flask.

Half a world away the echo of the gunshot reverberated.

Jim Locke stood over his dead Captain. The 9mm in his hand seemed to pull all of his weight with it in his grip. "The Captain sabotaged the ship as part of a plan to start a war." he said numbly. "Pull out immediately and head back to sea. All possible speed. Ensign, remove his body. He may have been a traitor, but he was a good Captain until then. At least afford him that respect."

The crew, stunned after the craziness of the last few hours, went back to the familiarity their stations and duties. It did, unfortunately, explain everything far too well.

"Uh, professor," said General Yates quietly, "What happens if the ship makes it out of North Korea and comes back safely?"

#FridayFlash: A Passing Delight

2010-05-28T23:16:00.000-07:00

﻿

A Passing Delight
©2010 D. Paul Angel

I was almost down the stairs when she came around the corner.  I saw her mere moments before she saw me.  She was wearing a silky, dark green blouse, black Capris, and her usual array of gold necklaces, rings, and bracelets.  Blonde curls bounced across her slender shoulders as she entered the stairwell.  I fought the temptation of letting my eyes linger on the hint of cleavage promised by her blouse to focus on her eyes.  Naturally grey, today they reflected her blouse with a shimmery jade.

Even though the stairwell was usually loud, I could tell I had surprised her by the way her eyes, her beautiful eyes, widened ever so slightly at my sight.  She smiled automatically as she would at anyone, but then her lips pursed in unconscious evaluation.  The far corner of her ruby red lips lifted in a beckoning tease of flirty subtlety; a half smile of acknowledged attraction.  She knew who I was, too.

We moved away from each other without thought.  The polite parting of ways so another can pass through a narrow space.  But not so far as we would for a stranger or another co-worker.  She passed by closely.  Sipping from the same air, I could smell the sweetness of her shampoo, the subtle tones of her light perfume; the complex fruits of her lotion.  I knew as well she could smell my essence, and I wondered if it conveyed my desire as we each leaned in a bit more as we passed.  The motion was fluid, a continuation of the movements we were both in the middle of not more than a second before, but we each still slowed, too.  Even if it was just a touch.

My mind raced ahead as I reached out and put my arm around her back, arresting her motion, and pulling her into my grasp.  She held me close as well and as our eyes locked onto each others, as though for the first time, conveying the most primal of messages.  I could feel my heart race as her lips, now moist, parted ever so slightly.  I leaned in and gently brushed my lips against hers.  She responded, her eyes closed, reaching forward seeking out my lips...

The jangling of the bracelets on her arm as she raised her hand to wave snapped me back from my reverie.  The dream, the fantasy, in my mind lasted for all the time it took for her to raise her arm.  But in my head it was long enough to build a life with her.

"Hello," she said.  Softly.

The Circle of Flight

2010-04-01T23:28:00.001-07:00

The Circle of Flight

The cockpit of the future is going to have a man, a dog, and a single red button. The man is there to feed the dog, and the dog is there to bite him if he ever reaches for the button.

-- Glen Marshall

I feel the wind buffet the Jenny through the stick as I fly through the cold, dawn air. I don't honestly remember if I'm over Kansas or Nebraska at this point, but it doesn't really matter either. They're all just fields still grey below the dawn. It's just nice to feel the wind and the engines rumble as I head West. Putting the Sun to my back and just flying. As it starts to rise behind me I can just start making out the wheat swaying in time to the wind, and matching the strumming of the gusts through the wires between the wings.

Even though I counted the change again last night, and I'll be having to give rides again tomorrow, it's nice to be alone for now. Some of it is the familiarity of the Dawn Patrol routine from the War, I guess. Mostly though, well, mostly it's that there just aren't as many people around. I've met some good people giving rides though; a lot of Dough Boys thinking we lived the glamor life in the war. I wish.

~ ~ ~

"Contact!" I pull my right leg back while pulling down and away on the smooth wooden prop. I can feel the trailing edge with my fingertips, though I'm careful not to let them overhang. A couple steps back and after a couple sputters the little Continental clunks to life. Holding on to the strut, I pass around the back of the little Yellow Cub, untying the tail-wheel before maneuvering myself awkwardly into the rear seat.

I'm not sure what's wrong when my instructor gets out until he raises his voice over the engine, "Three take-offs, three full-stop landings. You're ready." He runs back to the hanger, and she's all mine. My first Solo. I take the runway, ease the throttle forward, nudge the stick, and balance the plane with stick and rudder as I accelerate down the runway. Keeping it balanced until it simply leaves the ground of its own accord, giving itself to the wind's gentle clutch.

~ ~ ~

As I run up the Pratt & Whitney Single Wasp the North Atlantic pitches the Escort Carrier about like a cork in a toddler's tub. Only a crazy man would take-off on a day like this, unless of course someone saw a periscope.

With the wind is coming straight down the deck now, the Martlet is on the verge of flying whether I want it to or not. I release the brakes and the prop pulls it down the deck and into the air, dropping off the end as I strain on the right rudder to keep it straight.

I madly pump the gear handle, hydraulically raising the gear before banking to the South. The turbulence pounds my legs through the rudder pedals, but I don't even feel it anymore. That's just part of flying by the seat of your pants. And it's better flying than sitting. Especially when there's a wolf down there, and I have dozen grey sheep to protect.

~ ~ ~

The Jungle flashes below as a rippling blur of mottled greens and browns. My RIO has the signal from the SAM now, and it's only a matter of a minute, maybe, two, before I dump raw fuel into the J79 and streak directly at them. Some days we hit the SAM site, but today, well, today we're the decoy. It's what the Thud does best.

"Signal engaged, left to heading two zero four."

"Coming left, two zero four." I reply while pulling the 'burner tab, rolling to knife edge, and pulling back on the stick in a high G turn.

"Inbound SAM's,” my RIO calmly calls out, “Charlie-Two, start your run."

~ ~ ~

My wingman and me are on CAP again, boring holes through the air, ten miles up; waiting for an enemy that will never come. They came that first night, I'll never forget it even if they didn't come into my sector, but at a loss of over half their Air Force. So I fly my lazy patterns, keep my feet on the floor, and dogfight in my mind. I miss the Academy's glider.

~ ~ ~

The Predator has easily the longest endurance and highest payload for any aircraft of its size. All they had to do was eliminate the pilot. I fly my UAV from half a world away. Literally. And to think my mom told me playing Xbox wasn't ever going to help me land a job.

~ ~ ~

It's been almost a year since since the Colony ship left and we're just now hitting full stride.. Laelnizo IV is a beautiful planet. Not the best soil, which is why the grass is so short, but there's lots of it. The more we work it, the better it gets, too. But that also means our farms are spread out, so I'm constantly flying people, parts, and everything else around.

It's just us here, and anything that breaks, well, we have to fix ourselves. My Grasshopper has more in common with a 1930's monoplane than the Wasp's which delivered the Colony two containers at a time. I flew them, too. Spce to Surface and back. There's nothing quite like rolling in on an approach to a Colony Ship. At two miles long, half a mile wide, and a quarter mile tall, it all seemed like it should be falling into the planet, not floating above it like a brick hovering over a lake.

Now I'm following the steady dot-dash-dash dot-dot-dot-dash dot-dot of the Main City's NDB back home. I can feel the wind shift a bit through the stick, and kick in a little more rudder to keep the ball centered. The more things change...

#FridayFlash: The Alchemist's Wish

2010-02-26T23:02:00.000-08:00

The Alchemist's Wish

By D. Paul Angel

Far from the city, distant even from the farms and villages too small for even an inn; nestled the tiny valley of Witherbark. It was the kind of locale which wasn't so much mentioned on maps as it tended to reside under such labels as, "Wilderness," "Elf Be Here," or "tread ye not here after dark." It earned its name from the nebbish, weathered hide of the birches and oaks which densely filled its ripples. Deep within it, however, there was also a pure spring of fresh water, around which tightly wound an ancient, almost forgotten, Ley line. Next to it sat an old, weathered cabin, which housed a single, gruntled, occupant.

Lam Thion emerged from the forest, pushing back the branches, snags, and vines that were ever trying to absorb the paths. He held an arm-full of dead branches and crossed the tiny clearing around his cabin while his unquiet eyes flitted from the cabin to the forest with varying degrees of distrust and malice.

He entered the cabin to a sickly obsequies voice greeting him, "So good to see you again, Master Thion."

"Sod off Skaeal," snapped Thiol, "You miserable Imp."

"At your service," the Imp replied, materializing, next to the fireplace.

"I said 'Sod Off!' not, 'appear!'" shouted Thion, allowing the wood to tumble from his arms across the cabin's hard packed dirt floor in his anger.

"Of course, Master, I was merely trying to be respectful." replied Skaeal cooly, "Perhaps Master does not wish the lowly Skaeal's help with the Master's experiments anymore?"

"Curse you to the pain, Skaeal. You bloody well know I need you, you, you-" Thion's anger filled tirade would've made Skaeal blush, were he not already naturally beet red and a minor Daemon. Thion's coarse words continued as he built a fire around the medium cast-iron cauldron that filled corner of the room closest to the spring. It slowly died out of its own accord as he grabbed the misshapen ingots of lead off the floor and placed them in the cauldron, but you could tell that the anger still rippled through him.

He had done this ritual many, many times, and it had always ended in abject failure. There was only one ingredient missing. One last thing that Skaeal had yet to figure out which was all that separated harnessing the Ley energy into the conversion.

"If only you could read the book," he said finally, plaintively, in Skael's general vicinity. The Book did not exist tangibly so much as it was the collected lore of Skaeal's line of Daemons. When Thion had summoned and bound Skaeal to do his bidding, he had not counted on the Daemon being unable to read the whole of the tome.

"Master understood that Skaeal could not read when Master bound Skaeal," said the Imp matter of factly, raising his small arms to his side and knocking over some books from the shelf on which he was suddenly sitting. "Perhaps Master is tiring of turning lead into gold and wishes Skaeal to try and read something else?"

"No, I cannot leave here without gold. My life is forfeit until I do. As you know all too well!"

Skaeal made no reply but was suddenly next to the cauldron, wrapping the flames around his fingers. "Perhaps Master would like to try a hotter fire this time?"

"Is that what the book says?" asked Thion with piqued excitement.

"Skaeal will help the help the flames."

Thion looked into the Imps's shiny, solid black eyes. There was a glint in them that he had never seen before. "You can read it now, can't you? Can't you!" Skaeal made no reply, but started building the flames hot enough that Thion could feel the sweat drop from his brow. He grabbed the little Daemon's form, and turning it away fromt he fire and towards him shouted, "What's changed? Tell me what's changed! What do you know? Tell me!"

"What is it the Master wishes?" asked Skaeal, matching Thion's level stare, "Above all else?"

"Gold of course! I want to turn lead into gold."

"Then Master shall."

"You can read the formula! The last ingredient! Tell me, what it is? Tell me!"

"A willing Human," said Skaeal simply, as Thion was immolated with a piercing scream.

The next day, Skaeal pushed through the charred reamins of the cabin. He heaved a smoldering beam aside and uncovered the cauldron, looking at the gold within it. "We both got what we wanted," he said as he pulled it out. "I get my freedom, and you, Master," he said mockingly, "finally turned lead into gold."

Pirate Timing

2010-02-18T23:26:00.001-08:00

Pirate Timing

D. Paul Angel

Llewelen walked around the large crate lashed down between the Main and Fore masts with his gait matching the Ocean's easy rolls. The air had a crisp saltiness to it, and the tropical Sun hung just above a quickly fading mist. The breeze was picking up, and Llewelen inspected the taught sails on either side of the crate. As he was looking up, a lithe man dressed in ill-fitting black clothes walked up to him.

"Are ye sure today is it?" asked Llewelen without looking away from the rippling canvas. The stranger, who gave only the name Stanton and had paid handsomely for the voyage with him and his crate, seemed both familiar to the sea and yet a stranger to sailing. He had promised much, subtly threatened more, but was nothing if not assured of himself. He had been adamant that his crate stay above deck, and had spoken to the crew in superstitious tones of what would happen were anything placed on or near it.

"Yes, Captain Llewelen," Stanton replied through an exaggerated yawn, "Just as sure as when I told you this time was coming some days hence."

Llewelen grunted and continued his walk. He opened his mouth to speak but a flash of light to the Northeast caught everyone's eye. Moments later a resounding craaack pulsed over the ship. Thus far, the stranger had been right in his predictions, but bets had been made about this particular one. Money and prayers were soon abounding around the ship.

Llewelen moved aft to the quarter deck, and felt his neck prickle. He had taken part in his share of combat, ordered his share of discipline, and personally carried out the harshest of penalties; that he was particularly adept at any or all within the realm of violent conflict, however, had not yet made him actually enjoy the craft. He turned and regarded Stanton smugly standing at his side

"And now gun boats that aren't?" He asked Stanton in as matter of fact tone as he could muster.

"Yes, and I would remind you again that it would be best for your crew to show as little resolve against them as possible. Resistance would be... futile at best," he finished with a wry smile.

Llewelen held an ancient spyglass to his eye and saw four grey shapes, low in the water, and moving far faster than any ship of sail could hope to. They crisscrossed and began firing guns that sounded like booming, ripping canvas, with one shot flowing after the other. They truly were, Llewelen realized, no match for the half dozen 24 pounders the ship carried, let alone the score of cannonades.

The shells quickly tore through his sails until the wind leaked through like a sieve, and the ship slowly eased to, until it was drifting with the current. The four grey boats came to a stop almost as readily as they had sped in circles around the much larger brig. They each had a low rumbling sound and a cloud of black smoke following them around.

The Stanger sidled up next to Llewelen, "Now you believe me? The whole British Navy is no match for them."

"We know you carry pieces of eight," came a voice amplified somehow from across the waves, "You will bring them to us or we will kill you all and take them."

"What is your decision Captain?" asked Stanton, "Either way, they will kill you. And you cannot fight."

"Aye," said Llewelen, turning to look into the Stranger's eye, "Let's see if you can really protect us.

The Stranger's hand went into his breast pocket. As the announcement began to repeat itself, the huge crate in the middle of the ship disintegrated in a cloud of smoke. Almost as quickly, trails of green smoke arced across the sky from the box to the four boats. In an instant the rockets had fired, found their targets, and each boat had been hit multiple times. When it was over, only one grey hull remained afloat, burning and slowly breaking apart. Two others were merely odd bits of grey flotsam, and the fourth was little more than an oil stain shimmering across the waves.

"I think, Captain, that I have quite lived up to my end of the bargain. A tenth of your doubloons, if you please."

"Aye, but, how would you be taking them?"

"Yes, that." The stranger reached in his pocket again and a ripple rose next to the ship. A black shape emerged from under the water and a small submarine was soon bobbing next to the ship.

"Now. My reward Captain," Stanton said insistently.

"Certainly Mr. Stanton, You'll be getting what ye earned, but tell me, don't ye worry about hurting Time? What will the men say when they get back to port?"

"I didn't tell them anything about Time, Captain, that way if you say anything, no one will believe you. As for the men, well it was green smoke for a reason. Hold a mass tonight and thank God for calling forth a Kraken to kill thy enemies. Say it enough and they'll believe you."

Llewelen regarded Stanton's arrogance and asked, "Will ye be back?"

"Yeah, probably. I'll check on what they try next," he nodded towards the wrecks for emphasis, "and just get here first. Again.

"And now Captain enough. My doubloons."

Llewelen responded by pulling a pistol out of his belt and aimed it at Stanton. Stanton no longer deigned politeness and sneered at Llewelen. "My clothes may not look it, Captain, but they are more than sufficient armor for any 18th century weapon."

The condescending smile remained frozen on his face as his body was torn in half underneath it by the plasma pistol's discharge.

Llewelen squatted next to Stanton's body, "True, lad, true. But how's it do against 28th century weapons?"

Submitting a #FlashFriday Piece?

2010-02-15T22:18:00.000-08:00

When I wrote my last #FlashFriday piece, "Deau <3 Machina" the first draft was 1,700 words and I felt like I had not said nearly enough. The story works as it is, I feel, but I really liked that first draft. Cutting almost half of it hurt, because each of the different characters was given so much more depth, and it was each of their little individual decisions that eventually led to the culminating Deus ex Machina.

So the question is, if I go back and write that story, expand it out by another 2,000 to 2,500 words words or so while adding in another twist or two; what are the ethics of then submitting it? I would, of course, mention that a much smaller version was already published online, but just because I can doesn't necessarily mean I should.

If anyone has any thoughts experience or recommendations I would greatly appreciate it.

A Glenfiddich Trifecta

2010-02-15T12:30:00.001-08:00

My wife surprised me a few years back with a couple 375ml bottles of single malt Scotch whisky. One was Glenlivet, the other Glenfiddich (pronounced with a hard "ick" I soon found out). I had avoided drinking for years for reasons detailed in an earlier post, but had finally started. I had also come to find that I enjoyed single malts, and this was a fine introduction. I liked the Glenlivet. I loved the Glenfiddich. Indeed, it became the first single malt that was "mine."

Since I was new to the single malt game at this point, I went on to trying more single malts, and fell away from Glenfiddich. It wasn't that I didn't still like it so much as there are just a wealth of other whiskies out there to try. Recently, however, I came to back to it.

I was on the road not too long ago and ordered a Glenfiddich from the hotel bar. I was chatting with the bartender, who was an amazingly cool person, and we were talking about whiskey. She was not, "A whiskey girl," but was thinking of trying some. Well, she got distracted whilst pouring and almost overpoured the glass. She apologized and said that it was all mine for no extra. So I invited her to try a sip: after all, if you're going to be sampling whiskey, why not start with a whisky?

Well she poured some off into a separate glass took a sip and... just about died. She coughed, sputtered, ran out of the bar and I could see her downing water. She was absolutely mortified, and was apologizing profusely for, "insulting my drink." I was laughing and told her there were no worries, and its all about taste; I even got to share some Latin with her, "De Gustibus non est Disputandem. (Of taste there is no argument.)" I also told her that if she didn't like Glenfiddich, her foray into whiskey was probably not going to go very well.

Regardless of her reaction, however, I still ended up with a double, if not a triple of my old friend to enjoy the game with!

During the Super Bowl I was at a friend's house and they asked if I wanted the usual beer or wine. I'm not a fan of beer at all, and wine is OK, but it is not a football drink. Sorry 49er fans. Then they looked at each other and said, "Hey, you, like whisky, right? Because we have this whisky sampler..." It was the Glenfiddich 12, 15, and 18 year sampler, with a single shot of each. "Oh yeah, I could help you out with that." The little Glenfiddich bottles each have their own canister, too. So cool!

I had the 18 and the 12, with another friend of their's having the 15. It was like enjoying my good old friend and his hot, exotic cousin. Fun for an afternoon, but still out of my league. So far.

Finally, the third of the trifecta (introductions don't count). We had an office ger together after work at a local brew pub. They have a decent bar so I tried asking about a few more whiskies I could try. No luck. After the third I just asked if they had Glenfiddich. Success. Finally! I shared a sip with a co-worker who really liked it, and then just enjoyed the Hell out of it myself.

Like any good, old friend I know I can rely on Glenfiddich for a pleasant time. Sure there've been other times shared with other whiskies inbetween, and even, yes, blends; but I always like coming back to my oldest friend.

Deus Heart Machina

2010-02-12T14:18:00.001-08:00

Deus <3 Machina
D. Paul Angel
©2010

The World watched as the Hubble's feed focused on the single point of light headed towards the Asteroid, and held its collective breath as the light intersected with the slowly twisting mass.

~~~

"You can do this Vinny.  Been long time since anyone remembered Temple's Big V Vandano, heart and soul of the of the Owl's Vaunted V-fense.  Who owns the records?  You.  That's right Vinny V, you. And today you're going run, RUN!, to the park and back! Yeah!"  His pep talk to himself complete, Vinny "Big V" Vandano went for his first jog in two decades.

~~~

A lifetime later, when even the TV executives were beginning to wonder if the Asteroid ratings boon was really worth the extinction of mankind, a silent, brilliant flash split the Asteroid neatly in two.

~~~

Danielle swept through the kitchen with light feet and a happy smile until she saw her beloved cat Charlie sitting by the window; the open window she had forgot to close.  Charlie coolly regarded her as she slowly stepped closer, but he was out the window and down the fire escape before her lunging grasp could catch him.

~~~

"It's kind of like the difference between an elephant getting shot with a cannon ball and a shotgun," explained exasperated astrophysicist to the reporters, "Just because it's not going to kill him, doesn't mean it's not going to really sting."

~~~

Smooth Tony regarded the pathetic man in front of him.  He held the engagement ring the Boys had found in the man's pocket up to the ill, grimy light the abandoned warehouse afforded.  Even in the dimness Tony could see that it was Cubic Zirconia.  Despite their obvious similarities, this was not the man Tony had actually conducted business with, so he regarded the man's babbling sobs about his brother Grant as likely true.

"What would you like for us to do with him Mr. Noland?" asked his top underling, Bren.
Smooth Tony considered.  "Anyway you cut it," he thought, "Truth a pretty lousy business partner in this line of work."
"Bren.  Joey.  Take a couple of the boys and this chump to his girlfriend's."
"Yes, Mr. Noland," said Bren without a trace of emotion.
"Beat him till he dies."

~~~

"Just keep the legs pumping V! Whoo!"  Vandano continued shouting to himself as he stumbled back from the park.  The day was warmer than expected, and he was more out of shape than he accepted.  The smell of grass at the park had reminded his brain so strongly of his football days that it interpreted his numb, bloated hands as being taped, and the lack of peripheral vision from the lingering heat stroke as a helmet.  So when he turned the corner to his alley, and saw a small, desperate looking guy surrounded by five huge men, Vinny knew that quarterback was his.

~~~

The entire Earth wobbled ever so slightly as the two mountain sized pieces of asteroid safely passed on either side.  In between a cloud of dust and rocks hit the atmosphere with radiant light.  Thousands of tiny specks winked into vapor, but a few still continued their fateful plunge towards the heart of Philadelphia.

~~~

Smooth Tony wasn't sure why, but he liked the ring.  He had even opened the sunroof of his limo so he could look at it better in the sunlight.  While it wouldn't do to linger, Smooth Tony enjoyed watching his men work enough that they were approaching the alley.  A man accustomed to having his way, Smooth Tony was stunned to see a huge man in a sweat stained, grey sweat-suit bulldoze through his men before leveling the chump.  Smooth Tony only just managed to start shouting at his driver to stop before a largish meteorite punched through the engine block of the limo doing it for him, cold, and throwing the ring through the sunroof mere moments before him.

~~~

Sherman saw a blur of grey explode between the goons and knock them aside.  As time dilated he watched as the massive arms sweep down, gain momentum and then connect with his chest.  The blow knocked him off his feet and sent him skittering against a curb.  Shaken, with one knee awkwardly on the ground, Sherman held out his arms to regain his balance.

~~~

Holding the Charlie tightly, Danielle whispered both curses and love into his ear.  She didn't even notice the windowless van pull into the alley until a large, sour-faced man stepped out.  Once she saw him though she knew she didn't want to be anywhere near the alley.  She turned and ran for her door.  She got up on her stoop, and was struggling with the door, trying to block out the commotion behind her, when she heard a reedy gasp behind her.
She turned and saw Sherman, on one knee with his arms spread, below her.

~~~

One of the smaller pieces of asteroid was a particularly hard form of Carbon.  It's lattice structure had enormous strength, but was still brittle at the right angle.  So even as it ablated away layers until it took on a pointed shape, when it hit the sharp metal edge of the hydrant it had split.  Part of it ricocheted off of the pavement and a brownstone wall before arcing back skywards.  

At its apex, it intercepted a slowly tumbling ring, hitting its Cubic Zirconia centerpiece hard enough that the fake stone simply vaporized.  It threw the ring even higher in the air and gave it an even more eccentric tumble as the impact's remaining energy was dissipated through melting the small metallic prongs onto the new, glittering stone.

~~~

As she was looking down at Sherman, she saw a ring slowly arc across the sky and land delicately on Charlie's back.

"Oh, I do Sherman!  I do!"

The Barrier Crossroads

2010-01-29T12:41:00.001-08:00

"Just remember," she said to me with a professionally charming smile, "Whatever you do, do not try and open the barrier door until the green light is lit. But don't wait too long either."

"I understand the not going through too soon," trying to talk to her and help play down some of my own nervousness, "I just don't know why they warn you about hesitating."

"Well, sir," she replied with an obviously often stated response, "It is just *different* once you get there. It is a big decision you've made and, once you're at the crossroads, there's a hesitancy to pull away from taking that step."

"But it's not like people would do this on a whim, would they? It just seems too much of a commitment to back away now."

"It's not really about backing away," she continued, and I was surprised when I realized that this wasn't part of the standard answer, that this was the true her, "It's about shying away from the enormity of it. Imagine you're standing on a sheer cliff looking down into a lake. Behind you is a forest fire that will consume you if you don't jump. You know that. You know you'll be consumed if you stay and safe if you jump, but still, on the precipice itself, you hesitate." I looked through her light brown eyes into a woman of deep thoughts, spirit, and feelings. Her short red hair only just brushed her shoulders, and I realized that, for the first time since I'd lost Faye, I was looking at a woman I could love.

The outer door opened, and as she waved me in I saw the ring on her finger. It only made sense, after all, that a woman such as her would already be taken. It actually made the decision all the easier. I walked in with a lightness that I hadn't felt before. I stopped and turned to thank her, but I could see already tell that her professional demeanor had returned, cutting of any further connection beyond client and greeter, "Once the outer doors close, there is no moving back; only forward."

"Good luck," she added with the briefest lifting of her emotional veil, "I hope you find what you're looking for."

The outer doors closed.

The chamber I was in had plain, white walls behind me, and a single huge glass wall in front of me. A door was cut out of the glass with two lights overhead. The red light was solidly lit and the green was off, but I scarcely noticed either one. Before me was the Time Barrier. It ebbed and flowed as a visceral cloud of colors, ebbing and flowing against the glass. The colors cycled through in gentle patterns that could be seen as deeply evocative in one way, and frighten disturbing in another. It was beautiful, terrifying, and thoroughly overwhelming.

The Red light started flashing, and I understood why some hesitated. The cloud waves were flowing with more regularity, and the flashing was starting to sync with their motions. All I had to do was open the door when it turned green, step through, and my consciousness would be returned in time to a place before I lost Faye. Open the door and step through, and all the pain will end. The lonely days and lonelier nights would be gone, and Faye... Faye would be back. Open the door-

The cloud was staying longer and longer against the door, the flashing was slower and slower, and I knew it would be green any second. I was jarred out of my reverie by a sudden mental image of the girl in the lobby. I didn't know her name but I suddenly saw her smile, her obvious depth; her passion. A jagged flash of memory hung in the air before me: the picture of her waving me into the room. The ring was on her middle finger.

Maybe she wasn't taken? The smile, her eyes, they all flashed past me one after the other. I suddenly knew that she saw me as differently as I saw her. Or was I misreading her? Was it all just some last minute ploy by my mind trying to keep me from Faye? How could this stranger's smile be suddenly more familiar to me than Faye's?

The light turned green.

For Mother's Love and Father's Honor

2010-01-21T22:52:00.001-08:00

I remember most the way that Mother's voice would blend into Father's. Mother was always the loving one. She was hopeful, optimistic; she thought each and every one of us would be fine. That we were all going to make it. Father was more pragmatic. He loved us all, of course, he just knew the odds. Of the forty-two of us, only ten or so would really make it on our own. I took solace in knowing that that time was still a long way off, but I still tried hard to listen to their advice.

"I just, I just don't understand, Father." I had finally broken down and said it. My Father explained things to us slowly, carefully, and with tremendous patience. He took time to give the extra detail that my slower siblings needed, but I had always understood right away. He had taken so long with one of them though, that I had zoned out. I hadn't tuned back in until Father was well into another lesson. What chagrined me the most was that he knew it, too.

"Fine," he replied. Patient as always, but I could tell he was frustrated with having to go over it again because of me. It was a warm Spring evening, a light breeze blew around us, and it took all my concentration not to lose myself to the freshly scented air around us. I fought to focus as he continued, "It all comes down to Honor. We all know the odds. Me even more than you. I only know of three of my siblings that made it." His voice got softer as he touched the memory. We could all tell it was hard for him, and we respected him more because of it.

"All of you think you're different. All of you think you're one of the lucky ones who'll survive. All of you think you'll all survive. But soon enough, as you get older, you'll wonder. When you hit the Change a lot of you will lose hope, too. You'll wonder what it's all worth. You'll feel discouraged, sad, and you'll wonder why you even need to give so much effort with so little hope.

"The reason why, even at your darkest, is Honor. You are our people's future. You carry our people's hopes and memories with you, and they are relying on you to give your hardest efforts to carry that burden. That is your Honor..."

His voice would give way to Mother's and she'd remind us again how loved we were. How important we were; how much she wanted us all to make it. And she was so sure we all would. We knew our lives were difficult, but we were still optimistic. We were still growing strong, and we were still strongly connected to them.

Then the Change came. We grew more, but as we did our connection to our Mother and our Father weakened. It was like the bigger and stronger we were, the more precarious the contact. It was frightening, and, sad as I am to admit, Father was right. That loosening made me doubt. Having been so close to everyone in my family for so long, I felt bleak sadness at the thought that I'd soon be alone.

We talked about it amongst ourselves when we thought Mother and Father weren't listening, but I think they always were. There were a few times when I felt like all I had to keep me together was Father's words about honor, Mother's about love, and the confidence they shared in us; different as they were.

It happened towards the end of a late summer evening Mother was telling us how proud she was of us when what felt like the hand of God ripped us out of our home, throwing us aside. Mother and Father were silent long enough that we felt even more distant from them. We huddled together, scared. Finally my Father spoke.

"I'm sorry children," he said with resigned sadness in his voice, "This day was always going to come, it just happened sooner than we wanted. Your Mother and I, well, one of the truths we never told you is that when you leave us, it is our time to sleep forever."

"You mean die?" one of my siblings asked.

"Yes." he said simply. "It is our peoples way. We prepare our children for their release, but once they are gone, there is nothing left for us. The rest is up to you. That day happened sooner. That's all. Just... sooner..." As his voice faded, we felt ourselves feeling more energized. They were giving their essence to us.

My Mother's voice chimed in, calm and demure, "Remember my darlings, I've always loved you. Always..." Her voice trailed off, too, and we never heard it again. But we also knew it was okay. It was what was meant to be. By morning we had all grown substantially, the last gift of our Mother and Father. A breeze came up and, feeling looser and more independent, we knew it was time to scatter with the wind to find our own destinies.

It was a rush like none I'd ever known could exist. I wanted it to never stop, but remembering my Father's words, I stopped myself from drifting when I found a suitable spot. I worked the soil. I put down roots. And I know I'm going to grow strong enough to one day raise children of my own, to tell my story to, and to carry on our traditions as I did.

The same morning that freedom came for the siblings, a man walked out to his lawn. The dandelions he pulled out the night before were still there, but they had all gone to seed overnight, and were already scattered across his lawn. Already dead, they'd given their life to their children.

With a deep sigh he knew that, although he had won the battle, he had lost the war.

About Last Week's #FridayFlash

2010-01-20T22:29:00.000-08:00

"The Light Around the Doorframe" started out all along as horror, it just didn't necessarily begin in quite so disturbing a fashion.

I got up one morning, turned the heater on in the bathroom, left to get breakfast, and when I came back I realized I had left the bathroom light on. The door and frame were silhoutted by a thin line of light around it. Even though I wasn't worried about there being someone, or something, in there, I knew I had a decent framing (ha!) for a story.

I ended up hanging out with some friends while they did homework that evening, so I pounded out the rough draft in about forty-five minutes or so. I let the story rest overnight and went back to it, checking the wordcount. It was at 670 and most of the story was there. The only things missing were the confontations with the fan, the heat lamp, and the vanity light.

My bathroom actually has five switches by the door, fan, heat lamp, overhead, and vanity. (The fifth is I guess there as a back-up.) So I decided that each one would be a different haunting.

I tried to figure out what each haunting would be. The heat lamp immediately suggested itself to a darkroom, and I decided that that would be a good high school darkroom bit. Eduard is not a very good guy, so I figured voyeurism would be right up his alley. I wanted something with the other kids not liking him either, so I used the fan to segway into their laughter. Then came his mother in front of the vanity. Of course.

The original story had the kids laughing at Eduard and his mother being the prototypical alcoholic mom who hated him. A friend read it and it came across as simply depressing. No real suspense, just depressing pity. So I went back and tried to change Eduard into a psychopath. This being late Thursday night, I was only marginally succesful. If that.

All told I spent far more time trying to fine tune the story and add nuances than I did int he first initial writing. The structure of the story, with the alternating of line and paragraph I think worked well to give it a lyrical quality. Since the story is actually taking place more in purgatory than in the real world, I think that's a bene, too.

The Light Around the Doorframe

2010-01-15T00:06:00.000-08:00

Eyes are the window into the Soul.

Eduard woke up.  The blankets were on the floor again, but he was still warm despite the early Winter chill.  He looked into the hallway and saw the light in the bathroom on, lighting the frame of the closed door.  The light in the bathroom, which he turned off every night, was on.  The door he left open every night, was closed.  The light, was on.

Yet Eduard was alone.

He got up, feeling his heart race.  He put on his robe and slippers and slowly, agonizingly, headed towards the door.  He wanted to run.  He wanted to crawl back into bed, pull the covers over his head, and wait for it to all go away.  For the door to be open.  For the light to be off.  For this overwhelming, loathsome dread to be gone.

Still he crept forward.

His slippered feet slid across the carpet.  He grasped the ends of his robe's belt and pulled them tighter.  They were a tangible, physical tie to the real world; an anchor bracing him against this nightmare's edge.  He reached the wall next to the door and let go of the robe's belt.  He felt along the wall and slid his fingers along the smooth wallpaper until they reached the frame.

He clutched his robe.

He put his head to the door and placed his ear on its cold panel.  He listened intently but couldn't hear anything over his rapidly beating heart.  He inhaled deeply, and holding his breath heard voices; the soft, intermingled ghosts of words.  They were as real as the wisps of smoke from an extinguished match, and just as easy to grab.

Hesitantly, he reached for the handle.

A static charge arced from his thumb to the handle, visibly hanging in the air as a crisp blue line.  It bit his thumb hard enough that he yelped in surprise, recoiling from it.  As he turned away the light went out and the door was open.

A shadow stirred.

Eduard watched himself dash into the cold bathroom scarcely aware of what he was doing.  He frantically stabbed for the light switch, desperately trying to cast some light into the Erebus dark.  His hand was pounding all along the wall until he felt the plastic faceplate of the switches and clicked one.

The fan whirred overhead.

The humming fan's drone turned into the harsh laughter that kids save for groups far away from adults.  Eduard felt their eyes boring down on him as he looked at the splintered, plastic remains of his General Lee model.  Joshua stepped on it one last time, grinding it into the ground with his foot, before smirking at Eduard.  Eduard remembered watching that smirk disappear after he pinned Joshua later that afternoon.  When Joshua was alone.  Eduard particularly remembered the smell of the model glue still crusted on the X-Acto knife he used to cut out Joshua's horrified eyes.

The fan stopped and the heat lamp came on.

Its electric drone and ruddy light cast him back to his high school's darkroom.  To the red lit room with the constant buzz of the large, black timer, and the lingering quiltwork of chemical smells.  He felt the developer wet his fingertips as he pushed the print under its surface.  As the image of Alesia changing emerged from the blank page, he felt himself stir and harden.  He was so focused on her bare breast in the picture that he didn't noticed the teacher approaching until it was too late.  Grabbing the print, he ran outside into the light, mourning as the print turned instantly to black.  He would never get another chance to sneak up on her from behind again.

The heat lamp cut out and the vanity lights above the mirror came on.

They showed his Mom sitting in front of the mirror.  The sleeves on her white, silk robe billowed as she put on her make-up.  "You're such a little angel, Eddie, I can't believe you don't have more friends," she droned while preening in front of the mirror.  The open bottle of diet pills had been knocked over again, spilling them unnoticed across the counter.  Her saccharine words washed over him unheard as he jumped up and down behind her, screaming for her to notice him.  Even though she never looked.  Emotionally spent, he slumped behind her, burying his face in his hands and crying.

Finally, mercifully, the main light came on.

The bare, corkscrewed bulb slowly came to life.  It started dimly, but with enough light for him to see the room was now empty.  As its intensity rose, so did Eduard's spirits.  There was nowhere to hide in the little white paneled bathroom, so everything must be gone!  Eduard looked around.  His confidence renewed, he pulled aside the shower curtain with a dramatic flourish as a relief to his obvious delusion.  Laughing, he looked behind the toilet for the Boogey Man.  Giggling, he checked under the sink for evil goblins.  His raucous laughter rose as he made merry of his own imaginings and old embarrassments.

He caught his reflection in the mirror.

His face was sallow, almost bloodless.  His hair was in tattered, mussed patches and his cheeks were cavernously withdrawn.  Even his nose looked pinched and  corrupted.  But the worst was his eyes, or, where his eyes should be.  He looked right through them, right through his head to the door.  It had closed.  Again.  Trapping him inside the mildewed walls of the bathroom.  Again.  Thrusting him back into the endless nightmare of memories.

Eduard's soul had died long before he had.

Has it Really Been 2 Months?

2010-01-13T23:05:00.000-08:00

Yes. Yes it has. The quick update is Thanksgiving, Christmas, a week in California, a week in South Carolina, 6 weeks of 60 hour weeks, 1 trial, a failed attempt at NaNoWriMo, my 21 year old stepson coming back to live with me, and, well, a New Year.

So, more on each in detail a bit later, but for now I wanted to post my New Years Resolutions. For me at least its not the typical half-baked attempt at change that falls by the wayside by February, but more a codification of things I've wanted to take control of and change for awhile now.

(You might notice a theme about use of time, too...)

2010 New Year Resolutions
(1) Write, write, and then write some more at least for 20 minutes a day.
(2) Edit. Take an hour or two on the weekend to revise what has been already been written.
(3) Keep writing blog updated. Participate more in writing conversations.
(4) Take the time to be creative. Use an hour or so a night to be productively creative. Do it instead of just watching TV.
(5) Get Gym membership and work out at least 3 days a week. By the end of 2010 be able to do the P90 series workouts.
(6) Powerwalk the dogs for at least 30 minutes every night, regardless of weather or how "tired" I am.
(7) Be mindful of eating. Think about what I am about to eat, and why I am about to eat it. Make everything I eat a conscious decision. Save "bad" eating for when I am with friends instead of when I am alone.
(8) Be mindful of the money I spend. Don't spend money frivolously, understand that there are times when I simply have to say no to going out with friends, even if it might be embarrasing.
(9) Invest more time in contacting old friends and family.
(10) Don't shy away from confrontations when they are necessary. Also, do not provoke confrontations if they are not necessary. i.e. do the unpleasant tasks that feel like work but still need doing.
(11) Get the sleep I need.

[NaNoWriMo] Behind, But Not Horribly So...

2009-11-08T22:29:00.000-08:00

I'm at 11,907, which is off the pace of 13,333. My friends ar doing better, but I knew there were going to be days this month that I just couldn't write. So, having not written Friday or Saturday, I made up one of those days today, and will make up some of it tomorrow.

The novel is coming along, but my lack of an outline cost me some time tody. Not having a set number of characters means that I didn't have a full plan for the introductory scenes. I debated adding another, but decided that what I have is fine. So now all the repurcussions fall from the prologue.

[NaNoWriMo] A Fifth of Critical Words

2009-11-05T22:50:00.000-08:00

Up to 8,633 words! It was tough getting to the keyboard tonight, still tired, but at least I got it done before Midnight!

I also now realize what my plan is. Granted this is the sort of thing that is supposed to happen first but, as my inner critic was so kind to point out, it is crappy prose. THat being said at the end of the month I will have all, or at least most of the most scenes blocked. I'll know who's there, what they have to do, and how they go about doing it. I'll know if it needs more darkness or more light, more dialogue or less; greater exposition or more action.

Which means that, the second draft will be pretty fine indeed by the time its done, the third will be necessary for polish, and likely the fourth, but after that... Well after that, Hell, "It. Could. WORK!"

[NaNoWriMo] Going Forth on the Fourth

2009-11-05T00:02:00.000-08:00

I'm up to 6,912 words, and am so very, very tempted to add another 88 words of fluff to the last scene just to round it out to an even 7,000. However it is nigh on midnight, and with an oh dark-thirty departure scheduled to get to work, I know I need to let it go. Must to sleep.

[NaNoWriMo] Day the Thirde

2009-11-03T23:38:00.001-08:00

Not the best of days, far too busy, but I'm still past 5,000 at 5,133. It averages out to just over the 1,667 required, but I need to pick up the pace again tomorrow. I also have some days off at the end of the month that should help for a final push if needed.

There's a reason why I'm not a math major...

2009-11-03T08:54:00.001-08:00

So my late night mental math goofed :-/ I'm actually still below 5,000, but not by much. The actual number is: 4,627 words.

I'm still going to try and be past 6,000 by the end of the day...

[NaNoWriMo] Day the Seconde

2009-11-02T23:11:00.000-08:00

I'm up to around 5,000 words. I don't know the exact because I don't remember what my exact total was after lunch. I know it was at least 3,100 but I don't remember what the change was. Add in 1,953 tonight and you have 5,000+ which I rounded down until I can get a full count in the morning.

If you're writing too, keep kicking ass!

It Has Begun!

2009-11-01T22:30:00.000-08:00

2,573 words in. Not bad for no outline and only the barest understanding of how I'm going to get from point A to B.

First Flash Fiction Friday Entry

2009-10-24T14:01:00.001-07:00

I just posted my first Flash Fiction Friday entry. Granted I didn't post it on Friday, but I did write on Friday. Good enough for now, and I hope you enjoy it!