Category Archives: Writing

September 26, 2013 · 23:57

Flash Fiction: Midair

This week’s “Flash Fiction Challenge” is again something new, and it’s (at least) a two-parter. Our favorite word monkey sensei, Chuck Wendig, has told us to write a cliffhanger, and then next week we’ll get some instructions on using other folk’s works from this week as the starting point for our resolution for next week. Or something like that. We’ll see. For now, it’s the usual “1,000 words or so” to leave the audience on tenterhooks. (What in the hell are “tenterhooks”?)

As always, comments and constructive criticisms are appreciated.

MIDAIR

The rolling hills of eastern Oklahoma were slipping away beneath me as I cruised along eastbound at five thousand feet. I would have preferred to be up at seven thousand, or even nine, but a layer of broken clouds above eliminated that option until I got my IFR ticket.

Given the circumstances, I wasn’t doing badly. I was cruising at 144 knots indicated, but a solid tail wind was giving me a ground speed of 168. I had plenty of fuel to make it to Jonesboro.

Salisaw was just starting to slip under the tip of the right wing as I headed east. The autopilot was doing the grunt work. I was just monitoring ATC and watching the hills roll by. Right about on time, Fort Worth Center chimed in.

“Eight Charlie Delta, contact Memphis Center on 126.1.”

I toggled the radio button. “Fort Worth, Eight Charlie Delta. Going to 126.1. Thanks for…”

My world exploded.

A large blur come in from the left. Instantly everything was noise and pain. I was buffeted by a hurricane wind. All I could see were some blurry, shapeless shadows. I could smell oil and gas and other things I couldn’t identify. The left side of my neck and head were in agony. Possibly worst of all, over the wind I could hear the plane’s engine clank, sputter, and die.

Instinctively, I keyed the mic and said the words that no pilot ever wants to say.

“Mayday! Mayday! Mayday! This is Cirrus Niner Seven Eight Charlie Delta declaring an emergency.”  If anyone was answering, I couldn’t hear them. I didn’t even know if I was being heard.

Oddly, I could clearly hear my flight instructor’s voice in my head. I had always hated it when she had killed the power at the most inopportune moments to see if I was ready to handle an emergency. Now that I needed that training, her voice was still there, reminding me of what we had practiced dozens of times.

“Fly the plane! Fly the plane! Fly the plane! In an emergency that’s always your number one priority. Everything else is secondary.”

In order to fly the plane, first I needed to see. I gingerly felt my face and found a dozen bleeding cuts. The blood running down my forehead was getting into my eyes and blinding me. My sun glasses  were gone. The headphones were also AWOL, which would explain why the wind was so loud and I couldn’t hear the radio.

I held my left arm up to my forehead and pressed the sleeve there to try staunching the blood, ignoring the pain as best I could. Using my right sleeve to wipe more blood away, I blinked and tried to see what the hell had happened.

My plane was a mess. The side window on my left was gone and the windshield had been smashed on the left side. There was a rusty red stain across it and the left side of the cowling. The propeller was bent and motionless.

Inside the cockpit it wasn’t any better. I was covered in blood, some of it mine, some of it from the large goose that was on the floor next to the passenger seat. There was no sign of my sun glasses, but my headphones were on the floor next to the bird carcass.

The good news was that the instruments were still working. The autopilot had kept us more or less level, but with no power it was fighting a losing battle trying to simultaneously keep the airspeed up and the altitude level. I turned it off and manually set the trim for best glide speed, eighty-seven knots.

We were going down and needed a place to land. I hit the “Nearest” button on the map display and wasn’t happy with the results. Sallisaw was twenty-two miles to the south and Tahlequah twenty-five behind me. I was already passing through four thousand feet, so I was going to be on the ground in seven to eight miles.

Make a decision, make it quick, and stick with it. The terrain ahead was getting more hilly and uneven as we approached the Ozarks. Below was nothing but trees and hills. Back behind us, in spots around that big lake we had passed, it had looked flatter. Not flat, but flatter. I turned gently back to the west, keeping a constant eye on the airspeed.

Now would be a good time to see if any help was available. I pulled my arm away from my forehead and hoped that the bleeding had stopped. Ignoring the blood and goo that was smeared all over the headphones, I pulled them on. Immediately the sound of the wind was partially muted and I could hear ATC calling me.

“Cirrus Niner Seven Eight Charlie Delta, this is Fort Worth Center. Do you read? What is your emergency?”

“Fort Worth, this is Eight Charlie Delta. I’ve had a midair bird strike and have lost the engine. I have moderate injuries and will be making a forced landing. Sallisaw and Tahlequah are too far. I’m heading back west to the flatter terrain next to that large reservoir.”

“Roger, Eight Charlie Delta, we’ll notify emergency services. Report fuel and souls on board?”

“Fort Worth, one soul and twenty-two gallons of fuel onboard.”

Looking ahead I could see the reservoir, surrounded by hills and forests. I was losing altitude steadily, down below three thousand feet now. I could see some square areas just to the east of the lake which had been cleared of trees, probably farm fields. At least I hoped they were.

Getting lower and closer, it looked like I might just barely clear the tree line and get to the fields. It would mean landing without flaps to stretch my glide to the max, and that meant landing fast. No other options came to mind.

“Fort Worth, Eight Charlie Delta. I’m on a straight-in approach to some fields just to the east of the lake. Cutting electrical now.”

Everything was happening way too fast, but the checklist came up just like it had been drilled into me. Electrical system, off. Master switches, off. Seat belt, snug. Door, unlocked and cracked open.  Watch the airspeed, don’t stall and spin in now. Remember to keep the nose up,flare, and keep it in ground effect as long as possible.

One hundred feet up, pegged at eighty-six knots, I cleared the trees and was over open land.

That’s when I saw it.

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Filed under Flying, Science Fiction, Writing

September 19, 2013 · 17:38

Flash Fiction: Flash Flood

For this week’s “Flash Fiction Challenge“, Chuck Wendig has gone back to an old, familiar setup, i.e. a plot conflict chosen from a list by a random number generator. I got #9, “a spiteful child”. As usual, we’ve been instructed to write “1,000 words or so” and, as usual, my story is about 25% longer than that. This one turned out dark (again), almost to the point where I was starting to feel ill while writing it, knowing where it was headed. It’s an almost giddy feeling in retrospect, like a sign that I tapped into a little bit of the “real stuff”. I hope you enjoy it and agree.

As always, comments and constructive criticisms are appreciated.

Flash Flood

The rain was pounding outside, sheets of water flowing off the roof as the gutters and downspouts were filled beyond capacity. Flashes of lightning lit up the dark, late afternoon landscape with the accompanying thunderclaps just a second or two behind. The storm was getting worse and getting closer.

Emma didn’t care.

She sat sullenly in the dark of her bedroom, glowering at the murky twilight, simmering in her anger and feeding the rage building up within her. It wasn’t fair. Her mother couldn’t do this to her. Emma wasn’t a baby any more. She wasn’t going to put up with it.

A spectacularly bright bolt lit up the world as a deafening roar simultaneously shook the whole house. As the echoes started to die away, Emma noticed that all of the little sounds of the household had ceased. She could no longer hear the television on in the living room, the washing machine, or the fan on her computer. The light coming through the crack under her bedroom door was gone.

From the other end of the house Emma could hear her mother walking around, her footsteps echoing hollowly on the hardwood floors. Emma heard the front closet opening, soon followed by the tinny sound of the battery-powered emergency radio. Over it all, the sound of the rain kept growing louder.

Hearing her mother’s footsteps coming down the hall toward her room, Emma flopped down onto the bed and turned her back to the door. She heard the door open and saw the beam of a flashlight sweep across the wall above her.

“Emma, I need you to get your hiking boots, raincoat, and rain hat on right away. We need to leave immediately.”

“I thought that you said that I had to stay in my room,” Emma said scornfully, refusing to turn away from the wall. “So now I’m going to stay in my room, just like you said!”

“Emma, there’s no time for this. The storm’s getting worse and they’re telling everyone to get out of the canyon. They’re afraid that the creek may start to flood. We really need to get into the car right away. I need you to get ready to go while I get Andy into his car seat.”

“No! I’m not going anywhere. I’m staying here!”

“Emma, there’s no time for this. You have to be a big girl and help me. Please get ready while I take care of Andy.”

Emma heard her mother leave and walk back down the hall. Stubbornly, Emma refused to move. She waited, seething, marshaling her arguments for her mother’s return.

After a few minutes she could hear her mother coming back. Even before she got into the room she could see that Emma had completely disregarded her instructions. She forcefully let out an exasperated and angry sigh as she entered.

“Emma! This is not a game,” her mother shouted. “This is serious and dangerous. Get ready now, we have to leave right away!”

“You told me that I couldn’t play out in the rain and I had to stay in my room! Now you tell me just the opposite? I’m staying in my room!”

“Emma, the creek on the other side of the road is starting to flood. The storm is getting worse and we have to get out. If we get trapped up here it could be extremely dangerous. We have to evacuate now. It’s an emergency!

“I’m going to put Andy in the car and then I’ll be back for you in one minute. You have got to be ready to go!” Emma heard her closet door being yanked open, followed by her raincoat, hat, and boots being flung onto her bed next to her feet. “NOW, young lady!”

Emma waited until she heard her mother close the front door before she sat up on the bed. She peeked out of the shutters and saw her mother struggling to get Andy strapped into the car seat in the back of the family van. She could barely see out for all of the water on the window. Above everything she could hear water roaring in what had always been a tiny creek on the far side of the road.

Emma put her boots and rain gear on with a pout. If she was going to leave, she was not going to abandon her doll collection. She grabbed her school backpack and started stuffing her favorite toys into it. But suddenly her mother was there, dripping wet, and pulling the backpack away. She rudely tossed it into the corner.

“There’s no time for that!” her mother shouted. “In the car now!”

It was too much. She had to have her dolls.

“No! I’m not going!”

Her mother grabbed Emma by the arm and started dragging her down the hallway, leaving all of the dolls and toys behind. Emma dug in her heels and started screaming in protest, trying to grab onto a doorway or the table in the hallway, but her mother’s pull was too strong. When they got to the open front door, her mother picked her up like a sack of potatoes and carried her through the deluge.

Emma was enraged, kicking and screaming. Her mother plopped her down in the back seat next to Andy’s car seat, quickly pulled the seat belt across Emma, and buckled her in.

“Don’t you dare move!” her mother screamed over the storm, her face red and her finger pointing into Emma’s face. “I have to get my purse and our emergency packs and then I’ll be back in one minute.” She turned and charged back into the house.

Emma didn’t wait and didn’t think. She quickly unbuckled the seat belt and hopped down from the car. She was furious with her mother and was not going to do anything that she was told. In a flash she had the bright yellow raincoat and hat off, flinging them away into the wind. Turning from the car, she ran up the hill and around the bushes on the far side of the driveway.

Her mother’s scream of “EMMA!” let her know that her escape had been noted. Peering through the bushes she saw her mother dropping her load to the lawn and frantically peering around. She turned this way and that, screaming Emma’s name.

Suddenly she saw Emma’s raincoat across the street. It had been carried by a gust of wind across the road and was now headed downhill rapidly in the rushing water. Without hesitation she ran across the street toward the disappearing raincoat.

Emma watched dumbly as her mother skidded to a halt and went wading into the shin-deep water covering the street. She continued to splash down the hill, trying to catch up with the raincoat, getting closer and closer to where the edge of the roadway must be. Suddenly she lost her footing and went down into the water. In just a few seconds, her shouts and screams faded away as she was carried around a curve in the road.

Emma walked slowly down to the car, now cold, soaked, and scared out of her wits. She was stunned. Starting to shiver violently, Emma crawled up into the back seat of the car and looked out the open door into the downpour.

What had she done? What should she do next? Emma turned and looked at Andy, who was starting to squirm and fuss, but he had no answers.

2 Comments

Filed under Weather, Writing

September 12, 2013 · 23:54

Flash Fiction: Identity Theft

Chuck Wendig, that little mold-breaker he, has broken the mold this week in his Flash Fiction Challenge. Instead of a randomly being given a setting or a title or a set of words to weave into our art, this week we’ve been instructed to write “1,000 words or so” about this (read the article):

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERAPhoto (c) Troy S Alexander, Tambopata Research Center

As always, comments and constructive criticisms are appreciated.

Identity Theft

“Madame President, there is a Colonel Weiss calling from the Pentagon. He says that it’s extremely urgent.”

“Thank you, Robert.” The intercom clicked off. The President paused briefly to close the file she was reading and place it in the secure drawer in her desk, although she left the drawer open for now. She took a deep breath to calm herself before picking up the phone. What had been a quiet evening suddenly wasn’t.

She hit the blinking button on the phone.

“Colonel Weiss, this is President Darby. What can I help you with?”

“Ma’am, I have to notify you of an extremely serious situation which is an immediate threat to our country, our society, and perhaps our continued existence on the planet. Trust me, I know exactly how extreme and insane that sounds, but I assure you that I’m dead serious and I have proof to back up that claim.”

There was dead silence for several seconds. The President leaned forward onto the desk and collected the thoughts that had been scattered by the outrageous statement.

“Colonel, where are you at and what unit are you with?”

“Ma’am, I’m a team leader for a Special Ops unit. I came up through the Rangers and saw service in Kuwait, Iran, and Afghanistan. I’m alone in my office at the Pentagon right now. If you wish to send the MP’s to have me locked up I won’t give them any trouble, but I would ask you to listen to me first. I’m not insane, drunk, or deluded and I have evidence that we’re in a lot of trouble.”

“Very well, Colonel. I’ll assume for the moment that you’re serious. You’ve got about two minutes to convince me you’re not nuts. What are the high points?”

“Thank you, ma’am.” The relief heard in his voice was palpable. “The short version is that I have solid evidence that there are technologically advanced creatures here on Earth with us. Signs of them were discovered by accident a couple of years ago. No one knew what they had found, but as people started to investigate those people started to disappear. The NSA and FBI stumbled onto the disappearances and their investigators began to disappear. We finally got Covert Ops involved and we’ve put all of the pieces together. I thought it best to let you and know ASAP before it gets any further out of hand.”

“Aliens, Colonel? Really? As they say, extraordinary claims demand extraordinary proof. What do you mean by ‘disappear’? Is this an invasion? Are we under attack?”

“No, ma’am, I wouldn’t characterize it as an invasion, more likely some sort of evasion. I believe that we found something we weren’t meant to find and now that discovery is being erased and buried. And when I say ‘disappeared’, I mean much more than just killed. Somehow everyone who has gotten too close to this has ceased to exist, like they were erased.”

“Are we talking about the plot from a bad ‘Twilight Zone’ episode or something?”

“Yes, ma’am, that’s exactly it. It looks like a small group was systematically erased from almost every single data system. Almost all physical evidence of their existence disappeared. Everyone who ever knew them somehow had their memories altered. That’s what we’ve discovered.”

“Colonel, this isn’t getting any easier to believe. Folks vanishing like magic, as if some evil wizard altered reality. But if somehow everything was altered to make these folks disappear, how do you know about them?”

“I don’t believe we’re talking about magic, ma’am, just some very advanced technology. I don’t know if it’s ‘aliens’. I don’t have any idea who or what is doing this.

It’s an extremely advanced technological attack, so we fought it by going extremely low tech, figuring that maybe that would be overlooked by the bad guys.

“NSA’s got some very sophisticated software on some very big, fast, and secure data systems, all designed to find terrorists. They started noting unexplained discrepancies between real time data sets. When the FBI investigated, they started finding people with signs that their memories had been altered in an extremely complex way, far beyond what we are capable of. Then most of those FBI investigators started to vanish in the same way. That’s when my Special Ops unit was brought in.”

“Where is this happening, Colonel? Somewhere here in the United States?”

“The trail seems to have started in Peru, at a site a long way from anywhere or anything out in the Amazon jungle. Some graduate students were there in 2013 looking for new insect species and found a handful of odd spider web structures, like a central tower with a fence of twenty-nine posts around it, less than an inch across. They reported it, the story went viral for a week or so, but then the story died.

“When the NSA and FBI started investigating the data discrepancies, they thought that they were chasing down hackers. But the level of sophistication in the techniques they found was unprecedented. They finally figured out that early last year a group from USC decided to follow up on that initial mystery spider-web discovery in Peru. Except that everyone in that group was a phantom, non-existent, almost no trace at all in any system.

“Our guys finally managed to rebuild enough information to figure out who was in that group. In Peru they had found a site with billions of these web-towers. They got off one satellite call and uploaded a few pictures, then went silent. That’s the point where something started erasing them from reality, as well as everyone who tried to follow up on it.”

“Why is this being done, Colonel? Do we know who’s behind it?”

“I don’t know, ma’am, I can only guess. That place in Peru is something that has hidden from us for a long time, and whether it’s aliens, wizards, or gods, they don’t want us to know about it. They may be as far ahead of us as we are ahead of Neanderthals, or they may be as far ahead of us as we are ahead of bacteria.”

“Very well, what do we do about it? I’m assuming you have a suggestion?”

“Yes, ma’am, I…” The line clicked and there was silence.

The President hit the intercom button. “Robert, we got cut off, please get Colonel Weiss back on the phone for me immediately.”

An ice cold chill ran down the President’s spine as she calmly picked up a pen and scrawled on a piece of paper. She dropped it into the desk drawer for top secret documents before slamming the drawer shut and locking it.

A few minutes later her aide came back on the intercom. “Madam President, the Pentagon is telling me that there is no Colonel Weiss currently on duty there. Was he calling from someplace else?”

“No, thank you, Robert. That will be all.”

The next morning when her secure document drawer was opened the President was surprised to find a single page lying loose on top.  In her handwriting were the words “Peru”, “Spiders”, “Colonel Weiss”, “Pentagon”, “Special Ops”, “NSA”, “FBI”, and “DON’T FORGET!!”

She had no idea what it referred to.

=======================================================  Author’s Afterthoughts: I really liked the central idea that I came up with, but I’m not thrilled with the execution. At 1,200 words it’s longer than the “1,000 or so words” and it’s too much exposition, just two people talking on the phone. It did get better with a couple of drafts, and I strongly suspect that it could get better still with a few more. It might be too complex a plot to fit into 1,000 words, although it could just be that I’m not skilled enough yet to pull that off. And it’s really, really late.

Any thoughts would be appreciated.

 

3 Comments

Filed under Science Fiction, Writing

September 6, 2013 · 08:47

Flash Fiction: Snow Angels

Before setting off to revel at Worldcon, Chuck Wendig in his frothy eviltude commanded his minions to write “1,000 words or so”. Again this week we used a random number generator to pick from twenty settings – I got #18, “In a serial killer’s nightmare”.

It’s late, I’m really cutting it close on the noon EDT (9:00 PDT) deadline posting deadline, so all I’ll say is that this is by far the creepiest thing I’ve ever written. As always, comments and constructive criticism are appreciated.

SNOW ANGELS

The holiday crowds flowed past, faceless, spectral forms wrapped up in grey parkas and ski jackets, breath fogging as it was expelled from unseen faces. No individuals stood out as the mass of humanity ebbed and flowed along the crowded sidewalk, tens of thousands of anonymous, ant-like drones shuffling with unseen purpose.

The sidewalk and gutters were full of sludge and horrific excrement. As the pristine snow drifted down from the heavens, it spun and writhed to avoid being touched by the disgusting world below. In punishment for their failure, the pure white crystals were transformed into obscene shades of grey and black before being trampled into the deepening muck beneath the mob’s boots.

No sound could be heard aside from the tinkling of a lone set of unseen wind chimes. The fragile, random notes floated in the snow above the crowd like golden butterflies on the wind, but none in the mob were aware of their existence.

Only He heard the music. Only He saw the snow. Only He saw the crowd. Only He wept.

Patiently and stoically He endured his sorrow and watched the crowd for the inspiration He knew would be there. From His niche off to the side of the world, in it, but not of it, He scanned the moving masses for any glimpse of anything not already consumed by the filth that filled the universe. Ceaselessly His eyes moved, searching for a way to ease His suffering.

She came from His left, flowing along with the crowd splashing along the curb in the rising runoff of sin. Steadily She drove forward, not moving or acting to draw attention to Herself, just another shapeless form in a sea of shapeless forms.

But He saw Her. To His eyes She stood out like a beacon, Her red dress as bright as the lights on a fire engine, Her golden hair as bright as the sun. He could not look away from Her. As She passed Him, He slipped out of His sanctuary and began to follow Her.

For block after block they walked. She led Him without ever looking around or noting His presence. He stayed a hundred yards in back of Her in case She turned or looked back at Him, but now that He had seen Her it would have been impossible for Him to lose Her in the crowd. He knew that they were now as one.

Gradually, as He became more comfortable knowing that She could not escape Him, He began to relax a bit. Reaching into the pocket of the oversized, black overcoat that He wore, He began to absent mindedly play with the knife hidden there. Soon it would be the time.

As She approached the train tracks and crossed them, sirens began to wail and brilliant green lights flashed. Crossing gates slammed down across the intersection. Desperately He tried to find a way around them so that He could stay with Her, but there were no openings. As He looked up and saw Her one last time, the train rushed between them.

The train went on for eternity, countless cars speeding by in a blur. The train was the same emerald green color as the crossing guard lights which still flashed like a laser show into His eyes. As He stared at the train, hoping to keep track of Her through the car windows and cracks between the cars, He slowly became aware of the train’s passengers.

As every car flashed by He could see that the side facing him was filled with angels. They were all staring directly at Him, their left arms straight out in front of them, their hands raised with their palms facing Him. In their right hands they all carried long, silver swords. Their mouths were open as if they were singing or shouting together. As He listened, He realized that the roar of the train’s passing was actually the sound of the angels’ combined voice commanding, “NOOOOOOOO!”

With a shock and a jolt of adrenaline, He awoke to find himself in His bed, His heart pounding and sweat pouring from every pore. The dingy, dirty flop house room was dark, but a few gleams of the rising sun made it past the tattered curtains. In the distance, the desolate whistle of a vanishing train faded on the wind.

He knew that the angels believed that they had stopped Him. But He knew that She was still out there, somewhere. He was connected to Her and He would find Her again, sometime today.

The angels had tried to stop Him before, but they had always failed. They would fail again today. He would find Her as He always had, as He always did, and as He always would.

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Filed under Science Fiction, Writing

August 29, 2013 · 21:31

Flash Fiction: Memorial

The tablets that Chuck Wendig brought down from the mount this week instructed us to use ten special words in our Flash Fiction creation of “1,000 words or so”. (I highlighted the words as I used them.) I hope you enjoy – as always, comments and constructive criticisms are welcome and appreciated.

MEMORIAL

A dirt trail led to the top of the cliff that rose on the west side of the canyon. Narrow and covered with loose clay, the path was close enough to the edge of the cliff for Jeff to be cautious climbing it in sneakers or hiking boots; in dress shoes it was much more dangerous. Jeff didn’t care and kept climbing.

He emerged from the canyon’s shade into the glare of the late afternoon sun on top of the mesa. The desert’s heat slapped him with its full force. Jeff headed toward the only place to hide from the sun, his old fortress dug into the side of a dry creek bed under a disfigured willow. Ignoring the mess it was going to make of his suit, he flopped down into the tiny patch of shade it offered.

The desert tableau was as unforgiving as Jeff’s mood. In the distance a dust cloud rose from the town of Brimstone and the sulfur mine that gave it its name. A large mirage, brimming only with deceit, shimmered between the canyon and the town. Jeff knew that there was no open water anywhere near here at this time of year.

Recorded music rose faintly from the canyon’s floor, indicating that the funeral would be starting soon. While Jeff had inherited his parents’ preferences in music, given the circumstances the medley of their favorite tunes failed to captivate. Eventually the music faded and the minister’s drone could be heard.

Jeff knew that he should be down in the ranch house yard along with his sisters and the rest of the family. As the oldest, it was his proper place, his duty. He knew that many would be wondering where he had disappeared, but his sisters would just have to deal with it. In the end, all of the morning’s meeting and greeting with family friends and townsfolk had just been too much.

The minutes dragged on in the heat as the sound of the services finally ended. Jeff checked the time on his phone and waited for the call he knew was coming. As expected, it was Diane who called.

“Maggie’s going to have a stroke. Where are you?” Diane asked.

“Up on the rim. I’m fine.”

“She’s not going to wait for you, you know. There’s a schedule.”

“Right, you would think it was synched to an atomic clock somewhere. But it’s not.”

“Mom and Dad wanted it this way, and you know it,” Diane said. “Doing what they wanted is the least we can do for them.”

“I’m starting back down now. I need to be off the trail before it gets dark anyway. But I won’t be done before sunset, so tell Maggie to go ahead without me. I’ll see it from up here.”

“OK, just don’t expect me to save you from her when you get down here.” With that, the line went dead.

Jeff got up out of the shade and looked at the sun just above the western horizon. He started carefully down the trail, the shade below the rim blissfully a touch cooler than the exposed desert above. As he was about halfway down he could hear the small crowd below counting down.

“Three! Two! One!”

Pausing at a safe location, Jeff looked out into the canyon and saw a cloud of white balloons drifting up from the ranch below. Just after the balloons passed his elevation, at precisely sunset, a huge weather balloon raced through them, trailing a small box of ashes.

Jeff watched the weather balloon as it rose and expanded, continuing to catch the light of the sun long after it cleared the rim of the gorge. Mindful of the narrow trail, the gathering dark, and the long fall, Jeff turned and walked carefully down toward his family and the gauntlet he would have to run.

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August 22, 2013 · 18:53

Flash Fiction: Dial “G” For Gamera

Our Holy Overlord of Foul-Mouthed Motivation, Chuck Wendig, has this week suggested (by which I mean he has ordered us at risk of the loss of our immortal souls) to write “1,500 words or so” with another genre mash-up as our seed corn.

Note that there’s a slightly higher word count this week. Note also that this has been done only after I’ve finally gotten some small amount of skill in getting my weekly pieces to actually be “1,000 words or so” instead of “1,000 words or so for really huge values of ‘so’“. Perhaps my ability to hit that goal was a key that Wendig’s inner GLaDOS was waiting for, or maybe he’s just screwing with me. (By which I mean “us”.)

The random number generator kicked out the values of 14 and 18, which gives me the task of doing a mash-up of “Murder Mystery” and “Kaiju“. No sweat! Here’s it is, with extra credit for those who find the Easter Eggs and thanks to Kat for helping me get my Japanese setting correct:

Dial “G” For Gamera

Inspector Noriaki Yuasa came into the break room, his overcoat dripping water all over the cracked linoleum as he hung it up next to the coffee pot. Grabbing a chipped mug, he filled it with caffeine laden sludge before crossing the hallway to the holding rooms.

Through the one-way glass he could see Doctor Saito fidgeting and squirming in the uncomfortable chair. Sitting at the battered steel table he was trying to pretend to read a magazine and occasionally sipping a soda, but he was clearly nervous. Given the circumstances, who wouldn’t be?

As the constant small tremors shook the building, Saito would pause and look around in vain for any way to indicate how strong the shaking was and more importantly, when the next shake was to come. Especially if the temblors were rhythmic and getting stronger.

Yuasa’s assistant, Detective Nobuo Munekawa, came in and silently handed Yuasa a folder. Yuasa flipped it open and quickly scanned the contents, a handful of hastily typed notes and some sort of printouts from the lab equipment downstairs. The detailed scientific results would be critical later when the trial began, but for now Yuasa needed to cut to the chase. It only took a second to find what he needed under “Cause of Death”.

Handing the folder back to Munekawa, Yuasa asked, “Did you read it?”

“Yes, Inspector, I did. It’s just as you thought.”

“What is the status of our other problem tonight?” the Inspector asked.

“The situation has not changed since earlier this evening,” Munekawa said. “The Army continues to track and engage, but the attack has moved away from us and it’s not something we have to worry about right now.”

“Very well. Please observe the interrogation from here and we will review the outcome later.” Yuasa opened the interrogation room door and went in to face Saito.

Saito jerked to his feet, startled, when Yuasa opened the door. Yuasa was tired as he walked to the table and pulled out the chair opposite Saito. As he set his coffee down he motioned for Saito to take his seat again.

Saito sat, but he could not hold his silence. “Do you have any word of my wife? Where is Kasumi? What is happening? Is she hurt? Is our home destroyed? What is happening with the monster?” Only when Yuasa held up his hand as if stopping traffic did Saito stop his stream of questions.

“The destruction is very bad,” Yuasa said. “As I’m sure you know, the beast came out of Tokyo Bay and took flight, landing at Haneda Airport. From there it began to march into Ōta, and there has been very extensive destruction.”

“Why are we here then?” Saito asked, his voice rising in panic. “Aren’t we in danger of being killed by the monster? We have to get away! Can’t you feel that? The ground is shaking and it is getting nearer! We have to run while we can!” Saito started to rise and head toward the door in a rush.

Despite his exhaustion, Yuasa rose just as quickly and put his hand on Saito’s shoulder, stopping him from reaching the door. He pointed back to the chair on the far side of the table and silently indicated that Saito should return to it. Saito slowly did as he was told, all the while looking around wildly at every vibration or shudder of the building.

“I assure you, we are safe here for the moment, Doctor Saito. Before we leave we must first discuss your call to this office earlier this afternoon.”

Saito’s head snapped around to look at Yuasa.

“What of my wife, Kasumi? Is she hurt?”

“Doctor Saito, can you tell me again why you called us?”

“I am concerned about my wife, you idiot. She was at home when the monster started attacking the city and our neighborhood was one of the first to be attacked. She called me in a panic to ask what she should do. While I was talking to her the line went dead. You can only imagine what I have been thinking for the past six hours.”

“Where were you when she called?”

“I was at the hospital where I work, Kawasakikyodo.”

“Why were you not with her at home? The hospital said that you were not scheduled to be on duty today.”

“This is foolishness, we are wasting time! I went to the hospital to assist with casualties when news came of the monster moving toward the city. Why are we talking about me instead of my wife? Why aren’t you trying to find her and help her?”

“I am afraid that your wife is dead, Doctor Saito. I wish that I had better news for you.”

“No, it can’t be!” Saito said, his voice now stressed to the extreme. He put his head down in his hands, then suddenly jerked his head up and confronted Yuasa.

“You have to be wrong, how can you know it’s her? There has to be some mistake! There must be thousands of casualties. Maybe you have the identification wrong. If the monster is reducing Tokyo to rubble, how can you have even gotten to her yet? How can this be happening?”

“We believe our identification process to be accurate, Doctor. Can you again confirm for me your address?”

“How stupid can you people be? I have already given you this information several times! We live at 5 Chome-3-1, apartment #717. I must be taken to see this person you believe to be my wife! I will show you that you are wrong.”

“Does your apartment look down on the Anamori Inari Shrine, Doctor?”

“Yes, but we never should have rented there if it has cost my beloved wife her life. The rent was cheaper because of all of the noise from the airport, but it was close to the hospital and Kasumi loved looking down at the shrine from our balcony. Inspector, why are we discussing this? I must insist that we get to a safe place and I demand that you show me my wife’s body immediately!”

“We will not be going anywhere right now, Doctor. I’m sure that the view from your apartment is fine, but it was too dark to tell when I was there. And your wife’s body is right where you left it, on the kitchen floor. Now, can you tell me why you killed her?”

Saito’s eyes grew wide and his face began to turn crimson. Choking, sputtering sounds began to creep out as he became apoplectic. He struggled to rise to his feet before finally sucking in a huge breath and starting to vent all of his rage as he bellowed.

“How dare you? I heard her on the phone as she was dying, in terror as our home was being crushed around her by a monster! I saw on the television as my neighborhood was destroyed, everything burning and in ruins! I called the police for help and instead of trying to find her when she might be somewhere injured and in pain, you have the nerve to take me away from my work at the hospital helping others and accuse me of murdering her? What do you mean, ‘when I was there’? How can you have been to someplace that no longer exists? When this is done I will see that every one of you will never is employed as a policeman in this country again!”

Inspector Yuasa sat calmly through the diatribe, waiting for Saito to wind down or pass out. When the big threat had been issued, Yuasa calmly asked, “You are an anesthesiologist. Is that correct, Doctor Saito?”

Taken aback by Yuasa’s calm response to his tirade, Saito’s answer was much quieter than his rant. “Yes, I am. What does that…”

“You are familiar with and have access to methohexital sodium. Is that correct, Doctor Saito?”

“Yes, I do.” Saito sat down heavily in his chair, his shoulders slumped.

“A large overdose of barbiturates was responsible for your wife’s death, not the attack of a monster that destroyed ninety percent of your neighborhood. Civilian casualties have actually been very light, although there has been a great deal of property damage. However, your building was largely untouched. Rescue personnel responsible for evacuating your apartment complex found your wife’s body while they were sweeping the area for survivors. They didn’t even know that you had called to report that she had died ‘when the building collapsed’.

“That would be how we found your wife’s body without waiting to dig through debris and rubble to find her,” the Inspector continued. “You were expecting it to take weeks to find her. You were expecting that we would never do an autopsy since she would ‘obviously’ have died in the attack. It would be your bad luck that the monster chose to crush the shrine across the street and left your building untouched.”

Inspector Yuasa waved to Munekawa and the officers waiting on the other side of the glass. As they came in and began to handcuff Doctor Saito, Yuasa rose to leave.

“I hope you have better luck with the jury than you did with the kaiju, Doctor.”

As the stunned murderer was led away, the faint tremors of monstrously huge footsteps and explosions continued in the distance, heading toward downtown Tokyo.

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August 15, 2013 · 21:02

Flash Fiction: The Express And The Blackwell

Once again this week Chuck Wendig, in his ongoing attempt to whip wannabe writers into fighting shape, has instructed us to write the traditional “1,000 words or so” based on a random title generated here. After getting my five titles and letting them marinate in the syrupy goo that is the organ formerly known as my brain, I wrote this for your edification and enjoyment, weighing in at a trim 971 words. As always, comments and constructive criticisms are welcome:

The Express and the Blackwell

Morrison placed the small pet carrier on the concrete, causing Mister Snarkybutt to shift inside and look out through the grate at the end. He let out an inquisitive “Meow?” about their surroundings, but settled for a small treat from Morrison’s pocket instead of an answer. He curled back into a ball in the carrier and waited patiently.

Morrison checked the time on her phone before walking over to the information kiosk to confirm the status of the trains. It was comforting to see that they were both on time as expected. She doubted that she could go through with this a second time.

The station was empty. A century ago the red and black brick façade of the station offices had been assembled in complex geometric designs, but now the walls were so grimy and dirty that one could scarcely tell which were the red bricks and which the black. Some enterprising thug had gone to the effort of spraying his brief graffiti manifesto into the grime using cleaning fluid as his medium instead of paint. This had no doubt confused the local officials into debating a way to reintroduce the dirt in order to obscure the message.

Harsh and bright LED lights lit up the station so that you could see it from low Earth orbit. The retrofitted fixtures saved the railroad millions per year in energy and maintenance costs, but in doing so they made the platform look like an operating room after a fire. The blue-white tint to the light had none of the warmth of the old incandescent lights. The darkness wasn’t so much pushed back as it was beaten into submission.

Glass frames containing advertising, schedules, and route maps lined the walls of the station, along with bandit flyers taped to the glass for haul away services, guitar lessons, and babysitters. The flyers fluttered in the light breeze and some threatened to fly away down the tracks toward oblivion.

Two sets of tracks stretched off into infinity on both side of the station platform, the polished steel faintly reflecting the moonlight that managed to filter though the thin layer of clouds. On both sides of the platform, display panels hanging from the ceiling gave status updates on the two approaching trains. Far off in the distance in each direction was a tiny, fluttering light that from the oncoming engine.

From inside the display panels, speakers came to life with soft chiming sounds, and a soothing woman’s voice said, “The train is now approaching. For your safety, please stand in back of the yellow lines.” From somewhere in the night the clanging of crossing guards bells could be heard faintly, along with the mournful sound of train whistles.

Morrison went back to the pet carrier and squatted down next to it, peering into the dim interior. She could faintly see Mister Snarkybutt’s glowing green eyes. She stuck a couple of fingers through the small holes in the carrier’s gate and the cat shifted nearer to her hand so that she could scratch the back of his head and between his ears. Soon he was purring loudly.

“It’s time, old man. Let’s do this,” Morrison said as she removed her hand and stood. Both trains could be seen to be approaching quickly and the mechanical sound of their brakes and engines could be heard over the gentle sounds of the night. As Morrison picked up the pet carrier, the two trains slid to a stop from opposite directions and their doors slid open. High above the station an ancient bell began to toll midnight.

From the east was an ancient collection of rolling stock, looking like a prop from an American western movie. Despite its anachronistic styling, the train was in immaculate shape. White curtains in the windows were held back with braided gold cords and red velvet upholstery covered the seats. While the car was well lit with a flickering yellow light, no passengers could be seen. Above the open door, painted with a flourish in red script letters and gold trim was the word “Blackwell”.

From the west was a sleek and polished bullet of a car, its windows round like portholes on an ocean liner, but dark. As Morrison watched, the windows along the car simultaneously shuttered open with counterrotating polarized filters spinning. The car appeared empty of furniture. Indistinct shadows could be seen on some walls, cast by many small somethings unseen as they walked past lighting strips along the base of the walls. An electronic panel above the door was lit with the word “Express” in moving LEDs that kept shifting through all the colors of the rainbow.

As the trains stopped and the clock tower bell began to ring, the traveler information display panels for both tracks began to count down from sixty seconds.

Moving quickly, Morrison picked up the pet carrier and walked over to the Express. Reaching carefully past the open door she placed the carrier down on the floor and unlatched the door. She quickly straightened up and turned to walk back across the platform.

Entering the car on the Blackwell, Morrison found a seat on the platform side of the car. She heard the car’s door closing behind her. Quickly she glanced across at the Express to see its doors closing as well, just as Mister Snarkybutt jumped free of the carrier and ran off into the car. The windows of the Express irised shut again as it began to smoothly pull out of the station.

With the first jerk of movement by the Blackwell, Morrison leaned back in her seat, closing her eyes. No longer caring what lie ahead, she clasped her hands together in her lap and let herself relax at last.

For better or for worse, it was done.

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August 7, 2013 · 19:45

Flash Fiction: The Next Big Thing

This week Chuck Wendig in his benevolent and bounteous wisdom has instructed those of us worshiping at this feet to write “1,000 words or so” on some new kind of “punk” literature. His latest novel, “Under The Empyrean Sky“, invents “cornpunk” (he talks about how that happened here in a guest article on John Scalzi’s “Whatever” blog) and now he wants us to create our own version of punk using something new.

OK, I can do that. It remains to be seen if I can do it well, but here’s “The Next Big Thing”.

The Next Big Thing

She came out of the parking lot onto the sand, almost unnoticed at first from the far end of the lot where her truck was parked where there weren’t any other cars. It was a gray, drizzly, chilly morning where only the most diehard surfers were out in the shallow swells. The ever-present seagulls wheeled overhead though the mist and incipient fog, occasionally landing to fight over a piece of trash.

Slowly and methodically she plodded across the beach toward the high water mark. Each step she took was not so much careful as it was ponderous. Whatever detritus there might be on the sand wasn’t a threat or hazard to her but simply something to be crushed under the massive footpads. Instead of footprints, she left behind her a line of small craters.

By the time she got to the edge of the water, most of the surfers had come in to greet her, curious as to what in the world might be invading their beach. None of them were willing to get too close at first, given the size and weight of the machine standing there.

The figure was over eight feet tall, more or less humanoid, with a giant backpack-like structure in the rear and a smaller matching bulge of some sort jutting out of the front. On both shoulders were lights and video cameras.

At the top of the torso was a large bubble helmet, hinged somewhere in the back and now tilted up and out of the way. A woman’s head was sticking up, intent on a display screen that was mounted on top of the chest plate.

The skin of the monster was smooth and light grey but painted with a garish set of pink & black tiger stripes. A few bundles of wires and tubes could be seen joining sections together and bridging the suit’s joints. As the woman stood with her feet firmly planted she would occasionally squat or twist to reach a joint or connection, fiddling with the assembly, checking her display until she was satisfied.

“What ‘cha doing, dude?” one of the surfers finally hollered.

The woman stopped what she was doing and looked at the surfers, as if their presence was registering with her for the first time. The woman stopped her work and stood to look at the dozen or so surfers.

“I’m not a ‘dude’, dude,” she said with a bit of contempt. “I’m Molly.”

“Sorry, Molly! I can only see the top of your head, no offense, OK?” the surfer called. “I’m Doug, by the way. What is that thing? Is it like that thing in that movie for fighting monsters?”

“Doug, do you only surf or do you dive also?” Molly asked.

“I dive. What’s that got to do with anything?”

“Think of this as a set of SCUBA tanks on steroids with a badass attitude.”

“Awesome, Molly! I really like the paint job. Where did you get it? Is this like a secret military weapon or something? Those colors don’t look very stealthy!”

“It’s not military and it’s not a weapon. I made it myself,” Molly said, resuming her examination of the unit’s connections.

“Whoa, you made that? How did you do that? What’s it made of? It looks like it weighs a ton!”

“I printed most of it with a 3-D printer. It’s like a carbon fiber material, not that heavy but very strong.”

“It’s gotta be heavy, look at the big tracks you left behind! It’s like a robot suit, right?” Some of Doug’s friends were starting to move around behind the suit. One of them now had the camera off of his surfboard to take video of Molly and her marvelous machine.

“The foot pads are heavy to help keep me upright, and the machinery in the body of the suit is heavy, mainly life support, power supply, and oxygen tanks. That’s why there’s some hydraulics, to assist with movement. Now, I’m ready to go. Are you done asking questions?”

“Sorry, Molly, you just don’t get to see something like that every day. Where are you going to go?”

“Catalina,” said Molly in a bored, matter of fact tone.

“You’re going to swim to Catalina in that thing? No way! It’ll sink like a rock!”

“I hope so, that’s the plan.”

“You’re nuts!” yelled Dave. “Is it like a super duper diving suit or a mini submarine? Is there an engine or a jet pack in there? How long can you stay underwater with just a couple of tanks of air?”

“Forever. The suit takes oxygen from the water to keep the tanks topped off. Now I really have to get going.”

“Double and triple no way! And this isn’t a military thing? What happens when your batteries die and then you can’t get air? You’re gonna die, lady!”

“Don’t worry, Dave. I put in a RTG, just like the Mars rovers use. It won’t run out of power anytime soon.”

“Yeah, right, whatever! And I suppose you printed that on your computer too! You’re just jerking me around, right? There’s a camera in there and probably in that truck over there and another one someplace else and I’m going to be on TV, right?” asked Dave. He seemed pleased with himself for figuring it out.

“Right. I’ll see you on TV, Dave.” Molly reached up for the suit’s helmet.

“Wait! You’re kidding! What do you call this thing?” Dave yelled.

“It’s just like it says on the truck, Dave.” Molly pointed back to the parking lot. “SCUBApunk.com. It’s going to be the next big thing. Spread the word!”

And with that, Molly swung the unit’s helmet closed and dogged the neck seal closed. Ignoring the surfer’s shouts, she quietly checked a few last readings on the unit’s display. Satisfied at last, with a wave of her arms to make sure that the small crowd knew to get out of the way, Molly walked forward into the surf, slowly submerging as she strolled casually off toward Catalina.

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August 6, 2013 · 19:53

One Hundred Days

Back on April 29th I created this blog and posted the first article, “A Time Of Changes“. At that time I wrote:

It’s time to find my voice and let it out of my head so it can play with those of you who wish to join in the conversation with me.

What will we talk about? Anything I feel passionately about…but I’m sure common topics (in no particular order) will be the space program, science, books, music, family, sports, stupid people, politics, amazing people, photography, flying, humor, and travel. For starters.

Today is the 100th consecutive day of this blog and this will be the 104th posted article. Looking at where the blog appears to be in terms of the number of people reading it, subscribing to it, and commenting on it, I’m both very satisfied and very hungry for more.

When I started I had almost no idea of what to expect in terms of participation by others. I figured that it would be nice to have others joining the conversation, but the main purpose of the blog initially was to give myself a structured place to write, and to force myself to write and be creative every day. In that respect it has most certainly worked.

I’ve seen some themes develop that I like a lot thematically. I like the way WLTSTF looks and feels so far.

  • I like the “Odds & Sods” articles as a way to periodically mention small items and update the news on previous articles or events.
  • I like the “Random Blatherations” articles as a way to put a pair of defibrillator paddles to my writing muse’s imaginary chest on days when I really don’t feel like writing.
  • I really, really like the way I’ve gotten involved in Chuck Wendig’s weekly Flash Fiction Challenges. I’m not sure the words coming out there are golden yet, but a couple of the little pieces I’ve written there I like a lot.
  • I like that I’m reviewing books that I’m reading. I know that I’ve got a long way to go in finding my voice there and not just doing glorified high school book reports, but it’s a start.
  • I like the articles on astrophotography and the way they’re getting me to get my telescopes and cameras out again. I like writing those articles and sharing the pictures that come out of them.
  • I like sharing my other pictures with everyone, such as the flower pictures, flying pictures, critter pictures, fireworks pictures, and so on. (I take a lot of pictures!)

When I started posting articles I started to get total strangers reading and subscribing to WLTSTF. Granted, I rarely (if ever) get more than a dozen or so views a day and I understand that a lot of the interest comes from other bloggers in the WordPress community. But it doesn’t matter how folks get introduced to WLTSTF, what matters is that they seem to occasionally like what they see and there has been a steady stream of interest.

I obviously hope that interest continues and that it continues to grow. I value the feedback I get and the comments people offer, whether they come from the blog comments, Facebook, or Twitter. I think it would be a good thing if over time WLTSTF became a place where there’s a lively discussion and lots of civil and intelligent interaction.

So thanks to everyone for sticking with me for the first one hundred days. I’m looking forward to the next hundred and more days, hoping that you’ll continue to come along for the ride and occasionally throw your two cents in.

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August 1, 2013 · 19:40

Flash Fiction: Shrine

It’s that time again! Once again Chuck Wendig has issued a Flash Fiction Challenge for the week, this time with the instructions to simply use in our story four of a list of ten random items. The four items I chose (because they’re prime numbers!) are:

  • #2. A dead man’s guitar
  • #3. A rocking chair
  • #5. A road sign
  • #7. A leather mask

With that as our starter yeast, here is “Shrine”, my shortest weekly story yet.

Shrine

Lucinda rocked slowly in the tattered wicker rocking chair, the bleached and weathered slats of the porch creaking underneath her in time with the chair. There was little breeze to be had and the air was stifling. At least now that the sun was getting low the porch was in shade.

With her eyes closed, Lucinda heard the car before she saw it. The crunch of gravel from the side of the road caused her to open one eye a slit.

On the shoulder of the road, next to the long driveway up to the house, a dilapidated sedan with a mismatched fender was pulling to a stop, trailing a cloud of dust. The swirling dust filled the car through its open windows as a young woman set the brake and got out, the car door hinges shrieking.

She slowly walked over to the highway sign on the opposite side of the road, fanning herself with a piece of paper. One of the sign’s support posts had been broken and the road crew had done a slipshod job on the repairs, leaving the sign with a noticeable cant. The lettering on the sign was as grimy and faded as everything else in sight but still more or less legible. “Hobbs, 53 miles. Carlsbad, 121 miles. El Paso, 280 miles.”

The woman glanced up once at the house where Lucinda sat, shielding her eyes with her hand and squinting through the dusk and dust. Then she turned her attention to the makeshift shrine that lay scattered across the gravel around the broken sign post. All of the flowers were weeks old and had long since wilted and blown away, leaving only broken vases and a collection of tin cans in the drainage ditch. A few bouquets of artificial flowers were still clinging to the wooden post, held on by staples, nails, or crumbling duct tape.

Higher up on the post were nailed two crucifixes and a leather lucha libre mask. The once garish mask had originally been stitched with pearls and rhinestones but few now remained as it hung limp, gibbetted in the heat like flesh stripped whole from a skull. Slowly, reverently the woman reached up and touched the mask, stroking it gently.

The woman walked back across the road to her car. She opened the trunk and took out a guitar. Walking back across the road to the shrine, she held the guitar out for a moment, like an offering. She slipped the strap over her head and began to play.

Lucinda could hear the music faintly as the dusk grew deeper, although she could not hear the words. The song was slow and mournful, the chords progressing along in a minor key. After a verse and a chorus, the woman’s voice began to falter and the plaintive tune stumbled to a stop.

The woman unclipped the guitar strap and knelt. She leaned the guitar up against the post and wrapped the strap around it several times for support before securing it back to the base of the guitar. She stayed kneeling there for several minutes.

As a tanker truck roared by, rocking the sign and rearranging a whirlwind of dust and gravel, she stood, checked for traffic, and walked back across the road to her car. Before she got in she looked up at Lucinda again. For a heartbeat their eyes met. The young woman bowed her head and melted into her car. The car slipped on the gravel and then pulled a violent U-turn before driving off back to the west as her headlights blinked on.

Lucinda closed her eyes again and continued to rock as the sun slipped below the horizon and the first few stars began to appear.

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