Somehow this went missing, so I'm adding it back to my blog) Link back to part 1 ----------------------------------- He didn’t see much of her for the next three days. Then it was time to outfit the Barge for the next set of field measurements. Thomas and his team of technicians would be accompanying Dr. Vandermeer on the mobile test platform. The test apparatus was expected to create an energy field that would distort local space in accordance with the Vandermeer Theory. Past experiments had produced measurable effects, but there were still discrepancies from the predictions. This trip was intended to generate a stronger field than before for more precise measurements. But bending space in close proximity to a crowded research station was considered somewhat rash. The 90 meter long platform, nicknamed the Barge, was used to conduct all the Hermes tests at a minimum distance of 50 kilometers from the station. Sarah pulled Thomas aside while Erin and Josef were assembling and aligning the power collimator for the field generator. “I just want you to know, I’m not avoiding you.” She looked down at her hands. “At least, not for the last day or so. I’ve just been so busy getting ready for the test.” Thomas gently lifted her chin until she was looking into his eyes, and waited. “Tom, what is it like? You’ve lived so long, you must have seen everything. How boring does it get?”’ He laughed, but stopped when a flash of anger touched her eyes. “I’m sorry, but that was funny. You couldn’t have known, though. The only time I have ever been bored was before I knew I wouldn’t die any time soon.” She frowned. “That doesn’t make any sense.” “Sure it does. I only got bored when I couldn’t decide what I wanted to spend limited time on. When I discovered that I had time to spare, I became more interested in everything. The more I see, the more I realize there is to learn. Seen everything? When everything keeps changing and evolving? How could I ever be bored?” He brushed back a loose strand of her dark hair. “And you’re really wondering how I can’t be bored with you, after all the women I have loved.” She looked at him impassively, then dropped her eyes and nodded quietly. “It crossed my mind.” “Other men have had women in their pasts, but that doesn’t prevent them from loving. In fact, they often learn from previous relationships.” He squeezed her hands reassuringly. “I am with you, and only you, Sarah Vandermeer, every part of me. And I have never met anyone like you before. You are the most wonderful, most important person in my life.” He kissed her, and she clung to him tightly and sobbed. That night, they made love as if for the first time, then slept entwined and at peace. In the morning, they joined the rest of the tech team on the Barge and prepared to launch. The team worked as a well tuned machine, and they soon released the moorings. Sarah stole a look at Thomas as he played the thruster controls with the finesse of concert pianist. She didn’t think he saw her watching, until he winked without looking her way. Warmth rose in her cheeks as she turned quickly away. Thomas fired the braking thrusters, and soon the Barge was holding position 52 kilometers from the station. Josef ran through the final checks on the field generator, and then Thomas began ramping up the power according to the test plan. After three hours, Sarah took the data collected so far to the analysis lab amidships. An hour later, Thomas brought the next block of data to her. He turned to leave, but she stood up suddenly as he turned to leave. “Wait. These last few readings don’t look right. When you get back to the generator, put it on hold at the current level and run a diagnostic on the instrument array.” Thomas looked over her shoulder. “I see what you mean. But what could …” There was an abrupt lurch, and everything in the room flew against the aft wall, including Thomas and Sarah. He slammed against the bulkhead first, and felt something hard penetrate his back. Then Sarah slammed into him, and he lost consciousness. Sarah tried to catch her breath as she rebounded from Thomas and drifted across the room. A computer screen tumbled toward her, and she brushed it away. The only light in the room shone from the two recessed emergency lights. As she rotated in free fall, she found herself facing Thomas and her stomach lurched. A piece of conduit had been twisted away from the wall and was penetrating his abdomen. As she stared, his eyes opened. He looked down at the protruding piece of metal and grimaced. Then her rotation faced her away from him. When she again was facing him, he had pushed himself away from the wall, and was drifting toward her. The bloody section of conduit was still attached to the wall behind him. He caught hold of her and they drifted close enough to the far wall to seize a railing. They began to assess their predicament. The power returned as the automatics restored critical systems. Thomas opened the door and entered the main passageway. The corridor pressure doors had all sealed when the power failed. He headed toward the field generator room where the other three techs were, but the second pressure door he reached refused to open. The vacuum warning light was blinking red. Sarah had brought the computer back online. She was looking in disbelief at an image from the exterior camera mounted on the antenna array. The entire forward third of the Barge, where the field generator had been housed, was gone. She couldn’t see any wreckage, but the end of the remaining hull section looked like it had been stretched like taffy to jagged points. She heard Thomas reenter the room behind her. He spoke quietly. “The corridor is breached between here and the field generator. I can’t tell what condition the others are in.” She turned the screen so he could see. “They’re all dead. The generator must have collapsed into a singularity. There’s nothing left up there.” Her voice was flat with shock. He joined her, and she held on to him. He was the only reality, and she clung desperately to him, afraid to let go. Then she remembered, and fumbled to lift his shirt. The puncture was still raw and ugly, but it was closed and looked as if it had been healing for at least a week. “Even knowing that you – I would never have believed this if I hadn’t seen it myself.” He looked at her carefully. “Are you all right?” She nodded. “I think you saved me. You cushioned my impact.” “That isn’t what I meant.” “I know what you meant. I’m fine, Thomas. I really am. But Josef, and Walt, and Erin…” “Yes. There is no possibility anyone could have survived that. As you said, the field must have formed a singularity and everything nearby was pulled in. Fortunately the filed collapsed when the generator vanished. But it had to have been quick. They probably never even knew what happened.” They sat in silence for several minutes. Finally, Sarah spoke. “Can we still maneuver? We have to get back to the station.” Thomas nodded. “I’ll check. The engines are in the aft section, so we should be ok.” He sat down to the computer and began the engine checks. Forty minutes later, he pushed back from the terminal. “The engines are fine. But we have a problem.” He sighed. “We aren’t where we’re supposed to be.” Sarah looked at the screen, which was pitch black with a sprinkle of stars. “What am I looking at?” Thomas pointed to one star, brighter than the rest. “As far as I can tell, that’s the Sun. At least I hope it is. If it’s not, we’ll never find a way home.” “That can’t be the Sun. That would place us beyond Neptune.” “Farther than that, I’m afraid. Judging by the magnitude, we’re at least several light months away.” He chuckled dryly. “Congratulations, Doctor. It appears your theories are on the right track.” She punched his arm. “Thanks a lot. For all the good it will do anyone. We’re dead too, and it won’t be quick like the rest of the team.” She stopped. “Well I am, anyway. What will happen to you?” “My body will shut down without oxygen. If they ever find us, I might revive, but I don’t know if I can stay suspended indefinitely. I drowned once, and nearly 200 years passed before I found myself beached on a desolate stretch of shore. But finding one tiny piece of wreckage in interstellar space? I don’t see much hope.” Sarah looked at this man she loved, and he suddenly seemed unreal to her. She held him, and he held her. Eventually they slept, exhausted and full of despair. Several hours later, Sarah sat up suddenly. When Thomas finally stirred an hour later, she was busy at the computer. She looked up at him, and her eyes sparkled. “We may have a chance after all.” Thomas watched her, a smile on his lips. He loved watching her thought processes at work. She was clearly on to something. She waited, but he said nothing. “We have a full set of spare components for the field generator, enough to rebuild it. And we know the power profile we used for the test. With a lot of luck, we might be able to reproduce the accident, and retrace our path. We can’t expect to get back to the station under our own power, but maybe we can get close enough to signal for a rescue.” He thought for a moment. “But wait. We’ve lost a considerable part of our mass. Won’t that cause us to overshoot on the return trip? How can we compensate?” Sarah shook her head. “No, mass isn’t part of the equation, as far as I can tell. What matters is the strength and geometry of the field. That will be the same, or at least will be if we can apply the same power profile. But I’m not sure yet which direction we need to align the generator. The field was directed forward, but were we thrown with it or opposite it?” “We were thrown against the rear bulkhead,” He began, but Sarah was shaking her head. That could have been from either the jump or the reentry. We need to be certain.”...
This was my entry for Short Story Competition #7, posted 28 August, 2007. I am copying it into my blog not because it's a great story (it's not), but because it's an example of dialoguing with a created dialect/slang. Recruitment Jace settled deeper in his seat, and took a deep breath. He was shaking, but tried not to show it. A moment later, he heard Xan getting up from his chair on the other side of the room. Jace removed the headset with its twin displays in time to see Xan leaning over him, grinning insanely. “Que or que, that was ice, ver?” Xan asked enthusiastically. Jace forced a grin. “Ver, was max cryo, as adverted! When that vamp full screened me, shivered me for ver!” He meant that part, anyway. As soon as the vampire rose up, filling his view, the emotion circuit had kicked in, shooting a genuine stab of fear through him that was so real, he still felt sick inside. Jace had been gaming for years, and had eagerly jumped on the mind-directed gaming bandwagon when it began six years ago. In the last year and a half, the emotional feedback mod, or EFB, had become the new hot item. It had begun with the underground porn games, when designers successfully learned to induce waves of pleasure at key game moments. But within the last month or so, a new trend began to develop, with a broader range of induced emotions now incorporated into games. Xan had become enthralled with the new Blood Mistress game he had just demonstrated to Jace. Still, as unpleasant as the experience had been, Jace began to feel strangely tempted to repeat it. The realism and adrenaline rush made it an unforgettable experience, even though the horror genre wasn’t his favorite. His game module beeped, reminding him of the time. “Xan-san, must fly! The stonies will be pulling back right quick!” The stonefaces no longer patrolled this part of town after dark. Summer always saw an increase in random violence, but this summer had turned bad, and that was ver! Ever since a cruiser had been literally ripped open and the two stonies inside mauled to death, the police had taken a new strategy of containment. They now only patrolled the perimeter of the neighborhood after dark, and venturing outside within the zone was pure suicide. Jace hurried back to his place before the patrols retreated for the evening, and sealed the heavy steel door of his nest. He threw together a quick meal from leftovers, then settled in for some gaming. He started with Lust Bunnies, but after he maneuvered past the Skankies and the costly Cashcows, and picked out a willing Sweetbun, he sighed and pulled off the headset, utterly bored. He couldn’t get the rush of terror from Xan’s game out of his head. A fight game with a good EFB would be ver cryo, and he was sure there must be one out there. He onlined his game module, and began a search. Meanwhile, he put his headset back on and scanned the news channels. The city was turning into a war zone. No one really knew why the violence and destruction had spiked so sharply. The summer of 2014 had become as notorious as 9-11 had been as a new era of fear and loss. Some suspected that terror cells had infiltrated the States, and were behind the runaway lawlessness. Others blamed the drug kings and the weaponeers for stirring up the psychies. An entire block in the Asia zone was still burning for the fourth day running. Jace pulled off the headset. The search was still running, so he decided to let it continue overnight. He sighed and crawled into his sleepsack. He woke to a crashing boom outside. The sun was just cresting over the apartment block across the street, but a dancing orange light from the street was competing with it. Jace looked cautiously out through the window, and saw the shredded shell of a mail truck engulfed in flames. A thick black smoke curled around the wreckage. A fire truck arrived, flanked by a pair of heavily armed cruisers to protect it. Jace turned away, and remembered the search he had started. The list of EFB fighting games was longer than he had expected. Some of them appeared to be one on one dueling games, and he filtered them immediately. He sorted them by popularity, and perused the details of the top ten. One of them, Urban Mercenary, looked particularly intriguing. He decided to ask Xan what he knew of the game, and called him from the game module. After several blips, he gave up. Xan must be asleep, or too wrapped around a game to care about answering calls. Jace decided to go ahead and purchase the game. He keyed in his purchase code, submitted to the retinal scan, and spoke the response to the challenge question. The game download began, and would be completed by midday. Jace checked his task list, and began his sales calls for the day. By early afternoon, he had earned enough commission points to call it a day, but he also submitted a game review on Blood Mistress to earn a few extra bucks. Urban Mercenary had finished downloading, and had auto-updated with the latest enhancements. After a hurried lunch, Jace settled into a chair and entered the intro stage. He was lightly armed for this phase, on foot patrol through a city much like his own. When he passed a liquor mart, a man carrying a machine pistol rushed out, firing a burst back in through the doors. Jace felt a wave of rage wash over him, and he drew a hunting knife and rushed the thug. He forced himself to feel a stronger rage, and saw his opponent falter in response. Pretty basic fight gaming so far; the user’s emotions gave a fighting advantage, but this game took it a level higher by giving him an initial anger surge. Jace drove his knife into the thug’s chest, and felt a surge of satisfaction flood through him. He played two more warm up scenarios, and each time rode the EFB made him feel like he was actually there, fighting to keep the streets safe. Exhausted, he took a dinner break, and brought up the news. As he expected, the mail truck bombing was mentioned, after several other violent acts. Suddenly he sat up, and selected a replay of the segment. “The bomber, identified as Alexander Fitzpatrick, a resident on Market Street, was caught in his own explosion, and was pronounced dead at the scene…” Jace sat back, stunned. There had to be a mistake! It couldn’t have been Xan, he’d never do something like that. He dialed Xan from the game module, and got a disconnected station message. He’d grown up with Xan. Xan was a layabout, a ver hedon who liked nothing better than gaming and telling bad jokes. Xan as a bomber made less sense than the Sizzler Steakmaster going vegan. Unwanted tears blurred his view of the headset screens. He attended a wake for his friend later that week. Everyone there shared his disbelief, and many declared that he must have just been caught in the explosion purely by coincidence; Jace was troubled though; Xan would not have been out on the streets that early. He had no answers, not even good questions. He woke the next morning with a headache. Feeling a need for distraction, he started up Urban Mercenary for the first time since he had learned of Xan’s death. After several hours of play, he decided to get a buzz on. He knew he was out of Tequila, and Tequila was clearly necessary. It was still early in the afternoon, so he headed out to the liquor store around the corner. As he opened the door, he nearly bumped into a customer loaded with a double armload of clinking bags. He shoved past angrily, nearly knocking the man over. He seethed as he heard the man cursing under his breath, and felt an urge to go after him. Back at the apartment, he got ripping drunk, and passed out in his chair. He woke in the middle of the night, stumbled to the commode, and vomited until he ached. He woke again soon after sunrise, sprawled on the bathroom floor. Over the next couple days, he worked the minimum he could get away with, and spent every spare moment playing the game. He could not get enough of the emotional extremes, fierce rage, fear, and rewarded with waves of excitement and joy with each victory. Most of the time, he’d celebrate afterwards with tequila, or vodka, or rum. On one of his excursions to restock his liquor supply, he passed two Asians talking animatedly and laughing. A surge of anger gripped him, and he balled his fists and advanced on them. “Shut the f*** up, and stop laughing!” They stared at him and began to back away. He lost all control of himself and lunged at them. He pounded at them until both lay motionless on the pavement, and began kicking them, with a feeling of euphoria singing in his skull. He heard a siren wail behind him, but kept on kicking the bloody corpses. Hands grasped him roughly from behind. He turned as his rage reasserted itself, and he attacked the stoneface like a berserker. He never felt the shot that took him down. That night, Chas Morgan set aside his newly downloaded Urban Mercenary game, and listened to the evening news. He shook his head in dismay at the story of a senseless hate crime, two Chinese cousins brutally murdered in broad daylight. The killer was thought to be a drug addict at first, but the drug screens all came up negative. The reporter speculated that a new drug must be circulating, not yet covered by the standard drug tests. The rise in hate crimes was rising alarmingly, and authorities were still at a loss about its origins.
The point of this exercise (in truth, it was a Short Story Competition entry) was to tell a short story solely in dialogue (beats were permitted). I chose to have more than two participants to make it more interesting. Table Talk “I’m starving,” said Ken. “It’s been a day from hell.” “That it has.” Laura stared at the menu. “Can I have pork chops?” asked Jack. “No, Dad, they don’t serve that here.” Jack waved down a waiter. “I like a good chop,” sulked Jack. “They don’t serve chops here, Dad. Seafood and steaks.” “Good evening, sir. Can I get you something to drink?” “Yes, I’ll have a bourbon and water, she’ll have a Chardonnay, and an iced tea for my father, please.” Laura interrupted. “I’ll have gin, instead. Crushed ice.” “Ok, that’s a bourbon and water, gin over crushed ice, and an iced tea. I’ll send your server over to take your dinner order.” “You never order gin with dinner.” “Well, things change.” “Why can’t I have what I want? I want chops.” “Please, Dad, keep your voice down. It’s a surf ‘n turf. They only serve steak and seafood. Besides, last time you had chops, your teeth bothered you all night. Look here, they have the crab cakes you always like.” “I got a phone call today,” Laura said. “Oh. Okay. I like crab cakes. But none of that pink sauce. I don’t like that.” “Right, Dad, no remoulade sauce. I’ll tell them. Phone call?” “Hello, I’m Stefan, and I’ll be your server tonight.” He set down the drinks. “Are you ready to order?” “I’ll have Lobster Newburg in Puff Pastry, with the Caesar Salad,” said Laura, before Ken could speak. “Uh, yes. I’ll have the Seafood Casserole, with a baked potato, loaded. And Lobster Bisque. He’ll have the Maryland Crab Cakes, with mashed potato, and chopped broccoli.” “And no pink sauce.” “Oh yes. No remoulade sauce with the crab cakes.” Ken sipped his bourbon. “And another of these.” Laura handed the empty glass to Stefan. “Stefan, huh. Steve, more likely,” Ken joked. “Jennifer Welkes.” Laura glared at Ken. “That’s who called me.” “Oh?” “Yes, oh. I’m sure you can guess the rest.” “I don’t like this tea.” Jack made a face. “It’s too bitter.” “Stir in some sugar, Dad. No more than two packets though.” He turned to Laura. “Look, honey, it only happened once, by accident.” “Accident? What, like a slip and fall, Kenneth? Or was it a rear end collision? Well?” “I mean, it just kind of happened. It was after a dinner meeting with a client, and we were both a bit drunk, and tired—“ “Kenneth, she told me everything. You chased her for months, then threatened to make her job go away.” “Honey, she—“ “Don’t you dare call me that.” “She’s lying. She’s incompetent, and she’s making this up because she’s about to be fired.” “She just got a transfer and promotion. Today. But you’re right about one thing. Someone is getting fired.” She stood, and gulped down the drink the waiter was holding out to her. “Don’t bother coming home. I’ve had the locks changed.” “Wait. Your dinner…” Ken emptied his glass, and handed it to Stefan. “I need a refill.” Jack leaned forward. “Kenny, my boy.” Looked Ken in the eye. “You’re an idiot.”
Dr. Terry Jones of the Dove World Outreach Center has his fifteen minutes of fame this week. Perhaps that is why he is stubbornly sticking with his plan to ignite a fire on Saturday, September 11, 2010. He and his benighted followers intend to ignite a firestorm of hate, with copies of the Qur'an as kindling. According to the DWOC website, they are "... a New Testament Church – based on the Bible, the Word of God." But the lofty rhetoric notwithstanding, he seems to me to better represent the Prince of Lies. Since when is God's Word the voice of hatred, intolerance, and ignorance? He claims he is not killing anyone, he is only burning books, but surely he knows what he is attacking is the very faith of the people of Islam. I am no fan of any organized religion. Many of the world's worst atrocities have been committed in the name of religion. But the religion itself is not really at fault. It is those who twist those beliefs to justify mayhem and murder who are at fault - cowards like the 9-11 terrorists and the hooded assassins of the Klu Klux Klan. But the terrorists who hijacked airliners and used them as missiles against civilians no more represent Islam than the hooded lynch mobs of the KKK represent Christianity. As an American, I condemn the actions of Terry Jones. He does not represent America. He does not represent Christianity. He does not represent any moral high ground. He has more in common with Osama bin Laden, spurring hate through words, and inciting violence from a safe distance. Note: The above is my opinion, and does not represent any official position of the site or its owner.
This is in response to another challenge, that it would be impossible to write an interesting story about a man walking down the street twiddling his thumbs. **** Despite its name, Broadway at half-past nine on a Tuesday morning closes in on you. Matt paid the vendor for his breakfast, a foot long hot dog with onions, mustard, and sauerkraut, and took his first bite. Around him, people hurried past in nearly every possible direction. Even with the density of the crowd, there was almost no jostling. Men and women in suits, with briefcases or shoulder bags, hurried past bronzed and bearded laborers in dungarees and printed tees without making physical or even eye contact. Smells constantly swirled past as well. Pungent body odor gave way to a whiff of patchouli, followed by a passing cloud of cigar smoke. A strong fragrance of perfume gave way a moment later to a nearby toke of weed, and all around was the aroma of varied foods from the line of vendor carts along the curb. Matt wadded up the empty wrapper and dropped it into the nearest trash receptacle. The air was already turning muggy. He stepped out into the thick of the crowd, and began walking slowly up the street. He causally laced his fingers in front of him, and started to roll his thumbs. The crowd changed almost instantly. A bubble of open space formed around him. A gray-haired woman with a lavender silk scarf and a conservative medium grey suit glared at him as she shifted her path to avoid him. A thin man in a black jacket and jeans, and a glowing Bluetooth earpiece, paused from his loud stream of Spanish and caught Matt’s eye. Then he quickly looked away and stepped to the side, nearly colliding with a muscular black youth with a shaved head and half a dozen chain necklaces. Something struck Matt’s shoulder from behind, and he stumbled but did not fall. A stocky, heavily-inked biker with greasy black hair and a bushy beard swept past without looking back. Matt took a deep breath, but kept on twiddling his thumbs. He drifted over to a produce stand in front of the Commerce Bank, out of the main flow of pedestrians. But he was not beyond their notice. Faces turned toward him in contempt, while others turned pointedly away from him. An aging drag queen with frosted curly hair and heavy makeup winked lewdly and blew him a kiss. “Wassup with you, man? You high on sumpin’?” A man with stringy hair, badly in need of a shave and some new clothing was grinning at him through broken yellow teeth. “Got any to share?” He laughed wheezingly and shuffled away. Matt varied the twiddling, sometimes rolling his thumbs forward, sometimes backward, sometimes alternating every second or two. He kept what he felt was a harmless expression, or maybe it was just a vacant stare. “Hey you!” Matt turned toward the voice. The produce vendor, a short Asian man in a Hawaiian shirt and baggy shorts, was facing him with his hands on his hips. “Get outa here! You’re scaring away my business. Now move it!” Matt smiled and nodded his head, and joined the crowd again. He found a new spot in front of a Borders book store, where a standing sign easel left a void in the flow of the crowd. He glanced at a clock across the street. Not even ten o’clock yet. The crowd was beginning to thin somewhat after the peak morning rush. A youth with blue hair and a face full of metal body art stared at him from across the street for several seconds, then hurried away. A street performer approached him, and began mimicking him with exaggerated motions. Matt ignored him, and after a few minutes, the performer shrugged broadly with a shake of his head, and instead followed a shapely redhead, copying her every move as she window shopped. She caught his reflection in the window of a jewelry store, and laughed. She reached into her purse and dropped a dollar bill into his proffered hat, and they walked off in different directions. The blue-haired youth returned with three of his friends. They started twiddling their thumbs, too, and stepping in front of passers-by, blocking their path. Within less than a minute, an impatient woman they confronted gave one of the boys a shove. One of the others, a round-headed young man with his black hair cut to a dense fuzz, grabbed the woman’s arm and shook her. A moment later, a patrolman was on the scene. Matt dropped his hands and slipped through the crowd. He looked in vain for a Metro entrance, and instead hurried into a crowded deli, his heart thudding. He joined the line for the espresso counter, and pulled his cell out of his pocket and dialed. Frank answered on the second ring. “What the hell did you do, Matt, start a riot?” Matt kept his voice low. “Never mind. You won the bet. I couldn’t go the full hour.” Frank laughed. “I’m surprised you made it this far. I’ll bet another twenty you get arrested before the end of the hour.” “I’ll take that bet. See you in thirty.” Matt snapped the cell closed, and planned his next move.
Malcolm folded the papers and sealed them in the envelope. He looked at the clock. The pickup would take place in the next thirty minutes. If he were late, all his preparations would be for naught. But he had to be careful. They were watching him, he was sure of it. They had a tap on his phone line, and he had seen watchers in the neighborhood. The surveillance wasn’t continuous, though, and he felt sure he could slip through their net. They were overconfident, and they didn’t know he was onto them. Malcolm hurried to the window at the end of the upstairs hallway. From there he could see the entire street without revealing himself. Damn. Across the street, one of them was parked in a gray Acura. He was talking into a cell phone, and didn’t appear to be looking at the house, but Malcolm knew better. He was waiting for Malcolm to make a move, and there was less than half an hour left. He might need a backup plan. The watcher closed the cell phone and started the car. He looked around, not letting his gaze rest on the house, then pulled away from the curb. Malcolm waited to make sure the man didn’t circle the block to catch him off guard, then he scanned the street for other watchers. All clear! He hurried downstairs and opened the door a crack. He still saw no one, but they could be watching from concealment. He forced himself to remain calm, and walked toward the street as casually as possible. He looked to the left, and his heart began pounding in his chest as he saw the small white truck approaching. The pickup was early, and he had nearly missed it. He stuffed the envelope into the mailbox and raised the red metal flag. He turned away and hurried back to the front steps just as the mail truck pulled up. “Mr. Walker? Hold up. I got something here you need to sign for.” Malcolm froze, then turned slowly toward the mail truck. Don’t show fear, he told himself, as his heart tried to explode and his sweat turned acrid with panic. He signed his name on the form on the clipboard, and the mailman handed him a thick envelope marked with a government seal and dire warnings against use for unofficial purposes. He watched as the mailman retrieved the sweepstake envelope from the mailbox, then turned and shuffled back to the safety of his house. At least the entry would be postmarked with today’s date, the deadline. Once inside, he collapsed into his chair and stared at the dark face of the TV until he could breathe almost normally. The envelope was half-crumpled in his fist, but he smoothed it the best he could. It was from the United States Treasury, Internal Revenue Service, just as he knew it would. ****************************** I have often said that the story idea is unimportant, and that a decent writer should be able to make a story from the most mundane of story ideas. I've suggested that even a trip to the mailbox could be written into a story. This is no masterpiece, but it was my "put up or shut up" challenge to myself.
This is a poem I entered quite some time ago, and then lost track of. It's a double tetractys, and I used the descending count (10 4 3 2 1) followed by the ascending one (1 2 3 4 10) to suggest the ebb between two wave surges. The Siege The surf explodes upon black rugged rocks a roaring beast dashed against fortress crag. Pause. Hissing, foam retreats back to the sea, marshalling rage to launch the next assault.
This is a short piece I wrote in March, 2008. My goal was to write a scene in third person without any direct reference to what the main character was thinking, but still try to clearly convey his thoughts and feelings. I'm posting this not because I think it's a great piece of writing, but because it illustrates the difficulties of a third person objective narrative voice. Bitter Fruit Steven clicked the Submit Payment button, then set aside the power bill and picked up the next envelope from the stack. He slit it open with the letter opener and pulled out another bill. After glancing at the total on the front, he turned to the next page, and then froze with a stunned look. Hearing the doorknob turn, he quickly set the paper down on the desk. Janet poked her head around the door. “Still paying out the bills?” she asked. He nodded wordlessly. She had on her suede coat, and was carrying a small handbag. “You heading out?” She looked down at her purse and began rummaging through it. “Kelly called. She’s having a rough time and needs a shoulder to cry on.” She retrieved her keys and turned away. “Don’t wait up. I’ll probably stay there tonight, especially if we have a couple drinks.” She half turned her head around, not quite looking at him, with a tight smile. “Besides, you aren’t a pile of fun to be around when you’re doing the bills.” She walked briskly down the hall, and Steven heard the door open and close. He stood and walked slowly to the front room. He watched her through a gap in the living room curtains as she settled into her Honda and backed out of the driveway. After she turned the corner, he continued to stare out into the gathering dusk. Finally, he turned away and retrieved a rocks glass from over the liquor cabinet. He wiped the thin layer of dust out of it with the end of his shirt, selected a bottle of Cuervo Gold and splashed two fingers into the glass. He swallowed half of it in one mouthful, and made a face as the burn spread from his mouth into a warm glow across his chest. Returning to the spare room, he picked up the telephone bill one more time and did his best to stare it down. Then he shoved it to the bottom of the stack, shut down the computer, and took what was left of his drink to his throne in the living room. Janet had long since given up trying to get him to get rid of the ugly high-backed chair. He sipped the remainder of the drink in the dark, and stared at the blank TV screen long after the glass was empty. Finally, he washed the glass and put it away. He stood there for a moment, then switched on the light and picked up the phone. He started to punch in a number, but switched off the phone and set it back down. Then he picked it up again and keyed in the entire number. He put the phone to his ear and waited. “Hello, Helene? It’s me, Steve… Yes, really… I was wondering if the offer was still open… I know, but I couldn’t stop thinking about it.” He listened for several seconds. “That sounds nice. Let me get cleaned up quickly, and I’ll meet you there in an hour… Yeah, me too. See you shortly.” He hung up the phone, and went into the bathroom. As he washed his face and ran a comb through his hair, he stopped for a few seconds to look at the stranger in the mirror. Then he turned away, and changed into a fresh shirt and khaki’s. He locked the door behind him on his way out. Note that the reference to the stranger in the mirror in the last paragraph is a slip. It is a subjective reference, so it doesn't really conform to the rules I had imposed for the exercise.
Spend any time around writers, and you will surely hear the sage but cryptic advice, "Show, don't tell." But what the heck does it mean, and why do people keep saying it? Is it a hard and fast rule, or are there times you should and should not follow it? First off, what is it? Here's a simple example: In both cases, we know Gwen was embarassed. The first version comes straight out and tells us, while the second version shows us through her reactions. "But wait," you say. "Isn't the second one telling us she is blushing, and that she is looking at her hands?" Yes, but you have to think in terms of the real message being conveyed. In this case, Gwen's emotional state is the message. In this example, showing takes more words. On the other hand, her reaction reveals more than simple embarassment. It implies a bashful response, probably to a compliment, as opposed to humiliation or some other form or embarassment. It's a richer expression of her emotional state. If you really told what her emotion is, it would probably require considerably more words than the showing. Many people assume that showing requires more words than telling. It may be true in the simplest examples, but showing is often much more concise when the message is complex or ambiguous. Emotions and sensations are often complicated, with conflicting components. Consider point of view. When we watch two people having a quiet conversation in a restaurant, we can't read their thoughts and tap into their nerve impulses. But we can see if one person is angry, or afraid, or distressd. How do we know? By the body languiage, actions like crying or a raised or trembling voice, all the elements you would write when showing those feelings. By showing in your writing instead of telling, you help preserve the point of view. Showing isn't limited to character moods and feelings though. You can also use it to describe setting. For example, you could describe a street as cold and windy, or you can show it though a character's reaction to it, pulling his coat tight and leaning forward to protect his face from windblown ice crystals. Showing can help you experience the setting better than telling, because you know what such a day feels like from your own experiences. But that doesn't mean you should never tell instead of showing. Sometimes simply saying: is a completely adequate and concise description, for instance after he walked five miles to town from his broken-down car. There's nothing more to gain by showing him shuffling into town, slumping down onto a park bench, and taking his shoes off to check his feet for blisters. Showing is often more expressive, but it can take more thought to do it well, and sometimes it just isn't the best choice anyway. So although it's always good advice to consider showing vs, telling, it isn't the answer in every situation. Good writing will judiciously mix them. Show and tell.
This is a short item I posted on my personal website in the wake of Election Day in the United States. ------------- Two days ago, America was patting itself proudly on the back for having overcome centuries of racism in electing its first African-American President. Never mind that not one news story before or after the election has failed to mention his race. His campaign may not have been run on a race ticket, although I have to wonder whether the frequency he insisted that race was not an issue made certain that no one could forget it. We have not advanced so far as a nation that race is no more significant than height or hair color. And while we were so proudly celebrating our enlightened state, Californians were taking a long stride backwards into intolerance. Proposition 8 ripped the right to marry from same-sex couples. What harm does same-sex marriage threaten to traditional marriage? Marriage under the law has little connection to marriage within any religion. Just as a religion may not recognize a second marriage as valid, that same religion need not recognize gay unions. So where is the threat to religion, unless that faith insists its practitioners control those outside their faith? I am not gay. I have no personal axe to grind. Nevertheless, I am deeply, profoundly ashamed.
(This is a short story I am putting together around a character I created for one or the RPGs on the site. I wanted to give a glimpse of him to those who weren't around when the RPG was taking place) The Killing Jar Mack Grundy smiled. No one saw the smile, so no one was chilled by it. Down here, among the dregs of a dozen worlds, he was the Hammer of God, chosen to break them and render them harmless. He was looking forward to breaking the new prisoner. Not yet positively identified, the small, pale man was brought in three hours ago, rounded up near the smoking ruins of a government installation that had been invaded by a small band of mercenaries. Manacled and with a full tranquilizer load in him, he should have been a rag doll with a pulse. But as two of his guards stepped away so the remaining two could shove him through the narrow doorway into his cell, he attacked. One guard went down, his kneecap shattered by a snap kick, and the other was soon gasping for breath with the prisoner’s manacles around his throat. The remaining two guards rushed him with neural prods. One fell, his larynx crushed by a well-placed kick, but the fourth guard managed to immobilize the prisoner with the prod as the second guard collapsed to the floor, unconscious. Mack checked the new prisoner’s video monitor, but the view was obscured. He had half expected this, so he stepped silently to the steel door of the cell with the neural prod ready. Snapping the view panel’s cover aside, he jammed the prod against the opening and pressed the trigger, and smiled grimly as he heard a muffled gasp and the sound of a body landing hard on the floor. Only then did Mack look through the opening. The prisoner was small and wiry, with a pale face marked with several scars that looked like burn marks. Beside him was a small stun gun he must have taken from one of the guards during last night’s struggle. Clearly he had prepared to ambush whoever opened the view panel. But he has never dealt with me, thought Mack. He opened the cell door and stepped inside. He picked up the stunner, and covered the prisoner with it as he checked the camera. Although it was recessed behind an electrified wire grid, the prisoner had manager to cover the lens with his own feces. Mack kicked the prisoner hard, and was surprised to see him curl up in pain. He should still have been immobilized by the charge from the prod. The prisoner began to try to stand, so Mack swung the stunner. A bright red gash appeared across the bridge of his nose and crossing his right eyebrow, and the prisoner collapsed to the floor. Mack left the cell and slammed the steel door behind him. He left orders that no one was to enter the cell for any reason without Mack standing by. Jared struggled to stay conscious, and lost. Beneath the searing pain that invaded even his unconscious mind floated a clear memory. He was surrounded by brown dust and leathery plants under an unrelenting sun’s glare, poking the dry dirt with a stick. Around him, the occasional hot breath of the desert breeze made the spiny brown plants shiver with a dry hiss. The dirt erupted at the tip of a stick, and a twig-like grey scorpion fled, seeking a new hiding place. Jared snatched it up by the tail, just below the wicked-looking sting, and examined his catch. It tried to grab his finger with its pincers, but was unable to reach any vulnerable skin. Jared lifted the cover from the glass jar next to him, dropped the scorpion inside, and covered it again. He wrinkled his nose at the fumes from the wet blotter at the bottom of the jar, and watched as the scorpion’s frantic movements slowed, then ceased. Then Jared’s dream shifted to the nightmare that visited him every time he closed his eyes to sleep. (to be continued)
At any given moment in fiction, the story is being told from some point of view. In literary terms, that point of view is described in terms of narrative person: first person is told as if the narrator is the same as the character currently in the spotlight, third person is told as if the narrator is observing the currently active character. I’m referring to the character in this way instead of main character, because in a particular scene or passage, the character in focus may not be a main character of the story at all. But before going any further, the narrative person should not be confused with the grammatical person of any particular sentence. The grammatical person refers to the sentence subject and verb. Pronoun subjects may be first, second or third person, singular or plural, but noun subjects are third person singular or plural. The verb must agree in person and number with the subject. The narrative person, on the other hand can generally be considered singular, because the words are presumably narrated from one mind at a time, unless the narrative is delivered by a hive consciousness. Also, the narrative voice is usually first or third person, although second person has been used to tell a reader what he or she is perceiving. Personally, I abhor second person POV; it’s like treating the reader like a hand puppet, and don’t ask where the hand goes! To illustrate why narrative voice and grammatical voice may differ, consider these two paragraphs: I felt a fat wet drop splash on my face. I looked up and saw a grey wall of rain approaching from the east, and I ran for shelter. A fat wet drop of rain splashed on my face. I looked up. A grey wall of rain was approaching from the east, and I ran for shelter.Both of these paragraphs are written from a first person point of view, but the second paragraph alternates between first and third grammatical person in the individual clauses. To me, the second paragraph flows better, feels more natural. So when someone suggests you write a section from a particular person, they are usually referring to the narrative person, and it does not mean you should change the person in each and every sentence to match. In terms of drawing a reader into your story, you need to establish a point of view (POV), and maintain it. Yes, it is valid to shift POV, but if you don’t choose the transitions well, you can leave the reader “floating”. If you have not worked on holding a consistent POV before, you should probably write a story or two with a single POV throughout, so you can more easily pay attention to when you slip out of that POV. Here’s an example: Benjamin hurried up the grassy slope, puffing from the exertion. As he crested the hill, the settlement of Fort Matthews sprawled in the valley before him. The settlement, founded in 1843, had provided a haven for travellers from Indian attacks for thirty years.Do you see where the story fell away from Benjamin’s POV in the third sentence? Suddenly Benjamin is alone and forgotten at the crest of the hill, while someone else begins giving a history lesson. There may be times you want to switch over to an omniscient POV, but you should never do so in the middle of a scene. Here’s the same paragraph, but keeping Benjamin present: Benjamin hurried up the grassy slope, puffing from the exertion. As he crested the hill, the settlement of Fort Matthews sprawled in the valley before him. Benjamin wondered whether travellers still fled there from Indian attacks, thirty years after the settlement was founded. He suddenly felt very exposed atop the hill.You want to keep the reader hooked into the scene, especially at the beginning of your story. Maintaining a well-anchored POV will help you immensely in this regard. One subtle thing to watch out for is narrator intrusion: He heard a low rumble, and saw the sand grains dancing on the floor. A low rumble sounded, and the sand grains began dancing on the floor.In the first sentence, you are watching the character as he hears the rumble and sees the sand grains begin moving. But in the second sentence, you are the character. I call the first one a popcorn POV, because the perspective is as someone in the cinema watching the action take place, whereas in the second sentence, you are fully embedded in the scene. Whenever possible, you want to avoid the popcorn POV and get the reader into the character’s shoes. Another common mistake is to think of your POV character as a perfect recording device, instead of a person with limited focus. In other words, you might be tempted to describe everything the character can see or hear, instead of what he or she would actually notice and pay attention to. For example, when you run into a friend you have seen nearly every day for the past decade, you won't notice her auburn curls tumbling about her narrow shoulders. You would notice that it's Erica, and she seems excited about something. So make sure that what you describe is not only what the POV character can observe, but also what he or she would observe at that time and place. Entire novels, and excellent ones at that, have been written using a single POV. Others tend to restrict the perspectives to a small number of viewpoints, often two. But no matter how many points of view you operate from, maintain the focus carefully and only switch when you have a good reason to shift the focus of the story. That is, of course, all from my point of view.
This is something I wrote for a poetry contest on the site nearly a year ago. I hope you enjoy it. I sat myself down with the leather-clad poet My mission: to capture his essence in ink. The sleepy eyed singer of Doors fame waited as my head filled with nothing; I forgot how to think. The Lizard King put up his feet on the table and hummed a few notes as I stood on the brink of finding the ultimate question for him He pulled out a whiskey – we both took a drink. The questions were flowing, and so was the booze. The answers I wrote soon became indistinct Jim drank most of the bottle, I’m sure! He was soon yawning in Technicolor into the sink. Jim dropped his pants, mooned the world from his door and shouting he stumbled, then fell to the floor I wish I could write the account of our meeting, But my notes begin “Jim,…”; I can make out no more.
This is a revision of my winning entry in Short Story Competition 22, the theme of which was a Chase. Virgil Lambreaux was a dead man, and he knew it. He had nearly a sixteen hour lead, but there was no possibility of escape. His fate was sealed the moment he walked into the Icarus Base transport bay and recognized the brunette near the cargo lockers. “Rissa! What brings you down here of all places?” He hurried toward her, but his grin faltered at the cold glare she gave him as she turned and pointed at him. He dove to the deck and scrambled for cover behind a crate. A searing pulse from the plasma pistol in her hand barely missed his head and charred an elliptical pit in the deck plate. He crawled quickly between a loading jack and a mobile welder. Rissa cursed loudly from near where he had been standing. Virgil moved behind the welder, and silently picked up a wrench left by one of the workers. His stomach tightened as he saw a motionless figure on the floor nearby. The smell of burned hair invaded his nose and his stomach lurched. Sensing movement behind him, he spun around. The wrench struck Rissa’s elbow. The plasma pistol jerked away, and then swung back toward him. He swung the wrench again, hard, and felt bones crunch. Blood from Rissa’s head soaked Virgils hand, and she crumpled to the deck. Virgil gripped the side of the welder unsteadily, and retched convulsively. This was not the Rissa Swan he thought he knew, had admired and flirted with. Surprisingly, her attempt to kill him dampened his attraction toward her. She had also killed three workers in the transport bay, and had been breaking into one of the cargo lockers when he arrived. Rissa had always been passionately outspoken in condemning her notorious father, Colby Swan, who was widely believed to be in control of most of the organized criminal activity in this region of the Belt. The cargo lockers along the wall were airtight safes for valuables. The one Rissa had been working on was damaged but still secured. Whatever she was after, it had to be worth a lot, judging by the carnage she had inflicted. But Rissa was Colby Swan’s daughter, and he would take Virgil’s life for ending hers. So Virgil picked out the fastest scout vessel in the bay, and fled for his life. An hour out from Icarus, he berated himself over his decision. He’d have stood a better chance losing himself among the population of the base. The ion-driven scout ship was leaving a trail of charged atoms that could easily be tracked, no matter what course he followed. And as fast as the scout ship was, there were faster ships, especially if his pursuer had the resources of Colby Swan. It was too late to turn back. Rissa’s corpse could already have been discovered. Virgil closed his eyes and tried to dispel the image of her lovely body, mutilated through his actions. But it was self-defense! he thought. She was about to kill me. His conscience answered with a single word, repeated insistently: murderer. Virgil sobbed, and began a frantic search for cached booze or drugs. But there was no oblivion to be found. He altered his course toward a dense cluster of asteroids and cometary debris, hoping against hope to find a hiding place among the drifting rocks and ice. Then he curled up in a fetal position and slept fitfully. Eighteen hours out from Icarus, Virgil was torn awake from a nightmare by a deep voice, as smooth and dangerous as an oiled dagger. “You may as well shut down your drive now. You cannot outrun me.” Virgil flailed in panic, and gasped as his arm struck the pedestal of the flight seat. Then he realized that the sound was coming from the comm. panel. No one was on board the scout ship but himself. Virgil recognized the voice of Colby Swan. The top man decided to kill me himself, he realized, and an icy fear flooded though him. Colby spoke again. “I know you have it. I want it back. I’ll even let you live, if you surrender now.” Virgil did not expect this. He didn’t for a moment believe that Swan would let him go free. But what was it that Swan thought he had? What had Rissa been trying to steal? Someone else must have finished what Rissa had begun, he realized. And Virgil was left to take the fall. For the first time since he left the transport bay, he felt a glimmer of hope. If Swan thought he had – whatever it was, Virgil might have a bargaining position. At the least, it would probably mean Swan wouldn’t fire on the ship and risk destroying the prize. Virgil turned the scout’s sensors back toward Icarus. The pursuing craft was shaped like a squat cone, with the apex pointed toward him. He could see the glow from the three fusion engines mounted on the base of the cone. Swan must be pushing the engines hot to reach him as quickly as possible. Virgil estimated that Swan would begin his deceleration within two hours, and catch up with him in four, maybe five hours. He scanned ahead, and found a large, jagged wedge of frozen ice and rock, but his heart sank when he realized it would take him seven hours to reach it. Finally, he saw another, smaller mountain only three hours away. The scans indicated that it was approximately eight kilometers along the longest dimension, a slab of frozen methane, ammonia, and water ice studded with rocks, and riddled with crevasses and deep pits. He altered course toward it and set to work modifying a mining sled for his purposes. Colby Swan’s rage threatened to swallow him. Whoever this thief was, he would never see home again. Swan and his personal guard had entered the cargo area to collect his property. The buyer was primed, ready to pay nearly twice what the prototype was worth. But the locker stood gaping open, mocking him. With a feral growl, he slammed the door so hard it jammed with a screech. Then he saw his daughter, lying in a sticky stain of her own blood, and his fury turned glacial. She must have surprised the thief, and paid with her life, he realized. Swan ordered his guard to make sure his yacht was ready for him. As he hurried to his personal docking platform, he wondered if the thief knew whom he had killed, and how personal this had now become. The yacht was designed for comfort, but also for speed, and it was discretely armed. Swan used the small vessel for smuggling and other illicit operations, and he had spared no expense to ensure that it had the teeth for a fight, and the legs to avoid one. His guard began to board behind him, but Swan turned and glared. The guard backed away without a word. One of Swan’s flight crew, on board making the final preflight checks, didn’t notice Swans mood, wrapped around him like a thundercloud. “Out!” Swan spoke quietly, but the man nearly fell over himself in his haste to get out of the ship. Now, several hours later, Swan was approaching the frozen asteroid where the ion trail ended. He couldn’t see the ship itself; the rugged surface had too many places to hide. He began scanning the surface for stray signals. Finally he found a faint electronic emission, emanating from a cluster of sponge-like holes in the surface. He set down on the far side of a nearby ice ridge, and shut down the engines. Then he donned an EV suit, chose a pair of sidearms, and disembarked. The brittle frozen surface crunched under his boots, even in the low gravity, and wisps of vapor curled up from his footprints. Several minutes later, he stood on the rim of a deep pit at the source of the signal. In the shadows, a mining sled was half buried in the grey wall of the crater. Coward, Swan thought. Ok, I’ll secure the prototype before I end his miserable life. He climbed down to the sled, and cleared off the debris. His rage flared as he realized that the sled contained only spare suit radio, rigged to emit low level static. It was a decoy, to waste his time and give the thief a chance to escape! He hurried back to the yacht. No more games! He would destroy that arrogant sonuvabitch, even if the prototype was destroyed along with him! Back on board, he removed his helmet but did not even take the time to remove the pressure suit. He strapped in and powered up the engines. But the yacht didn’t move. He cursed and applied full power. The comet lurched sharply under the scout ship, and Virgil rebounded painfully from the bulkhead. He caught hold of the flight seat and steadied himself. Outside the viewport, he was floating free of the frozen asteroid surrounded by tumbling comet debris, and a bright sphere of expanding ice crystals swept by him. The scout ship had suffered some minor damage, but nothing critical. As he started the repairs, he speculated on what had happened. Virgil had concealed the scout vessel in a crevasse nearly three kilometers from the sled. He had hoped that Swan, who had never mined the belt, would land with the engines still hot. With any luck, he’d have melted the surface, which would then have refrozen around the engine cluster, trapping the ship on the surface. Starting the engines might have damaged them in the confined space, but nothing short of a full power launch could have caused a catastrophic failure. The comet fragment itself had been fractured into three major pieces and numerous smaller fragments. Virgil could not identify any debris from Swan’s ship. Soon the repairs were complete, and Virgil pointed the scout back toward Icarus and brought the ion engines back on line. As he began his flight back toward a home the had thought he would never see again, Virgil harbored fond thoughts toward whomever had outwitted both Swans and walked off with the stolen goods.
This was my non-winning entry in the Short Story Competition for A day in the life of the Grim Reaper. He had a feeling in his bones that this would be one of those days. There were no fiery letters in the sky, nor whispers from the hollow dark; but a degree of prescience was part of the job description. Unfolding himself from the comfort of his cold, dank crypt, he wrapped himself in one of his identical hooded black cloaks, and selected a scythe from the stand next to the entrance. He paused, and exchanged the scythe for one indistinguishable from the first. Then he swung the marble doors silently open and glided out into the crisp morning air. The Reaper stretched one bony arm skyward, and a scroll materialized in his grasp. He unrolled it and read a dozen or so names scrawled in dark red script. it was not a long list, by any means, and yet he could not shake off a sense of foreboding. He slid silently out of the graveyard into the city streets. Early morning commuters bustled by, somehow managing to step around him even though they showed no sign they even noticed him – which they did not, with one exception. A large woman in her thirties, puffing and red-faced, paused at the crosswalk and pressed the button for the crossing signal. She leaned against the signal post, wheezing heavily, and looked straight at the Reaper. The color drained from her face, and she crumpled to the sidewalk and lay still. The Reaper consulted the scroll, and the name Mildred Stevenson faded to grey and blew away into the breeze. Cardiac cases were always the easiest, especially when combined with emphysema. By noontime, the list had shrunk to three names. The next one was Louis McLeary, age 67. The feeling of dread the Reaper had felt all day peaked sharply. This one would be trouble! The Reaper drifted toward the First Federal Bank downtown, guided by the sense that always pointed the way to the next soul to cross over. Gliding smoothly into the lobby, he spotted Louis standing in line for the next teller. His dark blue coverall’s were spotted with engine grease, and he held a dirty denim cap in the same hand as a smudged check. As the Reaper watched, a short, nervous man wearing oversized sunglasses produced a revolver from his jacket before he could point it, the guard by the door shouted, “Freeze!” Louis jumped at the sound and dropped his cap. As he bent to pick it up, the robber fired the gun, and the bullet passed through the space where Louis had been standing. At the same instant, the guard fired two shots at the gunman, who fell to the floor screaming. The teller at the window looked down in surprise at the crimson rose blossoming in her chest, then crumpled behind the counter. The Reaper looked at the scroll. The name of the gunman, William Kazinsky, turned grey and whirled away in a dusty cloud. But a new name, Lynne Bartholomew, appeared in black with a red border – Untimely Demise. When the Reaper looked up, Louis McLeary was staring at him with his jaw hanging like the door of an open letterbox. In an instant, he was scrambling toward the door, the cap and the check lying forgotten on the bank floor. The Reaper followed. Louis looked back with terror in his eyes, and darted across the street. Horns blared and tires squealed, With a resounding crash, a crosstown bus slammed into a fuel truck, and a fireball erupted. Six more black scrawls appeared on the Reaper’s list, followed seconds later by a seventh and eighth. Louis darted through an alley, and headed toward an elementary school. “Wait!” the Reaper called in dismay. This would not do at all! The adult Untimelies were bad enough, but should the same thing happen at a school! Louis stopped and turned at the sound of the echoing sepulchral voice, terror lighting his eyes. Before he could turn and resume his flight, the Reaper called out again, “I’ll make a deal with you.” Louis stood his ground, trembling. “What kind of deal?” The Reaper glided up to him. “You’ve already upset the Balance today. Before it gets any worse, I’m prepared to let you go.” Louis looked suspiciously at the tall shrouded figure before him. “What’s the catch?” “You have to leave this town, and abandon your name. No one must know you have outlived your time.” The Reaper waited, as Louis considered. “I suppose that’s fair. I really don’t want to die.” The Reaper leaned forward. “This is only a respite. Next time we meet, you will have to cross over.” Louis nodded slowly. “Thank you. I suppose we have to shake on it, huh?” He looked nervous. “By the way, you don’t really cut people down with that thing, do you?” Louis pointed a shaking finger at the crooked scythe. The Reaper laughed with a sound like pebbles sliding down a windy slope. He lifted the scythe behind him and ran the tip up and down his spine. “It gets those hard to reach places.” Louis chuckled in relief, and took the Reaper’s bony hand in his own. He shook it vigorously, and the Reaper rattled all over like castanets. “We have a deal, then. My friends call me Lucky.” Of course they do, the Reaper thought wryly, as he turned and slid off to deal with the final appointment of the day.