Pod Tales and Ponderings

Friday Fiction for January 13, 2012

2012-01-12T21:46:00.000-08:00

Oh, look! It’s Friday the Thirteenth, and I get to host Friday Fiction this week! Whether that is lucky or not, you can decide for yourselves. Frankly, I think if any day was going to be unlucky, pairing a Monday with the number thirteen would qualify far more than any Friday. Whatever you do, though, don’t let the date keep you from sharing your own Fiction entries this week. Just add your link to the Linky list below!

Early in the Pod stories, the premise is that the Pod’s knowledge and experience with spiritual things is very limited, but this doesn’t inhibit their curiosity. In this excerpt from “Marta’s Pod,” I explored this a little. For a secondary character, Sally Hyland has always been one that I’ve enjoyed writing. I hope you enjoy reading her.

Chapter 19

It is more easy to be wise for others than for ourselves.

~François Duc de La Rochefoucauld

Sally Hyland was used to being sought out for questions and concerns. She was often approached by members of their congregation that were more interested in a sympathetic ear, rather than the counsel that Diego would offer. Amusingly, she was as likely to give tough counsel as he was, and folks were often blindsided since they never expected it from her.

It was not unusual that the Pod would come to one or the other of them for advice or questions. Their education in spiritual matters had been almost nil under Dr. Marcel, and their perception of religious people based solely on the parodies portrayed on television. For the most part, though, their questions revolved around basic human relations.

Of all the Pod members, Marta tended to come to Sally the most, primarily because Sally was the only other woman with children that Marta had any long standing access to. It helped that Joshua Hyland was a year ahead of Marcel; Sally had plenty of access to mothers who had raised children to seek advice from when she dealt with some new phase of development, and by the time Marcel reached that phase, Marta could glean similar advice from Sally.

It wasn’t mothering advice that Marta wanted when she sought out Sally that afternoon, though. The two women had taken refuge in Josh and Marta’s room, where they could speak with some privacy and with little interruption. “Sally,” Marta asked. “Why does your God do things for some people and not for others?”

Sally flinched. “Wow; you certainly decided to dive right into one of the deeper subjects on this one. Would you mind if I asked what brought this up?”

“Why am I the one who has gotten so much, and not Eva, or any of the other Pod members?”

“Oh dear, if I could answer that question, I’d have to be God.” She smiled to keep the words soft. “Diego always explains it this way, though. We are here on the surface; we can only see so far ahead. We cannot see what lies beyond the horizon, so we don’t know what we’re going to need to deal with whatever is ahead. God is above; He can see beyond the horizon and knows what lies ahead. He gives His gifts in accordance with what He sees ahead and what He plans. We may not understand until years later, when we finally can look back and see how everything fell into place.”

“I still don’t understand why me? It seems that everything has come my way, and not to anyone else in the Pod.”

“It’s come to you, yes; but where has it gone from there? You have received gifts, and what have you done with them?”

“The Pod shares in everything I get. Well, almost everything; some aspects of Josh I don’t share with anyone.”

“You know, one of the errors Diego and I deal with so often is what people do with the gifts that God gives them. You see, God doesn’t give us things so we can sit around and admire our pretty trinkets; He gives gifts that we are supposed to use in some way, most often by passing them along to someone else who needs them. Have you considered that you are the one who receives the gifts here because you pass them along to the rest of the Pod?”

“That may be so, but what about my parents? Why could it not have been Eva’s parents that found her, so that she could share them with the Pod?”

“I don’t know, Marta. Again, our perspective is so limited from where we are. Maybe there is a reason your parents are supposed to be here instead of Eva’s. Maybe it’s Mark; maybe your parents found you because time with the Pod is what Mark needs. Have you considered that their being here isn’t a gift to you so much as it is a gift to them? Perhaps it’s simply their turn to be blessed.”

“I wish your God would let us in on what He’s doing.”

“So do I, but I fear if He did, I’d try to get in the middle of things and mess up His plans. So often, I just have to trust that He knows what He’s doing.”

“I guess it’s easier for you to trust Him than it is for me.”

Sally laughed. “I wish it were. I don’t want to think about all the times I didn’t trust Him, and tried to do myself what He said He’d do. Every time I find myself perplexed by what’s going on, I have to make the conscious decision to have faith. When I finally reach the point where I think I can trust Him without wrestling with it, I find myself having to trust Him with something even more difficult, and it’s no easier than it was before.”

“You serve a strange God, Sally Hyland.”

“Maybe so, but I can assure you, He certainly makes serving Him worth it.” She reached her hand across and brushed some hair away from Marta’s eyes. “He lets me be His hands to touch people like you.”

Friday Fiction for December 23, 2011

2011-12-22T21:23:00.000-08:00

I have the privilege of hosting Friday Fiction this Christmas weekend, so please feel free to post your link in the list and join in the fun!

I love writing the Pod Christmas stories, and this short scene takes place the first Christmas after the events in the story, “Allison.” Merry Christmas, and I hope you enjoy all the stories this week!

The Mermaid Under the Mistletoe

Pod Christmas Story, 2011

By Rick Higginson

Every eye in the room turned towards the door as word spread of who had just arrived. Joshua Cardan was accustomed to such attention; there was no company facility or function that he, as owner of Cardan Pharmaceuticals, could ever hope to sneak into.

“Josh,” Marta said beside him. “Is it too late to change my mind?”

He patted her arm. “Probably,” he said. “Of course, you did walk into Diego’s church this way, and for all the times you said you wanted to accompany me to the annual Christmas Party, you really should go through with it now.”

Robert Barron slipped through the crowd and stepped in front of them. “So, we finally get to meet her, eh, Josh?”

“You don’t know how many times over the past few years I wished I could tell you about her, Rob. Yeah, you finally get to meet her. Marta, this is Robert Barron, the Chief Executive Officer of Cardan Pharmaceuticals. Rob, this is Marta.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Cardan,” Rob said, extending his hand.

Marta shifted her weight on the walker to take the hand. “Please; it’s just Marta.”

Rob smiled. “Of course; Marta.” He turned towards the gathered employees and gestured for a path to be made. “We’ve had a special table prepared for you tonight.”

Josh took the wrap from her shoulders, and handed it with his suit coat to an attendant. It always seemed strange to see her in clothing, but the bright green holiday dress fit her nicely and looked attractive on her. If one ignored the tips of the fluke sticking out from under the hem, it would have been easy to miss the fact that she was a mermaid.

Rob’s wife was already seated at the table, and she greeted them pleasantly as they approached. A medical style gurney waited at one place setting, draped in festive cloth to mask its utilitarian nature. At Rob’s direction, they stepped up next to the gurney, and a couple of young men gently helped Marta onto it. Josh took a chair next to her, and scooted into place.

The CEO picked up a microphone. “Ladies and gentlemen, Joshua and Marta Cardan. I think this party can officially begin!”

Before and after dinner, a steady stream of people came to the table, introducing themselves to Marta and extending their holiday greetings. Marta seemed to get more comfortable with all the attention as the night wore on, though eating at a table with formal place settings was much too confusing for her. Meals in the Family Room were never formal.

After dinner, tables were cleared and moved out of the way. The DJ changed the music from holiday classics to dance tunes, and couples soon made good use of the open floor space.

“Well, Marta,” Rob said, watching the festivities. “How do you like the party?”

“It’s beautiful,” she said. “I think the only thing that would make it better is if I was able to go out there and dance with Josh.”

“Josh said you might feel that way,” he said, and nodded at some of the attendants.

The men pulled the curtains back, and opened two large glass doors. The courtyard outside was decorated for the holiday, and lights shone on a large swimming pool.

“It will be a bit cool out there, but the pool is heated and the music is being played in the courtyard as well.”

She raised up on her arms to get a better look. “Josh? Did you know about this?”

He grinned sheepishly. “I had a hint, yeah. I was told to come prepared to swim.” Removing his tie, he added, “I have my swim trunks on under my suit, and why I suggested the bathing suit top would be good to wear under your dress tonight.”

Rob took his wife’s hand. “You two have fun. I’m going to enjoy the dance floor with Mrs. Barron first, and then we’ll change and join you two in the pool.”

Marta was helped back into her walker, and they made their way through the doors to the poolside. Curious onlookers watched as Josh unzipped the back of the dress, and helped her slip it from her shoulders. There were noticeable gasps as the fabric fell to the ground, revealing the gray tail where hips and legs should be, but Marta didn’t react to them. She lifted her fluke enough for Josh to remove the dress from beneath her, and an attendant took it to hang up.

Scooting the walker closer to the edge of the pool, she turned around to face away from the water. With the mechanical device no longer between her and the water, she fell backwards into the pool and flipped gracefully around.

Josh stripped down to the bathing suit and lowered himself more gently into the pool. He was no sooner in the water, then Marta took hold of him and drew him into the deepest part. With arms around each other, they began to sway and twirl in time to the music. People watched the first dance, and when the next song began, many started dancing in the courtyard.

“If you look up, Mrs. Cardan,” Josh said, after a number of songs. “You’ll notice that we’re under mistletoe.”

A large leafy sprig, wrapped around with bright ribbons, hung from a line stretched over the deep end of the pool. She glanced up and grinned. “I guess this year I don’t need to tell you to stay away from it.” She kissed him, which resulted in loud applause and cheers.

“See?” he said between kisses. “It’s not just the Pod.”

Rob and his wife paddled out near them. “Okay, Josh. You two make this look easy, but I don’t think we quite got the hang of it.”

Marta gave Josh a mischievous look, and he smiled back at her. “Just don’t drown him. He’s the only one who really knows how to run the company.”

She spun from in front of him to extend a hand towards Rob. “May I?” she asked Rob’s wife.

The woman nodded, and relinquished her partner to Marta.

“The first thing to remember,” Marta told Rob. “Is that the water is your friend. Now, deep breath,” she said.

“Huh?” Rob said.

“Take a deep breath,” she repeated. When he did, she wrapped her arms around him and dove sideways, taking him on a quick, tight circle around the bottom of the pool.

“Well, Mrs. Barron, I’m not nearly as good at this as Marta is, but I think I can show you enough that you and Rob will be able to manage.”

“You’re not going to dunk me, are you?” she asked.

“I’m definitely not as good at that as Marta is, so no, I’m not going to dunk you.” He took her hand and guided her into a waltz position. “Biggest trick when it’s two regular people, is coordinating the leg kicks. Dancing with one of the Pod makes it easier, because they can hold us up with little effort on our part. We, though, have to keep kicking if we want to keep our heads above water, so just like dancing on land, we need to time our steps.”

Marta and Rob surfaced again in the center of the pool. “Comfortable with the water now?” she asked.

“I don’t think I dare say no,” he replied.

“Hey, Rob!” Someone yelled from beside the pool. “You’re under the mistletoe!”

Before he had a chance to reply, Marta planted a quick kiss on him. He pulled back, surprised, as the whistles and cheers echoed over the water, and turned a confused look towards his wife and Josh.

Josh laughed, along with Rob’s wife, and returned to the dance instruction.

Before long, others had changed into swimwear and transitioned to dancing in the pool. Festive Holiday tunes kept everyone moving, and the queue for a dance with Marta grew longer than the night would accommodate. Almost all wanted to maneuver the mermaid under the mistletoe, and Marta seemed only too happy to let them. For all her earlier trepidation, she was having more fun than Josh could remember her having on any Christmas since the first in the Family Room.

He spun in the water with the date of Marta’s current dance partner, and smiled. For an evening, she could enjoy being a part of the world of regular people.

When the last dance of the night was announced, he turned to find Marta with her hands held out to him.

“I told the rest of them, that I wanted one more dance with my husband tonight,” she said, pulling him into her arms.

“Are you going to take me under the mistletoe again?” he whispered to her.

She kissed him. “You, Mr. Cardan, have never needed mistletoe with me.”

Friday Fiction for December 16, 2011

2011-12-16T20:49:00.000-08:00

The talented Sara H. is hosting Friday Fiction this week, over at Fiction Fusion. Don’t miss the terrific stories posted for your enjoyment this weekend!

As promised, this week is the conclusion of the Clockwork Deacon Christmas chapter. Enjoy, and come back next week for the 2011 Pod Holiday Story.

Clockwork Deacon

Chapter 6 – A Clockwork Christmas, Pt. 4

Jacob awoke first in the morning, and ran to the window. The Sun was barely up, but it was no longer night. It was Christmas. He jumped onto his brother’s bed. “Isaac! Wake up! It’s Christmas morning!”

Isaac’s eyes popped open, and he sat up immediately. “Are Pa and Ma up yet?”

The door opened slightly, and their mother peeked in. “Yes, we are up, and you boys know that you must be properly dressed and groomed before you come downstairs. Don’t dawdle – we have much to do today.”

They hurried to change from their pajamas to the nice clothes they had been told to wear for the day, and gave as fast a combing to their hair as they could get away with. With the kind of enthusiasm that was never exhibited for either school or church, they fairly flew down the stairs, and were met at the door of the living room by their mother.

“I declare, boys,” she said, fussing over their clothes and hair as though they were to meet President Roosevelt himself. “One would think you two had never dressed yourselves before. Santa Claus has already been here, and the gifts beneath the tree aren’t going to disappear if you take the time to get ready the proper way.”

“Yes’m,” they both said, trying to see around her to the tree and its waiting treasures.

“Tch, and your hair. Isaac, did you bother to comb it at all?”

“Yes’m, I did,” he said.

“With what? A stable rake?”

“I used a comb, Ma!”

“Well, after breakfast you are to comb it again the right way. I won’t have you going out looking like you’ve been standing in a whirlwind, you hear?”

“Yes’m.”

“Now, you two are to walk CALMLY to the tree, is that clear?”

“Yes’m.”

She stepped out of their way, and immediately reminded them to WALK.

They dropped to their knees beside the tree, and began to search beneath it.

Pa walked in from the entryway, carrying two small boxes. “Odd,” he said. “There were two boxes on the front step, one with Isaac’s name on it, and one with Jacob’s. Who do you suppose left these here?”

Both boys bit back a laugh. “Pa,” Isaac said. “Shouldn’t we bring Deacon in for the gifts, too?”

“Deacon?” He gave Isaac a quizzical look. “We’ve never worried about including Deacon in our Christmas Morning before. Why this year?”

“Well, Deacon’s part of the family, too, ain’t he?”

“Isaac, what have I told you about ‘ain’t’?” Ma interjected.

“Deacon’s part of the family, too, isn’t he?” Isaac corrected his question.

“Not in the same way you boys are, or your mother and I,” Pa answered.

Isaac’s eyes cut momentarily to the two boxes in Pa’s hands. “Please, Pa?”

The glance did not go unnoticed. “Does Deacon have something to do with these gifts?”

“You’ll see when we open ‘em, Pa. Deacon should be here, though. Please, Pa? Ma?” He gave them both a pleading look. “I’m not gonna open any presents ‘till Deacon is in here, too.”

Pa fixed him with a searching look. “You would really delay opening your gifts, to wait for Deacon?”

“Yes, sir, I would.”

Jacob stepped forward. “Me, too, Pa. I want Deacon in here, too.”

His expression softened. “Mrs. Randolph, I believe our sons are becoming fine young men.” He handed them their respective boxes from the porch, and then went back to the door. “Deacon,” he called outside. “Deacon? Would you come in here?”

A couple of minutes later, Deacon rolled through the door, still wearing the Santa accessories from the night before. He stopped just inside the room, and waited for instructions.

“Deacon, Isaac and Jacob request the pleasure of your company for our Christmas Morning celebration. Would you care to join us?”

Deacon processed the question, then gave his single nod. He moved to a position out of the way, and settled into his quiet waiting mode.

“Now,” Pa said. “Since you boys seem to know something about these mystery gifts, why don’t you go ahead and open them, and then you can enlighten your mother and me.”

Isaac opened his, and unwrapped the paper from around the miniature Automaton toy. He turned the key on the back, and then set it on the wooden floor. The tiny Airship Mechanic Automaton moved about the floor, its arms swinging a tiny wrench in one hand, and an oil can in the other.

“Well, I’ll be,” Pa said.

Jacob likewise wound his, and released it to run about the floor.

“I take it that Deacon had something to do with these,” Pa said.

“Yes, sir,” Isaac said. “Deacon, and Syl, the man with the wooden leg. Syl gathered all the metal, and Deacon made them. There’s one for every boy an’ girl in town.”

“And just how long have you two known about this?”

“Since last night, Pa. We went to see if Deacon was in the shed, and he was workin’ on the last ones. We helped Syl with wrappin’ ‘em, and he asked us to not tell anyone. Well, he did say we could tell you and Ma, but he asked we not do so ‘till this mornin’.”

The Reverend looked towards the Automaton. “I assume you have been working on this for a while, Deacon?”

Deacon nodded.

“Deacon delivered all of ‘em last night, just like he delivered ours,” Jacob said. “He went around, just like Santa Claus.”

“Do you boys know why Mr. MacKenzie and Deacon did this?”

“Syl said he thought every child should receive a toy for Christmas, and he said that Deacon had been so helpful when he was learnin’ to walk again, that he thought everyone should have a Deacon,” Isaac said.

“I see,” Pa finally said. “Well, I suppose that I’ll need to speak with Mr. MacKenzie myself later today, and hear what he has to say for himself on this.”

“You ain’t mad at him, are you, Pa?”

“Isaac,” Ma said.

“You aren’t mad at him, are you, Pa?”

Pa smiled. “Do you think I should be, Isaac?”

“No, sir. I think what he did was a good thing.”

He tousled the boy’s hair, earning him a disapproving look from his wife. “I am inclined to agree. I just want to hear the story behind this directly from him.” He cut his eyes at the Automaton. “I’ll certainly not get it from Deacon, that’s for sure.” He picked up one of the toys from the floor, and looked it over carefully. “At the moment, I rather wish I were a child in this town, so that I were getting one of these, too.”

“You got the real Deacon,” Jacob said.

“I sometimes wonder, if we really have Deacon, or whether he simply stays around because it suits him,” Pa said. “Now, I believe the real Santa Claus left something for each of you under the tree, and I am just dying of curiosity to see what you might have received.”

The boys turned back towards the tree, just as Deacon rolled up to Pa. He held out one of his mechanical hands to the Reverend, palm down and fingers closed. Pa held one hand, palm up and open below the mechanical hand, and Deacon opened his fingers.

Something small, shiny, and copper dropped into the waiting hand, and Pa brought it close to his face.

“What is it, Pa?” Isaac asked.

Pa lowered it so the boys could see.

“I didn’t see any like that last night,” Jacob said.

Isaac could not remember a time when his father had been at a loss for words, and even years later, he would remember this as one of the few times it ever happened. Pa would later tell him that it hadn’t been the little model of Deacon that had left him so awed that he couldn’t speak.

It had been the tiny Bible held in Deacon’s hands.

Friday Fiction for December 9, 2011

2011-12-09T21:24:00.000-08:00

Friday Fiction is hosted this week at “My Back Door” by Vonnie. If you need a little boost to your holiday spirit, don’t miss her wonderful story, “Tony and Tisha.”

Keeping with the Christmas theme as well, this week I have the third part of the “Clockwork Christmas” chapter from “Clockwork Deacon.” There is just enough of the chapter remaining after this for one more part, and then I need to write this year’s Pod Christmas story. Until then, I hope you enjoy this little tale from an alternate history.

Clockwork Deacon

Chapter 6 – A Clockwork Christmas, Pt 3

Isaac divided the boxes into two piles, and showed Jacob how to put one together, and they proceeded to race to see who could finish their stack first. The placed each finished box on the bench, and Syl would take one at a time, place a toy in it, and then write a name on the top. He scratched the name off his list, and placed the boxed toy into the bag.

Deacon, meanwhile, tinkered with one or two of the toys, apparently giving them a final once-over before they got wrapped.

With the two boys working on the boxes, they finished all of them well before Syl finished boxing the toys. For a few minutes, they watched him rolling each toy in a small piece of paper, placing it in the box, and then slowly writing the name in boxy letters on the top of the box.

He noticed their watching eyes. “You boys mind your schoolin’, y’hear? You might think writin’ and such ain’t too important to you now, but I wish now I’d worked harder at it back then.”

“Ma makes sure we do our letters,” Isaac said. “You want me to write the names on some of ‘em?”

“I would, but I said I would write every one of ‘em myself. It’s somethin’ I gotta do.”

“Why, Syl?”

“It’s kinda hard to explain.” He turned one hand over and back in front of his face. “It’s got somethin’ to do with what your Pa told me, when they first brought me back down from the mine after I lost my leg. He said the Good Book says that God would not forget me, that my name was written on His hand, and that was true for any child of God. Well, boys, I can’t write the name of every child in Loma Roja on my hand, so instead, I figgered I’d write their names with my hand.” He lowered his hand to the bench for a moment. “Sounds kinda foolish, don’t it?”

“No, sir.”

“It took getting’ buried in that dark mine, for me to see just how dark my life was, boys. I was so lost without Him.”

“Pa says Christmas is all about light comin’ to Earth.”

He nodded, picking up another toy to wrap in the paper. “Your Pa is a good man. You boys is lucky to have ‘im.”

Isaac looked towards the door, and the lighted window of the church just visible through the gap. “Ma says the same thing.” He extracted the toy from his pocket, and held it out to Syl. “If you gotta write the name of every child in Loma Roja on those boxes, then maybe you oughta go ahead and wrap this one up, too.”

Jacob looked hesitant to surrender the toy, but finally also held it up for Syl to take.

“Much obliged,” Syl said. “You boys don’t need to act surprised in the mornin’, if you ain’t a mind to. You can tell your folks about this, or you can keep it our Christmas secret, as you see fit.”

As if that had been the cue, their mother called for them, from just outside the church. “Isaac! Jacob,” she called. “It’s getting late, and the sooner you two get to bed, the sooner it will be Christmas for you! You know Santa won’t come while you’re awake!”

Isaac looked from the door, back to the bench. “We gotta go,” he said.

“Well, thank you for your help, boys,” Syl said. “You best mind your Ma, and get to bed. I’ll likely see ya tomorrow at the Christmas dinner at the church.”

“You won’t be with your family for Christmas?”

“Ain’t got no family,” he said. “Save for the church, so I reckon you could say that I will be with my family for Christmas. Now, your Ma is callin’, so you’d better get on.”

They ran to the door. Jacob squeezed out through it without opening it much, and Isaac paused with just his head sticking back in the shed. “Hey, Syl? Merry Christmas.” He closed the door, and caught up with Jacob, just as they reached their mother.

“What were you two up to?” she asked.

“We were just out with Deacon in the shed,” Isaac said.

“I declare, sometimes I think you two would rather spend time with Deacon than with anyone else. You boys should really put more effort into making friends with other boys your own age, instead of always relying on Deacon for companionship.”

“But we like Deacon,” Jacob objected.

“We all like Deacon,” Ma said. “But Deacon can’t help you to learn how to properly relate to other people. A proper young man has to learn how to discuss without arguing, how to listen and not just speak, how to ask forgiveness when he does wrong, and how to give forgiveness when he is wronged. You must learn how to love one another, just as Jesus commanded us, and I’m sorry, but Deacon is just too easy to love for him to be an effective lesson. You need to learn how to get along with other boys that are just as ornery as you two.” Her smile took any sting from the rebuke.

“Yes’m,” Isaac said.

“Now honestly, boys, do you think a real person would have put up with your interrupting them all day, just to try out different parts of a Santa Claus suit you found in a closet?”

“Grandpa would have,” Jacob said.

“Your Grandpa is the one person I’ve ever known, that might have had more patience than Deacon has.”

“He said he had to, after raisin’ you and your sisters,” Isaac said.

“He would tell you that, wouldn’t he? Well, I can also tell you that he would be one of the first to remind you that Santa Claus will skip our house, if you two boys don’t get yourselves to bed, and get to sleep.”

“Yes’m,” Isaac said, and then turned towards Jacob. “Race ya!”

They tore off around the church, towards the parsonage, with their mother calling after them to be careful. Bursting through the house door, they bounded up the stairs and to their bedroom, where they peeled off their clothes and put on their pajamas.

Their father came to the door of the bedroom. “Remember, boys, that just because it’s Christmas Eve, doesn’t mean you can skip your prayers. If anything, you have all the more to be thankful for tonight, since we remember the precious gift that God gave us on that first Christmas.”

“Yes, Pa,” Isaac said, and dropped to his knees beside his bed. He waited until Jacob had also assumed the proper position for prayer, and then started to hurry through the recitation.

“At the proper pace,” Pa reminded him. “Prayer is a privilege, and we should not treat it as an inconvenience that we must rush.”

“Yes, sir,” he said, and made the effort to slow down.

When they had finished, their father came over, placed his hands on their heads, and said his own prayer over them. When he had spoken the amen, he leaned down, kissed them on the forehead, and gave them a gentle boost into bed. “Your mother will be in to tuck you in directly,” he said. “Sleep well, boys.”

“Good night, Pa,” they both said.

After their mother had tucked them in, kissed them, and said her good night, they lay awake in the dark room for a while.

“Isaac?” Jacob whispered.

“Yeah?”

“You suppose Deacon is goin’ around, playin’ Santa yet?”

“I don’t know. He could be, I guess.”

“We could look,” Jacob ventured.

They slipped out of their beds and went to the window. The church building was dark, and the moon had not yet risen to cast any light on the ground outside. Deacon’s shed, visible just beyond the back of the church, was likewise dark, though the Automaton seemed less in need of light to see, than most humans.

“You see anything?” Isaac asked.

“Naw. You?”

“Nope. I sure wish we could have gone around with him tonight.”

“Me, too, but if we did, then Santa might not have stopped by our house, since we’d’ve been awake.”

They heard a noise from outside. “Was that sleighbells?” Jacob asked.

Both boys bounded back to their beds, and immediately closed their eyes as if asleep.

to be continued...

Friday Fiction for November 25, 2011

2011-11-26T06:30:00.000-08:00

Friday Fiction is hosted this week by Karlene, over at Dancin’ In the Rain. Take a break from all the busy-ness of this Holiday Weekend, and enjoy some great fiction reading from the wonderful folks participating this week!

Clockwork Deacon is finished for the first draft. It’s a bit shorter than I normally like for a novel-length project, tallying in about 50,400 words (NaNoWriMo Official Tally amount, which differed slightly from MS Word’s count), but I suspect the length will change when I go back and begin the revision process in the near future. Still, it takes its place as my sixth straight NaNoWriMo win, and my twelfth novel finished. Now, I can get back to work and FINALLY finish “Precocious by Consent.” For this week, though, please enjoy the next portion of Chapter 6.

Clockwork Deacon
Chapter 6 – A Clockwork Christmas, part 2

The service opened with a joyful carol, followed by the more pensive God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen. Their father welcomed everyone, and extended holiday wishes, before declaring the good news that Christ was born. He gestured towards the back of the sanctuary, and added, “Even Deacon is filled with the spirit of the season! Good tidings of great joy, indeed, which shall be to all people, and – apparently – to machines like Deacon as well.”

If Deacon had any reaction to the statements, he did not show it. He simply stood quietly at the back, as he always did for services. With no voice, he could not sing the hymns along with the congregation, but he also never showed any outward signs of participation in the worship in other ways. He was no more animated than the podium itself during the service, and for Christmas Eve, he was no different beyond the costuming the boys had attached to him. His face stared straight forward, and his arms remain folded at his side.

The congregation sang a few more Christmas carols, and then came the Christmas message. Isaac and Jacob had heard such messages every Christmas of their young lives, and their attention drifted elsewhere as their father preached.

The two boys would rather have been at the back of the church, next to Deacon. It would have been a challenge to see what else they could do in decorating the Automaton, without anyone in the church noticing that they were doing it. Holiday service, or just the regular service, though, their mother had a firm rule that they were to sit up front as a family. It was important, she often told them, for them to set an example for the other children in the church. They had to remember, she always added, that their behavior reflected on their father, and if they did not respect his authority, how would anyone else in the congregation respect him?

Unfortunately, such logic failed to make the sermons interesting to the boys. By the time their father concluded the message, and the final song was sung, they were practically ready to explode from the pew. The church members came forward to decorate the tree after the service, but Isaac and Jacob ran to the back to find Deacon.

Except Deacon wasn’t there. “Where’d he go?” Jacob asked.

“I dunno,” Isaac answered. “Maybe the tool shed? Seems he’s been out there a lot lately.”

“Let’s go see.” Jacob ran for the door, and Isaac followed after him. They hurried through the darkness, around to the back of the church, and the fairly new tool shed that Deacon had built a couple of months before. Isaac, being the older and larger boy, had reached the shed first, and slowly pulled the door open.

Deacon stood inside at a bench, and gave no attention to the arrival of an audience. His gaze, and his hands, were turned towards something unseen in front of him.

“What’s he doin?” Jacob asked. “I can’t see.”

“I don’t know. Why’n’t you go ask him?”

“I ain’t gonna ask him. You ask him.”

“All right, I will. I ain’t chicken.” Isaac entered the shed, boldly at first, but the closer he got to Deacon, the more timid he acted. “Um, Deacon? What’cha doin?”

Deacon turned to look at him. The Santa hat and beard were still on his head, but the bag was now resting on the floor beside him. He rolled backwards just a bit, and gestured with his right hand towards the bench.

Several rows of little copper automatons stood on the bench, of various different configurations. A few were similar to Deacon’s design, while others were more similar to other designs the boys remembered from Schenectady.

“Where’d you get these?” Isaac asked.

“We made ‘em,” a voice answered from the door.

Isaac spun around, and Jacob ran across the floor to hide behind his brother. Standing in the door, leaning on a cane, was the miner that Deacon had rescued. He walked towards them, an obvious limp with each step of the wooden leg.

“Well, let me correct that,” the man said. “Deacon built ‘em, and I collected the metal he used.” He placed the cane atop the bench, and picked up one. There was a key on the back, and he turned it a few times. When he set it back on the bench, the miniature Deacon rolled across the bench, with his arms going back and forth. “No one was s’posed to know about ‘em yet, though.”

“Why?” Jacob asked, peeking out from behind Isaac.

“I ain’t got much, but I wanted to make sure every kid in Loma Roja got a toy for Christmas. Deacon was helpin’ me to learn to walk again, an’ I joked that every kid learnin’ to walk needed a Deacon to help ‘em, and then I started thinkin’, mebbe there was a way that every kid could have somethin’ like Deacon.” He picked up one of the other toys, and held it out to Jacob. “Since I can’t surprise you with ‘im now, here’s one for you. Just got to promise to not show him to any other kids until tomorrow, when all the kids find theirs.”

Jacob took the toy, still a bit cautious, but unable to resist the shiny metal miniature.

“I don’t know what kind that one is. Deacon jus’ made them all, and the only kind I recognize are the ones like him,” the man said.

Isaac looked at it. “That looks like one of the Automaton Porters that works at the big train station in New York.”

“Kinda thought it might be somethin’ like that, with the way it looks like it was made to carry lots of stuff.” He handed a different one to Isaac. “How ‘bout this one?”

Isaac took it, and turned it over and over in his hands. “This is the kind that works on the big engines that make the airships go.”

“You’ve seen the airships?”

“Yeah. They fly all over New York.”

“Are they as big as folks say?”

“Huge,” Jacob said.

“Bigger’n a house,” Isaac added. “They’re like big silver clouds, flyin’ along, with hotels stuck beneath ‘em.”

“An airship,” the man laughed. “Now, that’d be the way to deliver toys to kids on Christmas, huh?”

“So, how’re you gonna deliver ‘em?” Isaac asked.

“Deacon’s gonna deliver ‘em, late tonight. I’m gonna wrap ‘em up, and put each kid’s name on ‘em. I got this map that shows where each kid lives, and Deacon’ll leave the presents on the door of each house.”

Jacob’s eyes lit up. “Deacon is gonna really play Santa Claus?”

“Yup.”

“Can we help? Please? We been makin’ Deacon up to be Santa all day, and this would be the best Christmas ever, if we could help really make him like Santa.”

“Well,” the man said. “I got all these little boxes here, that I need to put together so’s I can put the toys in ‘em. If you boys wanna help put the boxes together, that’ll make my job go a lot faster.” He held out his hand. “Name’s Syl, by the way.”

“This here’s Jacob,” Isaac said, shaking the hand. “An’ I’m Isaac.”

“You’re the Rev’rend’s boys, ain’t’cha?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I thought I’d seen ya before. Your folks ain’t gonna get worried ‘bout you?”

“Naw,” Isaac said. “It’ll be a while yet, before they’re done with the Christmas tree in the church, and then with the socializin’ that always goes on after, we got a while before they’ll come lookin’ for us.”

“Well, then,” Syl said. “We best get to work, before they do.”

To be continued…

Friday Fiction for November 18, 2011

2011-11-19T00:34:00.000-08:00

Friday Fiction is hosted this week by Joanne, over at An Open Book. More NaNoWriMo excerpts to enjoy! Huzzah!

Speaking of which, with the Holiday season rushing towards us, I thought this excerpt from my NaNoWriMo project, Clockwork Deacon, would be fun. I hope you enjoy it as much as I have been!

Chapter 6
A Clockwork Christmas

Loma Roja grew cold in the winter, but snow was just an occasional occurrence, and when it did fall, it rarely stayed on the ground for more than a day or so. A day or so before Christmas, a few of the men of the town would take a couple of wagons to the higher elevations of the Chiracahua mountains, and bring back enough trees for each family that wanted one, to have a Christmas tree.

A particularly tall tree stood at the front of the church sanctuary, ready to be decorated by the congregation on Christmas Eve. As was the custom in the town, the church would be open on Christmas Day, and dinner would be served to anyone who wished to come by for the Holiday.

Deacon went about his normal chores around the church, looking a bit silly with the red and white Santa Claus hat that someone had slipped atop his smooth metal head. An hour later, and someone else had tied a fake white beard around the bottom of his face, keeping it from slipping with some sticky wax.

Isaac nudged his brother, and tried to cover his laughter as he watched the reactions of the various folks that came by the church, bringing preparations for the Christmas Eve service, and food for the cooking of Christmas Dinner.

“The coat,” Jacob said. “We gotta get the coat on him.”

“I don’t think it’ll go over his boiler,” Isaac said.

“I bet we could tie the bag over his shoulder, though.”

They’d found the old Santa suit in one of the storage closets of the church, and Abe Kelly had said that the old pastor used to dress as Santa and give presents to the poor children in town every Christmas.

When the boys had broached the idea with their father, the Reverend had smiled at the suggestion, but said he didn’t look like Santa any more than Deacon did. That was all it had taken to plant the thought in their heads, and it became their mission to covertly transform the Automaton into Father Christmas himself.

The next time Deacon came into the anteroom, the boys finagled a way to tie the gift sack over Deacon’s shoulder, having first dropped just enough empty boxes into it to give it the appearance of substance.

As he went about sweeping the church floor, hat and beard on his head, and sack over his back, the boys went through fits of laughter.

Their mother entered the sanctuary. She took one look at Deacon, and also laughed. “I declare, Deacon,” she said. “If you don’t look more festive than I’ve ever seen you look.” She hung a freshly woven wreath on the front of the podium, and went back to the house.

“Too bad he can’t wear the boots,” Isaac said.

Jacob lifted a wide-buckled, black leather belt. “I’ll bet he can wear the belt, though. Hey, Deacon!”

He stopped sweeping, and turned to face them.

They ran out while the sanctuary was deserted, and quickly fastened the belt around the metal torso. It took a little work to feed it under the lower part of the boiler on his back, but in the end, that worked out for the best, anyway. There were a pair of bolts fastening the boiler to the back at the bottom of the gap, and these served well to keep the belt from slipping down the smooth metal to the legs.

There was little more of the suit that they could fit onto Deacon, but through the rest of the day, they tried different things to further the festive appearance of the Automaton.

They were certain that either their father or mother would insist on all of it being removed before the Christmas Eve service, but when the boys returned to the sanctuary that evening, wearing their Sunday Best clothes, Deacon stood in his customary place at the back of the church, looking like a mechanical Santa.

Folks showed up for the service, and without fail, the costumed appearance of the copper man made them smile. More than a few actually wished Deacon a merry Christmas.

To be continued...

Friday Fiction for November 11, 2011

2011-11-10T20:27:00.000-08:00

Happy Friday! Friday Fiction is hosted right here this week, so please add your link to the Linky Tool at the bottom of this post. It just so happens to also be the second week of NaNoWriMo. My project this year is a Steampunk story titled, “Clockwork Deacon.” In this story, the new pastor arrives in the small town of Loma Roja, Arizona Territory, in 1902. With him and his family, he brings Deacon, a Clockwork Automaton domestic servant. The townsfolk are all hesitant of accepting Deacon, and the book recounts different stories of his interactions with different folks. In this chapter, Sam Taylor is rebuilding a home that has burned down, and is encouraged to recruit Deacon to help with the construction.

Clockwork Deacon

Chapter 4 – Deacon the Builder

Sam stood there, awestruck, watching the Automaton selecting and cutting the wood. The clockwork arm drew the saw back and forth in a rapid rhythm that would have worn out most men, while the other arm clamped the wood in a grip that allowed no slippage.

“So, how’s he workin’ out?” Ulysses Kelly asked, walking up the street.

“He makes me feel like a kid what don’t know what I’m doin’,” Sam replied. “He made the cabinet frame as clean an’ square as any I’ve ever seen, and he got the wood for this wall cut and nailed so fast, we got a good chance of getting’ the other wall done today.”

Ulysses laughed. “Tol’ja he’d surprise you.”

“He kinda scares me, though.”

“How so?”

“I look at how he works, an’ all I can think is, what’s a man got to offer to a boss? They keep makin’ those things better ‘n’ better, an’ it won’t be long before folks won’t be needed at all.”

“You might have a point, but I don’t think they’ll listen to the likes of us ‘bout that.”

“A man’s got to have a job an’ a purpose, or he ain’t really a man at all.”

Deacon brought the first armload of wood, and configured the pieces on the ground. Without giving any attention to either of the two men talking, he spun around, and returned to cutting more wood.

Ulysses rubbed his chin. “Makes you wonder if the day’s gonna come, when folks from the big cities will be comin’ to places like this, just to find someplace where a man can find an honest day’s work to do.”

“You know that it’ll be like when the Rev’rend came here, though. When the folks come, they’ll bring their own Deacons with ‘em, and before long, Loma Roja is gonna be just like them cities back east. Most likely, by the time you got a grandson as old as Abe is now, folks’ll wonder what we ever did without things like Deacon to do our work for us.”

“We took longer to build a house, that’s for sure.”

Between the two men and Deacon, the left side wall went together even faster than the right, and they called it a night well before the sun started dipping below the hill.

Deacon parked by the lumber, and soon a column of smoke rose from his back, as puffs of steam blew out to either side in time to the sound of the engine on his back. His head angled forward in an approximation of sleep, and his arms folded motionless against his sides. The elbows were straight below the shoulders, down by the waist, and the hands were turned to curve over the shoulders. He did not react to the departure of the two men, and they expected to find him in that same position in the morning.

Instead, when Sam arrived at the Woodson House the next day, he found Deacon already moving about with loads of wood in his arms. At the back, the framework for the rear wall was mostly finished, and Sam just stared with jaw agape.

The wall, as near as he could tell without measuring, was an exact duplicate of the wall that had stood at the back of the house before the fire. If he had shown Deacon some plans, or given him some instructions the night before, he could have understood it.

The rear door frame looked to align perfectly with the path to the outhouse, and the window for Miss Woodson’s bedroom was the right size and location to match the old one.

The window that Deacon had opened, and lifted Miss Woodson through on the night of the fire.

When Deacon carried a load of wood over, Sam stopped him.

“Deacon, did you ever see this wall before the night the house burned down?”

The head pivoted side to side.

“You remember this wall from seein’ it just that one night?”

Deacon nodded.

“How? I’ve lived here for years, an’ seen this wall every day of that time. I’ve done work on this wall myself, and I couldn’t have made it this exact. How do you do it?”

Deacon held his inscrutable gaze on Sam for a few moments, and then, as if in answer, just went back to work.

Sam, you fool, what did you expect? He can’t talk, so why did you ask him a question that needed more’n a nod or shake of the head to answer?

He followed Deacon over to the lumber pile. “You’re gonna have the last wall done here shortly, so I need to go round up some men to help lift the walls into place, so’s I can nail ‘em to the foundation and to each other.”

Deacon paused, and then put the piece of wood he was holding down onto a pair of saw horses. He spun around, and went to the front wall. Spreading the ‘V’ legs on each side, he brought his torso low to the ground, and grasped the top of the wall. He tilted the wall up, and moved forward until the wall stood straight. He then picked the entire wall up, and aligned it on the foundation frame. He turned his head to look at Sam, and just waited.

Sam rushed to grab the hammer and nails, along with a couple of pieces of long boards. He first drove a single nail into the near corner, and then followed suit on the far corner, making sure the wall was straight and square on the foundation. He added two more nails at each corner, and then nailed the two long boards to one of the middle studs, angled down to brace the wall against the ground and keep it upright.

Once it was secure, Deacon went and repeated the lift on the right side wall. Before long, the three finished walls were up and secured on the foundation, and to each other.

Sam looked at him, and shook his head. “Every time I think I got you figured out, you go and do somethin’ beyond what I expect. It’s like I ain’t even really needed any more to finish this house, am I?”

Deacon had been rolling back towards the lumber pile, but stopped. He spun around, and rolled up to Sam. With a gentle grip, he lifted the man’s hands and turned them over for a moment, palms up. Then, he placed them folded over Sam’s heart. With his left hand holding Sam’s in place, he brought his right hand back, and tapped his own chest. The metal gave a solid thump; hard, and with no ability to even ring like a bell.

Sam felt his heart beating beneath his hands, and then Deacon brought one of them to his chest, placing it flat where a heart would have been, if he’d been human. The metal was cold and unyielding, and instead of the beating of a heart, there was the vibration of countless clockwork parts ratcheting and turning inside of him.

The man swallowed, and felt his eyes growing damp. “I wish you could talk, Deacon. I’d sure like to know how something with no heart, could know what it means to have one.”

The Automaton released his hands, and then turned back towards the lumber pile.

We got us a deal, then, Deacon. You give this house strength, and I’ll give it heart.

Friday Fiction for October 21, 2011

2011-10-20T22:39:00.000-07:00

Friday Fiction is hosted this week by Vonnie, over at My Back Door. Be sure to head over there, and don't miss her stop on Lisa's Bus Tour, posted there as well.

I've been back to work on “Precocious by Consent,” hoping to finish it up before the beginning of NaNoWriMo in less than two weeks. This week's submission for Friday Fiction is the latest chapter written, and heads back to Katya's home for a look at the battle raging back there. One of the problems in the church (and I think this has been true since the early church began, because people have always been people), is a reluctance to admit a weakness for fear that others will think less of us (I wish I could say that I had this thoroughly mastered, but I cannot). The trouble with this is that the adversary uses such a mindset to keep us feeling isolated and defeated. While I never managed to make it to one of the Promise Keepers rallies, I did appreciate that they put an emphasis on getting men to seek out other believers to whom they could be both honest and accountable for their weaknesses. This chapter deals with just such an issue.

Chapter 38

Monday night

Gary sat in the spare bedroom, playing the guitar. With only the two of them, the extra room served as a music and computer room, and from time to time he stole a glance at the open laptop sitting on the desk.

Usually, the guitar was a good hedge against temptation, but this was the longest that he and Katya had been apart since they'd wed. Worse was the knowledge that they did not have a definitive date when their separation would end. Katya was committed to this endeavor until either the Facenet Killer fell into the trap, or it was clear that it was not going to work. No one had a realistic estimate as to how long either possibility might take.

It was tempting to use the computer to try and contact her. While Lloyd hadn't told him what name she would be using, he knew approximately where she was living, and enough of the cover story to conduct a reasonable search. The rationale that his contact would simply fit right in with the image she was presenting on Facenet added to the draw, and several times, he started to put the guitar in its stand, before renewing his resistance. That his contact could potentially increase the danger factor for her, or for someone else, helped shore up the resolve.

The other temptation was more insidious, and danced seductively at the corner of his mind. He was aware of it, and found his attention periodically drawn to it, though he maintained a certain distance by simply not acknowledging it in so many words.

He tried keeping his attention on the guitar, and particularly on complicated fingerings that challenged his skill. He then played praise and worship songs, hoping to keep his mind focused on spiritual things, and thereby keep the flesh at bay. He rehearsed Katya's favorite song, imagining her face smiling at him as he teased the notes from the strings.

Yet, the temptation was still there – smooth, appealing, and oh-so-convincing in its arguments. It's not like it's really cheating, and besides, who has to know? You heard Asher – even many pastors are finding an outlet online. How bad could it really be, if so many ministers are doing it?

How many pastors, he wondered, would be looking at what I really want to look at? And Asher didn't tell me that, to say that it was okay, either.

It was almost nine o' clock, and he had to be up early in the morning for work. It was not going to be easy, getting to sleep with the nearly constant urge to find some illicit thrills on the internet. Lord, I just can't do this alone. I can't live the way I know I should live.

As if in response, a memory popped into his mind, and he could hear Asher's voice again. Promise to call me when you’re struggling, no matter what time it is. Give me the chance to encourage you and to pray with you, instead of thinking you have to face this alone.

Okay, Asher – let's see just how much you want to hold me to that promise. He pulled out his phone, and hit the speed-dial for the pastor's home.

Gosia answered, in a voice as cheerful and pleasant as if he had been calling in the early afternoon, and not at night when many in the small community were getting to bed.

“Hi, Gosia,” he said. “It's Gary Duddeck. Is Asher available?”

“Oh, hello, Gary,” she replied. “Let me go see if he can come to the phone. Can I ask what it's about?”

“I – just need to talk to him.” It's difficult enough to tell another man that I'm fighting the urge to go find some nasty porn sites. How do I tell that to someone like you?

“Ah, okay,” she said. “Hold on, and I'll go get him.”

How much did Asher tell her? Surely, she would have been curious, after the exchance between Lloyd and Katya over dinner that Sunday. Does she know the whole story now? Or is she the kind of pastor's wife that graciously accepts the answer that she can't be told what's going on with someone? If she knows, is she really so gracious as to be able to overlook our pasts?

There was a click as a phone was picked up, and Asher's voice came over the line. “Hello, Gary,” he said. “Hold on just a moment, while Gosia hangs up the extension in the living room.” When the sound of the handset being replaced in the cradle came across, Asher continued. “Okay, we should be good now. What's on your mind?”

“Were you really serious when you said I should call you at any time?”

“Completely. Are you having problems tonight?”

He was nodding, despite no one being there to see it, before he spoke his answer. “Yeah; it's really a struggle tonight.”

The voice was gentle, encouraging, and without the least hint of condemnation. “Do you want to talk by phone, or would you rather come over here? I can come over there, too, if you'd prefer.”

“I think phone will be okay for now. It's funny – just admitting it aloud to you seems to have taken a lot of the edge from it.”

Asher chuckled. “Why do you think the enemy wants to keep us convinced that we need to keep our weaknesses a secret? If we're too afraid to admit them, then we're going to be too afraid to seek help when we need it as well. God never intended for His children to walk in isolation, and that's just one of the reasons.”

“Asher?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks for not writing us off when you found out the truth.”

“Well, it was pretty obvious that God hasn't written you off, and if He isn't ready to give up on you, who am I to disagree with Him?”

Friday Fiction for October 7, 2011

2011-10-06T22:59:00.000-07:00

We’re now home from Hawai’i, where we had minimal internet access, and where we stayed too busy for me to think about writing anything for Friday Fiction last week. I did, however, get the idea for this story, and thought I’d play with a little short fiction. The remarkable Miss Sara H. is our host this week, over at Fiction Fusion. Don’t miss it!

Hair of the Dog

By Rick Higginson

He sat up, confused. The last thing he remembered was leaving the dog fight, disgusted with how how badly his dog had lost. He vaguely remembered entering a nearby bar, to drown out his disappointment. Where he was, and how he’d ended up there, was lost somewhere in the drunken binge. Blinking his eyes to focus, he recognized the look of the holding cell. Oh, great. I ended up in the drunk tank.

Standing up, he yelled for one of the cops manning the facility. When the door at the far end of the room opened, he quieted down and waited. No point in irritating the guy holding the keys, he reasoned.

A large dog trotted to the door of the cell, and sat down facing him.

“Hey, boy,” he said. “Where’s your handler, huh?” He chuckled. “Not like I can ask you when I can get out of here, after all.”

The dog continued to sit, and he got the uncomfortable feeling he was being sized up by the animal. That’s stupid, though – he’s just a dog. He’s big, and maybe well-trained, but his breed wouldn’t serve for much more than training a real fighting dog. “C’mon, Fido. Surely your master didn’t send you in here alone. Where is he?”

“Turn around,” the dog said.

Huh? Oh, man, I don’t remember what I was drinking last night, but it must not be completely out of my system yet.

“Turn around,” the dog repeated. “Now.” A low growl accompanied the command.

He faced the rear of the cell. “Why do you want me turned this way?” he asked.

“Stretch your arms out,” the dog said, ignoring the question.

“You mean like this?” he asked, extending each arm straight out from the shoulder to the side.

“Now reach up, high as you can.”

He complied. If this is a drunken delusion, or just some stupid prank, might as well just play along.

“Face me,” the dog said. “Show me your teeth.”

Turning back towards the cell door, the dog had been joined by another of the same breed. He drew his lips back to bare his teeth, and waited.

The first dog turned to the other. “Well?”

“Missing a few teeth,” the second dog said. “Can he fight?”

The first dog turned back towards him, and cocked his head as if appraising him. “If not, we give him to ones that can.”

Wait – what? “Hey, I know my rights. I’ve had enough of this game, and if someone doesn’t let me out right now, I’m calling my lawyer.”

The first dog stood on all fours, with his hackles raised. He issued a loud bark, and then spoke in a low, menacing voice. “Mine now,” he said. “You fight if I tell you to fight.”

The second dog seemed amused, and added, “Dog heaven, your hell.”

He collapsed onto the worn bunk, trembling and sweating. My hell? No. I couldn’t have drank that much last night…

* * *

The two dogs trotted back through the door from the holding area, and sat at the woman’s feet.

The deputy in charge of the jail chuckled, shaking his head in amusement. “Them are some dogs,” he told the woman.

“Yes, they are,” she agreed.

“All done,” the first dog said, wagging his curved, bushy tail. “We go now, Lana?”

She scratched the malamute’s ear. “Yeah, Freki. If you and Geri are done messing with the jerk’s head, we can go now. We need to go check on the dog that he left for dead, after all.”

Freki, Geri, and Lana are from the story, “Lana’s Pack,” which has been featured here on Pod Tales before, on January 2, 2009, May 29, 2009, June 19, 2009, and June 25, 2010.

Friday Fiction for September 23, 2011

2011-09-22T22:41:00.000-07:00

Welcome to Friday Fiction, hosted right here at Pod Tales and Ponderings this week. Look at the end of this post for the Linky Widget, and feel free to post your Fiction Link, and then read the other submissions on this beautiful autumn weekend. Yep. Summer is over, at least by the calendar.

The First Quarter of 2009 was an International Theme on the Faithwriters Weekly Challenge, and I decided to just have a little fun when the topic of Canada came up. I loved the show, “Home Improvement,” and this vignette just seemed to fit the topic. I hope you enjoy reading it, as much as I enjoyed writing it.

Wilson the Metaphor

Topic: Canada

Challenge Entry, week of January 29, 2009

Highly Commended, Masters Level; #9 in Editor’s Choice

Bob was always interesting to watch television with. He always saw allegories and metaphors in the oddest places, and loved sharing them. I suspect he was the kid the English teachers loved, and the rest of us hated. While we were scratching our heads wondering what on Earth the author was trying to say in a book, Bob was spouting off fantastic ideas as though they should have been completely obvious to all of us.

We were sitting in the dayroom, watching old reruns of “Home Improvement” when Bob had one of his epiphanies. “Bravo,” he said at the commercial break. “A brilliant play on international politics!”

“I thought we were watching silly old comedy shows to forget about politics,” I said.

“That’s the beauty of it! This is so masterfully done, most people would never catch on that they’re getting political commentary!”

“Political commentary? Um, the Tool Man just asked his neighbor for advice, misunderstood most of what he was told, and did more grunting than conversing. I didn’t see anything political.”

“Oh, come on; you don’t get it? Seriously? Think about it; Wilson is Canada. It’s so obvious!”

I knew I was going to regret asking. “Wilson, the nut-job neighbor, is Canada? How did you reach that conclusion?”

“You’re kidding, right? Look; throughout the show, Wilson is only perceived as a nut-job. In almost every show, though, he’s up to something that looks completely weird to his neighbor, but that he’s always doing well. He’s smart, competent, wise, a good neighbor, doesn’t cause trouble, and yet, is never really seen in the show. Not once, in all the episodes that they aired, did they show the actor’s full face until the final bow of the finale.”

“That half-hidden face thing was just a running gag in the show.”

“It was genius, I tell you! Just as Tim Taylor never really sees Wilson’s face, so also most Americans never really look at Canada. We know our neighbor is there, but we don’t take the time to see him.”

“So Tim Taylor is America, then?”

“More like the American Government, I’d say. Supremely confident, marginally competent, and just as likely to mess things up as to fix them. If it wasn’t for Al, who is kind of like the average American worker, Tim would never accomplish anything. Wilson, on the other hand, is always there in his back yard, quietly going about his own business, and is only really thought about when he’s needed. You know, like Canada.”

I was glad we weren’t watching “Two and a Half Men”; I didn’t want to even think about what kind of political metaphors Bob would find in the innuendo and scatological humor of that show. Innuendo? Scatological? Yikes; now I’m starting to use college words like Bob does. Maybe I should see if the Three Stooges are on.

“Canada isn’t the star of the show,” Bob continued. “It just borders on our back yard, comporting itself with quiet dignity and staying out of trouble, while we bumble about and think ourselves superior. Yet, no matter what, Canada is always there at the fence, with that friendly greeting of ‘Hi-dee-ho, good neighbor!”

“Well, except for maybe Quebec, which is more likely to say, ‘bonjour mes amis.”

He didn’t miss a beat. “It makes you wonder what Wilson ever got out of the deal.”

“They did have that assurance that, if the Soviet Union ever came across Alaska to North America, we’d have to deal with them first.”

“Hmm…” he said. “I’ll have to watch the show some more and see if any Cold War metaphors show up. You may be on to something.”

I was on to something, all right. I was on to a rerun of Mythbusters on another channel. I’d like to see Bob come up with political metaphors for two guys blowing stuff up just to test urban legends.

Wilson equals Canada, yeah…

…then again, he might just be on to something, too.

Friday Fiction for September 9, 2011

2011-09-08T21:53:00.000-07:00

Welcome to Friday Fiction. I’ve been a bit out of the loop the last couple of weeks, between a death in the family, and being swamped at work. This week, however, I’m hosting, so I figured I’d better pick something good to post.

For NaNoWriMo 2010, I wrote “The Erickson Exigency,” which was the “prequel” to the rather light-hearted story “Hogs of the Heavens” (the first part of which posted for Friday Fiction almost exactly 2 years ago). Anyone who read that story would already know the basic ending of “The Erickson Exigency,” so I don’t feel too bad posting the Epilogue here. I need to do a lot of revision work to the story, but the Epilogue isn’t going to change much. I still like how it worked out. When you’re done, please follow the Linky tool to the other terrific submissions this week.

Epilogue

Surrender

The Colony was growing. The fields extended farther than they had a year ago, and new buildings had been constructed a short distance away from the modules. Violet could see it all on the orbital surveillance cameras, and yet, it had been over a standard year since that final communication from Georgia.

The solitude was getting to her. The previous day, she had thought she’d seen Brunfeld in their old duty berth. He’d made one of his typical cutting remarks to her, before she’d blinked and banished the imagined ghost.

“System,” she said, feeling foolish before even making the request. “Status of ‘com link.”

“All attempts to restore ‘com link have failed. It has been three hundred and eighty two standard days since the last active ‘com link.”

“Terminate attempts,” she said, resigning herself to the fact that whatever problems prevented the communication, were not likely to be fixed so long after the fact. “Respond if interrogated, but end all planet-based communication attempts.”

“Confirm instructions: Terminate drop-probe data reception?”

“Confirmed. Data is now redundant and unnecessary.”

“Communications terminated.”

“Continue broadcasting distress message into space for thirty minutes, once every twenty four hours.”

“Duration of instruction?”

“Indefinitely.”

“Confirmed.”

She left the observatory, and went first to the centrifuge. She took the weapons that she had kept close at hand for months, and packed them away in one of the exercise center lockers. She made her bed, and shut down the terminal on her workstation. Back at the transfer shuttle door, she turned and took one last look at the makeshift berth. “System, extinguish main exercise center lighting.”

The centrifuge went mostly dark, with just a few scattered auxiliary lights to keep it from becoming dangerous for crew to navigate through. She boarded the transfer shuttle, and rode it back to weightlessness.

With fluid grace, she floated down corridors and flipped around corners, arriving first on Deck Six. Once there, she moved purposefully towards the SusAn compartment. Chamber six dash kilo forty two was hers, and she’d lost track of the number of times she had made this trip in the past year.

She floated over the chamber, thinking for perhaps the thousandth time how much it looked like a coffin, and how surrendering to the idea was just one step shy of suicide. In her training, her instructors had told her a human could survive for centuries in SusAn, though no one had ever tried to prove it.

If no one ever came, she would sleep in the chamber until her body could no longer sustain itself. She would die in her sleep, never knowing just how long she had waited in vain.

If she continued as she was, madness would eventually take her, and she would likely kill herself by making a stupid mistake during some delusional moment, or kill herself intentionally because she couldn’t take the loneliness any longer.

SusAn beckoned, because the loneliness was already unbearable.

She removed her clothing, and placed it in the storage drawer at the foot end of the chamber. “System, open chamber six dash kilo forty two.”

The cover slid away, and a warm light filled the interior. “Chamber diagnostics normal,” the system reported.

She dropped into the chamber, facing up towards the lid. With a feeling of calm surrender, she folded her arms across her chest. “System, induce SusAn.”

“Wake-up criteria?” the system asked.

“Wake upon external request.”

“Confirmed,” the system said, and the lid slid closed.

She had prayed many prayers in the past year; some eloquent, some ordinary, and some anguished cries. As the light in the chamber changed to pale blue, and the field started to build, she recited one final prayer.

“Now I lay me down to sleep. I pray the Lord my soul to keep. If I should die before I wake, I pray the Lord…”

Before she finished, SusAn held her.

Friday FIction for August 19, 2011

2011-08-18T22:06:00.000-07:00

The superbly talented (and one year older this week) Sara is hosting Friday Fiction this week over at Fiction Fusion. Even though we’re back to playing with our own characters, you won’t want to miss the great reading being offered up for your enjoyment.

My Mom has been sick the past couple of weeks, seriously enough to require a hospital stay. Many of the positive aspects of my characters I’ve derived from the good examples I’ve been blessed with in my life, and that includes the wonderful mother that God graciously entrusted me to. While Marta is not based on Mom, she does have attributes tracing back to a number of the wonderful mothers I’ve known in life, including my own. This scene, from early in “Marta’s Pod,” plays a bit with her own image as both a mother, and in a new-found role as a daughter.

A Typical Human Mother

From “Marta’s Pod”

Josh lay on his back, looking upwards towards a ceiling he couldn’t see for the darkness in the room. Marta was beside him, lying on her side with her arm draped across his chest. They were alone in the room, since Marcel had chosen to sleep in the room with his aunts and new-found uncle.

“You’re still awake,” Marta said. Her head rested on his left shoulder and she gently played the fingers of her left hand through the fine hairs on his chest.

“Yep,” he said, rubbing his hand along her back in response.

“So, what do you think?” she asked. “About my parents, I mean.”

“Well, it’s a little early to tell, but I think I certainly could have found worse mother-in-laws out there. Once the initial shock was over, they seemed to warm up to the Pod just fine. How about you? What do you think?”

“It’s almost like a dream that I’m afraid I’ll wake up from,” she replied. “I have a mother and a father, and Marcel has grandparents. I’m scared that I’ll close my eyes, and when I open them again in the morning I’ll find out this really didn’t happen.” She shifted position, extending her arm across to his other side and pulling him closer. “Yet, I feel like I just found out that I belong with a whole different Pod, and that somehow I have to choose between them.”

“Oh? Are you thinking of moving to Texas?”

“No,” she said. “I know that this is our home, and that wherever you and Marcel are is where I’m happiest. It’s just a bit confusing after all this time to consider that what we feel for our son, they might feel for me. Could you bear to leave Marcel behind and live somewhere else?”

“It’s a little different with an adult child. Parents have to understand that their children are going to grow up and live their own lives. Could I bear to leave Marcel behind now? No; he’s not old enough for that. Will I be able to when he’s a young man and ready for a University somewhere? My parents had to be ready to do that for me, and we’ll have to be ready to do that for Marcel someday.”

“No, you’ll have to leave him behind at a University. He’ll have to leave me behind here. I don’t think I’ll get to go along for the ride when he goes. It’s difficult for me to relate to something like that; all of us in the Pod are stuck here. The only time any of us will leave the others behind is when we die.”

He brought his right arm up and held her in a gentle embrace, kissing the top of her head. “Like every mother, you’re going to wonder if he’s going to be all right, and if he’s going to visit often, and if he’s happy, and so on. I don’t know if it really helps that much being able to go along for the ride. I don’t think it helped my Mom that much.”

“Are you saying that I’m being a typical human mother?”

He laughed. “Yes, you’re being a typical human mother.”

She kissed his chest. “Am I a good mother to our son?”

“You’re an incredible mother to our son.” He tightened his embrace for emphasis. “Is it just your parents being here that has you feeling so unsure of yourself, or is something else wrong?”

“How do you feel about more children, Josh?”

“Well, I would think that the fact we haven’t done anything in particular to prevent more children would say something about that. I’d be delighted if we had more kids, but I’m also not going to be bitter and disappointed if we don’t. I’m alive; that’s a miracle. I have you, and you’re a miracle. We have Marcel, and he’s a miracle. It seems to me I’d have to be extremely ungrateful to lament not getting any more miracles in my life than those.” He moved his right hand to caress her cheek, adding softly, “Though anytime you want to try for more, you know I’m more than happy to do my part.”

“You’ve already done your part,” she whispered.

“Does that mean what I think it does?” he asked, excitement threatening to raise his voice above the quiet level they’d been speaking in.

“I need to test to be sure, but I’m fairly certain I’m pregnant again. I feel so much like I did when I was pregnant with Marcel.” She shifted position so she could turn her face towards his, even though they could barely see each other in the darkness. “I’ve wanted another baby for so long, but I’ve been afraid that maybe you wouldn’t be happy with it; you’ve never said much about wanting any more children.”

It was all Josh could do to keep from yelling and disturbing the whole Pod. “Of course I’m happy about it,” he said. “The only reason I never said anything about wanting more children is that the doctor warned us that Marcel may have been that one-in-a-million chance, and we might never have any more. I didn’t want you feeling that you’d disappointed me if we never had any others.”

Over the years, an odd phenomenon had been observed and documented, occurring to many men who learned they were going to be a father. For some reason their desire for the mother of their child, whether wife or girlfriend, increased dramatically upon learning of the pregnancy. Despite wanting to share the good news with the entire Pod, Josh felt an even more immediate desire to let the Pod continue sleeping.

Friday Fiction for August 12, 2011

2011-08-11T22:20:00.001-07:00

It’s done! I received Sara in our Character Swap, and decided to play around a bit with her character, The Dark Phoenix. Since her story opens with the character already being well-known for his power, I thought it would work well to create a scene from before the time that Eira meets up with the Dark Phoenix. If you have not read any of Sara’s "Hunt for the Dark Phoenix," visit her Fiction Fusion blog and check it out. It really is a good story. Be sure to also visit the other Character Swap stories this week, for some fun takes on the different characters.

A Healthy Measure of Fear

The tall man entered the inn, pausing at the door only a moment before strutting towards his favorite table. The patrons of the business moved aside, giving the man a wide berth and doing their best to avoid his notice. Before he had even taken his seat, he bellowed for a bottle of the finest wine in the inn. Despite the proprietor hurrying the vintage and a glass to the table, the man loudly berated the time it had taken to receive his order. Once he had thoroughly cowed the harried businessman, he issued his dismissal with a disdainful smirk.

The display continued, as the man singled out different people in the room and made demands of each. Some managed to settle their tab quietly, and slip out the door unnoticed, while others were specifically delayed in their attempts to leave. He finally ordered the door locked, trapping the remaining customers within.

“There should be entertainment,” he said, and gestured as though he were the Head of State throwing a party. His eyes landed on a young woman, pressed into the back corner of a dark booth and draped in a heavy shawl. “Yes, a dancer,” he announced, and with a flick of his hand, the shawl flew from the woman’s shoulders. “Dance for me, trollop, and I might favor you tonight.”

She shook her head, wrapping her arms tightly across her chest to each shoulder.

“Oh, don’t pretend to be shy,” the man said. “Let’s have a look at you.”

She was yanked from the booth, as if by an invisible rope, and threw her hands out to keep from falling face-first to the floor. Her blouse gaped slightly, revealing just a bit of skin between dangling locks of long red hair. The fabric and style of her clothing indicated she was one of the common agricultural workers of the region, rather than any form of professional entertainer or courtesan, but that seemed to only encourage the tall man all the more.

“Now, dance,” he commanded. “Or I’ll give you a reason to really be afraid.”

“What will you do,” a voice asked from the back of the room, “when someone decides to not be afraid any longer?”

The tall man turned. “Are you foolish enough to find out?”

The woman wasted no time in scrambling back into a corner.

“I imagine,” the voice responded, ignoring the question, “you were a bully as a child as well. You were large, and used your bulk to intimidate other children. Then, you discovered you had a little talent with the powers, and used them for nothing more than extending the number of people you could intimidate.”

All trace of amusement vanished from the tall man’s face. “Show yourself! ‘A little talent’? You have no idea what I’m capable of!”

“Neither does anyone else in this town, since all you’ve done since you arrived has been to perform a few kenesis demonstrations and make vague threats. If that was all you showed to a Master, they wouldn’t even consider you for an apprenticeship, let alone take any threats you might make seriously.”

“I am a Master,” he said, stretching himself to his full height. “Only a fool would not take me seriously.”

“You have it backwards – only those who are fooled think they have a reason to take you seriously. Anyone who sees through your act will know you are only bluffing.” The speaker stepped forward from the shadows, shrouded in a long, hooded cloak. “Fear is a good thing, in the right context,” he said. “A healthy measure of fear keeps us from getting bitten by the viper, for we know better than to extend our hand into his hiding place. A healthy fear of fire protects us from getting burned. A healthy measure of fear for the Master protects us from becoming lazy and too dependent on the powers, lest we beg for help just because our child resists toilet training or we wish our fields weeded without having to do the actual work. You, however, neither possess nor encourage a healthy measure of fear.”

“Show me your face,” the tall man ordered, and swept his hand as though slapping the hood away.

The cloak remained in place, until the speaker casually reached up and flipped the hood off his head.

“Rocks and brambles,” an old woman muttered off to one side. “That’s the Dark Phoenix.”

All around the room, people ducked behind tables and benches. The proprietor side-stepped along one wall, and locked himself into the kitchen.

The tall man studied him for a few tense moments, and then released an amused laugh. “Clever,” he said. “Hire some grifter to pose as the Phoenix, in the hopes that I can be scared away. Getting everyone to hide from the supposed duel is a nice touch – I’ll grant you that. Let’s not disappoint them, shall we? Come on, ‘Dark Phoenix,’ we’ll see who ends up with a healthy measure of fear.”

There was no hand motion, nor powerful invocation. There was nothing to indicate that the Dark Phoenix had done anything, save for the sudden shocked expression on the tall man’s face, just before he collapsed like a rag doll onto the floor.

People began to cautiously peek from their hiding places, and when they realized the feared violent confrontation wasn’t going to happen, they ventured towards the unconscious man.

“Summon the local constable,” the Dark Phoenix said. “He’ll have no further trouble subduing this man.”

“Are his powers gone?” the old woman asked.

“No, not gone, but locked away where he cannot use them. If he matures in his attitude some day, and seeks out a wise master to teach him, that master will be able to unlock the powers so that he can access them again. Until then, he will have to learn to live without them.”

“What should we do with him?”

“He is a strong enough man, and I daresay he owes enough people in this town for the goods he has extorted from them. You have fields to work, and it will do him good to put some honest calluses on those hands.” He dropped a few coins on the bar for his meal, and then headed towards the door. “Maybe,” he added, before stepping outside, “he might even learn a little healthy measure of fear for the law.”

Friday Fiction for July 29, 2011

2011-07-28T22:18:00.000-07:00

Friday Fiction is hosted right here this week. Visit the Linky list at the end of this post to add your link, and to visit the other great stories posted for your summer reading pleasure.

This week’s story is an excerpt from “Merrowsong,” and features one of the Hyland twins. The location is near the train station in San Diego, on the harbor in Coronado Bay. We’ve been there many times, and I enjoyed setting this story in the real world locations.

Sketching

Rachel sat on a bench overlooking the bay, near a metal sculpture of a mermaid. The Harbor Cruise boats were preparing for the lunch excursions, and soon would be joined by the whale watching vessels when the season picked up in earnest in another week. Sketching the large boats was a new challenge for her, and the partially cloudy skies offered interesting shadows and contrasts for her to duplicate. It helped take her mind off the fact that Leah still hadn’t told her what the whole trip to Catalina had been about. She had suspicions, but neither her sister nor Marcel had been forthcoming with confirmations or confessions.

A homeless woman shuffled by, pushing an old cart loaded with the sum total of her worldly goods, and before she had quite moved out of sight a fast drawing of her occupied another page in the book. In another few minutes, a noisy seagull had been transposed into a vacant corner of the page, and Rachel paused to sharpen her pencil. She needed to track down the art supply store in town; her last 2B pencil was getting short, and she hated using standard department store #2 pencils.

Applying the freshly sharpened stub to a new sheet, she began drawing a young woman who stood waiting nearby. Her gauzy skirt flowed with the mid-day breeze, teasing any onlooker with the chance for a peek at what the woman might – or might not – be wearing beneath it. When the woman didn’t move on right away, Rachel filled in details and worked the sketch towards an actual portrait. The candid moment caught from an unaware model was, to her at least, always the best. Such drawings looked natural because the subject was acting natural, not posing artificially.

A shadow fell over her book, and for a moment she felt a panic that Will stood behind her.

“That’s my wife you’re drawing,” an unfamiliar voice said.

“I’m sorry,” she said, glancing up into the face of a lean young man. He sported a bushy mustache and the kind of pale blue eyes that were popular on leading men in the movies. His build, however, was more of the secondary “geek” character.

“Would you be interested in selling that drawing?”

“Huh?”

“Amy is kind of camera shy, if you know what I mean. I have a very hard time getting any kind of photos of her, and had I suggested she sit for a portrait, she would have gone the other way entirely. I’d love to have your drawing to hang in my office.”

“It’ll need a fixative applied to it so it doesn’t smear,” she said.

“Can I do that, or is it something you need to do and I can pick up the piece later?”

“Any art supply store will have fixative. Just tell them you have a pencil sketch that needs it, and they’ll show you the right stuff. Go easy, though; two or three very light coats is better than one heavy one.”

“How much do you want for it?”

She shrugged. “I was just drawing for the practice of drawing, and she happened to stand still long enough for me to spend a bit more time on. I don’t know what I’d ask for it.”

He pulled out his wallet and extracted a hundred dollar bill. “Is this too little?”

“More like too much,” she stammered.

“Then I take it you would not feel cheated to sell your drawing for that price?”

“I’d feel like I was cheating you.”

He laughed. “It’s hardly cheating if this is what I am willing to open my offer with. I would have gone more if you asked; that’s how difficult it is for me to get something like this of Amy.”

She carefully separated the drawing from the sketch book along the micro-perforation, and then removed two additional clean sheets of paper. With a few pieces of tape, she fashioned a make-shift envelope to protect the drawing. She started to place it between the two clean sheets when he stopped her.

“Aren’t you going to sign it? It would be a shame if someday you’re a famous artist, and I had an original by you and it wasn’t signed. At the very least, it’s always nice to be able to tell people who the artist was when they admire it.”

“Oh; yeah. I almost never sign the stuff in my sketch book, so it slipped my mind.” She put her name and the date in the corner, and then enclosed it.

Handing her the bill, he took the drawing and smiled. “Thank you, Miss - ?”

“Hyland; Rachel Hyland.”

“Thank you, Miss Rachel Hyland. I hope someday to see more of your works in a gallery.”

“Thank you.” She sat in shock, watching the man rejoin his wife with a tender kiss. Amy pointed to the drawing, and he pointed back towards her and then kept it playfully away from her. She didn’t seem as thrilled with having been drawn as he was with the drawing.

The pedicab rolled up next to her. “Hey, Rachel. How’s it going today?”

“I just sold my first piece of artwork,” she said, her voice trailing off absently.

“For real? How much?”

“A hundred.”

“Cool. What say we go celebrate with lunch? I just had a big tipper, so it’s my treat.”

She started packing away her supplies. “I must be a real artist now, Joe.”

“I could have told you that when I looked at your drawings the other night. Why would you only think so now?”

“Well, now I not only have a doofus fan-boy; I’ve also been paid for my drawing.”

“You’ve got a hungry doofus fan-boy. Hop in, and let’s go get a sandwich.”

Friday Fiction for July 22, 2011

2011-07-21T21:44:00.000-07:00

Friday Fiction is hosted by the gracious and talented Vonnie, over at My Back Door. Head on over, make yourself comfortable, and spend some time reading terrific stories until all your troubles are forgotten on the back porch.

This week marked two occasions in space exploration. First was the 42^nd anniversary of the Apollo 11 Moon Landing, and second was the final flight and landing of the American Space Shuttle program. In the last fifty years, excursions into space have become almost routine, but we Sci-Fi writers envision a time when they are as common as commuter air travel is today. This week’s excerpt is from Chapter 5 of “Eridanus Comes,” as a shuttle chartered by the Eridani Embassy returns to Earth from a trade conference in the Lunar city, Earthrise. Just as with air travel today, there will always be those less than comfortable with the process, even when it’s an everyday occurrence.

Re-Entry

According to the time and the system, they were well past Midpoint, and it wouldn’t be much longer before they started decelerating in preparation for entry-orbit. The last thing he remembered before waking up had been many hours earlier, and he felt a certain satisfaction at having slept through most of the journey.

The pilot announced the imminent rotation maneuver in preparation for deceleration, and one of the cabin attendants floated down the aisle to visually ascertain that each passenger was fastened into their seats and safe. Another collected or secured all loose objects that could become projectiles in either the flipping move or when the engines fired for braking, while the third attendant followed along looking for anything the previous two might have overlooked.

With the checks complete, the pilot announced the move one more time, and then the shuttle performed a flat spin to present the main engines to the direction of travel. A moment later, the vibrations of the engines produced a low hum inside the cabin, and David sank into the back of his seat as the shuttle began to slow.

Closing his eyes, he concentrated on working puzzles and riddles in his mind – anything to keep from thinking about just how fast they were traveling towards the cluttered space around Earth. The shuttle companies trivialized the risks, pointing out the number of remotes that orbited the world sweeping up stray debris before it could drift into one of the traffic paths, but that didn’t do much for his confidence. One repair crew in space losing a tool could create a greater hazard to a shuttle than a dedicated weapon would be. It was not a good train of thought to pursue with nothing but airless death waiting outside followed by an unceremonious cremation as the corpse entered the atmosphere.

Were there atheists on shuttle approaches? They were hurtling towards a huge ball of rock, and their survival depended on a vessel made by humans.

The same kind of folks that made much of his farm equipment, which he needed to repair on a regular basis.

The puzzles didn’t work; the more he tried to not think about his situation, the more his mind went right back to it. He prayed instead, preferring to think about God having the shuttle in His hands rather than trusting the pilot and maintenance crew for his long-term outlook.

The deceleration went on for far too long, in his estimation. It hadn’t taken that long to slow for landing on the commercial shuttle’s approach to Earthrise, and he half-expected if he opened his eyes to see that they were accelerating back towards the Moon, rather than preparing for atmospheric entry and landing at Portland.

The engines throttled back, relieving the pressure that held him pinned in the seat. Was that planned, or was that a problem?

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the pilot said over the address system. “We will be reorienting our shuttle in just a few minutes for aerodynamic flight. Those in window seats will be able to enjoy some spectacular views of the Earth as we orbit into position for our descent and approach into the Portland Terminal. We remind you that your restraint releases will remain locked out until we are once again on the ground in Portland. Please just relax and enjoy the remainder of the flight, and we’ll have you to your destination in no time.”

Great, he thought. They were about to start falling towards Earth, and he was a prisoner in his seat. There was a reason he didn’t travel much, and so far he’d found no reason to change his mind.

The pilot commented about Europe being visible out the left side of the shuttle, while the Mediterranean Sea and the north coast of Africa could be seen to the right. David took a quick look out the window, and then shut his eyes again. It might be a beautiful view to some, but to him it was just a stark reminder of how high up they really were. The crew sounded confident and assuring, but they were well over one hundred kilometers above the surface, upside down and flying backwards. It didn’t feel like a good position at all.

He was pressed back in his seat again as the main engines built up thrust. They were slowing down some more? The deceleration went for some two to three minutes, and then the shuttle’s nose pitched up. Torn between keeping his eyes shut and seeing what was going on, he looked out the window to see the distant horizon of the planet flipping around until it stopped at an odd angle. The shuttle was right-side up, flying forward, but with the nose angled high.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we are now descending into Earth’s atmosphere. Very shortly, your window views will be blocked by the insulating shades which will activate to protect you from both the light and the heat of this phase of our approach. Once we have achieved standard aerodynamic flight, the shades will retract allowing you a view of the landscape as we pass over the Pacific Ocean and the northwest rainforests on our path to Portland.”

The pilot might as well have been driving an old-fashioned tour bus through Manhattan for all the concern his voice carried. The windows darkened, and before long a slight sound penetrated the cabin, growing in volume the longer they fell. The outside atmosphere rushed around the shuttle, generating enough heat as it did to consume rock and metal. How did folks like the rover handle it? How could they get aboard a shuttle time and again like it was just a routine trip into town? He’d seen the red streaks of shuttles returning high overhead in the nighttime; it always seemed incredible that anything could survive the process, much less do so over and over again.

The ride got bumpy, adding to his trepidation. He knew that only meant the air outside was becoming denser and soon would support the shuttle in standard flight. That didn’t dispel the feeling that something was going wrong, though, and he again prayed to take his mind off the barrage of worries assaulting his thoughts.

Feeling some relief when the nose pitched down and the shuttle transitioned into normal flight, he took some deep breaths and made a conscious effort to relax. The remainder of the trip was little more than a flight aboard an ordinary transport, and it wasn’t long before the pilot announced their imminent touchdown on the Portland tarmac. In view through the window were the buildings of the terminal, surrounded by various transports and a couple of other shuttles. They settled to the ground and eased into one of the boarding tunnels, and it was over.

Friday Fiction for July 15, 2011

2011-07-14T21:17:00.000-07:00

Friday Fiction is hosted this week by Karlene on her blog, Dancin’ In the Rain… splashin’ in His Love. Take a break from the summer weather (or the winter, if you’re on the other side of the Equator), and enjoy splashin’ in some refreshing reading.

I’ve been in kind of a Twilight Zone mode the last couple of weeks. This week’s story is along the lines of the short zinger fiction stories I’ve enjoyed in such anthologies as Asimov’s “Earth Is Room Enough,” and others. While I don’t claim to approach the skill of such a master of Science Fiction, I hope you enjoy this little tale in that kind of vein. Rod Serling not included…

The Fossil Dig

By Rick Higginson

The horrified screams echoed across the dig site. Such screams were not that unusual in the remote location. From time to time, a student up from the University would happen upon the object of their phobia, be it one of the large spiders that prowled the area, or perhaps any of the numerous species of snake indigenous to the region, and their panicked cries would offer a welcome break to the quiet monotony of the paleontology dig.

Such events were doubly looked forward to, as once the phobia was discovered, the other students would take great delight in trying to set off another reaction, or at the very least, teasing the sufferer of the phobia relentlessly until the novelty finally wore off.

What set this particular screaming event apart from any other in the memory of all the scientists on site, was that it was Dr. Guttormson who was issuing the outcry. The normally stoic doctor was known to barely take notice of a tarantula crawling across his hand, and to be cooler than the snakes he would fling out of the way with the end of his cane.

Everyone, therefore, ran without delay to the edge of the pit where Dr. Guttormson had been painstakingly picking away the sedimentary rock from one of the largest Allosaurus skeletons ever found.

The old Paleontologist was crouching in the corner of the pit, now whimpering and covering his head with his arms. Nothing else moved in the excavation, and the muttered question passed between onlookers as to what could possibly have such an effect on a man that – for all appearances – was afraid of nothing.

Several of the senior scientists and a few students made their way down the ladder into the pit, and approached the cowering man. “Myron,” one of his long-time associates said, touching him gently on the shoulder. “What is wrong?”

He continued to whimper, now visibly trembling.

One of the students knelt in front of him. “Dr. Guttormson, it’s okay. We’re here. What is it?”

He pulled his hands away and raised his face to hers. “Sk-sk-sk-skull,” he stammered.

“The allosaurus skull? What about it?” she asked.

“No, no, no,” he said. Gesturing towards the exposed ribs, he repeated, “Skull.”

As a group, they gathered around the fossilized cage and peered where the tools had been dropped. Mouths gaped to see the newly exposed fossil within the fossil. Scrapes were evident in the cracked bones, corresponding well to the teeth of the extinct predator, but the shape of the bone was not reptilian.

“That can’t be what I think it is,” Guttormson’s associate said.

“What else could it be?” one of the students replied. “It’s definitely human.”

The scientist leaned in for a closer look, moving aside a dropped brush, and suddenly, he, too, began to scream. Backpedaling away from the skeleton, he pointed and gestured.

All eyes turned to look. All eyes, that is, except the remarkably preserved glass eye that stared back from the fossil skull.

Friday Fiction for July 8, 2011

2011-07-07T22:33:00.000-07:00

Friday Fiction is hosted this week by Lynn Squire, the gifted author of “Joab’s Fire” (an excellent story, by the way), at Faith, Fiction, Fun, and Fanciful. Be sure to visit and enjoy some great writing.

This week is a short, stand-alone story that has been circulating in my mind for a while. It’s a bit different than my normal fare, but I hope you enjoy.

Der Tod

(The Death)

By Rick Higginson

His family sat close by, waiting for the end that was imminent. He held no illusions of recovery; at his age, most people were amazed that he hadn’t died years ago. Though his body was rapidly failing, his mind was still fully aware, and he smiled inside. He had won. For all the years, no one had ever discovered his secret. Not his wife, nor his children, nor any of his neighbors or business associates. He would take the secret to his grave, and that would be the end of it.

A tube fed oxygen to his nose, helping his feeble lungs as he strained to keep breathing. His pulse was weak, and though he thought of it frequently, his arms lacked the strength to even pull the tube from his nose.

He felt pressure on one hand, and cut his eyes to that side. His eldest granddaughter was squeezing his hand and speaking, though without his hearing aid, he could only tell by the movement of her lips. She was just one of his progeny, queuing by his bed to express their love and to say farewell to their patriarch. Her face began to fade, as if the room was filling with mist, and he lost all sensation in his extremities. With an almost cold analysis, he recognized the moment of death, before all awareness left him.

***

It was cold, and voices were shouting all around him. Confused, he opened his eyes to dull, gray skies and patches of snow on the ground. He held his hands in front of his face, and saw pale skin hanging from gaunt arms. Hands lifted him from either side.

“Get up,” a voice hissed from his right. “You do not want them to shoot you right here, do you?”

He looked to his right. The man wore a dirty uniform over his emaciated frame, and his sunken eyes held a blank, hopeless expression.

“What?” he muttered. “Where are we?”

“You do not remember?” the man replied. “How do you forget being in hell?”

Hell? Was there truly a hell, after all? “I don’t understand,” he said.

“I do not blame you. If I could forget this place, I would.” They plodded along in the line of men. “I do not think Birkenau will be our home much longer, though. Those who walk this way, do not come back.”

Birkenau? Is this some trick of the dying mind? I cannot be back at Birkenau, and especially not as a prisoner.

“The faster you move along, the sooner you will escape from this cold,” a strong, confident voice called to the throng of men. He stared at the face of the young officer with a sick sense of recognition.

That cannot be – this must be some form of dying dream. It will end. It will have to end, when my brain finally dies.

“What are you staring at, pig?” the officer yelled at him, and then gestured to a nearby corporal. “Hurry him along. He thinks he has time for sight-seeing.”

The corporal responded by rushing over and slamming the butt of the Mauser into his back, nearly knocking him back to the ground.

How can the pain be real? I cannot feel my real back, so how can I feel a dream? Still, he could not take his eyes off the officer.

“Since he is so interested in me, bring him here,” the officer ordered.

The corporal grabbed him roughly by the arm, and dragged him out of the line. He was thrown to the ground at the officer’s feet, and stared up into the merciless eyes.

Did I really look like that, all those years ago? He already knew what was coming.

“Since you like the look of my face so much, pig,” his younger self said, drawing the Luger from his holster. “It can be the last sight you see.”

He stared up the barrel of the pistol, remembering how the Jewish man had not flinched away, even as he had pulled the trigger. He had wondered if the man had seen the flash of the shot, before the bullet punched through his brain, and it struck him as bizarre that he should remember that as the finger pulled the trigger.

***

He sat up with a start, still feeling that final moment of being shot in the head. He was in a dimly-lit room, with bare masonry walls. A tall figure stood in front of him, though it was as if he couldn’t see the person if he looked directly at him.

“That was one,” the figure said. “And this will be the only time I will visit you, lieutenant.”

“Who are you?” he asked.

“You can call me whatever you wish – the Angel of Death, a Minister of Judgment, or the Devil himself. It does not matter. I am just a messenger, and now that you have experienced the judgment, you will believe me when I deliver the message. The courts of Earth could only have executed you once for the murders you committed, but the courts of Eternity are not so limited. You will relive the deaths you caused, as the victims, until you have completed them all. You will experience the suffering you inflicted, and when you have finally accomplished them all, you will find an eternity that will make you wish you could start over.”

“This cannot be happening,” he said.

“Tell yourself that all you wish,” the messenger said. “It will change nothing. I am finished here, and your next death will begin shortly.” The figure vanished, leaving him alone in the room.

He glanced down at the thread-bare shift covering him, and the slender, feminine legs extending from beneath it.

A door opened, and the officer stepped into the cell. “Yes, you are a pretty thing,” he said, leering down. “We shall have an enjoyable time, you and I.”

“Please, no,” he said, the voice that of a frightened girl. It was going to be a very long, and very horrible, night.

Friday Fiction for June 24, 2011

2011-06-23T22:28:00.000-07:00

Welcome to Friday Fiction, hosted right here tonight at Pod Tales! Please feel free to add the link to your blog at the bottom of this post, and check out the other submissions for your first summer reading weekend.

I’ve been missing the last couple of weeks, but had to make sure I wrote something new for this week. This is basically just a short character sketch piece, featuring Bill Williams from the Pod series. I’d like to dedicate this short story to Kim, in honor of her husband Gary, who passed away this week. It’s always been a joy to know two people who love each other, and we’re saddened by his passing. May his memory be for a blessing.

First Choice

FBI Special Agent Marion “Bill” Williams straddled the stool at the coffee shop counter. His legs splayed wide to either side, and he leaned forward on both elbows with the steaming mug of coffee trapped between his hands. The morning news and variety show played on the television attached high on the wall, with the smiling hosts interviewing an attractive actress.

To Bill’s right, Agent Roberts licked his lips and let out a soft whistle. “Man, she could sure rock my world,” Roberts said.

Bill sipped his coffee and shook his head. “You’re married,” he said.

“Yeah, but I’m not dead. My wife already knows if I ever got a chance to meet her, I’d take it.”

On Bill’s left, Agent Johannsen offered her take. “For me, it’s Bart Manley. My guy knows that I’d be single for Manley anytime.” She gave a lusty feline-style growl. “Those eyes, those shoulders, that behind – rar!”

Bill rolled his eyes and took another sip of coffee, lowering the cup for a refill when the waitress came by with the carafe.

“How about you, Williams?” Roberts asked. “Who’s your dream girl?”

“Angela,” Bill replied.

“Yeah, yeah, okay. Now that you’ve given the reply that’ll keep your wife happy, give us the real answer.”

“Really, Williams,” Johannsen added. “Are you afraid I’ll rat you out to the wife?”

Bill stirred some cream into the refreshed coffee. “My answer is still the same. Angela has always been my dream girl.”

“Oh, come on,” Roberts scoffed. “Every guy has a fantasy girl. How about this? What if your wife gave you a ‘pass’ that, for one weekend, you weren’t married. You could go after any woman you wanted without penalty, free and clear. You can’t tell me you’d go after the same woman you’ve been waking up next to for years.”

“Yes, I can,” Bill said. He gestured at the television screen. “You think it’s okay to want her because she’s a beautiful celebrity, and you can rationalize that you’ll probably never even meet her, let alone have any chance that she would agree to anything else. The issue, though, isn’t whether you might ever cheat on your wife with her – the issue is that you’ve expressed your first choice, and that first choice isn’t your wife.” He sat up straight, and looked both left and right to meet their eyes. “Angela is my wife. When I proposed to her, I didn’t ask her to marry me because someone I liked more wasn’t available. She wasn’t my second choice, and I didn’t ‘settle’ for someone I could have instead of someone I couldn’t have.”

“So you’re telling us that if a magic genie told you that you could have any woman in the world, just for the wishing, you’d wish for Angela?” Johannsen asked.

“Why not? She’s my best friend. She’s the mother of our children. She already knows all about me, and loves me anyway. If I wished for anyone else, I would be throwing away the best thing that’s ever happened to me, for the uncertainty that I might find someone better.” He took another sip of coffee. “My vows didn’t include any provisions for someone on the side. There was no infidelity clause based on how beautiful another woman might be, or how famous, or rich, or whether I thought maybe I wasn’t getting enough at home, or anything else. My vow was to remain faithful to her for the rest of our lives, period.”

“But, what if she released you from the vow?”

Bill smiled. “She can’t. I made the vow with her, not to her. We made the vows to God, so we can’t release each other from them.”

“Now you’re getting religious on us.” Johannsen moaned.

“Say what you want, but however you want to couch it, the last thing I ever want to say or imply to Angela is that there is someone else in this world that I’d rather be with, regardless of how unlikely the scenario might be. She was my first choice when I proposed to her, she was still my first choice when we married, she’s still my first choice now, and if we’re so blessed, she’ll be my first choice on our fiftieth anniversary.” He glanced at his watch. “Now, if you two are done salivating over people you’ll never get to meet, we have a meeting to get to.”