Blonde, Bespectacled, and Dangerous

My first attempt at a western. Let me know what you think of the protagonist. This is a short sketch for the main character. Not quite sure if it's the right tone or not.

~~~

Dean Constance

“And that’s what happens when a girl tries to play a man’s game,” Cutter smirked, pulling the money to his side of the table.

“Oh, you’re right. When men play cards, they win every hand.” She glanced at him over the tops of her glasses, and pushed her cards to the dealer.

“Heh. Yeah we do.” Cutter crossed his arms over his chest.

Josh Garfield shook his head, “You’re an idiot, Cutter.”

“An idiot that’s been winning your money!”

“Another hand?” The dealer asked quietly.

The four nodded and the cards were moved across the table.

The brief interruption of silence ended as bets were made and cards exchanged.

Cutter swore, “What kind of hand is this?” He stood and grabbed the dealer’s shirt, “Are you settin’ the deck on me, you miserable sharp?”

“Sit down,” Josh leaned back in his chair, “Just a bad hand is all.”

“I don’t get bad hands!”

“Excuse me,” the woman knocked softly against the table with the barrel of her revolver, “I’d like to finish this game.”

Josh pushed away from the table.

Cutter blinked, “Are you threatening me?”

“Only by implication,” she smiled.

He reached for his gun, and she shot twice. Cutter stumbled away from the table, and his holster fell from his belt.

She raised an eyebrow, “Guess it’s not an implication anymore, is it?”

A step took Cutter back to the table, and he threw it onto the dealer. She shot again, and blood bloomed from a small hole in Cutter’s boot. He fell to the ground, his eyes bulging.

“This has been fun,” she handed her hat to Josh, and pinned her hair up with a small, sheathed knife. She took her hat back, and stood. “I pass through this town every few months,” she drew her revolver, and put the barrel against Cutter’s ear, “And I’ll make sure we finish this hand.” She pulled the trigger, and the man jerked away from the gunshot.

She holstered her gun and put her hat back on, hiding most of her blonde hair, and walked to the door. At the door she turned back to the silent room and touched the brim of her hat, “Evening, gentlemen.”

The door closed behind her, and Josh let out a breath. “Why the hell would you make a fuss like that, Cutter?!”

“Huh?” Cutter squinted at him, dabbing at the blood trickling out of his ear.

“You’re lucky she didn’t kill you.”

“A woman?” Cutter winced as he tried to stand, collapsing back to the ground, “Why? Who is she?”

“Dean Constance.”

The blood left the man’s face.

Josh Garfield shook his head, “You’re an idiot, Cutter.”

Mexico City

This is my take on two year marriage licenses. Enjoy!

~~~


Felicity

“It’s time David.”

He looked up the newspaper and smiled, “Of course, dear. You look beautiful, by the way.”

“You’re too sweet,” she waved a manila envelope at him, “now let’s work out our marriage like a good couple.”

*

“Salary has gone down, but so has the number of vacation days you were allowed to take.”

“I had to take a pay cut,” David looked uncomfortable, “It was that or lose my job. We’ve talked about this, Shelly.”

She nodded, “I know, babe. But we have to keep every detail fresh in our minds so that we can make an informed decision.”

“Right.”

Papers shuffled across the dining room table, “You only washed 40% of the dishes this past year. Down from 48% the year before.”

He blinked. “You were counting?”

“Weren’t you?” She raised an eyebrow. Then sighed and flipped open a top bound notebook, “It’s a little disappointing that you don’t care about the small things anymore, David.”

“I do care, honey.”

“Mmhmm,” she made a scrawling note several pages into her notebook, “We’ve been averaging less sex each week, and you haven’t been as attentive.”

“Um.”

“And you only got me two gifts for Christmas.”

“You said you liked them!”

“I did, dear. But if it’s a choice between two or three, what do you think you’d choose?”

He ran a hand over his face, “I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about.”

She sighed, “John. Makes six figures,” she met his eyes, “Three times as much as you. And he says he would get me at least five presents each Christmas.”

“This is not a big deal, Shelly! I can get you more presents!”

“It’s not about the presents, David. I can’t believe you’d make this about materialism. This is our marriage we’re talking about.”

“I know, Shelly. I’m just saying –ˮ

“Charlie,” she consulted her notes, “says he’s willing to make a contractual obligation of sex six times a week.”

“That doesn’t mean –ˮ

“He’s a masseuse, David.”

His shoulders slumped.

“It’s a tough field, babe. You won my heart, and I love you very much.” She pushed aside her notes, “But you can’t rest on your laurels. We can’t afford to be complacent.”

“I’ll try harder. I’ll do anything to make you happy.” He leaned across the table and took her hands in his, “I love you.”

She smiled, “And I love you too. But the facts are clear.” She gently pulled her hands away, “You can’t compete.”

The papers were carefully placed back into the manila envelope. She walked around the table and ran her fingers through his hair, “If things change – you can always re-apply in a couple years.”

*

Beginnings vs. Re-Beginnings

I've been in the process (for quite some time) of trying to rewrite the early chapters of my book. It's pretty brutal work, and has proven rather daunting on more than one occasion. However, I recently managed a breakthrough, and would like to share with the world the new introductory chapter of my novel.

~~~

Elegy

“I have chosen you, --.”

He held a thin steel chain. It slid between his fingers with a softly undulant rasp. He caught it as it escaped his palm, and the ring of links traced a pendulous arc.

A stone shone. Gripped in a plain steel setting opposite the clasp. His eyes watched it move.

“From every species, race, and kind; you alone were my choice.”

His horse, an old grey draft, huffed a weary breath past its bridle. He glanced up at the beast, and put his hand to his knee. A breeze caught the fading vapor of the campfire, and cast the few remaining embers at his feet. The smell of smoke lasted only a moment.

She held his face in her hands, “I did not make this choice lightly.”

The moment passed and the scent of blood, sweat, and offal pressed thick into the air as suddenly as it had left. His eyes went to the stone.

“What you have given of yourself has inspired me. Inspired those you have led.

You are a legend to your people. And now your name will never be forgotten.”

Bodies were scattered and broken around the campsite. Bandits. They had no sentry, had set no guard. Their massacre had been quick. Better than they deserved.

She was beautiful. Beautiful as only Crane could be.

He found tears in his eyes. Not from her words.

From the sight of her. She slid her hands to his shoulders,

“You will be my heritage.”

He stood.

“And I will be your sacrifice.”

He sheathed his sword.

“You will grip this world. You will never let it go.”

The grey draft accepted his weight, plodding back to the road with little encouragement. The bodies were soon lost among the trees. The scent suffocated by the fragrance of pine, oak, and maple. He hung the chain around his neck and tucked the stone beneath his shirt.

“I have chosen you, --. You will be my Guardian.”

*

The road was dry. Cobbled stones covered in a gloss of fallen dust. The tread of his old grey sent up plumes that gave a sour metallic taste to the air. He glanced at the road ahead. Another hour and they’d pull even with the rearmost wagons of the caravan.

“You cannot be serious.”

Guardian shook his head, “This is one island, Raven. One. And there are five guardians here. Not counting myself. This is a small war, and I intend to find what caused it.”

“To what purpose?!”

Guardian ground his teeth as he looked down at Raven,

“We used to work well together.”

A shadow passed across the other man’s face, “Those are not my fondest memories.”

“Nor mine.”

He began to walk away, but Raven caught his arm, “Maybe I am not the man I once was, --. But the Kemp started this war. You must fight them with us.”

Guardian looked coldly at Raven’s hand, and the younger man let his arm go, “I know that there is an enemy.” He stepped closer to Raven, “And that enemy is not the Kemp.”

He walked away.

“Who will you fight for? Baylock? The Chiid?!

You abandon your own people, --!”

“Are you listening to me?”

The man called Guardian blinked, and looked up. He had caught up to the caravan.

“Wonderful.” His employer ran a hand across his face, “This is unacceptable. What if bandits had stopped us while you were away? Do you realize what that would mean?”

“Yes, Soyer.”

The stout man pointed along the caravan, “I have, among others, ten women and three children in this caravan. Understand?”

Guardian said nothing.

Soyer took a deep breath, “That constitutes a significant financial liability. The bandits stop me, and I don’t have enough guards, and the toll goes up.” He sighed, “I am not all that wealthy a man.” He set his aggrieved eyes on Guardian, “And I dearly love my money.”

Guardian met the eyes of his employer and the man pointed at his face, “That’s exactly what I’m talking about. You’ve seen things. The bandits can tell the gorillas from trained soldiers. And that’s why I hire you. When it comes down to hard bargaining, you save me as much as the rest of my guards combined.”

He looked away. Soyer flushed. “Well then. Let me make it a little more clear. If you disappear again, you don’t get paid.”

Guardian watched him jerk the head of his mare around, and canter back up the line of wagons.

He watched Raven gallop back to the army. He tasted the sour, metallic

flavor in the dust tens of thousands had pounded into the air.

*

The west gate of Tray Minor was a ramshackle pretension. The frame crooked, the wood warped, the lock rusted through. The town matched the gate. The grey draft blew out an especially loud breath, and Guardian glanced up to see what had caught his mount’s attention.

Smoke hung over the town. A grainy midday nightfall that kept the far side of the town in shadow. No flames. Just a smoldering vapor that thickened by the moment.

It leered over his company. Blue and white flame flashed over his body

and sword as he met the onslaught. A roaring laughter preceded its howl of pain

as the flame pierced its void. It flung itself further into the mountains.

Two figures, wreathed in flames, flashed after it. Two more leapt from mountain top to mountain top to the east. A hand gripped his arm and pulled him to his feet.

He hadn’t realized he’d fallen.

“We’ve almost got him.” Raven clapped him on the shoulder, “Hurry.”

Guardian steadied himself, and glanced back at his company.

The old grey was gaining speed. Its heavy steps thundering along the caravan, past a gaping Soyer, and the dozen or so guards surrounding him. The sounds of their shouts were lost in the power of the galloping draft.

Most were dead. The few that had survived were drooling blood and sputtering nonsense. They were lost. He’d seen it before. He took a step back from the broken bodies of his men, turned away from them, and left them behind.

*

A force of men and Vade swarmed a small party of defenders. Guardian drew his sword and urged more speed from his mount. The beast hit the press of bodies without slowing, and in that one moment the crack of bone was louder than the strike of steel on steel.

The dwarf seized the Juit’s head in his thick hands and beat it against the stone wall.

Blue and white flame sputtered and flowed across the ground as the guardian tried to free himself. His skull cracked, and even with the madness, chaos, and

violence surrounding it – it was the only thing Guardian heard.

An arrow struck deep into the neck of the old draft. It tossed its head, lost its footing, and crashed to the ground with the sound of a thunderclap.

He had leapt from the saddle. He was killing the men and Vade. Defending the gate. Driving them back up the pass.

He drove his sword through the dwarf. Watched the heavy body fall upon the sturdy elegance of the Juit corpse. Raven pulled him back as two Chiid soldiers and a Kemp guardian lunged for him. The Eloora guardian throttled the Kemp from behind,

dragging her back into the deep pool in the corner of the room. One of the Chiid screamed as his bones imploded at the wizard’s word, and Raven cut down the other.

Guardian slipped on the blood, and fell into the dead arms of the Crane.

*

A few of the defenders had followed him. A soft man stayed close behind them, feeding them orders with a calm practicality. Guardian moved too fast to kill all of the men and Vade in the pass. A blue and white flame grew on his body, and moved across the steel surface of his sword.

The town dwindled behind them as he pressed on, higher up and further in. The defenders panted behind him, their numbers steadily dwindling. Blood soaked through the sleeves of his tunic, a stain he felt more than saw. He cut them down, the bodies of both men and Vade littering the pass beneath and behind him, and he wondered if there had ever been a difference. A hulking Vade loomed before him, and brought him to a sudden halt with the brutish power of his blows. The creature’s sickly grey skin bulged with muscle, and its polished white hair was braided in the style of chieftain.

He knocked his enemy’s arm wide, and drew a deep cut along his bicep. The Vade grunted and tried to close the small distance between them. Guardian struck the creature on the temple with his pommel, kicked his feet out from under him, and held his blade to the Vade’s throat.

It spat out a laugh, “If there was two of me you’d be dead by now.”

Guardian met the creature’s eyes and shifted his weight.

“Wait!” A man emerged on a ridge overlooking the pass. “Don’t kill him.”

Nervous footsteps shifted the loose stone of the pass as the soft man crept to him. Alone.

*

It was darker. Colder. The Sighe had left with the Crane. The other races,

thousands of souls, stood together in the fortress and watched upward as the third sun burst apart. The fragments pirouetted across the sky, some growing smaller, others growing larger. His hand sought out Raven’s, and she gripped it tightly.

A wild, convulsing fire consumed the fragments that grew near, their size colossal. Hypnotic. And following close behind them, a Rook blotted out the remaining sun.

Its void convulsed then bloated outward, and the air it touched, the light and sense of it, became a twisted image of what it had once been. The Rook expanded, laughing, howling its pain and delirium until it burst – like the sun had burst –

and a vapor filled the sky where the Rook had once been.

He felt it then. His soul changed. He would never be the same.

*

He turned and thrust his sword through the chest of the soft man. The Vade at his feet blinked. The man on the ridge gaped.

The man called Guardian rested the tip of his sword on the ground, “Let me tell you what has changed.”

*

Stuff Has Feelings Too

You know the feeling you get when your computer keeps on crashing? When your pencil punches a hole in your test? When your red shirt dyes everything in the washer pink? When the toaster burns your toast?

Life can be rough when you count a major appliance as your enemy. But even though giving an inanimate object human characteristics is fun and provides excellent stress relief, I thought it'd be fun to see what would happen if we took the idea just a tiny bit further.

This story clocked in at 260 words, so I'm aiming to put out some more material for you guys soon.

*

Material

“I don’t think it’s too much to ask.” Donny ran his hand through his hair and paced in front of the dining room table.

“I’ve invested in this relationship, okay. I’ve spent time with you. I’ve been supportive. I’ve been affectionate.”

He stopped and thrust his jaw at the sky, “Who gave you a UV protective coating? Who has,” he put a hand on the edge of the table, “buffed each of your delicate contours?”

His bloodshot eyes rolled to watch the center of the table.

“It was me.”

“And the only thing I have ever asked is that you hold my coffee!”

He held his breath as he shrugged, “That’s it. Just, you know, hang on to it for a while.”

“A lot of mugs would appreciate what an easy life you have.”

“But do I get any thanks? No. You betray my trust."

"And on Darlene! She's such a beautiful shag carpet. I love Darlene.”

Donny pulled out his Smith and Wesson 460XVR. “I’m sorry. I thought we could work things out. But you’ve betrayed me for the last time.”

A tear slid down his face as he pulled the trigger. The barrel roared with flame and smoke, and the mug shattered, the table cracked in half, and the bullet pounded a small crater past the linoleum and into the concrete foundation beneath it.

Donny fell to his knees and buried his face in his hands. “Why would you make me do this?”

“You were the world to me.”

*

Excerpts and Apologies

Hello everyone.

Been working on the book. Trying to get stuff written, experiencing difficulties and breakthroughs alike. I have a handful of new short story ideas I had hoped to share with you, but haven't had the chance. My apologies. For now, enjoy this excerpt from A Blade Like Destruction.

*

“Morgan!”

His eyes blinked open to contemplate the blurry wood he had been resting his head on, “I’ll take another,” he slurred, lifting a hand that knocked over his half-filled mug, spilling it on the table.

A voice muttered a curse, and small hands seized his tunic and pulled until he slid off his chair and fell heavily onto the floor.

“Ow.”

“Get up, Morgan. You’ve got a job.”

Morgan turned his head just enough to glare at the girl scowling over him, “If I wasn’t drunk I’d tan your hide.”

The girl sniffed her disdain and kicked him, not quite hard enough to hurt, “And when are you ever not drunk, Morgan?”

“I sleep sometimes.”

“You pass out.”

“Well,” Morgan paused reflectively, “That’s when I get sober.”

“Get up, you’ve got a job.”

Morgan attempted pushing himself to his knees; failing the first time, succeeding the second, “Is it my imagination, or are you getting meaner by the day, Sissa?”

She took a deep breath, “It’s a big one this time, Morgan.”

“Who?”

The girl looked over her shoulder and nodded her head to the corner of the room. Morgan heaved himself upright and tottered behind the girl as she nervously moved as far away from the window as the small room allowed.

Morgan shook his head and laughed, “Who’s gonna spy on us, Sissa? You’re the Ear, kid. And if that wasn’t enough, I’m the Knife.”

“Not just any Knife, Morgan. You’re the oldest. The best.”

“Kinda my point, kid.”

Sissa lowered her voice, “You know this guy.”

“I’ve known a lot of people I’ve killed,” Morgan shrugged, “It comes with the job.”

“People like Zhiul?”

Morgan cocked a smile and looked down at the girl, “Are you testing my loyalties, Sissa?”

“Maybe,” she crossed her arms, “You weren’t the same after you killed Zhiul.”

“Your father met your mother a few years after that happened, so you don’t really have any idea at all what I was like before I killed Zhiul.”

“You didn’t drink.”

“Did to.”

“There’s a difference between having a few mugs of ale, and making yourself a walking inland sea of rotgut, Morgan.”

“Maybe I was working up to it.”

Sissa smiled, but just for a moment, “There’s some strangers in town, staying at the Open Hand.”

“All of them?”

“Yeah, but one has priority.”

Morgan rubbed a hand over his face and tried to clear his head, “Which one?”

“Male, you’ll know which.”

“Fine. Anything else I need to know?”

She paused, “Be careful.”

Morgan looked at her sharply, “What’s that?”

“Nothing.”

He slapped her hard and grabbed her by the front of her shirt, “Don’t you dare cross that line, kid. The Ear doesn’t give a damn about how careful I am,” he towered over her, watching the blood flush over her cheek as it began to bruise, “Or have you forgotten that our mommy ain’t the type to tuck us in at night?”

“The Lady is good,” Sissa whispered.

Morgan spat and let go of her shirt, “I’ll be back when they’re dead.”

*

A Story for My Darling Wife

I asked her what she would like to see me write a story about. She replied, "A pond."

~~~

Ontogenesis

Source / n.

The fountainhead of water from which a stream or river is created.

Creek / n.

A small stream. The fourth cousin, twice removed, of river. See: Pariah

Tired / adj.

A state of being. Where one is weary or exhausted. Drained.

Tired / v. [transitive]

The process through which one becomes modified by Tired / adj.

Pond / n.

A collection of water grown still. A place of reflection and peace.

Life / n.

Vitality. The condition of finding oneself surrounded by unrelenting change.

Fish / n.

The creatures that live in Pond, and give of their life to ornament its own.

Fish / v. [intransitive]

The occasional attempt to capture and remove Fish from Pond.

Willow / n.

A friend and constant companion. Who drinks from the shallow bounty of Pond, and who faithfully watches over it.

Contentment / n.

The state following a realization of an idyllic Life. The place in which a lasting joy might be found.

Drought / n.

A sudden lack of change.

Famine / n.

The death that follows a lack of change. When Pond is drained by the animals that come from far distant places. When the Fish living in Pond die for want of water.

Loyal / adj.

Willow. The friend that endures.

Populate / v. [trans.]

When People come to stay. When they block off Source, and cut down Willow.

Pariah / n.

When Pond is nothing more than rock, dirt, and sand. When Willow can no longer watch over Pond.

Storm / n.

A violent change.

Storm / v. [intrans.]

When heaven scrubs clean the face of the earth. When a new Source tears a path through the ground and finds Pond. When Pond fills with fresh water.

Love / n.

The way Pond feels for Willow.

Love / v. [trans.]

When Pond gives of its life to sustain its friend.

Healing / v.

The slow restoration of Contentment

Healing / adj.

The effect Pond’s care has on Willow –

Bloom

*

Birthday Waits Not for Sweet Inspiration!

May and June birthday cards for work. I had fun.

~~~

X,

Did you know that the word “birthday” comes from an ancient Viking word for hockey puck? It’s true. Several hundred years ago, before fire but long after synthesized plastics, Vikings celebrated great victories by playing hockey.

Apparently you could only eat dinner after scoring a goal, and when you did everyone would shout, “Happy Birthday!”

It caught on, and the world’s never been the same.

I hope that your variety of Viking tradition is every bit as earth-shattering as it was back then.

Dan

~~~

X,

It’s a little known fact that when someone is as good a student as you are, birthdays count for double. So instead of just getting one year older, you’re actually gonna be TWO years older.

But you’re not just a good student, you’re a really good student, and really good student birthdays count for five.

And pretty frequently you’re an amazing student – which are worth twenty.

Occasionally you border on spectacular, and spectacular student birthdays are the same as fifty normal birthdays.

Happy Birthday, buddy. You’re a LOT older than me…

Dan

~~~

X,

So, I was looking for fun things to get you on your birthday. I checked out a fun rumor, listened to a fun song, rode a fun horse, read a fun book, pealed a fun potato, and lived in a fun house. But nothing was quite fun enough until I found the Fungus. I know what you’re thinking, ‘cause I thought it to – is the Fungus anything like the fun bus?

It’s not.

Does the Fungus make a fun fuss?

It doesn’t.

So I shredded the Fungus, turned it into fun paper, and constructed this fun card. Because you should have the very funnest of birthdays.

Dan

~~~

X,

A birthday haiku:

Science agrees that

Luca is older than the

Ninja bug assumes.

~~~

X,

So I was planning on giving you a special karate belt for your birthday. Maybe the daring duckling or outrageous ostrich belt. I browsed the various shades of blue balloon, yellow yak, and red radish belts.

I even briefly considered the purple, polka-dotted, pleasantly plump platypus belt!

But I couldn’t. You’re just too advanced.

Dan

Personality Classification

Introvert vs. Extrovert.

Ostensibly, the idea is that all of humanity can be split into two classes: those that are inwardly focused, and those that are outwardly focused. As interesting as that idea is, its not really thought of that way anymore.

These days, it means that either you like people. Or you don’t.

I’m an introvert. So I don’t like people.

You can see why I dislike this system.

I’ve been thinking about the two types of people out there and came to conclusion. Extroverts love this system. Who’s seen as the quintessential extrovert? The social butterfly. The girl (or guy) who loves to be around people, who everyone tries to be like and tries to be around, and who always has the best jokes and conversations at the party.

And who’s the quintessential introvert? The homebody: unkempt, unfashionable, agoraphobic, antisocial , and most likely a serial killer.

But what irritates me the most, is that the underlying assumption is that social interaction is the single most defining attribute of one’s identity. Or at least, one’s personality. To an extrovert – this makes sense. To me?

Not so much.

I thought about what a system would look like if it was based on a person’s movement – both physical and metaphorical. This story is the product of those thoughts.

~~~

Victoria

“It is such a beautiful day!” She grinned and twirled, skating ahead in a rush of ecstatic energy before rushing back to him as he critically examined the clear blue above them.

“Yeah.” He agreed. “It’s nice out.”

“Thanks for going on a walk with me.”

“Well,” he smiled wryly, “you can’t stay in all the time.”

She laughed, “Nope.”

Her figure flitted ahead, disappearing among the mingling victorias. There were a few pedestrians, one pushing an elderly inert in a wheelchair. He slowed and sat on a park bench, and looked back up at the ascendants pirouetting across the sky.

“They’re so beautiful.” She was back, leaning against him. Watching the ascendants fly.

“A bit too light on their feet, for my taste.”

“When we die and go to heaven,” she smiled, “I bet everyone there will be an ascendant. Not a fud like you.” She laughed to show she was joking. Mostly.

He blinked when one of the flying forms swooped down and landed before them. She sat straighter and ran a hand through her hair. “Hi.”

“I noticed you watching. Would you like to come with me?” The ascendant didn’t look at him. They didn’t often notice pedestrians.

“But…” She glanced at her companion, “I’m just a victoria. How -”

“I’ll carry you.” He stretched out his hand, and she took it.

A moment later they were together in the sky. The ascendant spun her around, and she laughed for the joy of it. She didn’t look down.

Back on the bench, the pedestrian looked down at his feet. He stood and walked back home.

Explorations in Not-Quite-Steampunk

Hello everyone,

I'm thinking about making this a series. Let me know if you think I should.

~~~

Intersection

Sand tapped the side of his glass as he stared out the window. He glanced at the clock set into the center of the table, then turned a gear on its side to check the barometer.

Mercury was falling. Nightfall soon.

The crystallized gas in his drink leaked globules of luminescent green and orange, a sulphurous shade that changed depending on how the light hit it. The crystal itself glowered at the bottom, shrouded by the thicker veil of darkness between its surface and the glass holding it.

He downed the near black fluid, grimacing at the watered down taste.

“Another?” An aproned man asked him from behind his counter on the other side of the coach.

Sand shook his head, and stood to give the man a few amber coins. As he reached the counter, a small device spluttered and clicked beside the bartender. The man turned and pulled out a narrow piece of paper fed to him from between two rollers. “The conductor says we’ll be traveling through nightfall.” He looked up from reading it, “Should be a fresh morning twilight by the time we reach Woodburn.”

Another coin dropped onto the counter, “Then have yourself a drink. To nightfall and the day that follows it.”

“Thank you, sir.” The man grinned, “To daybreak it is.”

*

“Dammit, Timmy!”

“My observations show that your projected frustration has an eighty-nine percent chance of indicating agreement with my preceding deductions.” Timmy coolly replied, brushing soot from his polished bronze casing.

The healthy black sclera of Captain J’s eye flushed a deep purple, “You just blew up a second pelluciphage!”

“Something I warned you would happen. Just as I mentioned a moment ago.”

“And I told you, and Cass, to deal with it!”

“Of course. You wanted us to blow it up then. My mistake.”

“We have a nightfall about to hit below us, you tin can.”

“Copper. Tin is merely an additive.”

“ – and we’re losing altitude. Which means if this doesn’t get fixed, and soon, we’ll be in the thick of it.”

“It is fortunate my moving parts have a protective coating. It isn’t likely that I’ll rust.”

Captain J turned to Cass, “Get it done.”

She sighed, “We’ll do our best, Captain.”

The big man stormed out of the boiler room, and Timmy let some steam out of a facial valve with a sigh. “It’s his fault.”

“He knows.” Cass patted the automaton on the shoulder, “He’s just worried about the storm we’re flying into. It looks to be a bad one.”

“Typical male response. You should have flogged him for the way he spoke to you.”

The corner of her mouth quirked upward, “Maybe when we get back in town.”

*

“Where’s the nearest Berc settlement, Kioja?” Captain J joined the Lightbender at the helm.

“The city of Woodburn.” The grey-skinned man’s accent lay thick across the calm of his voice, “If we didn’t lose too much fuel, we should make it easily.”

“And provided nightfall doesn’t blow us too far off course.”

“How bad?”

“Cass kept things pretty small. We only lost the fuel that was actually in the pelluciphage at the time.”

“Didn’t Timmy say –”

“Yes, dammit. He did.”

“Ah.”

The steady descent of the airship gave them a good look at the billowing darkness below them. The captain sighed. “Better go below, Kioja. This’ll be a rough one.”

*

Sand hung outside the coal car, shining a luminesce to check the charges he had placed along the bottom edge next to the wheels. Assuring himself they were secure, he pulled himself up and gripped his way along the side of the car, carefully avoiding the wide brass steam pipes. A massive droplet of darkness fell on his forehead, and he cursed, forcing himself to move faster. His luminesce hung from his neck, but he could still only barely see the metal no more than an inch in front of him. If he didn’t make it into the locomotive in a few moments, the nightfall would wash him from his perch.

Another drop hit his face and he began to feel moisture sliding down his fingers, the water tracing voids across the back of his hand that his dim luminesce couldn’t penetrate. Thunder snarled above him, and he fought the trembling in his arms. He reached the corner of the car and pulled himself onto the narrow platform between the coal car and the locomotive. Only one deep breath later he slid open the portal and stepped only a few feet from two stupefied conductors.

“You’re not -” The words stuck in his throat as Sand shot him through the eye, the yellow and brown metal of his flintlock pistol reflected by the light of the furnace. Smoke drifted out the barrel as Sand struck the second conductor in the throat, and slammed his head against the thick glass of the window, sending a wide crack across the middle. He flipped the gun in his other hand, gripping it by the barrel, and struck the man on the temple with the butt of the pistol. The second conductor slumped to the ground, and Sand tucked his flintlock into the holster hidden under his vest.

*

Hope Fitzgerald kept herself from sneering at the other passengers. Most were Bercs. The few other Aubadeans were hardly worth mentioning. Her companions shared her distaste, but failed to realize the importance of concealing it.

“This whole mission is ridiculous,” Natalie hissed; her voice a bit loud for Hope’s taste. “Everything we’ve learned from science shows that –”

“Keep your voice down.” She met the eyes of the tall azure calmly.

Parthena, who managed both beauty and a dazzling mane of pure white despite her low bloodline, sniffed disdainfully at her caution, “The Bercs are not remotely intelligent enough to understand the conversation of an airborne woman.”

Hope simply met her eyes, and the two younger women lapsed into a disgruntled silence. She wished, not for the first time, that she had been sent alone.

*

The sail was furled. Kioja had checked fuel levels and closed the gas release valves. Cass and Timmy had fired up the propellers, and the temperature of the third and fourth pelluciphage engines was stable for the time being.

Cass stood beside him, watching the distance to the cloud bank below them diminish. “How bad will it be?”

Captain J cast a sidelong glace at her, “How high up does your family live?”

“Nine and a half kilometers.”

“So you have what? Two, maybe three dozen nightfalls a year?”

“That sounds about right.”

The captain nodded, “How long do they last?”

“When I was six years old there was a nightfall that lasted a full cycle.”

“Nights are longer on the ground.” He moved the wheel slightly, and the airship turned smoothly in response. “The storms can be worse, but they often aren’t. Most cycles hover somewhere between day and night.” He shrugged, “We’ll be blown about a bit, but we should be fine.”

He glanced at her, “Best go below now, Cass. It won’t be long now.”

“Aye, Captain.”

“Be sure to latch the door behind you.” Captain J flipped on the nightlumen.

A heavy bar thunked into place a moment later, just as the hull breached the midnight vapor.

*

Sheets of darkness rushed across the tracks ahead, as Sand eased the throttle forward. A sharp crack of thunder punctuated the pounding drone of the nightfall. He glanced upward. Still no sign of daybreak. He took his hand off the throttle. No point in derailing prematurely. He left the control panel and began wrestling the two dead conductors into the furnace.

*

Hope tensed.

“We’re accelerating.”

Parthena grunted, “Wonderful. Maybe it will get us through this blasted storm quicker.”

Hope forced away a grimace, “It’s against rail policy to accelerate in a nightfall.”

“Sabotage?” Natalie raised an eyebrow.

“Inquire.” Hope replied. “Discretely.”

*

Captain J didn’t bother checking the lifeline tied to his belt. He bent close to the altimeter, struggling to see through the pouring darkness obscuring its glass cover. He wiped the surface clean.

1500 meters

He began leveling the ship allowing it to jerk erratically from side to side with the chaotic winds of the storm.

*

Cass watched the altimeter. “We’re dropping below 1000 meters. Why are we still descending?”

“He’s attempting to exit the cloud bank. Visibility is marginally better below midnight than within it.” Timmy didn’t interrupt the vigorous polishing of his casing.

“Isn’t that dangerous?”

“Very.”

“What are our chances?”

Timmy continued polishing, but looked up at his mistress. “Captain Jedediah Marcellus is one of the most gifted Aubadean captains alive.”

It took her only a moment to realize the automaton had avoided her question.

*

Kioja sat cross-legged in the observatory, staring through the window below him in the hull. He watched for the ground, or for the darkness to diminish.

The ship shook from the turbulence, veering wildly from side to side, but they never dropped too rapidly. Kioja smiled and turned to his formulas. As beautiful as the motion was, a window was never much help during a nightfall.

He began computing the maximum variation advisable from the course to Woodburn given the amount of fuel they carried and power they produced.

He waited for daybreak.

*

Sand lounged in a corner of the locomotive, dozing. His repose was deceptive, but it helped him rest his body. The assassin had few opportunities to sleep, so he had to make do with less potent alternatives.

His eyes popped open when he realized he could see across the small room. He glanced up out the window.

The huge billowing shapes of darkness in the sky could be seen. Sand found himself grinning.

*

“None of the women I spoke to knew what was going.” Parthena threw herself into the seat, “The wretched creatures seemed surprised I spoke to them.”

“Did you speak to a man? One who works in the train, perhaps?” Hope glared at the woman, and forced herself to form her words calmly.

Parthena looked surprised, “Why would I ask a male? It would only have been a waste of time.”

Hope bit back a reply, as she caught sight of Natalie walking up the aisle towards them.

“Please tell me you have some solid information.”

Natalie nodded, “The train wasn’t scheduled to accelerate at all for the rest of the trip. When I told him it was against rail policy, the bartender reassured me that the conductors must have a good reason for doing so.”

“‘Him’?” Parthena wrinkled her nose in disgust. “Why would you talk to a male?”

Hope slapped Parthena, and the Aubadean woman jerked across her seat, striking her head against the back of her chair. “Things are different here, child. Among the Bercs we will treat males with courtesy and respect, because these filthy creatures allow men to hold power.”

Natalie put her hands in her lap, watching the exchange without expression.

Hope composed herself, “Go to the locomotive. Demand to know what is going on. Report back to me when you know.”

The two women rose quickly from their seats, and both were careful to avoid her eyes as they left.

*

Kioja looked down, just as the clouds finally broke, and sunlight streamed through the fast-widening gaps to the ground below. Dark green grass, trees with wide branches and many colored leaves. He frowned.

A train hurtled across the countryside below them. A passenger train.

He rose to get Timmy.

*

“You! Why is this train going so fast?”

Sand froze in the act of shoveling more coal into the furnace. Then slowly turned, “One of the passengers is pregnant. We’re trying to make Woodburn so she can give birth in a hospital.”

Two Aubadean women, one with deep blue hair draped across her black skin, the other with brilliant white.

Sand gauged the distance carefully.

“Slow the train down.” The white-haired one said, “We will not be endangered for the needs of a Berc woman. Have one of your employees tend to –”

The coal shovel crashed into her head, and she fell senselessly against her companion. The tall azure jerked behind the body as Sand fired his pistol, and the ball buried itself in the chest of her companion.

The woman hurled the corpse at Sand, and then charged him.

He narrowly avoided the body of the white-haired woman, but stumbled back when the azure struck him viciously across the face. He let her beat him, stumbling further back as she did.

She closed the distance, and kicked him in the stomach. He folded over her leg, seized it, twisted her around, and flung her into the furnace. He kicked the door closed on her screams.

*

Hope watched the clouds break, and blinked at the form of an airship keeping pace with the train. She glanced at the clock in the center of the table. Ten minutes.

Her fingers tapped the wooden surface of the table, then she stood and walked to the rear of the train.

*

“It is going far in excess of the Rail Alliance’s speed regulations.”

Cass, Kioja, and Timmy watched the train from the observatory.

“How much faster?” Cass asked.

“Easily greater than twice the maximum speed.” The gears on the side of Timmy’s head kept sluggish pace with his calculations. “It could derail at any moment.”

“I will tell the captain.” Kioja rose to his feet.

*

Sand strapped himself between the wings of the flying device he had hidden atop the first passenger car. One small pelluciphage engine thrummed against his stomach, and lifted him into the air. He kept pace with the train for only a moment, then raced away, dropping so that his craft was only a foot above the ground.

He brought it to a halt several hundred feet away and watched the train until the boiler exploded. Then turned and fled to Woodburn.

*

She was standing on a platform behind the caboose when she heard the explosion, then a secondary explosion, and felt the train jerk as the first few cars derailed. She leapt.

And felt the bones in her legs and one of her arms crack as she hit the ground.

*

Cass gaped as the train derailed, hurling the huge boxes of metal along its length into rabid tumbles across the flat countryside along the rail.

The smoke from the explosions obscured their view for a moment, then they sped past. The train disappeared in moments from the limited vantage of the observatory, but the airship slowed, then turned around.

Cass and Timmy shared a glance.

“Interesting,” said Timmy.

*

Hope tried to pull herself away with her left arm when she saw the Berc man running towards her. He reached her in a moment, and she pulled a knife.

He knelt over her. “My name is Kioja. If you let me help you, we will see that you receive medical attention. If you prevent me, you will die.”

She glanced at the mangled shape of her legs, and felt the small motion of her breath shoot waves of pain across her chest and back.

She sheathed her knife. “Very well."

*

Petry Fables - Episode 1: Meet the Petrys

Everyone’s heard of the Petrys. You may think you haven’t. You might entertain the thought that theories of familial thematic excellence propagated popularly are pre-Petry.

They’re not.

You know those Vikings that showed up in North America 500 years before Columbus?

Petry.

The Mongolian horde that laid the epic smackdown on pretty much every European army and kicked down the gates of Rome just to shake the Pope’s hand before gallivanting away from the metaphorical sunset?

Petry.

Hercules?

Samson?

Han Solo?

Chuck Norris?

All Petry.

The Black Knight from Monty Python?

Double Petry.

You may still entertain a few near-blasphemous skepticisms, and even though they’re not understandable, redeemable, forgivable, tractable, or phantasmagorical in any sense – I’ll ignore them. For now.

There are six Petrys primarily. Others exist, and possess equally epic traits, but the core of the Petry mythos lies in five essential personas. They’ve gone by many names, of course, so for the purposes of this highly official fable I’ll have to construct names that are entirely incidental collections of phonetic chaos. I doubt you’ll be able to pronounce them…

Ray, Empress Divine. Who shoots sunbeams from her eyes and lightning from her fingertips. Time and space are the putty of her potter’s wheel. The wool of her warp and woof. The meme of her mime and metaphor.

Stefon Redbeard, the Muscle. He bench presses tectonic plates. Runs the lightyear last year. And crushes littered pop cans with a single bound.

The Ninja. I used to know his name. Then he killed me. Thrice. I haven’t tried to remember it…

Hope Eternal, Warrior Benefactress. Imagine Mother Theresa and Joan of Arc combined. She is the fearsome conglomerate of all things kind and dangerous. She crosses the road, and gives it a bandage afterwards.

Danger, the Brain. He was using the Pythagorean theorem when he was still in the womb. He invented the wheel AND sliced cheese.

Joshimika, the Sidekick. Who will kick any side! Your good side. Your bad side. Your underside. He will kick it with his fearsome, patent-pending, Kick of Penultimate Doom.

I understand that it’s a lot to take in. The revelation of Petry awesomeness always is. My hope is that with some candid realism, a bit of prayer and fasting, and the tender mercies of God Almighty upon your sadly deficient soul, you’ll realize the world is a better place shuddering under the weight of their collective magnificence.

That or we’re all doomed…

One of the two.

*

A More Cheerful Kind of Post

I realized that most of the stories I've shared thus far are a bit grim. I decided to try something a bit lighter. No doubt this will brighten your day and illuminate your perspective.

~~~

The Recovering Ecstatic

Sunlight streamed through the blinds, forcing the deepening shadows around effulgent bars of slowly falling dust. The second hand clicked the circumference of the expression on a pale yellow clock. It was the only accompanying sound. Lamps, attentive with their carefully balanced hats, stood in corners, knelt on tables, or watched from the ceiling. The warm symmetry they could have beamed into the room disused and neglected.

Her feet were pulled onto the chair beneath her, and pleated cloth draped around her shins. A high collar framed the skin of an elegant neck that shuddered with her shallow breath. The windows muted a motor’s whir and shift as her husband’s car entered the driveway. A tear tiptoed from the corner of her eye, and she hastily wiped it away, smudging her mascara.

The key grated smoothly into the lock, spinning a quarter turn before the knob wrenched around and the door swung open.

“I’m home, Martha.” He closed the door behind him, and stood for a moment as he let his eyes adjust. A smooth black sport coat hung over a white silk sleeve, and it whispered movement as he bent to put down his briefcase.

“Martha?” A step ushered him into the living room.

“Oh, John!” She rushed to her husband, throwing her arms around him. “I have something horrible to tell you. It’s awful. I just can’t bear it any longer!”

His arms wrapped around her. Strong. Comforting. Confused. “What is it?”

“I –” She trembled, “Oh god, it’s so terrible, I don’t want to tell you.”

“No matter what it is,” he ran a hand across her hair, “I’m here for you.”

“I’m an ecstatic.”

The slow, comforting motion of his hand faltered for a fraction of a moment.

“I’m an ecstatic, John.” She repeated, burying her face into his chest and sobbing brokenly.

“It’s okay,” he blinked rapidly, “It’s not your fault.”

“But I should have stopped! Oh, I’m so ashamed.”

“No.” His voice was firm. He pulled away and looked her in the eye, “You have nothing to be ashamed of. You are my darling wife, and I love you. This is a terrible sickness, but we’ll get you better.”

They kissed, and then held each other.

“I’m so sorry, John.”

“It’s okay. You’re sick. You’re a sick, sick woman. We’ll get you help. We’ll make you better.”

*

“You cannot be serious!”

“The CPMC issued a statement –”

“It’s a crime! It is against the –”

“The CPMC issued a statement! that happiness can be used medicinally to great effect.”

“The South American drug trade has cost hundreds, maybe thousands, of people their lives,” her voice rose to be heard over the applause of the studio audience, “Buying illegal substances, like happiness, contributes to that legacy of violence. It is a crime for a reason.”

More applause.

“But physically, there is little evidence that happiness causes harm.”

Audience disapproval, “The FDA has correlated the use of happiness with an increased likelihood of asthma, myopia, and heart disease.”

“Not to mention how easily addicting the substance is!”

Loud agreement.

“Even if it was legal. Even if was perfectly healthy. Happiness has been clinically proven to be four times more addictive than marijuana, three times more addictive than alcohol, and twice as addictive as heroine. An ecstatic suffers extreme compulsions that negatively impact every aspect of their lives, and their suffering should be measured on the same scale with which we view every other dangerous substance.”

“Stay with us through the break for more discussion of the dangers of happiness. This is Sherri.

Liz.

Jill.

Victoria.

and Elaine and you’re watching Modern Woman.”

*

“My name’s Steve, and I’m an ecstatic.”

“Hello, Steve,” they replied. Their faces, a montage of city life, watched him with a mild supportive interest.

“This is my third year off happiness. I still struggle. Since I was laid off last year it’s been hard. I’d find myself looking up amusement parks on the internet. Buying cakes, candy bars, coffee. I returned them. I thought that maybe by walking mere inches from my addiction would make me feel better.”

“It didn’t. It only reminded me of what my life was like before. Binge eating, spending my time at work looking up jokes and magic tricks, ruining my marriage by refusing to talk about anything remotely serious. Losing sleep to eight hour Bejeweled sessions. I’d go on romantic comedy marathons, action flick marathons, even the occasionally really-stupid-movie marathon.”

Some laughter.

Steve smiled, “Anything that would keep me happy. Instead of giving my wife my attention and love, I’d want to go out or have sex. If she suggested anything else, I’d just avoid her.”

“I was a monster. I was controlled by my need for happiness. I had to feel that flush of positive emotion. I would sacrifice anything or anyone that stood between me and my craving. But not anymore.”

“I’m free of it. I’m okay with being sad. Or even just mediocre. There’s a satisfaction to be found in accepting reality. The urge still hits me to just feel good and pretend that the uglier parts of my life or the world don’t exist. For people like us, it won’t ever completely go away. I can accept that now. But it doesn’t mean I have to give in. It doesn’t mean that I have to let happiness destroy my family again.”

“Thank you for letting me share.”

Soft applause.

*

“Sir, put it down. Put it down now.”

Sweat beaded on the teen’s forehead, “Just a little hungry, officer.”

“I’ve seen your type before, kid. Put it down.”

“I’m having a rough day, okay?!” His voice broke. His hands fumbled with the wrapper.

The officer kept a hand on his gun as he talked into his receiver, “I have a 5150. Code 3.” He pointed, “I said put it down, kid!”

The teen shoved the candy into his mouth, threw the wrapper at the police officer, and darted away with a frightened look over his shoulder.

“Dammit!”

He barreled down the aisle, tripping over the sunglasses rack that the junkie had knocked over, “Stop him!”

The cashier cringed away from the wild-eyed teen, but just as he crashed against the door that said “PULL” a trucker pushed his way in. “That you, Donnie?” The big man scratched his jaw, “You don’t look so good.”

Donnie had barely got into his feet when the officer tackled him.

“Paul! Help me, Paul!”

The big trucker shifted his weight uncomfortably.

“Stop fighting me, kid! Do not resist!”

They crashed into a shelving unit, knocking it – and chips, batteries, flashlights, gloves, icescrapers – on the ground.

“Paul! Paul!”

Paul took a step forward, then a step back again.

Donnie thrashed wildly as the officer pulled a can of pepper spray from his belt. The teen thrust his head beneath a particularly large pile of chip bags, but polymer resin packages offered scant protection.

The officer knelt on Donnie’s back as he handcuffed the teen. He muttered irritably under his breath, and marched his teary-eyed and sputtering prisoner out the door just as several squad cars screamed up the street and into the lot.

Paul bought a candy bar.

*

“Honey, I’m making manicotti. You like manicotti.”

“Later. I’m wasting noobs.” A grim smile spread across Jessica’s face as she sniped an enemy with her ballistic knife. “Heh.”

Her husband stood behind her, holding the glass dish with oven-mitted hands. He sighed and went back into the kitchen.

The sounds of gunfire, explosions, and distorted guitars, with a vaguely near-Eastern vocal accompaniment and rave-style drumming, filled the silence he left behind. Jessica didn’t seem to mind.

“Honey.”

“I told you, not now.”

The television blipped a farewell as her husband pulled the plug. Jessica started hyperventilating. “What did you do?!

She looked over and jumped as she realized that ten people were in her living room. Some related, some just friends. She looked at her husband, “What are these people doing here, Michael? I was one kill away from attack dogs, okay? One kill!” She put down the controller, and put a hand to her chest, “I can’t believe this.”

“This is worse than the game, Jessica.” Michael looked heartbroken, “This is happiness.”

“You like it as much as I do,” she snarled, “We were happy together!”

“No,” he shook his head, “Maybe once we were. But I haven’t been happy in years, Jessica. And I’m not going back to that life. It’s wrong. If you could see through the stupor of this drug, you’d see that. We’re not happy together, honey. You’re happy all by yourself.”

Her hands were already shaking, “I’ll call the police. I have rights.”

“I’ve already called them.” He sighed, “The paramedics are on their way.”

She screamed and lunged at him, clawing at his face, “I won’t let you! I won’t be anything but happy!” Her relatives and friends clung to her, holding her down as Michael watched her and wept.

*

Michael leaned over a dog-eared pamphlet in the small room. He tried hard to focus.

Unlike other drugs, happiness can have several sources. Only resort to an intervention if a loved one exhibits many or all of these symptoms:

1. Recurrent failure (pattern) to resist impulses to engage in acts resulting in happiness.

2. Frequently engaging in those behaviors to a greater extent or over a longer period of time than intended.

3. Persistent desire or unsuccessful efforts to stop, reduce, or control those behaviors.

4. Inordinate amount of time spent in obtaining happiness, being happy, or recovering from a happy experience.

5. Preoccupation with the behavior or preparatory activities.

6. Frequently engaging in happiness-inducing behavior when expected to fulfill occupational, academic, domestic, or social obligations.

7. Continuation of the behavior despite knowledge of having a persistent or recurrent social, academic, financial, psychological, or physical problem that is caused or exacerbated by the behavior.

8. Giving up or limiting social, occupational, or recreational activities because of the behavior.

9. Resorting to distress, anxiety, restlessness, or violence if unable to engage in the behavior.

“You did the right thing, Michael.” Dr. Evans brushed her hair over an ear as she entered. “She exhibits all the hallmarks of ecstatic behavior.”

“Will she be okay?”

“An addiction to happiness is a debilitating mental illness. The physical purge will likely be over in a couple months, depending on how much is in her system. Psychologically –” She made a note on her clipboard, “Much longer.”

“Can I see her?”

“Not just yet, I’m afraid. We had to sedate her quite heavily. Right now she’s watching Pan’s Labyrinth.”

“Pan’s Labyrinth?”

“It’s like a happiness enema. It’s FDA approved, don’t worry.”

“Oh.”

“Be sure and check yourself for symptoms in the coming weeks. Performing an intervention is a traumatic experience for married couples. You’ll be especially vulnerable in the coming weeks.”

“I understand.”

“Have a good day. And don’t worry about Jessica. We’ll do everything we can to make sure she never wants to be happy again.”

*