Hello, again.

Long time, no see, eh? Here’s why.

These past few months have not been the easiest for me. First, there was the ennui brought on by unemployment, then the special kind of ennui brought on by a job I hated, then… my grandpa died. Then I went back to work at the job I hated and had to muddle through things, through hours substantially less than promised and a feeble bank account.

My writing was a casualty in this. For that, I apologise. This won’t go on.

I was presented with the means of leaving that detestable job and I took it. I still feel sad about my grandpa (and who wouldn’t? The man was awesome and I loved him to pieces), but now I’m in a place where I know that he’d want me to make the best of things, rather than be sad forever. I might be in Korea two months from now; I might not. But I’ll be in a different place mentally and probably physically as well.

Finally, I want to thank those who have stuck by me through all this – through all the past year – even though I was difficult (to put it mildly), even though it would be easier and justifiable for them to walk away. I promise that your faith in me won’t go unrewarded.

I love you all and all the words I write in this coming year are for you.

Well...

I've got to keep going, no matter what's happened. I'm not sure whether I'll manage to win Nanowrimo, but I'm going to try.

The Spell of Vesperia, Chapter II

The sun rose over the dark sea and as she did every sunrise, she stood just where the tide met the earth and allowed its swells to wash over her feet. The cold of it shot through her like lightning and she wrapped herself in her overlarge sweater – made overlarge under the old maxim, ‘she’ll grow into it’ – and stared with eyes so open that it almost hurt.

The day would be followed by work, work, work, followed by what little time with the books she could eke out before the light faded again. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner would consist of bread and fish. Everyone would be tired throughout. But always, if she just woke a little earlier than everyone else, she could have this bit of time that was all hers, where she could see the world turn from dead to living.
Then, once the sun was well and thoroughly up, she set immediately from home. They’d be getting up and work, work, work would start anew.

When she came back this time, however, they were not awake.

~

No one from the provinces came to Belsworth Factory because they wanted to. Built in the northernmost reaches of the Vesperia Territory, clinging to the cliffs alongside the Termina Sea, it struck the ‘provincials’ as these: cold, dark, remote, and desolate. They did not come for fortune, for there was none to be had. They did not come for glory or adventure – those types were weeded out before they could venture any further west than Rochilda.

They came because they had nowhere else to go, neither friends nor kin to object to their leaving, a professional attitude, and a special talent for killing things. All of this described Trillium Annsdottir. And yet, when the fall of her boots brought her close enough to Belsworth Factory’s stoutly built gate that she could touch it, she could feel her bones go cold.

A poet once said that “the northern lights have seen queer sights” and Trillium could well believe that they saw them while keeping watch over Belsworth Factory.
The marshal, Shipwright, gently shoved her to the side and back before craning her neck and shouting, “Hello, up there!”

Not that the two guards needed to have their attention drawn to seven souls below, having had their bayonets trained on them since the moment they could first hear them blundering out from the forest’s path. “Who’s this, then? State your name and business.”

Shipwright tutted under her breath and, much more loudly, said, “Marshal Elodie Shipwright, bringing in a gaggle of recruits from various and sundry points southeast. We request entrance and an immediate audience with Factor Dale Elshern, or whoever has replaced him in the position if he has departed from it.”

One of the guards – a lad of about a quarter of a century with a face that was a mess of freckles and scars – leaned over and squinted at Shipwright through the shadow cast by his cap. He hmmed. “Well, it’s you all right. I guess we ought to let you in, then. Come on, Tolly, let’s get to it...” After some sounds of scrambling and the grind of metal, the gate was pulled open. The insides weren’t any more promising than the outsides, although admittedly par with what Trillium had grown up with. Chances were she’d be fed better anyway.

They marched two abreast through the gate, as per Shipwright’s prior instructions – as for her, she took the lead, taking them directly to the small central building. Some men and women watched their procession with a sort of bored interest before returning to their tasks at hand, such as tending to the garden or washing or preparing something organic and foul over an open pit.

She exchanged glances with Clay, on her right, who seemed just as enthusiastic as she was. He was about to open his mouth to speak before he remembered himself and shut it again.

Shipwright knocked on the door before letting herself in. Five minutes passed before she returned to motion them all to follow.

~

They lay as if sleeping, though with eyes open with some unseen horror. They did not breathe, nor did their hearts beat. This was true of her mother and father, and of her four sibs.

She thought to herself, why did they not cry out? She would have heard them if they had. She would have come running, feet bleeding with the scratching of rocks, lungs bursting with their effort. It did not occur to her that perhaps that was the reason why they did not do so.

~

Trillium hadn’t known what the factor would be like – Shipwright had responded to every question about him with an infuriating shrug – but she was certain she never thought he’d be like Dale Elshern turned out to be.

He was a middle-aged man, perhaps in his mid-fifties, sad and regal. The closest he came to Trillium’s assorted imaginings was his manner of dress and grooming, which was practical and immaculate. A frontier post suggested someone who kept order with the manner of a martinet or a boisterous sort who didn’t much bother with discipline at all. Elshern was neither, reminding Trillium of nothing so much as her kindly, departed grandfather. Provided her grandfather was of a much higher social class and much better spoken, that is.

Elshern bowed his head towards the newcomers, pushing his spectacles back upon his nose as his head came back up. “I am gladdened that you have all arrived safely,” he said in a classical Spiran accent. “My name is Dale Elshern and I am the factor here. During the length of your stay, which will hopefully be the entire length of your contract, you will be expected to abide by the rules and regulations of the Ultima Thule Company and the special ones specific to Belsworth Factory. Copies of the latter will be made available to you, as will the former provided you have lost your previous copy during the course of your journey.”

Then he did something which astonished Trillium: he shook every one of the recruits by hand, firmly. “I cannot begin to describe my gratitude that you have chosen to carry out this treacherous undertaking. You have done a great service to Norland by this act and I wish the best of luck to you all. Nevertheless, I am honour bound to say this: if you have any hesitation or reluctance to carry out your duties here or desire to break with the previously agreed upon contract, please state so now so that I might release you from it.”

To a soul, the recruits refused to. They had come too far and they were too much like Trillium.

~

Not long later – they had arrived late, the sun was setting down, and the grand tour had to wait for the morrow – the six of them sat in the mess hall, devouring their soup and bread with an unseemly haste. But who could blame them? It was the first time in two months, with some notable exceptions, where their meal did not consist of pemmican with an extra helping of pemmican. Fresh and cooked meat and vegetables! Cooked competently, no less, and not a slapdash job at the end of hours and hours of canoeing or hiking! They made themselves as pigs at the trough.

Conversation was created, when it was recalled the necessity of breathing. “We’re here,” said Jordan with a sort of tone that almost put everyone off their soup.

“Why’d you go and remind us of that, eh?” said Thins, scowling. Jordan shrugged and the others, as one, privately thought to themselves that Shipwright had been too much of an influence on the man.

Genton licked the soup off her lips. “It needs to be said, though. And it’s going to be sooner than later before we see... one of them.” But still, they kept eating, for all of them came from the sort of lives that dictated you ate a meal when you got it.

“Yeah, you’re right enough. I hope it’s a later sort of sooner, though.”

“Hear, hear,” said Clay. He was he only one in their little band that had ever seen them in person before. No one knew the circumstances of it, not even Trillium. Maybe Shipwright did. Sometimes, when he woke with nightmares, she would whisper some unknown something in his ear and he would settle down, enough to regain his wits.

“I heard they eat the ones they grab a hold of. While they’re still alive.” Thins shivered. Clay didn’t contradict him.

Greenmountain said nothing, but then, she never did.

~

They sent her to live with her grandfather afterwards, after the bodies had been cast into the sea and there was no more to be said to them. Like them, grandfather worked, worked, worked and expected her to do so as well, but he smiled at her and played the fiddle for her and told her how strong she was becoming.

But storms happen and they especially happen to fishers and that is when her grandfather was lamed. Oh, she worked all the harder for him then, but still he tried to do so himself and he tried enough to kill himself and so it goes.

There was nowhere else to go then, with no orphanage opening its doors to her or elderly spinsters or bachelors eager to adopt her in exchange for an extra set of hands. Westwards she went, with the one skill she had learned in a life of odd jobs that was wanted anywhere: she could hunt and she could do it well. Even when the fear came.

~

There was a howling from somewhere which was certainly not from any wolf or coyote and a scratching noise. Trillium was up and out of her bunk with a start, as was everyone else.

This included Shipwright, already fully dressed provided she was ever undressed at all. “Yes, that is what you think it is,” she said as a matter-of-factly. “Get yourselves decent; you’re not getting any slack just because it’s your first night here.”

Within the space of a minute, they were all ready – Trillium, Genton, Clay, Thins, Jordan and Greenmountain. They followed Shipwright out again, like so much lambs or chicks.

~

Trillium was told that those things were once human and she couldn’t disagree with them. That’s what made her stomach turn so fiercely. Nevertheless, as she stared down from the palisade at it, she found that she could not turn away, not even to vomit.

It was man-shaped, certainly, travelling on two legs, with two arms clawing, clawing at the gate. Its hair hung in lank, colourless clumps from its scalp; its eyes appeared like nothing more than two pinpoints of light in the dark. Tracks of its papery, corpse pale skin had been torn off – clawed off? – exposing the bone and jerky-like muscle beneath. She’d been told that things increased in size with every feeding, so that they would never again feel their stomach sated – this one was twice the size of a grown man of average height, with genitals shrunk and shrivelled between its legs.

It howled and moaned at them all, thrashing and wailing at the gate with such ferocity and speed. If one listened closely, they could pick out something resembling words from the moans and if they spoke the right language, they could understand what it was saying.

“It’s saying, ‘feed me, feed me, oh, just give me something to eat, please,’” said a native woman standing beside Trillium. She had not noticed her before, and she regarded the scene before her with an almost blasé expression. On the side of her head turned to Trillium, there was a hole where her ear had been, as if it had been chewed off. “’Mercy, please.’”

The choice came to all the recruits then to let their hearts break or harden.

Trillium remembered the bodies of the sunrise and all the hardships of the road – how Clay would wake in cold sweats and the way Shipwright would breathe the beer and wine whenever they passed through a settlement – and her heart decided what to do. She took aim at the wendigo’s head with her bayonet and fired.

The Spell of Vesperia: Chapter I

Thus begins Nanowrimo. 2000 words a chapter, a chapter a day, until it's finished. If you're enjoying it, please consider donating via Paypal to advance the noble cause of groceries.

~

He had travelled so far, could see an ocean to the west through the trees, little faltering, little flagging, but the body was not everlasting and now it had to stop. It did.

~

Dot Harlock didn’t know what the thing was. In such situations, one might take it as an affront or as a challenge and Dot would choose the latter every time.

Here is what it looked like: mostly like a young man, a couple of years older than her own eighteen-year old self. Soft features, skin a uniform brown. Now, if that were the end of it, there wouldn’t be any mystery to it, would there?
But his hair, had he ever any at all, was shorn right off, even the eyebrows, even across the entire expanse of his remaining skin. That skin did not cover the whole of his frame, but left gaping holes on his cheek, on his bicep, on his stomach, through which could be seen mechanisms of such sophistication that was nearly beyond Dot’s grasp. Shining from his otherwise empty eye sockets could be seen two pinpoints of white light that danced and darted with all the fear that the rest of his husk did not show. If he was feeling anything at all, that is.

He neither breathed nor moved, save for those two pinpoints, but there was a sort of thrumming noise from deep within his chest and a certain tension to the exposed gears that seemed to Dot as though they desperately wanted to move.

“And you just found him wandering down the mountain road?” she asked the two respectably burly individuals that sat bolt upright in the remaining chairs in the workshop.

Arla coughed in the manner of one clearing her throat. “Not wandering, per se. Wandering would’ve been less odd. No, y’see, Daffyd and I had gone up it to go meet Judge Holt coming in and the road was clear as you’d expect, but on the way back...”

“We found this creature sprawled across it,” finished Daffyd with a dramatic shiver. “His honour’s horse nearly stepped on it.”

“How much time passed between coming and going? Where’s Judge Holt now?” asked Dot, prodding the thing with a screwdriver. A small shock rushed through her and the screwdriver was withdrawn.

“Maybe about ten minutes, give or take. In the mayor’s house. What do you make of it, Dot?”

What did she make of it? Well, that was the heart of the matter, wasn’t it?

~

She soon hurried Arla and Daffyd off, promising them all the while to tell them the moment some new revelation occurred to her. It took her ten minutes for her to remember why this was a terrible move.

Arms of Gold, New Spira was more of a village than a town and as such, news and gossip travelled across it with a speed that could put shame to the fastest locomotive. Already at that morning hour, anyone who had ventured out of doors or had even opened a door for someone else had heard and put to memory all the reports from the crew and passengers of the daily ferry and, of course, from Judge Holt himself. With Judge Holt’s account of the incident on the road, they already knew of the creature’s existence and hazarded a guess as to where the creature was relocated. With Arla and Daffyd entering the fray, their guesses were confirmed.

And then came the endless knocking on Dot’s workshop door. She locked it tight, jammed a vacated chair underneath its knob, and tried to ignore it. She only wished she could cut the lantern light and pretend she wasn’t there, but no one in Arms of Gold was that stupid. The knocking continued, then stopped, then to be replaced with conversation, shouts for her attention, and what increasingly sounded like a beer hall discussion.

The creature became ever more agitated at the constant interruptions – or at least, the lights in his eye sockets brightened and dimmed and spun about with far more speed than they had been doing. Dot sat down again in the chair in front of him, meeting what passed for his gaze.

“What could you possibly be?” she said, nearly a whisper. She did have a notion now, but it was ridiculous.

Nevertheless, Dot opened her mouth again and began to speak – not at him, but to him.

~

Once the land was cold and covered in ice and he did not know it then but he did know it in a time when it was warm and it was filled with people and every day had a thousand and one marvels for him to take in but that time was so short, wasn’t it, even though for him it was all he had and it filled up his entire world, and it had been replaced with a long, black darkness that only had one marvel for him and it was this, “Why is this?”

The darkness ended, though, as he knew it had to, just like the time in the warm had to, and it was replaced with a woman with black curls and brown eyes and that was the most confusing thing of all, for it was happening again with the same woman and like the first time, his entire self was pain and numbness.

~

“So that’s who I am. Dot Schultz Harlock – okay, Dorothy, but no one call me Dorothy except my dad when he’s cross. She who mucks about with machines and such, even though she doesn’t know a damned thing about chemistry or other matters magical that could probably help with things. And I bet there’s a bit of ether running you, eh? Can’t just be the standard electrical current.”

The lights had stilled and remained bright. Dot could swear that he was making eye contact with her.

“I read stories about things like you when I was knee-high. Creatures that looked like humans and could think sort of like humans, but had circuitry and gears and ether under their skin. Golems or machina. Automata. But those were fairy stories. I think.”

Minutes passed. Not in complete silence – “Yoohoo, Dot! Open up, already!” and the robust sounds of carousing put a stop to that – but not a sound came from inside the house.

Dot sighed. “This is stupid.” She got up, fetched the Widow Olny’s clock down from the shelf and set to fixing it, just as she had pledged to do before the morning’s interruption. The creature’s eyes darted about once again. The door remained locked.

~

The woman with the black curls and brown eyes went away again although he could tell that she did not go far, oh no, he could hear her move and sigh and swear and could hear others, many others, not far at all from here talking about a creature and he wondered if the woman with black curls knew that there was a creature about and whether she was safe and were the others there to protect them from the creature, and he wanted to move and speak so badly and he couldn’t, his body was so useless and pained, and he didn’t know what else he could do but sit and see and smell and oh, how familiar and unfamiliar it was!

He strained to move his jaw but it would not shift. Nothing would shift. He had been told by many people to keep trying, though, so he tried.

~

“You are Kit,” the creature said.

Dot nearly dropped the clock on the floor in the process of putting it back onto the shelf. She turned about on her heels and practically dived across the table in her haste and placed her fingers gingerly on his throat and jaw. “What did you say?”

“You are Kit. Kit Harlock. You found me again. This is marvellous!”

Dot trembled in her excitement, just as the creature’s throat did with every syllable he spoke. “I’m Dot. Not Kit.” Was it just her imagination, or had his voice been tinnier than it ought to be? Like it was coming through a pipe? Of course, everyone’s voice came through a pipe when it came down to it.

“But you look the same as Kit and you are the same age as her, so therefore, you must be her.” He hesitated. “Isn’t that so?” How was the sound being made? She could see enough of him to know that he didn’t have lungs in the proper sense, so how was it being done?

“I have a sister named Kit. She’s or was three years older than me. We haven’t seen her in three years. How do you know her?” His jaw worked like a human’s should, though, and his lips and what she could see of his tongue. Even if there was something mechanical about the motion.

“She woke me up and took me out of the black. You’re not her? You’re her... sister?” He hesitated again and Dot thought she could hear a whirring noise from somewhere within him. Within his skull? “I’ve heard of such things. Girl children with the same makers. No, ‘parents’ is the right word, ‘not makers.’ No wonder I was confused. You look the same as her. You sound the same as her. You smell a bit different, though.”

Dot felt her heartbeats increase in frequency and mind boil over with what he told her. “Where did you meet Kit?”

“East. I’ve walked very far from there. I’ve walked ever since I met her.”

“For three years.”

“Yes, for three years.” He added, with the apparent hope that it would explain, “There was no money for riding on trains and it’s wrong to steal horses.”

“So you walked.”

“I’m good at walking.”

A mechanical man who walked across a country that spanned a continent who knew his sister. Who knew where she’d been. This was... well, marvellous, to use his word. He could speak. Could she get him to move his arms? His legs?

“Do you have a name?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Well? What is it then?”

“Erasmus March.”

~

The door opened. The crowd quieted – that is, they allowed the volume of their conversations to descend to over-loud stage whispers. Dot stepped out into the warm afternoon air. The sun shone directly into her face and she squinted to avoid it.

“Now, then,” she announced, as loudly as she could in order to make herself heard over the noise. “The creature’s a ‘he’, he’s got a name, he can speak, and I don’t really know what he is yet. I’m going to fix him up and we’re to do some travelling to find out. Any questions?”

The noise exploded. “That’s too bad,” said Dot. “Because I don’t know anything else. If you’re not my mom or dad or Bill, you can scamper off now. Cheers, bye, etc.” She went back inside her workshop and shut the door hard behind her. Not slammed, mind – that would be rude.

Half a minute later, she opened it again. “Oh, and if anyone has a spare wig about their place that’s just taking up room or at least a decent hat, I could put it to use. Thanks!” And again, the door shut.

~

Dot hadn’t the faintest fathoming what his skin was made of yet and therefore couldn’t make anymore for him, but there was one thing she could do about it. It involved needles and thread, of which she had plenty. She found a spindle with brown thread not far off from the shade of Erasmus’ skin, cut a length, boiled it and a needle in boiling water atop the stove – she didn’t know whether the skin was human enough to get infected and didn’t wish to find out – and threaded the needle’s eye.

“I have to warn you,” Dot said. “This is going to hurt.”

Erasmus nodded. “That’s what Kit said.” The needle pierced the skin of his cheek and he whimpered. “Kit is very honest.”

Things in History You Should Know: John Diefenbaker

Here is the spooky Halloween special I promised. Make sure you stare at the above picture for at least five minutes before attempting to sleep this night.

Gather ‘round the fire, boys and girls, and huddle close together. You thought you heard something in the bushes, Timmy? Man up, little boy. Don’t you know the wind when you hear it?

Now then. It was a dark and stormy night. For decades, the Liberals under Mackenzie King and Louis St. Laurent ruled over Canada with iron fists. All across the nation, the people cried out for change. Little did they know the cost this ‘change’ would bring.

Election season, 1957. St. Laurent – called ‘Uncle Louis’ by the fear-gripped populace – felt his stranglehold on power weaken with his increasing age. A grandfatherly demeanour was no longer enough and it was his bad luck to be up against a wild-eyed madman from the godless west.

But who was this ‘madman’ who captured the hearts of the people with his promises of rainbows and ponies for every child? Raised in a land called Saskatchewan, he dreamed of the day he would rise to seize the office of prime minister – by force if necessary, preferably by gilded words. His mother attempted to dissuade him of these notions by telling him that it was impossible for a western lad to become PM, as she knew the havoc her spawn might unleash. But he would not hear of it.

His course decided upon, nothing could steer him from it. Even then-sitting Prime Minister Laurier – who, as a Liberal, sensed the dark future this lad might cause – tried to push him away from politics when the lad gained an audience from him whilst selling him a newspaper. Diefenbaker brushed him off like he was so much lint and went to sell more newspapers to bolster his war chest.

And though the heavens struggled mightily against him by inflicting a German last name upon him and having him move to safe Liberal ridings, Diefenbaker struggled even more mightily back, until he became a Member of Parliament in 1940. He continued much as he did in the seatless years, fighting battle after battle in periodic leadership races. Arthur Meighen was old and crotchety (and a bit of a dick). He would be put to pasture sooner than later. So this proved true, as it did for the failed John Drew.

Thus we return to 1957, with its red scares and pipeline debate and all that petty nonsense. St. Laurent was rather more in the mood to retire early with a glass of warm milk than fight an election, but Diefenbaker? Ah, he fought dirty. And he had a power that St. Laurent didn’t: the ability to take advantage of the West’s collective Napoleon complex with the mighty force of populism. Against all expectations, he won. A minority government, yes, but he did win.

And you know what? He didn’t do too badly that first year. This was aided by the fact that the Liberals were still trying to puzzle out this brave new world in which, oh my stars, they were the opposition and in which they had a leader that was well under sixty. So Diefenbaker called an election because that uppity bowtie-wearing egghead Lester Pearson was clearly trying to undermine him. The Governor General was like, why the hell not?

The year was 1958. That’s right; Diefenbaker couldn’t even let more than a frickin’ year pass without another damned election. Being Prime Minister wasn’t enough for the likes of him. He had to have a sweet, sweet majority. He achieved this handily by promising the world – one in which he, as the fabled ‘Chief’ would stand at the right hand of the J-Man in ability to grant grace to the hope-starved masses and the frozen north would be transformed into a land of milk and honey. Then the Dark Times came.

The Canadian dollar lost parity with its American counterpart. Darkness descended and a plague of locusts overran the land. The Bill of Rights was introduced, which was like the Canadian Charter of Rights and Freedoms if the Canadian Charter of Rights and Freedoms was completely fucking useless. The thought of language rights for francophones made him chortle like a whiskeyed-up schoolgirl. To trick people into believing that his reign was not an unmitigated disaster, he brought forth a woman cabinet minister, a native senator, and native voting rights upon the nation. Admittedly, this was pretty awesome.

But then... he scrapped the Avro Arrow. Because the man loved his America and wished for nothing more to complete the perfection of his life than to be BFF with President Eisenhower. (Kennedy, now, he could piss up a rope.)

The Canadian people slowly began to awaken to the hellish reality they had summoned forth, knocking Diefenbaker back into a minority in 1962 and into the humiliation of being leader of the opposition once more in 1963. Lester Pearson became PM and the long national nightmare was largely over, if one ignored the fact that Diefenbaker refused to leave. Like a decrepit zombie whose jaw had long since rotted off, he stalked the chambers of the House of Commons, shouting incoherently in debates. Maple leaves and Oh Canada? Ha! A real Canadian would stick with the red ensign and God Save the Queen until hell froze over the land. Old age conspired to put a stop to him in 1979.

But even death was not enough to free Canada from ‘The Chief’s’ tyranny, for his corpse-stuffed coffin was dragged across the country by train at taxpayer expense with pomp and ceremony! To do less would be an insult to his majesty, he felt.

If you listen closely to the howling wind on chill prairie nights, you might pick out his everlasting moan of “Everyone is against me except the people!” Don’t try too hard to do so, though – hearing those words have been known to drive men mad as they became more and more obsessed with discerning the statement’s logic.

Timmy, seriously, you’re cutting off the circulation in Beth’s arm.

The Goose Girl, Part II

You thought I forgot to finish this one, didn't you? You were wrong. Donate, if you're inclined.

Where was I? Oh yes.

~

The journey to Isolder was peaceable enough. The roads were well-maintained and it was a pretty sort of scenery of the type birds and other forest creatures frolic in and in which the sort of soul who was inclined to such frippery might burst into song. ‘Velda’, so I had dubbed her, sulked in silence, too overcome with this inexplicable turn of events to say anything. Were it anyone else, I would say that she was too smart to attract any attention from me unless it were part of a plan. But had she had any brains at all, she wouldn’t have allowed me to trick her so easily in the first place.

The only trouble came from Falada. I counted myself as respectably skilled at the art of horsemanship, but the beast troubled itself to move roughly with every step and motion of its back. Neither carrot nor stick would cure it; soon I was sore enough as if I had travelled an entire day on the camp trail. Even focusing on the silence of it all did not alleviate my discomfort, for just on the edge of hearing, I could hear those damnable words.

“If your mother only knew, her heart would surely break in two.”

Was it directed to Velda or myself? I wondered.

~

Prince Belder of Isolder was more a boy than man – less coddled than Narthena, but with still many years of growing ahead of him. Given what our relationship was to be, though, I made the effort to discern his better qualities. A pleasant smile, a strong jaw. A frame that was just the right height, for his eyes could meet my own on the same level.

“And your handmaiden? How shall we accommodate her?”

I considered. The continued fact of her meant the possibility that she might find her courage or her pride and tell someone, anyone of the deception. Concocting some flimsy excuse for her execution, however, would arouse suspicion. Keeping her by my side would allow me to keep an eye on her, but increased the number of people of actual importance she might inform.

“She is a peasant that was hired to accompany in my journey; she is no longer needed. Please find a purpose for her elsewhere.” That was promptly agreed to. “But as for my steed... She has been a most unruly beast throughout the journey and I am afraid she is fit for nothing more than to be put down. Please see to it in the most swift and merciful manner possible.”

Velda was placed with a goose herder. I thought it appropriate.

~

Belder and I wed immediately. We enjoyed the wedding night, even though both of us were nervous despite ourselves. I shivered at his touch, he shivered at mine, and I whispered in his ear. After many long hours, he collapsed upon the mattress, exhausted. I followed not long afterwards. I am still human.

~

That night, I dreamed of my mother.

She was a handsome woman, strongly built but with the most beautiful eyes imaginable. (I had not inherited them.) She was a weaver by trade and all through the day and into the night, she would sit at her loom, weaving, weaving.

“I always knew, my daughter, that you would be strong,” she said, weaving a tapestry of fabulous patterns such as that the blessed king of Gamelin would not be ashamed to wear. I, sitting at her feet, nodded eagerly, beaming at her praise.

“That you would be strong enough to challenge princes, nations, gods, whatever your heart might set upon. And you would come out stronger still because you were my daughter and my daughter could do no less.”

Her tapestry grew ever more complex, with fields and forests and battles, moreso than any human could possibly create in reality. But this was a dream and dreams were not beholden to reality. “But this?” she asked.

My heart fell.

“Isn’t this beneath you?”

~

The days passed banally enough, the nights kindly. I allowed my brain to drown out the nonsense of the Isoldian court, it possessing no heart nor interest for me. But the nights? I allowed myself to see more than the strong jaw, but the way his breath pulsed and his lungs breathed in the whole of me. I grew to enjoy my prince’s company. I whispered in his ear every night, as per my duty, about the wicked ways of Cordelon and Tanefor and all the enemies of Gamelin and he dutifully repeated my suspicions to the High Council and to his lord father, the king.

Velda the goose girl did whatever a goose girl did during her days. I kept watch over her, because I refuse to be stupid, but she did nothing but drive the geese out every day with Conrad the herder.

I heard troubling rumours, though.

Of a horse head, hung over the gate where the goose herder and his girl passed through every morning and every night, that constantly spoke these words: “If your mother only knew, her heart would surely break in two.” I went to this gate many times, but the horse’s head was always gone by the time I arrived.

Of a girl who charms the wind so as to blow the loose strands of her hair away, so that the herder may not claim them. But when I went to see in secret, she was attending to her duties as suitable and the wind behaved as normal.

Of a herder who refused to work with the girl any longer and a king who grew suspicious and a girl who overcame her fear enough to tell her troubles to an iron stove. I whispered and whispered into the prince’s ear, but it was not enough.

~

I dreamed of my mother, night after night after night, always fluctuating between shame and pride and fear. I did not know what this constant dream meant, only that it was likely I was never to see her again.

~

Everything had gone wrong.

The prince – technically my husband, although I should not think he was of the same mind any longer – clutched the hilt of his sheathed sword as though it were a neck. The number of guards in the dining hall was just ever so slightly higher than normal and no longer kept to the perimeter. And in front of me was the one person in all the world I least wanted to see. Why did I not find some way of offing her instead of shoving her into honest labour? Ah, hindsight!

She looked very fine and composed, which was such a rare thing for her that I had to stop myself from marvelling at it and giving the game away. Not that, I suspected, that such efforts would last much longer.

“Good day, my lord,” I said, curtsying with my knees bent low and my skirts dressing the floors. “How might I serve you?”

But the king spoke first. “I have a query for you, my daughter. And I require you to answer truthfully.”

I nodded, knees still bent.

He related to me the situation of the Narthena, Velda, whomever, leaving out no detail whatsoever save for that of the name of the personages involved. I listened, nodding. Then he asked me, upon finishing, “What should be the punishment of such a blackguard?”

“Tear the clothes from her back,” I said without hesitation. “Shove her in a barrel lined with nails, and drag her throughout the city until she breathes no more.”
“So shall it be done,” said the king, as the guards rushed forward and seized my arms. I did not fight them. What was the point?

~

And yet, not long afterwards, the clothes stripped from my back – they were of the mind that the nakedness would shame me, little considering that the lack of warmth would pain me more – I was shoved in a windowless cell. Dark and bare. A cot would have been a luxury. Food and water? Ha!

I sat in the black for a long, long time. Doing nothing. Saying nothing.

But I was not Narthena. Torture? Certainly, they would like to drive my secrets and orders from my flesh with all the devices their mind could devise, whether true or false. But I refused to let that happen.

The punishment I described? A shameful thing, not fit for beasts! Certainly it would meet the needs of the bloodthirsty weaklings of Isolder and Cordelon, but they needed to create strength where they could.

But they would try and I was not certain that my strength as a soldier of Gamelin would sustain me. So I slept instead and thought.

~

In the morning – near as I could tell, as the cell had no windows and was lit by a guard’s lantern when there as light at all – they took me by the arms and carried me bodily to another dark chamber. They had many fine instruments there and they introduced me to every one of them, explaining their purpose in great detail. Then, they proceed to use them. I screamed. I refused to yield. And I tried my very level best to...

~

My vision faded. All turned black.

“If your mother only knew, her heart would surely break in two.”

I know not what I told them.

~

In the morning – near as I could tell, as the cell had no windows and was lit by a guard’s lantern when there was light at all – they dragged me out of the cell, pushing and shoving, hungry and thirsty, cold but still strong. They shoved me out into sun’s glare, crowds at my feet with an insatiable hunger ill-disguised.

The king stood before us all, explaining to the peasant and merchant and noble my ‘crimes’ in the name of my own king and country and nation, even though he knew nothing, really, as my once husband and his soon to be bride stood to the side in their grief and satisfaction. Could I detect a hint of grief on Belder’s face? Remembrances of private jests and kisses stolen when we were certain that most of the court had their gazes turned away?

Could that have been the product of my fevered imaginings as I faced my death?

It mattered not. Into the barrel they shoved me, nails all around. My breath shallowed and I am ashamed to say, I cried. But there was still more to be done.

The bottom was not lined with nails, nor the top. I braced myself against either end, allowing my breath to become ever the more shallow, lest they be pierced with the nails all around. I heard them as they tied the top of the barrel to the horses and braced myself against the top and the bottom, as they urged the horses along and the barrel tilted until it was sideways.

Hours passed. I refused to give up. Bled and scratched and pierced though I was, I did not allow myself to be driven through with every bump and turn, with every passing whimsy of an animal. I cried with the pain and I remembered my mother, at her spinning wheel, at her loom, shaking her head with every deviation from what she thought I ought to be.

The pain did not depart. But the minding of the pain! Ah, that did depart.

Hours passed. I kept my strength. I kept it until I was certain the ravenous crowds would become bored and depart and the streets would empty of all but their refuse. My arms felt like jelly, and still I held firm. As did my legs, but still I held firm. As did my will, but as an agent of Gamelin, I held firm.

It stopped. Horses could only go on forever. The good soldiers of Isolder broke the top of the barrel open again and dragged me out. They considered me. Give the public a show and admit defeat with the first go around or dispatch me then and there?

~

Which would you choose? They chose as I would have done.

Translink Haiku #13 and #14

I skooch around him
As he stands still – confused, mad.
“You're going to fall!”

Recall Olympics.
The endless crush of people,
Elbows in your boobs.

Things in History You Should Know: Hal Kolger

Along the lines of the Queen Crisantha piece, here's another 'Things in History You Should Know' article set in the same world as 'Strike in the Shining City' and the upcoming Nanowrimo work, 'The Spell of Vesperia.' Incidentally, if you wish to sponsor me for that, please regard the Paypal button on the right of the page.

If there’s one thing anyone has noticed about a map of Norland, it’s that it’s big. Really big. ‘Very nearly the largest country in the whole damned world’ big. The thing one must remember, though, is that the map didn’t get so large by itself, nor did all the fiddly little lines and other bits get in there by themselves either. Someone had to explore about, armed with sophisticated instruments, amenable guides, and stuff to write it all down with. One of these someones was Hal Kolger, gentleman of fortune.

‘Twas the year 1117. The mother country of Spira was off warring the other mother country of Langpald (again; it was kind of their thing.) As such, the colonies were warring with each other too, because as much as they would’ve like to keep their noses out of it, the powers that were wouldn’t let them. Ursalia was no exception, for it was a Shulmanian and Shulmania was allied with Spira, QED. Enter Kolger.

We don’t know much about Kolger’s early years. Tradition has it that he was born in the coastal township of Blauenburg in 1086, the son of mariner parents, although there are some tasty indications that by ‘mariner’, they meant ‘pirates of a most criminal and bloodthirsty bent.’ Young Hal grew up all right, though, and by the time 1117 rolled around, he is not on record as having keelhauled anyone.

Nevertheless, he was disinclined towards soldiering on sea or on land so the man described as a ‘giant with a bonfire for a beard’ sought other opportunities to assist the war effort. Such as filling in those tantalizingly blank portions of the map. Find a place, claim it and its resources for your lords and masters, profit as a proud patriot. So he set out into the wilderness, accompanied by a Dakala woman known to posterity as Benathidt.

He kept a journal throughout the journey, writing in it every day and so well that it is known as one of the classics of Shulmanian literature – odd when you consider that none of his previous writings, if they existed, were considered important enough to preserve. He wrote of canoeing to the very source of the Maximilien River, traversing the Giant’s Spine Mountains, legging it across the seemingly endless prairies of Mesopelagia – all and a thousand more feats before finally setting his eyes on the Eila Ocean, near the site of modern day Arms of Gold. When he did so, he writes, he fell to his knees and wept, overcome by it all.

The Nelurians who had set up shop nearby sheltered and fed him, Benathidt, and their three month old son Willem before allowing them to hitch a ship ride in the general direction of home. They were cool like that.

By the time Hal and Benathidt stepped foot in Blauenburg again, it was four years since their initial departure. The war had ended. Hochelaga was now a Spiran colony, along with their original set of Rochilda and Cabotia, leaving Laurentia the sole remaining Langrish colony in Deralea. Hal was hailed as a hero, his journals immediately published for a most respectable sum and financial awards and medals showered upon him by Governor Brauer. As witnessed by the journals which he continued to maintain, Kolger revelled in it. Another son, Erich, arrived in 1123. He and Benathidt wed in the Shulmanian fashion shortly thereafter.

He was happy, wealthy, and honoured. And as everyone with a sense of dramatic narrative knows, that’s when everything went to hell.

First came the death of Erich when he was but two years old. The reason why is uncertain – Kolger’s journals stop at this time. Then Benathidt, the love of his life and without whom his journey west would not have been possible, was found washed up on the shore after a stormy night. Whether her death was an accident or purposeful is, again, uncertain.

The journals never resume, although written accounts of Kolger do. Town records report him stumbling through the streets at all hours of the day, mumbling and sometimes sobbing, drunk to a sickening degree. The situation deteriorated to the extent that Benathidt’s sister was given custody of Willem and leave to spirit him off to her own people, never to see his father again.

Hal Kolger eventually became a ward of the state and he didn’t last long afterwards. He hanged himself in his room (or rather, cell) one morning in 1130, a letter addressed to the long-dead Benathidt the only thing he left behind to explain himself. It didn’t explain much, except how much he wished she would visit him again.

The consequences of his journey outlived the man, the first of these being that the Dakala Tribe became very rich off of his still respectable estate and the sales of his journals. The second of these was tied into the fact that he was Ursalian, or rather, Shulmanian.

Shulmania, after founding Ursalia, had little interest in branching out on the Deralean continent. Nevertheless, by the ‘laws’ of exploration so far as Estelians were concerned, most of it had been claimed by Kolger on their behalf. Neither Langpald nor Nelura were in a position to commandeer this territory and Spira had no desire to piss off a long-standing ally. Thus the hundreds of tribes in between the two coasts went virtually unmolested until Norrish Confederation (with added Ursalia!) in 1245. The individual treaties took decades to hammer out, including those allowing the Great Railway to be built, outlining the conditions for Estelian settlement, and ‘requiring’ assistance in hunting wendigos. This did not stop the occasional armed scuffle, but nothing ever does.

Prime Minister Lark downed several bottles of whiskey and acquired most of her grey hairs because of this Kolger. He likely wouldn’t have felt that much pity, though.

Translink Haiku #11 and #12

How curious, this stench!
It goes wherever I go
I sniff. It's not me.

~

Many empty seats,
Yet he sits down next to me.
Don't make eye contact.

Nanowrimo!

I am preparing myself for it. The tentative title is The Spell of Vesperia (a riff of of The Spell of the Yukon by the barely known Canadian poet Robert Service). It is set in the same universe as Strike in the Shining City, at about the same time period, and it involves girl adventurers, wendigo hunters and magically-powered automatons. Will it be awesome? Yes.

I humbly solicit donations at this time in order to shore up the scant funds I'll garner from two part-time jobs. The Paypal button is on the right; please regard it and donate what you feel what a 2000-word chapter a day is worth.

In addition, I will be posting new content every night until Nanowrimo actually starts. Translink haiku will come very shortly tonight, along with a Nano-related 'Things in History You Should Know'.

Until then.

Not dead.

I'm working on something; progress is much, much slower than anticipated. (The lack of stimulation due to the soon-to-be-ending-yet-still-long spell of unemployment is to blame more than anything else, I reckon.)

Stay tuned, etc.

I'm going to start something today.

I'm not going to tell you what. You'll find out. Oh yes.

To organise my thoughts, here are lists I made of things I like and dislike in fiction. If you've a similar list, feel free to share it.

Stuff I Like:
1) Kick-Ass Heroines
2) Metatext
3) Lots of Implied History
4) Fantasy Not Based on Medieval Europe
5) SCIENCE!
6) Old Wise Mentors (Who Live)
7) Steampunk (or Dieselpunk or Atompunk)
8) Robots of Some Sort
9) Superheroes
10) Sense of Larger World/Universe

Stuff I Don’t Like:
1) Too Stupid to Live Hero/ines
2) Gratuitous Romance
3) Mystical Wishy-Washiness
4) Monolithic Cultures
5) Strawmen
6) Being Bashed Over the Head with the Author’s Message
7) Emo-ness
8) Vampires (Unless They’re Really Frickin’ Scary)
9) Excess of Pointless Tragedy
10) Psychics (Unless They’re River Tam or the Doctor)

I have a cunning plan.

As some of you know, I'm planning on participating in National Novel Writing Month. I know some of you are as well. This made me think. We all know how dangerous that is.

Why don't we do this as a shared world type of deal, where every story takes place in different places and times of the same larger setting? We could get a Wiki going (which would be pretty easy to set up, actually), take the rest of October to populate this Wiki with our ideas and tell each other of our incipient plots, and then, in November... write.

This could easily be expanded to include those who aren't up for 50,000 words of a single narrative or those artist friends of ours with a more visual skill set. Short stories or novellas could be written instead, pictures could be drawn, and other fabulous things.

I think, if pulled off, this could be magnificent. Who's interested? Show of hands, please!

50-Word Short Story #4

Only fascists wouldn't consider participating in this clash of carefully chosen words in the comments, because fascists don't know how to have fun.

There were things lurking underneath the bed. Dark things. Terrible things. Maggie tried the old ‘put the sheets over your head’ trick, but she knew it only delayed the inevitable crunch of her bones.

This is where axes come in handy. She had much to explain to her parents, though.

Things in History You Should Know: Sir Matthew Baillie Begbie

A 'Thor is My Drinking Buddy' original! Are you feeling privileged yet?

Back in the early days of British Columbia – ‘early’ in this case being defined as after it became a colony and before it became a province – justice was a tricky thing to administer. Tensions, both racial and national, flared. The amount of land to cover wasn’t exactly compact, nor was it easy to traverse, what with all the mountains in the way. And people, being people, refused to stop committing crimes to make things easier for a poor, beleaguered law man.

Enter Matthew Baillie Begbie, the so-called Hanging Judge. Born at sea in 1819 to Scottish parents, he frittered away his first four decades in Great Britain – attending Cambridge, being a lawyer, and that sort of thing. He must have made a decent account of himself in that field, for when the Colony of British Columbia was formed in 1858, it was decided that he should definitely go be a judge there. (Fun fact: the man who introduced the bill in the British Parliament to make BC happen was none other than Sir Edward Bulwer Lytton, of ‘it was a dark and stormy night’ fame. A robust literary career was no bar to politics in those days.)

It wasn’t a cozy desk job like he had back in London and it’s not certain why he accepted it. Most likely, he was the type of person to whom travelling hundreds of miles on horseback to hear a case sounded romantic. He rode about in his circuits, always holding court in full costume and often in his tent. And yes, there was some hanging involved, but not as much as you might think.

At the time, hanging was the only possible sentence for murder. Fifty-two murder trials were conducted during the colonial part of his stint, with thirty-eight convictions and twenty-seven actual hangings. (Begbie had asked for and got clemency for the remaining eleven convicts.) Nevertheless, the soubriquet stuck. Not that he didn’t take advantage of its intimidation factor, which was probably aided by his giant stature.

It also seems like he made it a personal policy not to be an asshole towards the locals, which was always a fine plan when they outnumbered the British in the area ten to one. He still insisted on having his trials be as British as possible, of course, but he made allowances such as switching out the oath on the Bible with something that would actually mean something to them and conducting the proceedings in their language. Did he use an interpreter? No. They were for the weak. He learned those languages, man.

Furthermore, those eleven convicts that he got clemency for were all natives and he could and did convict white men for crimes against natives using evidence from natives. This made him more progressive than approximately 95% of the English-speaking world of the time, give or take.

Now, how did Begbie get along with James Douglas, the governor of BC? It’s complicated. It seems as though most of the time, he dealt with the cranky old bastard quite well. He spoke up for a friend who wished to marry one of Douglas’ daughters and did not immediately get thrown out of the house. He served as a pallbearer at his funeral.

But Begbie made his true feelings be known at Douglas retirement party in 1864. Not only did he have the unmitigated audacity to plonk down beside the soon-to-be ex-governor whilst smoking a pipe – this was considered to be as rude as all hell even back then – he proceeded to give a speech about how he had hated every one of Douglas’ policies and he wasn’t the only one to think so. This didn’t go over well and he was booed into silence.

After BC joined up with the rest of Canada in 1871, Begbie was named its first chief justice of its supreme court. But four years later, during his first vacation in a very long time, Queen Victoria knighted him by surprise and he became Sir Matthew Baillie Begbie. Once he came back, he still rode his circuits and participated in what passed for progressive politics at the time (“I’ve got an idea, everyone! Let’s not be complete jerks towards the minorities and the poor!”). While he charmed the socks off of all the ladies, he never married. Perhaps he never met anyone who was so into horseback riding.

He died in Victoria in 1894 of cancer and buried at Ross Bay Cemetery. It is said that if you visit his grave on the night of the full moon, nothing much will happen. Maybe you’ll get rained on.

Jobless Bum Blues

It's hard to keep motivated when you're unemployed and inexplicably keep failing to be hired and money is running low. I am trying, but the discouragement gets to me and that affects the movement of fingers on keyboard.

But I did write today. It's not very good and I won't post it, but it's what I had to do. I felt better for it. I'll do better tomorrow.

However, if you feel like offering encouragement or advice or high fives... I don't think you comprehend how much that would mean to me right now and that's taking into account how smart I know the people who read this blog are.

I think I must rest now. Good luck and goodnight.

Things in History You Should Know: Pierre Trudeau

Today is the tenth anniversary of Trudeau's death. At the time, I'm not sure if I cared overmuch. Class was in session when the news broke and the option was given for those students overwhelmed by it all to go home and think about this great democracy. There may have been some genuine feeling among those who took advantage of it, but it was largely understood as an officially-sanctioned excuse to play hooky. I think I stayed at school.

I grew up and learned. I learned that history didn't have to occur more than a century ago to be interesting and that I damned well better know and understand the more recent stuff if ever I were to have a perspective beyond the previous week. I learned just how recently the national character of Canada consisted of reactionaries who seemingly longed for the heyday of the British Empire even as they struggled for a visible place on the world stage. Unless they were Francophones. Then they were just reactionaries. Don't ask about the First Nations.

That's not to say that all of Canada consisted of bigots and reactionaries. It's just that if you weren't, you were obviously a communist. Yes, I'm exaggerating, but not as much as I'd like.

Come the fifties, a sea change became apparent. First, you have Diefenbaker who was otherwise insane with his humble Bill of Rights. Second, you have Pearson with his bow tie and his student loans and social security and all sorts of other goodness. (Not to mention the bow tie. Bow ties are cool.) Third, you have... Trudeau, who among other things, made being Canadian something genuinely cool.

To think on this again makes me long for a Prime Minister with a sense of vision - someone who understands that we can go to so many wonderful places from here. Right now, we have a fellow who combines the worst worlds of fiscal irresponsibility and reactionary politics that seem like a throwback to the bad old days. We can do better and we will do better.

This article was originally published on December 9, 2009 in the University of Lethbridge student newspaper, the Meliorist. I was a week shy of graduating and being done with Alberta forever - hence my bitter tone towards the province. To be fair, anyone would feel like that after hearing Stelmach speak.

So read on. Toast to Trudeau afterwards if you're so inclined and hope that one day, I'll write a more fitting tribute to him.


~

Screw it. For what’s very probably my last article for this esteemed chronicle of news – hurrah for imminent graduation! – I’m going to piss off as many Albertans as possible. Because I will move away, and you will not find me.

That’s right. It’s Pierre Trudeau time. And I will start off by saying this: he was a better than average prime minister. If you wish to argue with me on this point, attempt to name a Tory PM that was better than him. Mulroney? Harper? Thor forbid, Diefenbaker? Sorry, Macdonald and Borden were the only awesome ones. So what did this chap do, in his multitude of years in office (1968-1979, 1980-1984, apologies to Joe Clark) to merit my relatively high opinion of him? Dude, I will tell you.

He made the world give two shits who the Canadian prime minister was. This was likely aided by Richard Nixon being the US president during a respectable chunk of his tenure, an ugly sort of man in every possible way. But even if Nixon had been a worthwhile human being, Trudeau had him bang to rights on the charm and wit front. Which is why John Lennon chose to hang out with him. (Nixon did get to talk football with Hunter S. Thompson, though.)

He rocked as Minister of Justice, which was what Lester Pearson, our nicest PM, made him in 1967. What on earth did he do in that position? Well, I’ll tell you! He legalized contraception and homosexuality, and shoved a foot in the door for the eventual legalization of abortion by making it legal to perform the act if the mother’s life was in danger. Oh, and he made it illegal for you to drive if you had one too many. All of this came from the massive Bill C-150, which also placed restrictions on harassing phone calls, gun ownership, and animal cruelty. Separate from all this, he further enabled one to leave one’s loveless sham of a marriage, should one please.

He was kind of bad ass. This was a man who just sat there calmly while separatists chucked bottles and rocks at him on the very eve of his first election as Prime Minister and leader of the Liberal Party, while everyone went and hid like the sensible people children that they were. His successors in the party tended to exercise this trait as well, with Turner saving Diefenbaker from drowning and Chretien’s development of the Shawinigan Shake. Ignatieff must learn from these exalted examples if he is ever to become PM.

He introduced official bilingualism. Yes, this is a virtue. Whether we like to admit it or not, historically speaking, French language rights in this country – not just in Quebec, mind you – have been kicked repeatedly in the teeth. Frankly, having that bit of extra text on your cereal box or having that additional bit of a requirement if you intend to enter certain sectors of the federal bureaucracy is not an overwhelming sacrifice to redress this.

He engineered the patriation of the Constitution. It is a rather ridiculous thing that for 165 years after Confederation, we did not have the ability to tinker with our own constitution. Nay, we had to go all the way to the British Parliament and ask nicely, perhaps bringing along a tasteful gift basket with a nice selection of tea and biscuits. Regardless of the political circus that surrounded the process (Night of the Long Knives, anyone?), it was something that needed to be done if we were ever going to become independent from Britain on paper as well as in fact.

His newfangled constitution included the Charter of Rights and Freedoms. Diefenbaker’s Bill of Rights of 1960, while well-intentioned, was toothless. True, it caused the dawn of judicial activism in Canada, bringing forth such terrible thing as full abortion rights and same-sex marriage and Native land claims. (Note: the word ‘terrible’ in the last sentence is sarcastic. I can hear your hands wringing, campus Right to Lifers.) Plus, it has been argued that such activism limits democracy in this fair country. However, I would argue that human rights should not be subject to the whims of the electorate because if history has shown us anything, it’s that the electorate haven’t been too great on that count. Pity about that notwithstanding clause, though.

Oh yes, National Energy Program – the implementation of this is a legitimate gripe, no matter how well-meaning it was, although it may have sheltered Canada as a whole from the worst effects of the global recession that was all the rage at the time. And there was the whole ‘invoking the War Measure Act’ thing with the FLQ Crisis. Still, my filthy lefty self can’t help but appreciate Trudeau, ginormous faults and all.

And as a final, I’d like to say this: the brands of small ‘c’ and big ‘c’ conservatism to be found in this province are rubbish, the tar sands are rubbish too, ‘feminism’ is not a cuss word, and your wind is far too apt to cause shenanigans (such as making me feel like frickin’ Shackleton whilst out walking last weekend). But what the hell, Alberta beef is still delicious.

Farewell, all! I head now for hillier climes.

Ogre

Another story set in the same universe as Strike. Please you enjoy. If you do, consider regarding the 'donate' button to the side or telling your likeminded friends about this site.

There was an ogre underneath the bridge.

This wasn't a normal concern for Losa. All the children in the mining village whispered about it, true, but the bridge in question was so out of the way from any place anyone would want to go that she little feared it gnawing on her young bones.

That was how the case remained until she fell in love with a handsome boy of the advanced age of fourteen. All that he required to prove her love was the steal a rock from underneath the bridge, where the ogre dwelled.

She agreed. Infatuation had that effect.

The next morning, during the false dawn while her mother and father still slept, Losa crept out of the cabin. Over her shoulders, she slung her pack, filled with sensible things such as an extra set of clothes, a firestarter, and two days' worth of meals, should matters get chancy for her. Attached to her belt was a sheath and in the sheath was her knife. She did not think it would do much against an ogre, but then she was not at all sure that the ogre even existed.

The children of the village had a rhyme: "Follow the spine up the mountain tall / There the ogre your bones will maul." There were other verses, each progressively nastier, but they were not much use so far as directions were concerned. So Losa cast them from her mind, or at least tried to.

The journey did indeed devour most of the day, with the sun rising – up, up, up, until it was directly overhead, before taking a decided westward direction. A hungry journey, it was too. She ate her ‘rations’ of biscuits and jerky with an unseemly relish and wondered whether she would have enough should her journey was an extended one after all.

The wonderings ceased when the river bended, revealing a bridge so ancient it must have been built by the grandparents of the grandparents of the grandparents of the three tribes that sometimes ventured up the mountain in alternating years. Underneath it, the bank dipped precipitously down to the water, although the bridge must have been flush with the river when the snow melted.

Losa relaxed and smiled. No ogre, no problems. Her scepticism had been proven correct and now the only dilemma that existed for her was whether to tell the truth of the matter to the other youth. So it was that she strode confidently up to the bridge, knelt down to pick out the handsomest and most distinguished of the pebbles she could find, and nearly dropped dead with fear when a leathery hand five times the size of a man’s fell upon her shoulder. That hand lifted her up, turned her about, and tossed her bodily into the weeds. Her feet scrambled for purchase and failed and she fell onto her ass. She ignored the pain from the burrs’ scratches and her bleeding calves and looked up.

The ogre was a hairy, overgrown creature that looked much like the tales she had heard from the more well-travelled adults in the village of 'apes' and 'gorillas' and 'chimpanzees' dwelling on the impossibly far-off continent of Kiloses. Its fur was damp and matted, twigs and leaves and mud generously coating much of it. Perhaps 'it' was the wrong term - the maleness of the creature was much in evidence. He had very large teeth and a smile that looked like a bear's. The knife remained in its sheath. It was unlikely that it could even penetrate his fur.

Losa did not think he could read minds, but he must have been able to tell plainly what was going on in hers by reading every bit of her body’s language. "I do not eat children," said the ogre. "The forest and river provide enough food for me; why should I bother with humans and their spawn and bring down their wrath? Answer me that, child."

Losa confessed that she did not know.

“Now what have you come to steal from my humble home?”

“A pebble… sir. From underneath your bridge. Someone asked for one as a gift.” As calm as she tried to keep herself, she could not keep the tremble from her voice or the increase from her heartbeat. “I won’t ask for your food or anything else. Just a pebble. Then I’ll go. I won’t even come back.”

The ogre put his head back and laughed, a booming, gravelly sort of laugh. “Oh, I haven’t any doubt of that! Ha! Every generation or so, one of your kind comes along to bother me about pebbles or somesuch. Proving yourself for the one you lust! So romantic! So mundane, to brave an ogre over the leavings of the mountain! Don’t you want something more exciting than that? Something more worth wasting your day over?”

Losa considered this. She did not think now that the ogre thought to consume her, unless his character was akin to a cat’s. But even still, even still…

"If you come closer, I can show you your future. And I shall give to you your pebble." He leaned in close to her face and opened his mouth with all its fine, large teeth. Before Losa could even think of backing away, even in instinct, he breathed in. He breathed out. It smelled of rot and she blacked out.

But did she?

Ever slowly, her vision cleared, as though she were waking up after a nap in the noon sun. Spots danced across and coloured her sight; she blinked rapidly to banish them. And then she saw.

Not herself. It quickly became evident that her own body was not in the picture, as she could not see her hands or feet or arms or torso, or even the tops of her cheeks and sides of her nose like she would normally. She could not feel her limbs at all, no matter how much she tried to move them about, and it was not as though they were numb. Rather, it felt like they did not exist, like the only things to her name were her mind and eyes and… ears and nose. She could hear the call of birds in the distance and the buzzing and chirps of summer insects. She could smell the fir and wildgrass and crisp mountain air, so much fresher than that of the town’s and with less of the underlying aroma of horse apples.

She could see the graveyard, but it was wrong. There should only have been five markers, for the stillborn Fonger twins, for her elder sister, for Mr. Ephraim and Ms. Challenger, as it was preferred to lay the dead to rest down in town in almost every circumstance. But here there were three dozen wooden markers, spaced at regular intervals in an overgrown clearing, rectangular patches of grass slightly elevated directly in front of each.

Losa read the names and dates etched on every single marker. All but the original five proclaimed the same year of death. The year was not far. Not far at all. And she knew that they could not have represented all of the dead, for surely the town’s graveyard grew more crowded that same year.

The graveyard faded, to be replaced by ogre. That was enough; Losa wept.

"What becomes of me?" she asked when she grew tired of the ogre’s smug countenance, enough so that it slowed her sobs and brought her back to coherence.

"Sweet child, that has always been up to you." He stalked back to the bridge and bent double over the bank. He hemmed and hawed for half an eternity before picking a lumpy grey pebble of no particular distinction and he forced it into Losa’s shaking hand. “There you are. Off with you. I’ve had enough entertainment for one day.” The ogre did not have to repeat the request. Losa turned and ran in the space of a breath, never looking back in case he had been fibbing about not eating humans.

Night fell over the village before Losa returned. No one was out; the glow of lamps flickered in the cracks of the cabins’ shutters. But before she crossed the threshold of her own home and endured her inevitable punishment, there was another home to which she had to call on first. She went and knocked quietly on one of its shutters, the one above the boy’s bed. Then she stood by it and waited.

He appeared soon afterwards, slipping out through the doorway and tiptoeing over to her. “You’ve come back,” he said. Losa pulled his hand over to her and forced the pebble into it.

He regarded the pebble with a speculative expression, rubbing it between his fingers and catching the available light off of it in all different directions. "This is it?" he said. "You're not kidding me, are you? It'd be a bit of poor play for you to get the whole village up in an uproar over a fake." The boy must have caught her own expression and adjusted his. “It is it, isn’t it?”

He smiled at her and she smiled back and forced herself to blush. The only thing she could think of when he kissed that pebble and placed it with exaggerated care into his leather pouch was the wooden marker in the lonely clearing, with its name clear as the ogre's river. And then she thought, if her own destiny was up to her, surely it was so with others? Surely the vision could not have been set?

"Have you ever thought of going to the coast? To Englin?" she blurted.

The boy looked at her crossways. Not even a word - just a furrowed brow and a corner of a mouth that could not decide whether to go up or down.

“There’s work there,” she continued, even though she knew that her cause became more hopeless by the second. “Moreso than here or in town. We wouldn’t have to be trappers like our mothers and fathers. Wouldn’t that be good?”

But the boy shook his head. “You can do what you want, but I like it here. Thanks for the gift, Losa. I’ve got to go back in now, so goodnight.” He ruffled her hair like her elder sister did and departed back into the cabin, shutting the door behind him.

Her destiny was up to her and so it was with others, but she could never force their minds.

And then she left.

It does not matter how or when she did so, just that happened before that year came bearing down upon her. She kissed her mother and father goodbye, invited them to come and see her once she was settled, and set her feet down and down the mountain. Whether she would see them again, she did not know yet. With any luck, they would take her hint.

50-Word Short Story #3

Aw yeah, everyone. It's Go Time. Everyone is welcome to make their own contributions in the comments and I shall respond in kind!

There were fast times at Fort Whoop-up and the American purveyors of illegal spirits were in a fine mood. They were well on their way to meeting their unofficial corporate goal of having the entire population of the prairies stinking drunk.

Until the Mounties spoiled everything. Just like the Man.

Exhumed

Brief, silly thing I wrote a bit ago. The concept could probably make a decent novella if I worked at it.

Ten years ago, a man died. They placed his body in a coffin, they buried his coffin in the soil. A lovely, shady spot that overlooked the river, to the right of a child that had succumbed to any one of a number of diseases back in 1896. Over the course of this decade, bugs and maggots made their way into the coffin, stripping the man of his clothes and flesh and guts. Except the brain. The brain was still there.

The reason I knew this was simple: we were drunk, it was grad, and there was nothing to do in town except drink more and egg cows. Someone in the group - I forget who now, it might have been Jesse - suggested we go boo around at the cemetery with our booze. We all agreed. Someone else dared Rick to pee on a headstone. That, of course, was done. And it just kept going and going, until...

"Dare you to dig up Principal Baker," said Heather. Okay, maybe a bit more slurred than that. Naturally, we all agreed. We scrounged some shovels from the groundskeeper's shed and went to work. I can't tell you how long it took, because the work was constantly interrupted by giggling, laughing, shushing, beer breaks, pee breaks, and general horsing around. Someone dug their shovel into my foot. It hurt.

Finally - it had to have been past midnight, maybe even closer to two - we uncovered the coffin. This was a ritual accompanied by many cries of, "Aw, dude, wicked!" and similar. Principal Baker lay there in all his glory, illuminated by flashlight. He was pretty much just a pile of bones by this point, except...

"Guys, look at this," I said, pointing my flashlight right where his eyes ought to be. They looked. They recoiled. A greyish-pink mound could be seen inside the cavities and it pulsed.

A strange, wheezing sort of sound came from the open jaw. It sounded something like this: "Oh, hello. Have the Canucks won yet?"

~

Naturally, having made such a miraculous discovery, we decided to bury Principal Baker right back up again and never speak of it ever again. We did have a good conversation with the poor man first. We weren't monsters, after all.

Grad finished. Summer happened. Half of our ten were leaving come September, so we decided to make the most of it. By 'most of it', I mean dirt biking, drinking beers on a mountainside, and tubing down one of the rivers. It was good times. Except until July 30th.

That was the day Rick drowned. We'd been tubing. And kissing. He and I were lounging on two inner tubes and he leaned over to either do more kissing or to grope me or both and... he slipped. And got sucked underneath. We couldn't save him. We just weren't good enough.

I was inconsolable for precisely one week. On the seventh day, his body was found. And here's the strange thing: the guy who found him? He said Rick tried to speak with him. "Did someone tape True Blood for me?" was Rick's plaintive cry, his skin bloated and grey.

Naturally, our town being what it is, everyone heard about it in an hour, along with some doctor confirming the brain was pink and a hundred percent intact. It also got out that he wanted to speak with me. What could I do? Of course, I went to do so.

I stood shivering in the cold, sterile room, clad in my tank top and shorts. Rick lay on the gurney, much uglier than he used to be. My feet shuffled the rest of me over to him.

"Rick?" I said, trying hard not to retch. Skeletons are easier to deal with.

In a quiet voice, he said, "Closer..." I leaned over him. "Closer..." I leaned further. "Wanna make out?" I leaned back so fast I nearly gave myself whiplash.

~

He lived with his parents for many years afterward, I heard. Worked his way through a degree, distance-style, before becoming a professional spam artist. Even got himself a girlfriend. It takes all types.

~

Rick was the first - okay, maybe Principal Baker was the first - but he wasn't the last. People simply ceased to die properly. Don't mistake me, they didn't become ravenous zombies or anything like that. They just stuck around, lounging like lumps, chattering on about inanities.

It happened to the seniors. It happened to the random heart attack or cancer victim. It spread outside of town, to Kelowna and Spokane and Nelson and Trail and all the little places along the way we don't like to talk about. From there, it spread to Vancouver and Seattle, to farthest Nova Scotia and Florida. The dead lived and would not shut up about hockey.

Borders were shut down. It didn't help.

Hurricanes, earthquakes, disasters of all sorts unleashed themselves upon the world. They left behind masses of corpses, complaining about the weather. "Can someone at least bring me a cup of tea?" they cried, as the living struggled to drag them back in from the ruined streets.

The nations of the world decided, as one, to resume the space race in order to colonise a world in which they could have elbow room that was not clogged up with the dead. Our neighbours to the south got flung into a constitutional crisis when President Khan was assassinated and insisted on serving out the rest of his term.

Now there's me. I died five minutes ago, on a planet far from home. It was due to natural causes, so don't get too weepy.

My daughter certainly isn't. She held my hand during the last seconds, yes, but now she's busy with paperwork. "Mom, do you really need the deluxe holopad? Only the regular version's almost as good and half the price and we could really use the money to redo the kitchen."

"No and no," said I. "The deluxe has the Titanic adventure. The regular doesn't. End of story."

The dead must maintain some dignity.

Translink Haiku #9 and #10

These were inspired by recent nights out.

Poor, beleaguered Bo!
The transit drunks flock to her.
A fix: pepper spray?

~

Prepare as one might,
The night bus is proof against
The size of bladder.

Sorry for the silence.

Life stuff, followed by friend's birthday shenanigans and the resulting Consquences, happened. There should be a proper update tonight.

50-word short story #2

Piper, Jimmy - it's on! Read the comments, everyone else, and post if you got 'em.

The mountains crumbled. The seas ran dry, spilling into the cracks in the earth. Volcanoes cooled. Winds stilled. Fire ceased to burn.

The survivors of humanity gazed upon their broken world as they drifted in their spaceships. Captain Rodriguez turned to his fellows and said, “Glad we left that place.”

Things in History You Should Know: Queen Crisantha

This is an attempt at writing one of my history articles about the world in which Strike takes place. It was fun times.

Once upon a time, in a land far, far away – okay, Spira – us peasantry got it in the teeth a plenitude of times. And it wasn’t all that long ago, being more like a century and a half, give our take. Yet now we live in a happy fun world where the colonies are their own nations, parliaments reign supreme, and the nobility don’t have a whole mess of privileges with which to lord it over us lesser folk. And who do we have to thank for this?

That’s right. Crisantha fuckin’ Landrell. Queen Crisantha, that is.

Nevertheless, democratic reformer types don’t just magically spring fully-formed from the foreheads of the nobility. Sure, there had been revolutions, both peaceful and violent, springing up pretty much all over the Estelian continent and a suitably idealistic young noble might possibly, without further provocation, take up the cause of the downtrodden. Might, but not likely.

The key element here is the Shulmanian Revolution, in which that country, its last emperor having got himself killed through act of horse and his remaining relatives being so distant they might as well be on another hemisphere, decided that elections might be worth a try. Thus so did Abelard von Aschenheim became their first president, a couple of generations before Crisantha got started. Why is this relevant, you may ask? Well, it just so happens that Crisantha’s mother was a cousin of his. And that Crisantha was sent over to Shulmania in her youth to go get educated. And who was in charge of her education? Come on, now. You can figure this out.

So you have this young noblewoman, who’s next in line to inherit her father’s duchy of Belsworth and who also, incidentally and through the most technically correct interpretations, has more of a right to the throne than the then-queen Lucina did. And she’s off in foreign parts, getting her head stuffed full of ideas.

Now, if you’re a sensibly minded monarch, you’ll leave that branch of the family well enough alone and find some nice little cause they can distract themselves with. Queen Lucina was hardly sensible. In fact, most historians say, she was downright crazy. She had the Duke of Belsworth arrested, along with Crisantha’s younger brother Tiberian, and told the whippersnapper to stay out of the country, lest she have the two executed.

Too bad the prison conditions were so lousy that the duke died. Also too bad that rumours of torture, involving said duke and her brother reached the newly-fledged Lady Crisantha’s ears in not-far-enough-off Shulmania. (These later turned out to be true.) And you better believe that she declared it on. Or the 13th century equivalent thereof.

She got herself an army. This was easy enough, considering the Shulmanian Congress had already voted to support her and oh, incidentally, there were a lot of people down south in Spira that thought she might possibly make a better queen than Lucina. Wholesale oppression of the lower – and middle classes, who had quite the percentage of the nation’s wealth in their ample pockets – had that effect. Rebellion had begun.

It lasted an entire year, fracturing the country like a mirror that got a rock tossed at it. Brother against sister! Parent against child! Pristinian against Nelurian! (Although as those last two were foreign, no one was really paying attention to what they had to say about it.) Long story short, the ‘Belsworths’, as they were called, were victorious, despite more than their fare share of near finishes.

Crisantha celebrated her nineteenth birthday on February 29, 1211, the very day she was crowned. And your parents thought you were precocious. The former Queen Lucina was executed just afterwards and she was lucky enough to watch the whole, wonderfully choreographed coronation. Her last words were recorded for posterity; alas, they’re but a string of expletives.

Then the nobles who supported her got a nasty shock: she really meant her grand speeches of reform and democracy and egalitarianism. She stripped her former fellow dukes and duchesses of most of their privileges, particularly those of tax avoidance and their hogging of almost all of the seats in the House of Commons, not to mention all of the laws that gave them a free pass for almost any offense committed against someone of a ‘lesser’ class. Good thing the middle class supported her, then – the uppers wouldn’t lend her money anymore.

She carried along those lines for the rest of her days, fitting in a couple of scandalous affairs to spice up the quiet times. Counter-rebellions were quashed, including that headed by the late Lucina’s brother, Asher. (We don’t know what happened to him – if he died in battle or was captured, it was never reported.) Then she died in 1291, so peacefully as to annoy all of her enemies and having already declared that the monarchy was to be a strictly ceremonial position from that point onwards.

In interest of full disclosure, one of her grandchildren did have the unmitigated gall to attempt a coup, as did some other scions of the royal line over the years. And for some of the colonies, most famously Abelia, the transition towards self-government didn’t come fast enough for them, leading to their own rebellions to gain their independence. (This hasn’t prevented them from wanting to snatch independence from others for the sake of some sweet, sweet land.) And, yes, she didn’t do it alone – many of her prime ministers, including Evelyn Godsmark, did much of the grunt work in getting her reforms passed through Parliament in the first place.

It couldn’t have happened at all, though, if it wasn’t for one young woman on a revenge kick. Now that’s a moral for the ages.

The 3-Day Novel contest...

...needless to say, was a bust. And what I did do was painful enough to turn me off of writing for a few days. I suppose I a) forgot how hard it was the first time and b) needed the registration fee to force me through it. But again, $50 is a fair chunk of change to spend on such a thing when you're unemployed, you know?

Happily, I'm working on a short story now and I hope to have it posted this evening or in the morning. And I should get some non-fiction going; that stuff is fun times.

It Must Be Bunnies

Another 500-word, written in an hour story. Prompt provided by Isaac.

In the hall of the High Emperor, a debate of the gravest importance was underway.

Courtiers, clad in their house colours, swarmed about the throne. They shouted and seethed. Those with an arm free were using it to either raise their fist in the air or point at others in a most unseemly fashion. Every one of them held a small, furry mammal – one of a dizzying array of species then represented in the hall.
The High Emperor held his hand aloft for silence. Immediately, the courtiers ceased their bickering, aside from the occasional dagger-like glares.

“Gentlemen and gentleladies,” said the High Emperor in his ancient, highly-enunciated way. “This matter is too great to be wasted on such common prattling. We shall go through the candidates one by one and by those means, judge their qualities. Present the first candidate!”

Nobles being nobles, they had the order of precedence sorted out centuries ago. Thus it was that the Duke of Delia stepped forward, pot-bellied piglet in hand. He bowed as he presented it to the High Emperor, who picked it up gingerly. Soon, the piglet was squirming with glee as the High Emperor scratched it behind the ears.

“Yes, yes,” said the High Emperor. “Not as fluffy as we would like, but a charming and agreeable animal all the same. Given its species, we think it would grow into an intelligent beast, but how clean would it be?” After five minutes of petting the piglet and cooing at it, he returned it to the Duke of Delia. “Present the second candidate!”

The Duchess of Arshane was next, clasping in her arms a tiger cub. She handed it over to the High Emperor, whereupon it proceeded to gnaw and slobber upon his silken robes.

“Certainly adorable,” declared the High Emperor. “And fluffy. But we are concerned about its potential for destruction as it ages into maturity and also feel that it might be happiest frolicking on a reserve. Also, we believe that it would terrify the servants.” He shook his head, almost mournfully. “We are sorry, Arshane. But it cannot be. Present the third candidate!”

The Duchess of Arshane took this rejection with the stoicism for which her line was known. She reclaimed her beast and backed away into the crowd, the cub chewing on her brocade sleeves.

On it went. The monkey, the puppy, the kitten – all were examined and found wanting. Until Sir Lockley presented to him a most floppy-eared creature.

The bunny cast a most disapproving look upon him – black, beady, and unyielding.

“Bunnies!” declared the High Emperor. “It must be bunnies!”

He let the astonished murmurs of the courtiers carry on for some time before holding his hand aloft again. “It appears we must explain our decision. Look upon the bunny. See its disapproval! Clearly, it is the most honest and forthright creature in this land! Therefore!”

The High Emperor stood, bearing the bunny on high. “The bunny shall forevermore be the symbol of this royal house!”

3-Day Novel Jitters

First, a happy hello to those travelling here from Longshot Magazine. I hope you enjoyed the John A. article, lovable sot that he was.

Anyway, I have decided that I will indeed participate in the 3-Day Novel Contest that is happening this Labour Day weekend. Unofficially. $50 is a bit much for me right now and that money would be put to better use by the purchase of supplies for this venture. You know, like easy-to-prepare food bits, Pepsi Max, and booze. And tea. Lots of tea.

I'm getting nervous just thinking about it. No, I don't have any idea what to write about. Suggestions are welcome, but I assume, like last time, that it will come to me.

Okay. Breathe. Breathing's a good and much underappreciated activity. So!

There will be an actual content post later today. Cheers 'til then.

Translink Haiku #8

Fowl bones underfoot.
How wet, slick and bare they are!
I will sit elsewhere.

The Afterlife of Abraham Lincoln

Another 500-word short story, done in an hour. More or less. Stupid leaf blower. Anyway, the prompt of 'zombie Lincoln's last hour' was provided by the singular Piper.

Abraham Lincoln was unhappy.

Not long ago – he couldn’t remember how long, as everything was fuzzy – he was president of these United States. He’d won a Civil War. He’d been watching a rather funny play. Next thing he knew, some bastard shot him in the head, shouting nonsense in Latin, and then… darkness.

Then light. The doctors peered down at him, not a little disturbed. He demanded an explanation.

They exchanged nervous glances, until one of them manned up and stepped forward. A curly-haired, bearded fellow. Barnes, wasn’t it? “I am afraid, Mr. President… That you part of the walking dead now.” He told him of the assassination, the futile attempts to save him, the perpetrator of the foulest of deeds, the strange magicks of an unidentified priest, every bit. “But at your rate of decomposition, you only have so much time left to you. Choose wisely, Mr. President.”

But he’d already made up his mind.

“Laid low by an actor!” Lincoln cried. “There is nothing for it. I must hunt down this John Wilkes Booth, no matter his talents, and devour his brains. I shall leave immediately.”

~

Booth hunting proved to be more difficult than he anticipated.

The difficulties started with Virginia. Lincoln, accompanied by thirteen Union soldiers, cornered him at a farm, having been tipped off by the farm’s owner. The plan was simple. The soldiers were to shoot him, Lincoln was to rip chunks of flesh from his still-living frame. How could it go awry?

Several bullets later, the dust cleared, revealing no Booth. Inconsolable and hungry, Lincoln feasted on the thirteenth soldier as an example to the others. “It might be wise to disavow knowledge of this Adams fellow,” he told them as they backed away. My, what a delicious bicep! “The public might be disturbed.”

~

After that night, he opted to go solo. Or at least, he liked to think he did. Scuttlebutt travelled through the ranks to the point where every soldier refused to serve at the former President’s side. So he shambled alone in the wilderness. The public would scream and throw things whenever they saw him in the city.

But Lincoln’s thoughts grew dimmer as his brain matter leaked out through his nostrils and gaping maw. The name of ‘Booth’ had been writ large on what was left – and ‘actor’, too, of course. The problem was that the man had come from a whole damnable family of actors!

He found Junius in Ohio. He could still talk then, albeit poorly, and managed to groan out an, “Booooth heeeeere?” Junius, to his credit, shook his head, explained that one should be looking for John but alas, he did not know where he was to be found. Lincoln shambled away and forgot the name.

He found Edwin in New York. By then, his jaw had fallen off and he could only rattle but my, didn’t the fellow look tasty!

Edwin promptly bashed his skull in while his little daughter screamed. Afterwards, they had cake.

The Rutabaga Mafia

Another 500-word short story, written in an hour. Prompt provided by my mother. She's a strange 'un.

Tom ‘the Swede’ Rutabaga and his cousin, Benny, cornered Eric the Red in a secluded corner of the fridge. Their leafy bits loomed over tubby, ripe tomato in a most threatening fashion. What was even more threatening was their teeny, tiny knives, carved from the bones of some long dead cow, which they pointed right at Eric’s extensive midsection.

“Where’s the money, Rouge?” sneered Tom, twisting his knife in his hands. “You were supposed to pay us back today, Rouge.”

Benny chortled, but did not add any of his own words to this. Benny wasn’t very bright, for a vegetable.

“I… I…” Eric stammered. His belly wouldn’t stop shaking and his eyes darted left and right, looking for escape routes. None were to be found, for the fridge door was closed and thus darkness reigned save for an LED indicator for something or another on the wall. “I’ve had a tough time! Susie’s been eaten and we had to pay for the memorial service and Lucy’s had to visit the shrink ever since she was jostled in the grocery bag and… I’ll give you ten sprouts right now, okay? And the rest tomorrow.” He looked into the baleful eyes of the Rutabaga. “For god’s sake, man!”

The Swede let the tomato sweat for a good, long while, not giving the slightest of responses save for the tightening of his hand on the knife handle and inching it close enough that it scraped his skin. “All right, Rouge,” he said. “Give the tenner over to the nice Benny here, all right?”

Eric could hardly believe what he heard, but the hope had entered him and refused to relinquish its hold. “Oh, thank you, thank you!” he cried, handing over the ten sprouts to the Rutabagas. They counted them, twice, and then they did the most remarkable thing – they drew their knives back, sheathing them in their leafy greens, and nodded. He was free to go.

“Go off, then,” said the Swede. “But remember tomorrow.”

~

But Eric could not pull off miracles.

Debbie Hunter was not having a good day. Nine hours of work, along with an out of town husband and an afterschool babysitter who flaked out on her at the last minute, did not make for any sort of good day. The boys had therefore been by themselves for two hours and oh, had the damage been done.

Now she had to make dinner for the little monsters. Joy.

Tacos, she decided. Tacos would be easy enough. Just fry up the ground beef, grate some cheese, cut up some vegetables, and go. She headed to the fridge to make her dream into a reality and opened its door.

Debbie’s fists clenched. She counted to ten slowly, very slowly, breathing the deepest of breaths with each numeral. When she was done, she said, “All right, which one of you little bastards ruined all the tomatoes?”

All five lay in a red mush by the butter dish. Their juice surrounded the yogurt.