(For those not familiar with NaNoWriMo, it’s the National Novel Writing Month – in brief, slap 50,000+ words onto the screen as a “zeroth” draft of a novel. It’s not pretty, it’s not even a first draft, it’s simply an exercise in “Just – Keep – Putting – Words – TOGETHER!” and seeing what comes out the other side. I’ve done it five times and “succeeded” twice. I’ve decided to be incredibly self centered and foolish open about my process so I’ve put my work up here on this site for the last three attempts. Just do a search to see some of the crap I’ve inflicted on my loyal readers in the past. Actually, that might not be totally true – while being “zeroth” drafts, at least three of them had stories and characters that I actually thought were pretty good if I ever managed to get past the NaNoWriMo stage, finish them, and then start editing.)

A good start on getting caught up. Not a lot over the 1,667 target word count per day, and I do have ground to make up after missing three and a half days, but I feel like I’m back on track.

I’m also so sleepy it’s not even funny. The last half of this may be complete gibberish. If so, just assume that it’s truly hilarious but being told in Elvish or Leprechaunese and I’ll translate it back into English for you later.

All comments will be welcome.

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ANY BAD SITUATION CAN BE MADE WORSE

CHAPTER FOUR (continued)

Just as with the light, sound was returning. Suddenly noticeable but with the knowledge that it had been there earlier, gradually getting louder, some spinning, whining, mechanical sounds mixed with…purring? Like the biggest cat she had ever imagined was just out of sight somewhere, breathing heavily, purring with utter satisfaction of being scratched behind the ears and distributing loose hair across the universe. But with a base line that would make any heavy metal hair band bassist jealous.

The mint green light grew a dot right in front of her face, which split into a line heading off in opposite directions toward her head and toes. With that her field of vision either came into existence or into focus, or both, and she could see in her peripheral vision her chest and arms down below her chin. Good, she had started to worry that the leprechaun army had left those behind and just kidnapped her head.

Kidnapped! That’s what Bubba had said he was doing to her! She wasn’t sure how kidnap victims were supposed to react or what they were supposed to do after being gassed or drugged, but she was pretty sure that coming back to reality as a disembodied entity in a green, minty fog was on the far end of the reality spectrum.

The line started to separate, pulling apart like a clamshell or the payload fairings on a rocket after it cleared the atmosphere. Smoothly, steadily, way out of focus since it seemed to be only a fraction of an inch from her face, it wasn’t clear if it was solid and opening or simply dissolving from the crack outward in a steady motion.

It turned out to be irrelevant. Quickly it was gone, only to be replaced with a featureless, yellowish-tinged, off-white something. It was like being inside of a giant egg shell with no floor, walls, or ceiling. Everything curved into everything else, no corners.

Whatever it was that she was lying on (she WAS lying on something, wasn’t she?) started to transform, the back sitting up with a hinge behind her butt while her feet went down from a hinge behind her knees. The flat surface transformed into something like a dentist’s chair and swung “up” to somewhere short of vertical by about 20º. Her inner ear told her she was sitting up.

“You may proceed. The seat will absorb and remove your bodily waste products.”

Deb suddenly had second thoughts. “Wait, am I just supposed to piss on the seat? I can’t even SEE the seat! Is there a hole I’m supposed to hit? And can I have a little privacy?”

“The seat will absorb your bodily waste products. We can modify it to have a hole to aim at if you wish, although in our experience that is more useful to males. Privacy is not needed.”

“Well, maybe not for you,” Deb said, “you exhibitionist little monster. Fine, whatever you want for your jollies. None of this is real anyway. I don’t know what you put into that crap you blew into my face, but this particular acid trip needs more colors and music and less weird bullshit.”

Deb waited for a response but got nothing. Who knew that the little monsters would get their feelings hurt by being cussed at?

She tried to twist around to get a look at the chair or surface she was sitting on, but there wasn’t anything to see. She was held pretty firmly to the surface along her back, butt, and thighs, almost like she was glued there but without any real discomfort or pain. She could move and slip and shift a bit, but she couldn’t get loose and get off onto the floor. If there was a floor. She really couldn’t see a distinct surface or a floor, just the inside of a giant egg shell. Or the inside of one of a ginormous version of those plastic eggs that panty hose used to come in.

She was still wearing the bikini she had been swimming in before being kidnapped by a not-a-leprechaun into the inside of a humongous egg. Since it was the only clothing she had, she wasn’t going to soil it if she could avoid it. She found that she could lift her hips a bit, so she untied it and slid it off.

“I hope you get a good view, you psychotic little pervs. And I’m not going to clean this up!”

With that, Deb let her bladder cut loose.

It wasn’t clear what she was expecting, but the fact that things worked pretty much like Bubba had said they would was not what she would have bet on. The urine just disappeared into the seat beneath her, there was a small chime and a table reached out from where the wall would be if there were walls, and on the table was a small package of tissues of some sort. After cleaning herself, with no further instructions, Deb simply put the waste tissues back on the “table” and it proceeded to vanish. Deb put her bikini bottom back on.

“Hey, Babadook, can I get off of this thing? Whatever it is? I seem to be stuck and I’ll bet you know something about that and can let me go.”

There was a pause, some skittering noises like rats in the walls, and then a voice from her left. Not Bubba’s voice.

“You may not. You should not be uncomfortable. If you are uncomfortable, which you should not be, please tell us and we will adjust you.”

“Wait, are you not Bubba? Are you Bubba’s boss? Who’s in charge around here and what’s going on? I want to talk to your supervisor!”

“I am not-Bubba, correct. There is no supervisor. You are being saved. Are you uncomfortable?”

“I’m fine, but I want to be released. I want to know where I’m at and what is going on!”

“You are here. We are saving you, as you requested.”

“Saved? Requested? Where are you? Who are you? Get in here where I can see you, or let me loose to come and see you. This whole disembodied voice setup isn’t working for me. Let me see you!”

“I am here. I am non-Bubba. I will request permission to come to you.”

“Permission! From who? Why? Just get in here!”

“I must request permission from God. God will know if it is safe for you if I come to you. One moment.”

Twelve years of Catholic school hadn’t prepared Deb for that answer. She had long ago given in to skepticism about God’s existence at worst, his efficacy at best. Being kidnapped by not-leprechauns had ways of making her more open to the improbable, but it was also a LOT to take in over a very short time span.

The thought of just going back to sleep until the drugs (which she had OBVIOUSLY taken) wore off was sounding better by the second.

“I may join you,” non-Bubba said. “Stand by.”

Far off in the distance, a form appeared. Barely a dot, it quickly grew as it approached. Perspective kept shifting, trying to make sense of the bizarre visual inputs being received. The scene finally snapped into focus when she remembered that Bubba had looked like he was about 18 inches tall. Assuming non-Bubba was about the same height, he was there quickly and had never been that far away. Maybe.

An off-white sort of appendage appeared from where a wall should be and not-Bubba sat there, cross legged. Deb tried to see how he sat with his tail like that, but she couldn’t get a good view. She did notice that there was a bright yellow ribbon-like something tied near the end of non-Bubba’s tail.

“You have a thing on your tail,” Deb commented dryly.

“It is to help you distinguish me from Bubba for you.”

That most certainly made sense. Except for the tail ribbon, it would have been almost impossible to tell them apart.

“Are you a leprechaun?”

“I am not.”

“What are you then?”

“I am a scientist. Or an engineer. Or a biologist. Or a medical doctor. It is all the same.”

“Obviously not human then?”

“Obviously.”

“So, you are a hallucination.”

“I am not.”

“Reality doesn’t include tiny dudes with tails and magic powders. Reality also doesn’t include me being this calm after being kidnapped by the aforementioned tiny dudes with tails and magic powders, so whatever’s in that green dust, I’ll have a dozen.”

“Reality is what it is. You are here. I exist. No hallucinations or visions are currently occurring. Yes, there is a sedative.”

Well, that was an interesting admission. But wasn’t that exactly what she would expect a non-reality based, kidnapping hallucination to say?

“You said I was being saved. Why are you saving me?”

“You requested it. We have our mission which happens to align with yours and we have the means to save you. We have chosen to use those means to our mutual benefit.”

“What did I request?” Deb was getting more confused by the moment, but had a feeling there was something important to learn here if she could just ask the correct question. “What am I being saved from? Or is it a who am I being saved from?”

“You said, ‘getting old sucks.’ We are saving you from getting old.”

Deb just sat there for a few long seconds, mulling that one over. For one thing, she was starting to miss reality. Yes, she had been thinking of all of those things which were annoying her and seemed to all be tied to getting old, but she didn’t think she had asked to be rescued from that condition. Reality might be particularly fluid at the moment, but even here, wasn’t the only way to not get old…

“Are you going to kill me?” Deb shouted. So much for the sedative.

“Of course not.” Not-Bubba hadn’t even bothered to flinch or pull back from her.

“Thank you. So, enlighten me. What’s your mission to rescue me from getting old if it doesn’t involve death?”

“We’re going to make you immortal.”

Deb swore that for the briefest of moments a facial expression drifted across the tiny dude’s face. It was a self-satisfied, smug smirk.

(For those not familiar with NaNoWriMo, it’s the National Novel Writing Month – in brief, slap 50,000+ words onto the screen as a “zeroth” draft of a novel. It’s not pretty, it’s not even a first draft, it’s simply an exercise in “Just – Keep – Putting – Words – TOGETHER!” and seeing what comes out the other side. I’ve done it five times and “succeeded” twice. I’ve decided to be incredibly self centered and foolish open about my process so I’ve put my work up here on this site for the last three attempts. Just do a search to see some of the crap I’ve inflicted on my loyal readers in the past. Actually, that might not be totally true – while being “zeroth” drafts, at least three of them had stories and characters that I actually thought were pretty good if I ever managed to get past the NaNoWriMo stage, finish them, and then start editing.)

Wow! Day Eight already. Wait, what happened to Days Five, Six, and Seven?

In short, “life.” If you remember the diagram that I shared on October 31st, I didn’t have time to do NaNoWriMo this year, and I knew it, but I started anyway, because HAVE YOU MET ME? There are other commitments and conflicting priorities and NaNoWriMo is somewhere above raking leaves or crushing recycling cans, but well below hitting critical work deadlines. Let’s keep it real here.

So after three days of lots of stress and very little sleep, deadlines have been hit, there are a couple of hours before the next crisis hits, so here’s about 400 words. It’s not going to get me back on track or even keep me from falling further behind today, but it sure beats a poke in the eye with a sharp stick!

All comments will be welcome.

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ANY BAD SITUATION CAN BE MADE WORSE

CHAPTER FOUR

Mint. Something smelled like mint. Not a lot of scent, not overpowering, but with that omnipresent presence that told you that it was 100% artificial and chemical and desperately trying to mask some other smell that was truly horrible. And Deb hated the smell of mint to begin with.

A second and third brain cell finally activated and joined the party, causing Deb to realize that if she could smell mint, she must be alive and might possibly be conscious. The good news was that there wasn’t any pain or even discomfort. The bad news was that the mint was 100% of the sensory input. Nothing to see, feel, or hear.

How about moving? Attempts to move her arms and legs were inconclusive. She tried to touch her face, but there was no feedback from her face telling her that anything had touched it, so something wasn’t working. She didn’t seem to go anywhere or hit anything. She just was.

After an indeterminate amount of time when she might have been asleep again, or maybe unconscious, the mint scent came back into focus and she had another sensation, this time more familiar. She didn’t know how long she had been gone or here, whatever or wherever “here” might be, but she really had to pee.

Decades of training said that she couldn’t do that without the proper facilities, and hopefully some toilet paper. The big, minty, dark didn’t seem to have either.

What was it that that astronaut dude had said in his TED Talk? “No problem is so bad that you can’t make it worse”? She had a problem and it was time to make it worse. She prepared to release her bladder.

“Please do not expel bodily fluids.”

That voice was familiar. The command forced her to belay that last order to the bladder. The surprise forced out a squirt of adrenaline. Suddenly memories and questions started popping up like mushrooms.

The hammock, the pool. The freakin’ little leprechaun! The army of freakin’ little leprechauns! Who was it to tell her not to pee? What was its name?

“Brian? Buddah? Bowser? Hey you, the shrimp with the weird name that starts with a ‘B’! Where am I and let me out of here! I gotta get to a bathroom, double time!”

“I am Bubba. I am here. We are creating a urinal for you, please stand by for one minute.”

Deb noticed at some point that there was light. It wasn’t like someone turned one on, but one second it was still totally dark and the next it was just almost totally dark. Then a little less totally dark. Within a minute or two she was in a ball of light.

Dim, green light. Mint green light.

(For those not familiar with NaNoWriMo, it’s the National Novel Writing Month – in brief, slap 50,000+ words onto the screen as a “zeroth” draft of a novel. It’s not pretty, it’s not even a first draft, it’s simply an exercise in “Just – Keep – Putting – Words – TOGETHER!” and seeing what comes out the other side. I’ve done it five times and “succeeded” twice. I’ve decided to be incredibly self centered and foolish open about my process so I’ve put my work up here on this site for the last three attempts. Just do a search to see some of the crap I’ve inflicted on my loyal readers in the past. Actually, that might not be totally true – while being “zeroth” drafts, at least three of them had stories and characters that I actually thought were pretty good if I ever managed to get past the NaNoWriMo stage, finish them, and then start editing.)

There’s a saying about old airplanes with radial engines. They’re always leaking oil – if they’re not leaking oil it’s THEN that you need to worry, because that means they don’t have any oil left to leak!

I bring this up because The Long-Suffering Wife graciously pointed out that she had found a couple of typos… 😂😵😂😂🥴😁😎🍾 That’s good news! The only time these stories won’t have typos if if I didn’t do any writing that day.

It’s also fun to listen to her guesses about where the story’s going. Since I have pretty much zero clue myself where it’s headed, I simply smile and nod a lot.

As everyone might have guessed (I’m a little bit transparent at this stage), last evening I had on some video and information on the new potential volcanic eruption in Iceland. I was fascinated by the one in 2021 and the follow up, smaller eruption earlier this year nearby. One thing led to another.

By the way, the current semi-official name is “Any Bad Situation Can Be Made Worse.” That’s from a quote from Cmdr. Chris Hadfield (more or less, I was going from memory) where he was talking about crisis management and decision making in an emergency as a test pilot and astronaut. In particular I think it involves an EVA on the ISS where he had a problem with his spacesuit and things were getting dicey fast. Important lessons there, I suggest everyone check it out.

All comments will be welcome.

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ANY BAD SITUATION CAN BE MADE WORSE

CHAPTER THREE (continued)

“Where is all of our equipment?” Sara asked.

“We have seismometer stations in a ring all around this region. You can see their locations here…”

The Civil Emergency Alarm system activated. Both of their phones and watches started wailing, and they both checked their wrists to see a bright red display with neon yellow text scrolling by. This was going to be a big one. (NOTE FOR EDITING – Earlier in this chapter add a quick scene where an alert comes in for a small earthquake with a green or yellow alert, to set up this scene.)

Both Sara and Carl ran around to the still open doors of the Jeep and jumped inside. Before Carl could start the engine and get moving the swaying of the ground started. Slowly at first, but then much more quickly and violently the vehicle began to rock on its shocks, pushing them around the interior.

As experienced volcanologists, earthquakes were not an uncommon occurrence. Most of them were small, magnitude 3 or 4, simply because M3 and M4 (or smaller) earthquakes were by orders of magnitude more common than “the Big One.” But it went with the job description that when “the Big One” hit, there would probably be seismologists in danger on the front lines. Ask those who were monitoring Mount St. Helens in 1980.

They had parked at the base of a small hill. As the landscape shook, gravel-sized rocks came bouncing down the hillside and striking the jeep. Slowly some of the larger rocks started to follow. On basketball-sized piece slammed into the back tailgate and the rear window exploded with the impact, spraying glass into the back.

“It’s not local!” Carl screamed over the din. “The p-waves are too damped out! Rolling, not sharp”

“Right!” Sara screamed back. “I noticed that. Good that we’re not gonna die quite yet. But where is it coming from? I thought we were the most active site around!”

Carl glanced at his watch, which was still flashing red. “Two minutes so far!” Despite the swaying and jolting, he tried to reach into the back seat to pull his tablet out of his backpack. As it powered up, it joined the cacophony of alerts telling them that there was an earthquake in progress and they should find a safe place.

They finally found the control to cancel the audio alarms. Carl tried to connect to their server in the Grindavik trailer, but it was apparently offline. Not too surprising.

“Three minutes!” Sara yelled. “There shouldn’t be anything this big or this long going on, even here!”

“Right!” Carl was trying to enter the correct instructions into his pad to connect via their satellite link back to their university in Arizona, but it was like trying to type while riding a bucking bronco in a dogfighting F-35.

The good news was that the violence of the shaking they were experiencing hadn’t gotten worse. There had been a couple of moments when the intensity had slacked off for a bit, but it had always gone back up again. The power in the shaking wasn’t their main concern by this point. The length of it was.

As the shaking neared four minutes it finally began to fade out. Slowly the jeep settled, the last few stones pinging it as they rolled downhill. The air was thick with dust, restricting their view to less than a mile in a grey-brown fog. With the back window shattered the dust started filling the jeep. Carl reached into an equipment box underneath his seat and pulled out two dust masks, which they both put on.

Now that the shaking was over, Carl was able to get connected through their satellite link. The site’s landing page of course was streaming information on the event they had just survived.

“Are you okay?” Sara asked. “Did you get through?”

“Yes, I’m okay. How about you?”

“I want to dust off some of this broken glass before we do too much more, but other than that I’m good.” She looked outside the jeep at the debris surrounding it. “We’ve picked up a foot or more of rocks surrounding us, but I would hope that this thing could still get us out.”

“It should, but even if it doesn’t, there are camp shovels in the back, we can dig our way out. I’m checking us in as ‘safe’ and letting everyone know where we are.”

“Good, any work on what the fuck it was that just happened? Where did that come from? The only site anywhere within five thousand miles that could have produced something that big is right under us, and if it had gone off we would be crushed, smashed, steam fried and we would be lucky to have any bodies worth being found.”

“Preliminary report is a M8.9 with an epicenter about 100 miles due east of here. That puts it just on the other side of Eyjafjallajokull.”

Sara pursed her lips. “What are the Icelandic words for ‘impossible’ and ‘ridiculous?’ I studied Eyjafjallajokull’s 2010 eruption at some length for my Master’s thesis and there’s no way it’s capable of anything bigger than an M6. It’s a volcanic region, not a fault zone. Some lava, tons of ash to mess up the air traffic, but no big earthquakes.”

“I’m just reading what the site says. And, by the way, Carolyn congratulates us on not being dead, says they’re getting ready to evacuate with everyone else in Grindavik in case of a tsunami, and they need a status check on all of the seismographs out here. We’re elected since we’re already here, have a functioning vehicle, and of course, the aforementioned ‘no dead’ thing.”

Carl tried to push open his door, but there was enough debris piled up to block it closed. He started to roll down the window so he could climb out.

“Let’s get out, get mobile again, and start checking that equipment. We don’t have a lot of spares or hardware to fix anything that’s smashed, but we can at least give them an idea of where to send someone who does. Let’s go, we’re wasting daylight!”

“That’s a stupid phrase up here at this time of year,” Sara muttered, rolling down her window.

“I know. That’s why I use it!”

(For those not familiar with NaNoWriMo, it’s the National Novel Writing Month – in brief, slap 50,000+ words onto the screen as a “zeroth” draft of a novel. It’s not pretty, it’s not even a first draft, it’s simply an exercise in “Just – Keep – Putting – Words – TOGETHER!” and seeing what comes out the other side. I’ve done it five times and “succeeded” twice. I’ve decided to be incredibly self centered and foolish open about my process so I’ve put my work up here on this site for the last three attempts. Just do a search to see some of the crap I’ve inflicted on my loyal readers in the past. Actually, that might not be totally true – while being “zeroth” drafts, at least three of them had stories and characters that I actually thought were pretty good if I ever managed to get past the NaNoWriMo stage, finish them, and then start editing.)

I read a LOT of advice from authors on writing. The universal theme I’ve seen is that if someone tells you they have “the secret” and you just need to “follow these simple rules,” then that someone is full of shit and probably trying to sell you something. What works for you is what works for you and there are no shortcuts.

For last night’s drivel, here was my basic thought process:

1. I know how I want to follow Chapter One’s main character – but not yet. Introduce a new character.
2. Since I’m “pantsing” this like there’s no tomorrow, this means that I’m making up something totally new with about two brain cells in charge of making sure that somehow I’ll be able to tie this plot line to the one from Chapter One.
3. I need someone who’s either going to threaten or save the Chapter One character, we’ll figure that out later. Where are they, what are they doing? Start with a scene, let it flow from there.
4. I’ve got the Virtual Railfan site from Fort Madison, Iowa up on one monitor as background noise (as I often do) and there’s lots of loud traffic from the trains…
5. Trying to sleep, keeps getting woken by the trains. The phone rings, it’s their boss…
6. This isn’t bizarre enough, what we need is a malevolent, nameless, faceless supervillain
7. Maybe. Is our new character a thug or a henchman? Henchwoman? Remains to be seen
8. Make things not as they seem at first

One thing about “pantsing” is that I guarantee that I’ll be putting in contradictory information about characters. I try to minimize the damage, but this “zeroth” draft isn’t about fly-specking the details. It’s about throwing something against the wall to see what sticks. Cleaning up the details and polishing the plot holes away are for the first draft. Or the second.

So where do we go tonight? Back to, what was her name? Deb? Or off in a third direction? And if I do that, who and where and what and why?

All comments will be welcome.

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CHAPTER THREE

“Monday and yesterday were so much better! I was so jet lagged that all I wanted to do was sleep,” Sara complained. “It didn’t matter if the Sun was up or not, everyplace here has blackout drapes. Besides, I could have slept even if the light of a thousand suns was burning through the cinder block wall. But now that I’m back in sync by brain is trying to deal with the fact that the Sun’s been up for about forty-eight hours too long and there’s NOTHING to do here!”

Carl considered just staying quiet and letting Sara rant, but where was the fun in that? He had dealt with his own jet lagged demons weeks ago and he liked it in Iceland. Sara was right about one thing, there wasn’t a whole lot of entertainment to be found in Grindavik, so you had to make your own fun there. Rubbing it in just a bit to the newbie would work just fine as a diversion.

“I wouldn’t say that there’s NOTHING to do here, Sara. It’s most certainly a different selection that we get at home, but that’s to be expected. You’re a long way from home. You’re going to be here a few months in all likelihood, why not get to know your way around town? It’s not that big. We can take a walk around the harbor. The football team might be practicing. There’s a basketball game at 18:00, and how can you not have seen the Saltfish Museum?” Somehow he managed to say the last bit sincerely and without cracking a smile.

“The harbor is cold, damp, and the wind hasn’t stopped howling since I got here. I don’t care if it is the middle of summer, this place is worse than the English moors. If by ‘football’ you mean ‘soccer,” you forget that I’m an American so I’ve been culturally indoctrinated fifty-plus years to not care about ‘football’? Unless the US Women’s Team is kicking everyone’s ass in the World Cup, of course. I don’t know what time it is because night time is broken here and I can’t even guess if 18:00 is two hours from now, ten, or if we’re already late. And if you ever mention ‘saltfish’ in my presence again I’ll either disembowel or defenestrate you, which is the most convenient for me and painful for you.”

“My, aren’t we a perfect little Miss Crankypants today? Okay, have you gone over the evacuation plan like I told you to? That’s sort of important actually.”

Sara sighed. “Yes, I did, but I noticed something. There are pretty much two different plans. If there’s an earthquake and tsunami, I need to run that way.” She pointed north, inland, away from the harbor. “If there’s a volcanic explosion, I need to run the other way.” She swung around and pointed east along the coast where the highway was. “But you and I both know that the most likely events will involve both at the same time. That scenario isn’t addressed at all!”

“Correct. Because all of the locals know that in that scenario they’re simply fucked and running just means that they’ll die tired. It’s a given.”

Sara’s expression made it clear that she didn’t know whether to take him seriously or not. She would table that discussion for later.

“So how about you take me out and show me the equipment that’s going to give us the early warning to avoid that nightmare scenario. Is there a reason we can’t go now?”

“Let me check in with Rob, I think he’s got this shift in the trailer. The first rule out here is that no one goes out alone, and the second rule is that you check to make sure it’s safe-ish before you go. I’ll go over the other rules while we ride.”

After a check with the staff on what turned out to be the 16:00 to midnight shift, Carl signed out a jeep, filed a “flight plan,” and soon had them on the road headed north out of town. They didn’t have to go far.

Two miles north of town they passed the hydrothermal power plant and the Blue Lagoon. It had once been an internationally known spa, known for its geothermal seawater, filled with silica, minerals, and algae. The “science” behind the “magical healing powers” might have been more marketing than rigorous, but it drove a healthy tourist industry for forty years.

The last eruption here had ended that in 2025. Nearby eruptions just to the east in the early 2020’s had made the area a tourist trap for eco-friendly volcano watching, so when a new eruption started near the lagoon and power plant the crowds had been massive. So had been the body count when the magma chamber had hit the underground seawater vents, resulting in a ginormous explosive eruption.

The latest rumblings were probably related to that event, but the epicenter of the earthquake swarm had moved much closer to the now closed spa area. There was considerable concern for both the staff at the hydrothermal power plant there and for the facility itself since it provided the bulk of the electricity not only for Grindavik, but also for the US military base and international airport at Keflavik. Sara was joining the team that had been sent in to monitor the situation and give everyone some warning if things went sideways.

Just after the exit from the highway that would have taken them to the power plant, Carl turned off onto a dirt track that was marked more by the warning signs at the entrance than by the presence of an actual road. A series of tall poles, topped with reflectors, wind flags waving in the breeze, and fluorescent orange paint marked the road’s location. It quickly became obvious why every vehicle on the island was equipped with four-wheel drive. At a crawl they bounced over the landscape until they turned around the side of a hill and lost sight of the road behind them.

Carl didn’t so much pull over as he simply stopped. Getting out he jeep he pulled out his pad and laid it out on the hood. Sara followed him, pulling her heavy sweater around her and looking around at the barren tundra.

“We’re here,” Carl said as he pointed to the pad. “The biggest deformation of the ground has been occurring between these small hills. We know that there are underground saltwater intrusions in this area and our fear is another catastrophic eruption. That highway we were on connects the south coast to the north and if it gets cut there aren’t a ton of other options.”

Sara scanned the horizon, trying to figure out which way was which. The goofy Sun didn’t help. None of that “rising in the east, setting in the west” nonsense up here at this time of the year. It just sort of spun around the horizon, getting a bit lower and then a bit higher. Carl saw her confusion.

“That way’s north, then east, south, and west,” he pointed. “They’re behind this hill right now, but in most places around here you can spot the lights on the radio towers just outside of Grindavik. That will help.”

Sara turned to the west, then back to the east.

“Where were the previous eruptions? In those hills over there?”

“Yes, the 2021 and 2022 eruptions around Geldingadalir were up in those hills. Then the 2024 and 2025 eruptions were back on the other side of the highway, just north of the Lagoon.

…to be continued…

(For those not familiar with NaNoWriMo, it’s the National Novel Writing Month – in brief, slap 50,000+ words onto the screen as a “zeroth” draft of a novel. It’s not pretty, it’s not even a first draft, it’s simply an exercise in “Just – Keep – Putting – Words – TOGETHER!” and seeing what comes out the other side. I’ve done it five times and “succeeded” twice. I’ve decided to be incredibly self centered and foolish open about my process so I’ve put my work up here on this site for the last three attempts. Just do a search to see some of the crap I’ve inflicted on my loyal readers in the past. Actually, that might not be totally true – while being “zeroth” drafts, at least three of them had stories and characters that I actually thought were pretty good if I ever managed to get past the NaNoWriMo stage, finish them, and then start editing.)

That was fun!

Yeah, the first section is a tiny bit personal. It was odd writing it. It was what my muse wanted, and I liked it, but it was a bit slow, exposition-y, not sure where it was going, needed badly to take a left turn…

So I did. You might be able to tell where. And from there it was off to the races.

The biggest problem was time. My “ah-ha!” moment came after 23:30 and I need to post by midnight to keep my 633 day posting streak intact. So those last seven hundred words were written REALLY FAST.

Where do we go next? It’s 18:20 and I have no clue. Except, structurally, I think that…

Also, for those not familiar with the terminology, a “pantser” is someone who writes “by the seat of his pants.” So to speak.

All comments will be welcome.

---

CHAPTER TWO

Trying to get back to sleep for the tenth time that night, Ed couldn’t help but think of how in his youth he had loved country/western songs that mentioned lonesome train whistles blowing off in the distance in the dark and all that they symbolized in terms of loneliness, loss, and regret.

“What a crock of shit,” he muttered to himself, reaching for the spare pillows to again try to bury his head in search of silence while cautiously leaving a little channel so that air could still get to his face. Outside, yet another lonesome train whistle blew off in the distance in the dark.

It might have been a couple hours later but probably was more like ten minutes when his phone started ringing. Not one of the sing-song-y, generic ringtones that came with the phone and made it sound like every other phone in the mall, but that weird musical riff that everyone recognized as some kind of phone ringtone that the supervillain used in that movie without anyone being able to remember which supervillain in which movie.

Pillows scattered onto the floor as Ed reached for the ringing phone. Thank God that it was lighting up like a Christmas tree with its screen blinking and flashing to get everyone’s attention even if everyone in hearing range were deaf. It helped to find it in the dark, and Ed needed all of the help he could get, especially if The Boss was calling.

“Yeah, Boss?”

“Where are you at?”

Good question. It had been really late when he got there to begin with, hauling his rig on a long, slow haul that had started two days ago in the thick woods of northern Maine, following a wild goose chase across almost two dozen states. He had learned not to ask stupid questions, and all questions were stupid when you were talking to The Boss, but you really had to wonder some times.

“Um, the Midwest. Illinois? Iowa? Indiana? One of those flat, flyover states near the Mississippi River.”

“Are you actually near the Mississippi River?”

“Yeah, I can see it about a quarter mile away. I’m in some little town where the railroad tracks cross it. Fort Jefferson? Fort Kennedy?”

“If you’re next to the Mississippi River, you’re not in Indiana then. We’ll assume you’re either in Illinois or Iowa. Of course, this would be so much easier if you would not park the rig where the satellite signal isn’t blocked and I could just talk to it. It’s ever so much smarter than you are anyway. Dolt!”

“There weren’t a lot of parking options, Boss, especially for something that size. I’ll try to be more careful next time. Sorry.”

“Yes, you are. I need you in California, ASAP. We had a Class Four event occur there thirteen hours ago and the Science Team has finally been able to narrow down the location to the Malibu area. I need you there in thirty hours. I want you moving in ten minutes. As soon as the rig reconnects I’ll have the route and further instructions uploaded.

“Move! Now! Thirty hours! Malibu!” With that short tirade the line went dead.

Ed considered a number of alternative courses of action. His favorite involved going to the rig, leaving the circuit breakers to the satellite uplink pulled, driving it far enough so that he couldn’t hear trains, and then taking about an eight-hour nap. The consequences of that course, however, were obvious. And painful.

The whistle from another freight train split the night and rattled the hotel windows, bellowing from the at-grade crossing just outside the hotel. If that wasn’t a sign from God then Ed didn’t know what was. He quickly used the facilities, popped a double dose of stay-awake pills, got dressed, threw his bag together, and boogied toward the semi parked on a side street a block away.

Walking along at a brisk pace in the cold, night air, Ed wondered for the thousandth time how he had ended up here. Not here as in Fort Franklin, State-that-starts-with-an-I, but here as in working for The Boss and driving his equipment all over the country.

Somehow, he had ended up with the unique and specific skill set that The Boss had been looking for. How many physics post-docs were there who had experience in driving a big rig and had their current commercial driver’s license? And who were also single, unattached, and orphaned? Granted, being a science geek, “single” and “unattached” were the norm, but in combination with everything else required, there wasn’t a big pool to select from. Knowing how to shut up and do what he was told was also key.

The problem as he saw it was that The Boss had all of the money and was just a little bit batshit crazy, but he had the common sense and street smarts that God gave a baby squirrel. Ed might not be a genius or a billionaire, but he was also smart enough to disable the rig’s tracking equipment when he needed to, among other little tricks he had picked up. He honestly didn’t think that The Boss had any clue or suspicions that the “accidental” data outages were just Ed’s need for a bit of privacy once in a while.

Whatever. The pay was good even if the hours were grueling. There was usually plenty of paid time off as well, although the schedule was erratic and lately he had spent way too many days and weeks in a row on the trail of something The Boss had a bug up his ass about. Ed was curious about what The Boss was looking for, but also cautious enough to keep his head down and not let The Boss see that he was interested.

For all The Boss knew (hopefully) he was just a loyal, hardworking, simple technician and truck driver who did was he was told like a good boy. 11/10, no notes, that was Ed’s job review in his own head. And he wanted to keep it that way. He suspected that if The Boss suspected anything different, life would become much more complicated and unpleasant very suddenly.

Swinging up into the cab, Ed started flipping switches to activate the rig’s systems. A handful of those were for the tractor, a slightly upgraded and modified Peterbilt. The rest were all embedded in a separate console panel that wrapped around to where a passenger seat used to sit. Dozens of gauges and screens lit up, all of them showing settings comfortably in the green zones of whatever instrumentation was they were measuring.

Ed was careful to make sure that the satellite connection stayed off. It wouldn’t do to have it come on, connect, and show that he was sitting still.

With everything live, Ed eased the big machine into a slow crawl away from the curb. As he got going, he finally flipped on the circuit breakers for the satellite dish. Almost immediately he saw that data was starting to download into the navigation system.

As they got to the end of the block and the main local highway, the GPS told him to turn left to cross the bridge. No doubt it was taking him to the interstate on the other side of the river, judging it to be the quickest route to start heading west. But Ed could see that the lights on the bridge were starting to flash, indicating that the bridge was about to open for a tow boat and its cargo. That was going to take a while to clear.

Despite his act during his phone conversation with The Boss, Ed was not an idiot. He knew exactly what town and what state he was in. As he pondered his next move, another train was stopping on the tracks in front of him, blocked from moving ahead due to the imminent bridge opening. Scanning the wide river stretching out in both directions, he could see a tow boat coming from each direction, both of them carrying a full complement of fifteen barges.

Ouch.

The Boss had said to be in Malibu in thirty hours. He couldn’t afford to sit here for thirty or forty minutes or more. With that decided, he checked for traffic on the road and swung the rig out in a wide, right turn, back through the center of town and to the southwest. It might be slower than going by the interstate, but it was faster than sitting still.

(For those not familiar with NaNoWriMo, it’s the National Novel Writing Month – in brief, slap 50,000+ words onto the screen as a “zeroth” draft of a novel. It’s not pretty, it’s not even a first draft, it’s simply an exercise in “Just – Keep – Putting – Words – TOGETHER!” and seeing what comes out the other side. I’ve done it five times and “succeeded” twice. I’ve decided to be incredibly self centered and foolish open about my process so I’ve put my work up here on this site for the last three attempts. Just do a search to see some of the crap I’ve inflicted on my loyal readers in the past. Actually, that might not be totally true – while being “zeroth” drafts, at least three of them had stories and characters that I actually thought were pretty good if I ever managed to get past the NaNoWriMo stage, finish them, and then start editing.)

This is insane.

I went looking for what I’ve done for NaNoWriMo in the past and I’m just a touch gobsmacked at the moment.

First, I last did this in 2015. I had no idea it had been that long, but looking at how I was doing the Finance Officer gig at CAF SoCal for five of those seven years, plus working full time, plus moving five years ago, plus EVERYTHING ELSE ™, it’s not that much of a surprise.

Secondly, I had forgotten that I actually “succeeded” in hitting the 50,000 word mark for NaNoWriMo in both 2013 and 2015. Who knew?

Thirdly, when I looked at the 30th day of NaNoWriMo 2015, I had *NO IDEA* what the plot was, who the characters were, what the story was, no idea at all that I had ever written those words. That’s actually a little scary. What’s even scarier is that I found hundreds of research documents saved on my computer for this story. And even looking at them, I *STILL* have no clue what I wrote. I guess maybe in December I should read it. It might be really good!

I remember two story lines, both of which I really enjoyed writing. Those were apparently from NaNoWriMo 2013 (the “cats see weird things that we don’t” prompt) and from NaNoWriMo 2012 (the “Between The Sheets” story). (The 2012 story isn’t published here, it happened before this website existed).

I tried NaNoWriMo 2014 on this site and fell short, although I kinda sorta maybe remember the plot and premise. But the oddest thing was going back to look at the beginning of the NaNoWriMo 2015 story. (Which turns out to be the “Sherman” story.) While I may not remember anything about the story by looking at where I left off on 11/30/2015, I really enjoyed the start on 11/01/2015. I see my style, I see my sense of humor, I like the story.

So, insane or not (it is!), let’s try this again.

50,000 words in 30 days is 1,667 words per day on average. Good words, bad words, nonsense words, words of wisdom? Doesn’t matter.

Warnings:

1) I’m a “pantser,” not a “plotter.” I have no idea where the story is going. There’s no outline, no plan, no plot that I’ve thought about or laid out in advance. I don’t even know how it starts until about three minutes from now. It’s all improv. Buckle up.

2) My fiction might be somewhat more NSFW than my normal posts.

All comments will be welcome.

---

CHAPTER ONE

Getting old sucked.

Deb knew that it wasn’t an original thought, or even an uncommon one. And she was well aware that she had it better than most. Let’s face it, for ninety percent of the population the world was going to Hell in a handbasket. A crowded, starving, boiling over handbasket. Deb had been personally sheltered from most of that over the decades and she was grateful.

But having been reasonably healthy for her whole life, she found the contrast to be disconcerting and startling, comparing her current situation against her average lifestyle over the years. On the one hand, she wasn’t suffering any broken bones, no cancer, no COVID (somehow, another bullet dodged) and she continued to be grateful for all of that. But things were trending in the wrong direction and she wanted it to stop!

Maybe she was spoiled. She didn’t think so, but she sometimes considered the possibility. Her parents hadn’t lavished her with her own yacht or aircraft, although they had paid for her to get a pilot’s license. She didn’t summer on the Riviera, or winter in Aspen, although she had seen a fair chunk of six different continents. But those things were more “broadening” and “educational” than spoiling to excess. What was the use in getting an Ivy League education and speaking four languages if you never left home?

Was she corrupt? There was that whole thing about power corrupting and absolute power corrupting absolutely. But she really didn’t have any power. That was more of her dad and granddad’s thing. She didn’t object to getting some of the perks from being who she was and who they were, but it was hard to be really corrupt when you worked at a non-profit trying to help folks who truly needed it.

No, she had long ago rejected the notion that she was spoiled or corrupt, although she periodically came back to review the possibility. What she had decided was that she was pissed. The fact that she had much less to be pissed about than everyone else didn’t matter. This wasn’t fair, not what she had signed up for.

“Everyone’s Hell is one hundred percent,” someone had once told her. Those were some wise words to keep in mind. But they still didn’t change things, and some positive change was what she was in need of.

After fifty years of doing pretty much anything she wanted to physically, overnight it seemed that she was nearly bedridden with agony on a regular basis. And it always seemed to happen for no apparent reason. It would be one thing if she was training for a marathon or trying to lift twice her own body weight and pulled some random muscle. But she wasn’t even trying to do anything more exciting or strenuous than getting into her car or out of bed and she was back on pain killers just to breathe.

And that didn’t even count the Spanish inquisition-worthy situation with her teeth. Dentists! Ugh, the worst!

What she also was was frustrated. She wasn’t one of those A-type personalities who were out to conquer the world by lunch, but she got things done. She found solutions. She figured out problems, identified what was broken, and got it fixed. Except now.

She was doing what she could, following the advice of her doctors and whatever online guidance she could find that didn’t sound like total whoo-whoo bullshit. Although the more she got nowhere fast with the traditional medical system, the more appealing the whoo-whoo bullshit looked.

Those few pounds that had snuck on while she wasn’t looking back in her thirties were in the process of being banished, accepting the fact that there was some pain and discomfort involved with that effort. It was good pain, a price worth paying. It was a part of the obvious solution to that particular problem. It was also penance, a payment for letting herself slip into that situation in the first place. Penance and guilt went hand in hand in the subconscious of an old Catholic school kid.

In conjunction with that her diet had changed to smaller portions and everything with taste had been eliminated. Even the healthy stuff that tasted good had been declared anathema. It was a very Puritanical point of view and she was sure that the nuns of St. Mary Magdalene’s would approve, which by definition meant that it shouldn’t be in Deb’s life. Those nuns were sadistic and psychotic. Yet here she was.

So. Falling apart in her fifties. Getting old sucked.

The good news was that it was warm and sunny out on the porch. The part of her exercise routine that she enjoyed the most was swimming and at this time of year the Southern California sun made being in the pool a pleasure. After a few dozen laps of the pool she had retired to the porch to do a few miles on her stationary bike, followed by some strength work with the weights. After a quick dip back in the pool to cool off, she was now hydrating and considering a recovery nap in the shade.

The leprechaun had other ideas.

Deb was surprised to see it. Normally it only showed up when she was really stoned, but she hadn’t touched any recreational drugs in weeks. Nothing but all of those blood pressure medications and cholesterol lowering tablets that didn’t give you any buzz at all. She wasn’t sure that she had ever seen it when she was sober. She didn’t even know its name.

She had been pursuing that recovery nap with her eyes closed, curled on her side in the oversized hammock. There was a sound, something like the buzzing of a giant flying beetle or hummingbird. Deb was going to ignore it, but it kept repeating in a most annoying fashion and getting worse. She opened her eyes to investigate.

The leprechaun was standing just a couple feet away, perched atop a small table that held a pitcher and glasses for serving margaritas. It was an inch or so taller than the blue, bowl-shaped glasses and dressed in some type of forest green jumpsuit. Its legs were abnormally long and spindly and its arms were on the short side giving it a distorted shape, like some kind of stretchy kids’ toy that had been left permanently stretched out. Leaning against the pitcher like something from an old Looney Tunes cartoon it seemed bored more than anything else.

Deb didn’t scream or run away. In some corner of her head she was surprised by this, especially given her sober condition, but absently chalked it up to the fact that she had seen it before a few times. So many critical little facts somehow got swept under the rug for the moment, like how she had always assumed it was a drug-induced hallucination.

What was in front of her now didn’t seem to be either drug-induced or hallucinatory. It wasn’t fuzzy around the edges. It wasn’t blinking in and out of sight or existence. It wasn’t flying, she couldn’t see through it, and it didn’t give any indication that it was going to deliver any Lucky Charms. It was just a bit weird looking, under a foot tall, very thin and gangly, and staring at her.

With its long, prehensile tail flicking back and forth.

That finally motivated Deb to move, at least enough to sit up and let her legs dangle over the side of the hammock. She tried to think back to previous sightings and there was no memory of a tail. Granted, things had been far fuzzier then, but she wanted to believe that she would have remembered a tail. Especially one like that. At least eight inches long, thin like a long strip of wire, flicking back and forth, occasionally grabbing onto the handle of the pitcher it was leaning against.

Idly she wondered how the tail got out of the green jumpsuit and what kind of challenges that presented to its tailor.

Squinting, Deb started to lean forward. Her arm rose and she reached out to poke it in the chest. There wasn’t a lot of clear thinking going on but it did occur to her that she needed to know if it was real.

“Stop. Please don’t do that,” it said.

Deb’s arm pulled back as if she had been shocked. The motion made the hammock swing and she started to fall back into it, catching herself at the last second. By the time she recovered her balance and stopped the rocking, the leprechaun had stood up straight and taken a step forward to the edge of the table. It had its stunted arms crossed and an expression that meant business.

Deb cocked her head a bit to the side and stared.

“I’m not touching you, you’re not going to touch me,” the tiny critter said. “At least, not without permission. Personal space. Boundries. That sort of thing. Okay?”

Deb found herself nodding.

“Great. Now we have things to discuss. Are you feeling up to that or do you need to scream, vomit, or something else first?”

Deb paused for a few seconds before deciding that she was good to go.

“I’m fine. May I ask a question or two?”

“That is acceptable.”

“Who are you?” Deb asked.

“You may call me Bubba,” the tiny green-clad figure said.

“Okay, Bubba. WHAT are you? Are you a leprechaun?”

It was Bubba’s turn to pause. Its head tilted to the side and its eyes half closed, as if it were listening to something Deb couldn’t hear.

“No,” it finally said. “Not a leprechaun. We were not familiar with that particular legend, but we can most certainly understand the misidentification.”

“So, what are you?”

“We’ll get to that later, it’s unimportant at the moment. What is important is that you’re in grave danger and we’re here to help you. You need to listen to me and do what I tell you to so that we can accomplish the immediate primary task.”

“The ‘immediate primary task’? What’s that?”

“We’re here to kidnap you for your own good.”

And with that Bubba took a small vial out from a pocket somewhere on its jumpsuit and sprayed a cloud of green powder into her face. As Deb blacked out the last thing she saw while she collapsed back into the hammock was a squad of twenty or thirty more little Bubbas coming out of the bushes and reaching for her.

“So much for personal space and boundaries,” she thought as everything got dark.