An Old Dog's Trick

A holographic matrix, light-bending technology and even more arcane technological methods made the XIS-25 the first plane that would be invisible, not only to electronics, but even to the naked eye.

As an old fighter jock turned test pilot, Fortescue wasn’t sure he liked the idea. There was no artistry, no skill to flying it. It was the harbinger of a new age in which he didn’t belong. Or was it?

Setting the craft into a steep dive over the volcanic glass hills, he wondered how long it would take them to find invisible wreckage against such a stark background.

Artistic Expression

Like the great masters of the Renaissance, Fleur considered himself to be no less of an artist, no less a creator of timeless beauty and no less a conduit of creative force. Unlike those worthies, he did not express his soul through the medium of crude pigments smeared upon rough and vulgar squares of cloth.

For Fleur, every constructed edifice of any sort served as the potential canvas for his genius; genius that he applied through the inspired ministrations of his most beloved instrument: fire.

An artisan of flame, Fleur possessed the knowledge to create it in any of the hues of the rainbow, through the mere introduction of chemical magic: strontium chloride for red, sodium chloride for yellow, copper sulfate for green, copper chloride for blue…these and dozens more were his to command.

He trailed the calcium chloride out and set the match to it, reveling in the orgy of apricot and cantaloupe, of carrot and coral, of peach and tangerine and so many more that were the wondrous nuances, the subtle shadings, the delightful permutations of his most favored of flames: orange. 

Predator Denied

Shal Khar entered the icy river hungrily. This morning, the grizzled predator desired fish. Tensed for the kill, his concentration was unexpectedly shattered.

“Hey, old dude! Get outta the trough! We all gotta drink from that y’know.”

Shal Khar glared at the young tiger. Sighing, he slowly stepped out. Another day of life in captivity began. 

Reminders

They seemed so natural lying on the stony cobbles of the farmhouse walk, as if there was no more fitting place to be. There was the foolish stuffed bear I’d given her on our first date. She’d said it wasn’t the price but the precious that made it matter to her so much.

In its moth-eaten paw was the flower. Wildflowers had always been her favorites. It could have been the selfsame one I’d placed in her hair as they closed the coffin that day.

She was forever gone, yes, but she’d left me these reminders she would always care. 

Like A Big Girl

You’ll find monsters where you least expect them. This is one of the ageless truisms that have existed for as long as there have been those to compose such things.

Submitted for your consideration is Miss Emilia Faye Carstairs. She is three and one half feet of sheer cute and adorable. Blessed with flaxen hair and cornflower blue eyes, this dimpled darling serves to satisfy this truism most accurately.

Emilia was the newest student of Ms. Stephenson’s morning kindergarten class at Springview Academy. Her mother had decided she must start now and not next year as she’d planned.

The problem was, Emilia simply did not belong amongst the others. The majority were acquainted with each other prior to beginning school. She was an outsider, an interloper, that most-dreaded of pariahs: “the new kid”. To Emilia, as with nearly any child her age, there was absolutely no worse thing to be than THAT.

Neither Ms. Stephenson nor her mother understood. Mommy told Emilia she must be a big girl and work through her problems.

Today, Emilia determined would be the end of the bullying. Within her Hello Kitty lunchbox were surprises for her classmates AND her teacher. Emilia could scarcely wait to unveil them but knew she must wait.

When crafts was over, Emilia stood in line with the others as they retrieved their lunchboxes. She sat at the same table as Tommy and Suzie and a few of her other tormenters. She ignored their snickers and jibes and unpacked her lunch.

Last of all was her thermos. She’d filled it, herself, full of the stuff Daddy used to run the mower. She carefully unscrewed the top and set it aside. In her other hand was a match taken from the kitchen drawer at home. She knew this would work. She’d seen it on that police show mommy was watching one night.

With a sweep of her small arm, she liberally doused the children. Before they could react, she struck the match the way she’d seen Daddy do on countless chilly winter nights. With an angelic smile, she tossed it amidst the squealing children.

Startled squeals became screams of agony as flames leaped up to engulf the students. Emilia slowly backed away. She wanted to make sure Ms. Stephenson had an unobstructed view of the situation. The horrified teacher ran for the small fire extinguisher.

Emilia exited the classroom, closing the door behind her. She reached under her blazer and removed the jump rope that had been in her lunchbox. Using a knot she’d learned from her Uncle Bert, she quickly tied it around the doorknob. She pulled the rope very tight and tied it to a water pipe that ran up the wall.

Convinced the door would not open without someone on her side helping, Emlia ignored the commotion inside the classroom and walked out of the school. She just KNEW Mommy would be so proud of her for working out her own problems like a big girl ought to. 

Power Undesired

Lianasa’s tone was both harsh and concerned.  “No witch can teach you what you desire, child. It is men’s magic and is magic most foul. Power it offers, aye, but at a price. It warps the mind, the body, the very soul of those who succumb to it. Do not do this!” The girl left her.

She sat in a submissive pose, hands bound by silken cord and her mouth taped. The mage had demanded such before he would begin.

“The wonders of the Wild Magic shall I show you, sweet one, shall I teach you. Let your eager eyes see through me and witness the origins of true Power.”

As the images and their force flooded into the young witch, she knew she had erred most grievously. Her bulging eyes burst in response and a wail of unending terror ripped the tape asunder. She screamed for a very long time before she, mercifully, died.

Demands Of State

Her Imperial Highness, Princess Antonia Sofia Fluffiella Espinoza di Calico y Tabby, was not a very happy little kitten. She was a princess and being a princess should be much less pomp and ceremony and duty and far more fun and dollies and tea parties. That was simply how things should be, she sniffled with disapproval.

For instance, while she wished for nothing more than to play with her basket of wooden human-parts making fanciful little creations, some ill-tempered personage kept rapping on her chamber doors. This was unaccountably rude and must cease.

She was a princess and, as such, should have the authority to deal with such rudeness most promptly and brutally. Would Daddy let her have a beheading or merely chuckle at the notion? She must track down the Justiciar later that morning and clarify her royal punishing powers. It could be important, after all.

With a contented purr of satisfaction, she realized the potential intruder had ceased their insipid knocking. Her happiness was short-lived as, with a jangle of keys, the door to her playroom was unlocked and flung open. The stunned princess was opening her mouth to object, when The Evil One shuffled slowly into the room, accompanied by two Guardsmen.

The Evil One was, in point of fact, the Royal Governess, Madame Sealpoint. Dressed in voluminous black robes, she inclined her grizzled, triangular head in a pose of mock respect.

“Apologies, beloved Highness, for unseemly entrance. Lessons we have scheduled, as surely you knows. When no response was I getting, I fear worst and fetch help. As all seems well, will dismiss them and begin we can. Today we practicing of curtsies and bows…again.” Her voice dripped solicitous sarcasm.

The Princess scowled at the old woman with undisguised fury. Yes, a beheading it must be. 

Social Conventions

Miranda stared at the formal dining room with poorly-concealed disgust. The heavy oaken table and chairs lent the room a stern and stolid ambience. She didn’t really care for the furnishings but she’d not been consulted on them. Her dear husband, Edmond had made that decision, as with so many others, both confidently and unilaterally.

He was of the belief that the furnishings in a man’s home should be a reflection of the man himself. Frowning, Miranda thought he had managed that with his usual misguided aplomb. Where he saw strength, solidity and dependability, she saw stodgy, outdated and pretentious. All the more regrettable, she mused, that Edmond would be constitutionally incapable of understanding how her impressions of the room could possibly differ from his so widely. Edmond was, if many things, certainly not a man given to understanding others on a personal level.

She wasn’t sure what she disliked most about these formal dinners. There were so very many disagreeable aspects that selecting a single one seemed an insurmountable task.  Was it the actual nuts-and-bolts of preparing and serving dinner for twelve? No, that was not it. Edmond employed sufficient staff to make such matters easily manageable. The banalities of food preparation, table service and such would be taken care of with little ado.

Perhaps it was the social intrigue of the seating? That was, certainly, a requirement fraught with peril. Edmond’s seat would, as always, be at the head of the table. She would occupy her usual place at the table’s foot. That left a minefield of ten seats to assign. Her husband’s protégé, Charles, would be seated to his right. That was a necessary given. With a sigh, she imagined it a given that the seat across from Charles would, yet again, remain empty. Though he consistently maintained he would be bringing a companion to these affairs, he had never managed to do so. She had every reason to believe the awkward lad was as queer as a three-dollar bill but kept her suspicions to herself. Edmond had an unaccountable fondness for Charles and would have been quite angry at the mere suggestion of such. With an uncharacteristic giggle, she wondered if Edmond was quite aware of Charles’ proclivities and availing himself of such. The mental image was priceless!

Shaking off the untoward thought, she set to the remaining eight seats. William Hansen, Edmond’s financial manager, had been with him for the better part of 30 years. What had not been with William for anywhere near that time was the bleached-blonde bimbo he had dumped his wife Constance for. Miranda thought the young tart too vapid and brainless to form any lasting opinion of. The insipid cutesy banter between her and William, though, was enough to put anyone off their feed and so she saw fit to place them as far away from her as the table allowed.

That made the process considerably easier from that point on. Nearest to her would be Cedric and Amelia Trask. Cedric was Edmond’s Chief Operations Officer. He was a small, beady-eyed little man of no particular interest to anyone but his wife. That Amelia had been in the same sorority as Constance made it simply expedient to allow as much space as possible between her and William. Amelia observed all the required social proprieties but her loathing of William was clearly evident to all.

Two seats remained and those would be filled by Edmond’s chief investor, Ernesto Saladino and his wife, Maria. They were a greasy, noveau-riche couple who were barely a generation out of the barrios of whatever Third-World pesthole they’d come from. Their command of the English language was so poor she doubted anyone would care where the couple was seated anyway.

She wondered what Edmond would think if he knew that she was fully aware of the reason for tonight’s soiree. Under attack from both the Securities and Exchange Commission and the Federal Trade Commission, Edmond intended to divest all of his holdings as quickly as possible and run like a scalded cat to the nearest country that offered refuge by virtue of a strict policy of non-extradition. The purpose for the dinner was to give those of his inner circle both something of a heads-up and to inform them of his impromptu version of a severance package for them.

She imagined he would be livid to know how intimately aware she was of his business dealings. By no means a foolish woman, Miranda had taken steps many years ago to ensure her own interests would be protected. So, while there would be much weeping and wailing in this room tonight, none of it would be hers. She allowed herself a delighted smile at what she did have planned to make this evening’s get-together an extra special night.

As the dishes were cleared and coffee and desserts had been served, Edmond launched into the unfortunate news he had to share with his inner clique. As Miranda had expected the tumult and uproar were both immediate and quite intense. As voices rose and fingers were pointed, she dabbed her lips with a napkin and slipped quietly out of the room.

Exiting the house via the east French doors, she strolled across the verdant lawn to a spot she had selected some days prior. From her vantage point atop a low mound, she had a clear view of the formal dining room. She withdrew a pack of cigarettes and a slim gold lighter from her small clutch and lit up. She sucked in the smoke, savoring its harsh tickle at the back of her throat. Edmond hated when she smoked. There were a great many things Edmond hated, but they would very soon be matters of little import to her.

She reached again into the clutch and withdrew the wafer-thin remote control unit. With an exaggerated wave to the house and its squabbling occupants, she depressed the unit’s single button. As one, the eleven small explosive charges she’d placed beneath the dining chairs detonated. A tremendous gout of flame tore the entire side of the house away in a shower of glass, wood, stone and bodies.

Miranda placed the unit back from whence it had come and, this time, withdrew her cell phone. She confirmed her flight details before calling Stefan. He was already en route to meet her and before dawn would be sharing space in the island home she’d purchased the year before. With the funds she’d been siphoning from Edmond’s business over the last 15 years, she and her boy toy could enjoy a very comfortable life far away from the demands of proper society and social conventions.

Of Moths And McNuggets

“Can you see her, George, can you? Did she get our order, George? I don’t think she got our order, George.”

“Benny, will you shut up? She got our order. They’re just really busy. I’m tryin’ to get her attention now.”

“Did you go to the right window, George? She said the second window and I don’t think this is the second window, George.”

“It’s the second window, Benny. You always order the 20-piece McNuggets and they never got that many ready, so we gotta wait.”

“Mmm, tell me again about the McNuggets, George. Tell me?”

“Aww, Benny. Not now!!”

Different Job Descriptions

As night fell, Father Timothy Flynn found himself in what could only be described as a “distressed” neighborhood. Fatigue and naiveté ensured he never saw the small man with the large gun until it was too late.

The man’s hands shook but his voice was firm, demanding the priest’s money and valise. Overcome with fear, the cleric resorted to his only defense. He prayed. Time seemed to stop and the outside world was distant as he whispered the words.

Timothy’s eyes shot wide as the whir of wings broke the silence. The man, if man he were, was tall and well-muscled and exuded an air of confidence and supreme power. His powerful black wings were spread wide seeming to make him blend into the night. The smile on his face seemed more predatory than reassuring.

His voice was calm, “Your prayers have been heard.” He turned toward the would-be thief and, without ado; the immense silver sword in his hands dispensed final, terminal justice.

He turned back to the priest who had fallen to his knees, retching. Father Timothy looked up, his face red with sorrow and righteous indignation. “How dare you? He is a God of love and compassion and forgiveness. How DARE you?!”

The angel replied, with a snort, “The name’s Abbadon, padre. My job description’s a bit different than yours is, y’know? Look it up some time. Have a blessed day, now.”

Father Timothy continued looking to the heavens long after the angel was gone from sight.

Not With A Bang

With the final enhancements brought online, the Autonomous Neural Interface Network (ANIN) was born. Physical attendance at public venues was no longer necessary and quickly came to be accepted as both risky and gauche. Why subject oneself to the annoyances of transportation, admission lines, and the very real possibility that the patron next to you might be carrying one of a host of nasty and particularly virulent pathogens currently plaguing society, when viable technological alternatives existed?

From a secure bunker in an unspecified location, Ekaterina Yaroslava, child prodigy and piano virtuoso, took her place to begin the first virtual concert of her much-anticipated ANIN World Tour. Transmitted directly to the cerebral cortices of her millions of adoring fans, the music was infinitely preferable to the total, all-consuming silence that had become the world outside of their own minds. 

Transition

The bridge was a sturdily-built affair with strong planking mated to tubular steel rails. Chain-link fencing added further to the bridge’s pervasive impression of solidity and safety.

Nevertheless, Pietro was powerless to explain the dread he felt.

Charon’s deep voice called out to him, “Anytime today, boy, anytime. Oh, and don’t forget your coin, dammit!”

This was written for the 55 Word Challenge hosted by my darling wife, Lisa . Stop in and try your hand at it. It's fast, fun & there are always prizes!

Mistrunners' Quest

Chelek Vart, captain of the mistrunner Delisantorios, cast a critical eye down-beam of the prow.

“Ensign Tresk, make our speed full stop and maintain, make fast the mooring lines and summon first and third teams to stations.

“Aye, Captain. Be we goin’ down for a look see then?”

Vart valued his mate much but brooked no discussion of his orders.

“She’s no Valiants’ Pride, Tresk, but she’s worth a look, so see to my orders and bump gums on your time, not mine.




Author's Note: Anyone who has read my blog, knows I am a wicked fan of short/micro-fiction. This is my first attempt at a challenge called Five Sentence Fiction, sponsored by the talented Lillie McFerrin. Please, support her and her efforts to expand our creative outlets. 

An Ill Wind Blows

Dragged from his bed and herded aboard a stinking truck, he was deposited at this place called Dachau. He’d been deemed an undesirable element…a political dissident. This was the most absurd lunacy he’d ever encountered. He lectured on French Impressionists, not political sciences! Surely, some mistake had been made!

His eyes were drawn to a leaf, skewered on the cruel wire of the high fence. Buffeted by the cold November wind, its crackle seemed oddly loud. Much like him, the life had been leeched from it, leaving only a desiccated memory behind. Much like it, he was powerless to leave. 

Getting The Beat Down

I can’t believe she’s gone! I don’t know if the bitch likes getting beaten silly or whether she thinks I suddenly developed amnesia but she actually left the house without my permission…again.

I’m left with no choice but to express to her the depth of my displeasure in a more memorable way than last time. You’d think a broken nose and an eye so swollen shut she was running into stuff for a week would suffice but it seems not.

I really don’t ask all that much from her. Cook my food, wash my clothes, clean my house and be available when I require a bit of “stress relief”. That’s it in a nutshell. I mean, from time to time, there’s some stuff added on; but in essence that’s it.

She gets the sweet end of the deal: broadband, deluxe cable, her computer, and that’s just the tip of the freakin’ iceberg. She can shop online for damned near anything and it comes straight here. In exchange, ALL I asked is…don’t be out and about running with those worthless slutty friends of hers.

She doesn’t have the gray matter, apparently, to differentiate between the stuff that’s important and the crap those femi-Nazi bitches tell her she’s “entitled” to. I suppose what works for them works but then it seems their men (those that aren’t too bull-dyke to even get a man) are willing to let them wander around willy-nilly with no guidance and no direction.

If women were smart enough or capable enough to fend for themselves without a strong male hand to guide them that would be just fine. But they aren’t and we all know it. If left to their own devices they wind up as whores or crack heads or worse. I’ve seen it more times than I care to remember. I call it the “unnatural order of things”. When they are allowed the freedom to do as they wish and don’t get a bit of discipline or direction, well they just end up dicking things up sooner or later. It’s just a sad, unavoidable fact of life. Plain and simple, I say.

Well, I guess it will be time for a little remedial learning a la closed fist whenever the stupid wench sees fit to drag her fat ass home. She best be having the time of her life because I am pretty damned sure by the time I get done with her, she ain’t going to be in any shape to try leaving the house for a damned long time to come.

Oh good, silly bitch didn’t lose her mind entirely. It looks like she was sensible enough to leave me something to eat. Oven timer shows it ought to be about done any second. Wonder what the hell she made ‘cause I sure as hell don’t smell any food cooking.

Huh? What the freak? An oxygen bottle?!? What the hell’s THAT doing in the oven? And who the hell…aww…no way man…she wouldn’t…how the?

BOOOOM!!

Divergent Places

Diving into the Portal, Trelesta was seized, as always, by mixed feelings of sadness for what she would leave behind her and longing for the birthplace she missed so dearly.

So different was the world of The Legged Ones from her oceanic realm and yet, in many ways, not so very different at all. In each there was beauty and ugliness, serenity and unrest, creativity and destruction.

Reluctant to forsake her human form, she swam slowly throughout her magical dwelling. It paid tribute to all that she loved best of two divergent places within a single space. She was home. 

The Golden Quest

Try as she might, Mindy could simply not see exactly where the rainbow ended. She must walk all the way across Miller’s Meadow and then past the terrible scary woods beyond and then…she just didn’t know.

She, secretly, wished she didn’t have to make such a long and perilous journey, but she had no choice. The mean banker man had told Mama she must pay him the money or lose the farm. Mindy only hoped that pot of gold she was going to bring back would be enough to make all of their troubles go away. Sighing, she began to walk.


Stop by the Friday Fictioneers story page and try your hand with this photo prompt.

Immortality By Design

The circumstances that led to the end of their species were neither unexpected nor especially traumatic. They were, after all, both a highly evolved and wondrously enlightened people.

They understood it was in the nature of all things to experience both a beginning and an end. They did not bemoan their fate. They accepted it with the stoic grace expected of those who truly understood themselves.

This is not to say they were either ambivalent or apathetic to their situation. They grieved, each in their own quiet way, but with no artificial pretense or excessive histrionics.

There is none to say which voice first spoke the words. That knowledge was not preserved for it, ultimately, was of no consequence. That the thoughts of one became the salvation of all is the salient point.

Why, that lone subject queried, must this be so? Why couldn’t their history, culture, arts and sciences, technologies and wonders be preserved inviolate for any and all to know of?

Their greatest minds turned themselves to the task, knowing full well nothing but success was an acceptable outcome. The entirety of their world had entrusted them with nothing less than their immortality. To fail was, simply, not an option. Succeed they did.

To all corners of space were launched the sleek crystalline craft, each one the repository of the priceless memories of a world. Their sole responsibility to ensure it would be known that it was so long ago, but the memories hadn't faded and never would.

Call To Arms

“My pardons, Majesty, but a simple Winter’s Kiss will hardly convince these…beasts to stop spewing toxins into our blessed stream.”

The Fae Queen’s expression was equal parts inscrutable calm and implacable sadness.

“No, child, it will not. Yet, every war begins with an opening volley before the blood and the fire that must surely follow.”

Unconventional Warfare

He knew his fighter had crossed their outer perimeter when the first tentative probes reached out for him. Cold, glistening claws of alien force raked his psyche, thrusting and scrabbling to dominate his will.

He slipped into a defensive trance, knowing if his focus were to waver then death would be preferable to the alternative. His mind would be theirs to command and his actions theirs to decide.

As he closed, their attacks intensified, burning up his concentration like dry grass in a wildfire. He cycled through defensive images: his first baseball glove, fishing on the riverbank with his dad, his first kiss on the cheek of an unsuspecting Mary Sue Masterson.

That did it!  With a whoop of victory, he felt their presence fade and the mental fog lift. He chuckled, knowing Vice Admiral Mary Masterson would not be amused to know how powerful that particular memory was to one scruffy old fighter jock.

Best Intentions

Ambrose struggled to remind himself that she really did have a good heart.

“We’ve discussed this before, child. You know our role is intended to be passive. We observe, we guide, we support. We do not interfere in the natural order of things.”

But…he killed her. He snuffed out her light with no remorse whatsoever.”

Ambrose sighed, “I know child, I know. There will come a time when he will answer for that. That time has not come. Now run along and take that monstrosity down before someone notices it.”

The chagrined Guardian Angel went to do as she was told. 

Sinkhole De Mayo

Our little town has never been much to look at and we’re fine with that. If you are travelling through and don’t like the looks of it, then just keep right on driving. We really don’t much care one bit.

There used to be an Army base just over that way and it had been here since frontier times. This town grew up and around that central core. Our downtown, such as it is, is dominated by pawn shops, tattoo parlors, bars, fast food restaurants and the smattering of retail establishments that are the common places abutting any military base. When the base got downsized out of existence, we all stayed anyway. Partly because this is, and has always been, our home and mostly because most of us got nowhere else pressing we would rather be.

We get by on not much of anything around here. The town is a fitting metaphor for life in general around here. It is dried up, dusty and uneventful. Our economy is only slightly less unstable than the very land around here. Old West-style open pit mining and the unpredictable shifting of tectonic plates have combined to make things a tad unpredictable. If you go outside one morning and your trusty pickup is gone, it is far less likely it got stolen and far more likely the earth just opened up and swallowed it. Doesn’t happen all that often, but happen it does. Just one of those things, I guess.

The town has an inescapable Hispanic under culture to it. That’s not surprising. By the hardball roads, you can be in old Mexico inside twenty minutes or so. If you got a sturdy truck and a wee bit of inside information, the back roads will get you there in half that. Ironically, the little barrio towns on the other side of that arbitrary geographical line aren’t much different than us.

Point being I guess that most of us got some mixed blood of the down south variety and, as such, are as likely to celebrate their holidays as readily as the usual gringo ones. Cinco de Mayo used to be one of the most festive days in our otherwise sleepy existence. I say, used to be, because after what happened last year, we no longer celebrate that day and we just don’t talk about why.

It started off pretty much the same as every year. The whole center of town would be given over to a carnival/fair/street festival that strained the town’s budget to the breaking point to get the attractions. Nobody griped about the cost and it was the way things had always been.

Maria was running late, as usual. She and I have been together for nigh on forever and always will be. She is an equal mix of Hispanic conquistador and Chiricahua Apache blood. She claims to be directly descended from Lozen, one of their warrior medicine women. She believes in a whole lot of weird stuff but I indulge her. She’s the best cook in a hundred miles even if she does seem to do things in her own sweet time. Today, that skill was invested in her empanadas. She doesn’t cotton to being rushed ever and so we didn’t head into town until much later than expected.

We’d no sooner entered the de facto outskirts when Maria went all funny on me. She started rocking and moaning and her eyes were closed as tight as eyes can be. She’s done this on me before and claims it’s her Apache shaman spirit welling up. I parked near most everybody else and turned my attention to her.

“Somethin’ bad wrong here, Daniel. I mean, bad beyond bad. I ain’t goin’ no place near the square. I can feel the evil from here and it ain’t to be messin’  round with. You take me home and we light some candles and say some strong prayers.”

I sighed before deciding to respond. “Aww, Maria, ain’t nothin’ goin’ on that don’t happen every day. Now git your ole hide out and let’s go have some fun. No sense wastin’ the gas to come in if we ain’t gonna least look around.”

The anger in her eyes at my cavalier way of dismissing her fears wasn’t liable to fade, but go on we did. We’d barely entered the square when Maria commenced to shriek and babble in a couple different languages. She gestured, madly, toward the square.

“Step no closer, Corazon! They is all under some kinda evil magic. Ain’t got us yet, but it gonna if we go one inch closer!” To punctuate her point, she scratched a line in the hard earth with her boot. “No closer!”

I was just about to pooh-pooh her again, but looked first to see what she was pointing at. What I saw is hard to put down in words to this day, but I guess it ought to be told.

I have done enough ornery stuff in my day that I figure I could just as easy wind up in the Pit as strolling the golden streets of Paradise but until I actually saw Hell, I didn’t know what I’d been thinking. Hell had arrived on Earth and held sway over our little town celebration!

From this distance, what first caught my eye was the ginormous gaping…hole…in the ground. Now, I’ve seen my share of sinkholes, we all have, but this?!? It was a red, gaping maw spewing forth a noxious mix of smoke and unsavory vapors that I could now smell the vileness of. The smoke had a sinuous, almost serpentine quality to it that entwined about the limbs of our hapless townsfolk.

They seemed as happy and carefree as ever and that lent credence to my Maria’s protestations of wrongness. They had to be ensorcelled to not run screaming from the sheer horror of what she and I saw. The normal roadies, hucksters and expected carnies were creatures not of this world. There is simply no other way to put it.

Their skin was mottled green and brown with wet patches of red and oozing sores. They scampered here and there, gobbling in some language only they understood, directing the various booths and activities.  Though vaguely human-looking in form, they were truly the creatures of nightmares. The abominations they oversaw were such to rob one’s sanity and never ever give it quite back.

A group of six or so youngsters were gleefully batting away at what they must have believed to be a piñata. It was hard to tell from our viewpoint, but it looked a lot like Flaco Martinez’s old wolf-dog! The dog was a tough old thing and the kids small enough that he would probably have taken no harm on any normal day. This was no normal day. The sticks they swung so joyously were wrapped with what looked like barbed wire and nails. The poor beast was bloody and whimpering but seemed unable to simply die.

A scream of unimaginable pain echoed from off to the left. Turning, I watched as Lino Juanerez struggled to climb out of the dunking tank he had just fallen into. The “water” had an unhealthy greenish tinge to it and was, almost certainly, not water. Lino thrashed and scrabbled to extricate himself while the skin boiled off of him, leaving bare white bone behind. His struggles became ever weaker until he slipped beneath the murky surface. He did not come back up. The teen who had dunked poor Lino must have seen something entirely different as he laughed and handed his girl a squirming…thing…with scales and too many teeth. By her reaction, she thought it a stuffed animal of some sort, I guess.

The final straw for my sanity came when I saw the utter lack of any indication that anything was amiss from the entire town. They strolled and laughed and munched on their “fair food” with no untoward reaction. Their faces were stained crimson with the blood of the creatures that were skewered on the sticks they held. The creatures were nothing found on this world.

I’d been oblivious to Maria tugging at my arm but snapped out of my daze as she screamed my name in utter terror. Two of the “carnies” had noticed us and were shambling our way. Their faces were fixed in bestial anger and they were gaining speed.

We ran for the truck, never daring to look back. We are firm believers in our God-given right to bear arms around here and my Winchester ensured the creatures would not be bothering us anymore. We drove out onto the county road like Satan and all his Hosts were in hot pursuit and they very well may have been.

We filled the truck with what we could and drove away from our home, never to return. We didn’t stop until we got to the other side of the state and we drove in silence.

There was never anything in the news to indicate what became of our little town and that scared us worse than anything of it all. We never went back and we never spoke of it again. We don’t celebrate on that day anymore. I’m not even sure why I wrote this all down. Nobody would ever believe it. But, from that day, what I believe or not has never been the same and so I write.

A Change Of Plans

Bad night we picked to run off. Darker than a banker’s soul out here and the clouds don’t help none. Daisy’s late and I best get lookin’ for her. Love that woman a powerful lot, but she’s precious little good at gettin’ around in the woods.

Up ahead, moon’s come out a bit, givin’ off just enough light for me to see her. Damn girl done wandered right off the edge of Turner’s Bluff and is layin’ there all broke up and unnatural-lookin’.

I give her cold lips a final kiss and make my way home. No sense runnin’ now. 


This is my weekly addition to the Friday Fictioneers Challenge

At What Cost Survival?

In the thirty seven years since The Event I have had ample opportunity to regret the fact that my colleagues in the hard sciences were not more correct in their assessments. Had they been, my cold tea with no one to re-warm it would be a non-issue. Had they been more precise, we would have all ceased to exist on that predicted fateful day. We did not. Just enough of us survived that imprecisely named “extinction-level event” to have to worry about what to do next.

Oh, the meteors did impact the planet exactly as they postulated. In the blink of an eye, seven billion died with impotent screams of denial and rage on their lips. Those of us who climbed out of the rubble of our world were the true victims. We still lived, we still breathed, we had survived.

I could direct them to the wing of tomes describing in infinite detail the means by which viable political leaderships are maintained. They prefer to war and battle amongst themselves. I could present to them countless studies on the exigencies of hydroponics and minimal-asset agriculture. They prefer to scrape the irradiated earth in pointless pursuit of sustainable food sources. I could spend an entire week bringing forth the manuals on field hygiene and disease control regimens. They would choose instead to perish of minor maladies and preventable contagions.

It would seem that, unlike the bulk of those maladies...I’m terminal, not contagious. To them I am but a worthless librarian. 

Runaway Rat

He’d known they could not simply let him go. He was the realization of their dreams. The things their experiments had enabled him to do were too amazing to not capitalize on.

As the first of the assault troops descended on his refuge, he knew he would not allow them to take him back alive.

The Ranger Alone

“Need more rounds for my rifle, Tonto!” Captain Elias Freng, 12^th Republic Space Ranger Battalion, shouted into his comm.

*All rounds expended Captain. I am fabricating more now. Time to completion…4 minutes, 30 seconds.*

Freng sighed. Nothing he needed less than to be pinned down on a planet so obscure it had no name. Strike that. He needed about a division’s less of the damned enemy here.

The Space Rangers required a tough, resourceful individual, willing to do whatever to accomplish the mission. For those reasons, Freng had not merely warped out when he detected the concentration of forces on the mudball.

He’d had his ship execute a burn into the atmosphere, ejecting him at the last possible instant before taking up. The planetoid hosted an automated intelligence outpost that had spent the last three solar months charting enemy activity and strength. His mission?  Retrieve the data at all costs and return to HQ.

In this case, “at all costs” involved neutralizing more enemy forces than any ranger could be expected to. Freng didn’t really care for the idea, but failure wasn’t an option.

“So, Tonto, we got a few while you fabricate and them bastards regroup. Wanna kill time getting’ better acquainted?”

Freng’s singleship was the first fully-autonomous scout vessel in the quadrant. He’d been paired with the experimental craft from a pool of hundreds of applicants. Though they’d been deployed awhile now, operations had prevented completion of the full ‘bonding procedures’ from Science Command . It was believed the bond between commander and ship would decrease manpower needs and significantly improve efficiency. Good theory but unproven.

*As you wish, Captain. I have noted your continued references to this unit as ‘Tonto’. This is not my designated nomenclature, model number or any classification I have knowledge of. Explain, please.*

He chuckled. “Big Braniac like you hasn’t figgered that out, eh? Well then, here goes. What’s the standard crew complement of a Republic Ranger scout unit?”

*Two. Pilot and Intelligence Analyst/Gunner.*

“Yep. Now, how many are there crewing our ship?”

*One. My autonomous nature renders the need for an additional crewman unnecessary.*

"Yep. So…instead of a human partner I’m out here all by my lonesome. That makes me a lone ranger, got it? And if I’m the Lone Ranger that makes you Tonto.”

Freng imagined he could hear the AI puzzling out the human logic.

*Reference understood, Captain. Enemy troops massing on your location. Ammunition not fabricated. Shall I plot course for extraction?*

“Naah…I’m gonna hang out here Tonto and fight these buggers off with some surprises I been workin’ on. Need you to get in range of Base and get me some help.”

Freng was glad the ship was incapable of emotion. It saved time and energy arguing the point while downplaying the seriousness of his situation.

*Calculating flight plan. Estimated round trip two hours, 14 minutes, 34 seconds.  Good luck…Kemo Sabe.*

Despite the dire straits, Freng took time for a startled bark of laughter. “High ho Silver, buddy!”

Choosing The Battles

“If we burn the Fires of Supplication any longer, it will create critical strain on the air-recirculation system, High Chieftain.” The title was spoken with no attempt to mask the scorn that Elder Talifrakamaru felt.

Kashalamagra grinned. “Make up your mind then, Honored Elder.” He knew his tone would convey his true feelings. “Just a ship’s day ago you said the fires must be maintained or we would be forever lost amongst the storms of the stars. Which is it to be then?”

The old man scowled openly. “My wisdom is wasted on you. The storms have not passed. The storms will never pass until the Great Father feels we have suffered enough for the misdeeds of our people. The key is in knowing when the storm must be challenged and when submitted to.”

“That is, as it has forever been MY decision alone to make. The fires will be quenched when we have confirmed our new heading. We need more time and you will pass that time either in silence or in the brig. That decision is yours to make. Now, leave me be!”

The old man tottered away knowing this boy would be the death of him, yet. 

Passing The Time

I was transported through a micro-singularity to this world. It is located underneath the inconsequential, just up the way from the immaterial at the intersection of Ignominy and Obscurity.

Those responsible provided for my needs humanely enough. I have a cabin with devices capable of providing all necessities. The power cells will far outlast me.

There are no humanoid or other higher life forms here. There are some small mammals and such but little more. I immediately set to indulging my hobby of taking that which is alive and making it no longer so. It is the selfsame hobby that led to my imprisonment here, in fact.

By trial and error, I have found that precisely flashing light draws the large lepadoptoroids here. Engorged with blood, they make a most delightful auditory and visual spectacle when they strike the unyielding fabriglass windows. It amuses me as I puzzle out which species I shall exterminate next.

Presence Within Presents

Juliette hummed a tuneless ditty to herself as she bustled about her small apartment. She could never imagine how, given the dimensions of her place, she had such ongoing problems with misplacing things. At the moment, she was in the midst of an expedition to locate the jade earrings that Stefan had given her for Christmas. They simply had to be here somewhere, she chided herself.

She wanted to look her best for him tonight. They had been seeing each other for about five months now and things were beginning to evolve from casual to serious. This was a state of progression that she had long since been ready for but that seemed unattainable to her. Obviously, Stefan had commitment issues, or so the articles in Redbook would lead her to believe.

She could live with that, she supposed. She had been living with it for a while now. She preferred to think that his old world, old school nature led him to treat her more circumspectly than she might have preferred. She reminded herself that, in spite of the shrinking of the planet by electronic overload, people from other places than you still had their own ways. Stefan must be one such.

She’d met him while on holiday. She’d indulged herself with a whirlwind tour of Europe’s most famous tourist spots before coming home to settle into her new career as a business to business sales consultant for a Fortune 500 powerhouse.

Bedazzled by the sights and sounds and ambience of Paris, she had stumbled and, quite literally, landed in his lap at a street-side café. He was tall and dark and polished, with the patrician features and flawless manners one might associate with the scion of some Old-world royal family fallen on different times.

They had spent an entertaining day together before the requirements of her schedule swept her away from him and on to an entirely different country, with no chance to do more than sigh and move along.

Imagine Juliette’s surprise two months later when her last appointment of an otherwise unremarkable day happened to be a Stefan Inostrani, a lawyer and employee of one of her newer clients. Yes, it was him! Whether by providence or by design, Fate had brought them back together. She learned that, while he travelled extensively, he was assigned to an office not more than a short taxi drive from her home.

While what they had could scarce be called a whirlwind romance, it was definitely coming to a point where it was more than just a dinner-and-drinks association. While Juliette initially appreciated his intentions to keep his hands to himself, enough was enough. She had set her sights on escalating things tonight and escalate she would!

Tonight would be very memorable for the distinguished and reserved man she had, only recently, come to see as solid material for a lifetime commitment. It was his birthday and she intended to make it one birthday he would never, ever forget. While she had a discreetly-wrapped box with a necktie inside that cost her nearly a week’s wages, that was not at all what she intended his true present to be. That would be something softer and warmer and infinitely more precious – namely, her.

In a taxi bound for her place, Juliette congratulated herself on the night so far. She’d pulled out all the stops and taken Stefan to a place she could never have even gotten drinks at without the phone call her boss had made on her behalf. Stefan had been delighted by the necktie and equally delighted by the drop-dead ravishing woman Juliette had transformed herself in to for the occasion. It could only get better from here, she smiled.

Two hours later, she found herself slipping into a delightful post-orgasmic fugue state. Stefan had proved somewhat reluctant but oh so wonderfully adept when she had finally gotten him out of his Saville row suit and in to her naked embrace. As they coupled together again and again, she couldn’t help but think he would never, ever forget this birthday night. That thought left her warm and happy as she drifted into a satisfied sleep beside him.

He waited quite some time before her slow, measured breathing convinced him she was truly asleep. With a slight frown of concentration, he shifted. When his true form had asserted itself, S’tth-ra-kambura ran a multi-clawed appendage along the human female’s side and let it rest upon her flat stomach. A tendril of thought confirmed what he already suspected to be the case. Success had been achieved.

The sound he made was his species version of a chuckle and would have frozen her blood in her veins had Juliette been awake. Yes, he mused, she had given him a very special gift indeed this night. Command had insured him, when he had agreed to come to this world as a clandestine observer; all existing data indicated that these beings could, indeed, be implanted with his offspring. He was most thoroughly pleased to find that, for once, it appeared Command was actually right about something.