The well of obsoletion

The story starts as an automaton repairman encounters paradigm shifts while in a tower. The overall narrative features nostalgia for a past that never was.

The tower was wavering and wobbling, shifting like a boiled noodle and most like that was because I’d been drinking and drinking until I got myself drunk. The walls wavered and seemed to shiver with frissons of excitement as I passed them, thick gray blocky stones made out of as they were. Doors had frames that just wouldn’t sit still. I’d of pounded sense into them if I hadn’t known that would be seen as crazy talk made flesh and bone. Bone that would break if I hit them hard enough. In the war with wood bone will lose, most times, unless you got kung fu training.

Which I don’t.

So I ignored it all with glorious superiority which I don’t know if the walls and doors noticed. I made my way into the tower, which is a vertical progression, not a horizontal one, but I had to ascend to get to where the work was waiting for me. Some droid or robot or automaton that needed fixing. The owner had probably failed to plug it in. Or turn it on. Waste of my time, as almost all of these things were. If I could bury one of my leadrouters into an eye socket every time I was drawn out here for no reason I’d have a lot less leadrouters. So I guess it’s good I don’t.

Sometimes I think about turning these robots into maniacal suicidal doodads. Just amp up their kill factors till they can’t see straight, till they see snakes and bugs everywhere and go a chopping till their paychecks get cut. I could do it without much bother, just find myself a nice fine tough robot and get it all ramped up and let it loose, but hell, it’s an idea that appeals as long as you keep it abstract. You go implementing ideas like that, you’ll just make a mess everywhere. And then people would be yelling and getting all excited and demanding answers and these days I just want to be let alone because, really, is that too much to ask? You’d think it was.

Didn’t always used to be like this. Some time ago it was better, golden age years, halcyon times, you know? You could roll up with a gleaming set of spanners and reap all the respect you wanted, offered up, proffered up like you were some passing God, some bastard child of James Dean and Pan, harvesting adulation wherever it was you went. Back when the droids and robots and servitors and metalheads were all brand spanking new, the new wave, the ultimate in revolutionary home décor, the flim flam of the ne plus ultra. And we were their high priests, their ablutors. Magic time.

Not any more. These days I don’t even shave when I wake up, don’t comb my hair, can barely bother to rub the grit out of my eyes. I just roll out of bed and figure out where I’m heading next. Sucks when you become obsolete, when you don’t have a skill set to roll you into the next wave of ultimate home décor or robot apparel. I guess I could adapt, learn a new trade, but I don’t have the inclination. School ain’t for me, not any more, and hell, I like them old rusting metaljunkers and ambulatory system droids. They’re mute and sorrowful like an old dog, too tired to get up, gazing up at you with that same mute adoration that just gets the more painful to regard the closer the damn beast gets to needing to be put down.

Sometimes I sit down before one of them old robots and just stare them in the face. They don’t have much as far as faces go, just enough to orient a body when you’re dealing with them, but in that very simplicity I find a poignancy that I don’t think would be there if there were finely articulated features. Just bland, innocuous contours and hints of eyes, nose, mouth. Those eyes. Dead rings of burned out LCD’s around the camera lenses. I just sit down before them, knees popping like old wood getting snapped, and stare them in the face. Wish they could speak, sometimes. Not because I would want them to jabber at me, but it would make the silence more companionable if I knew they had the ability but were choosing to just sit quiet. Sit quiet like I do.

Never mind. I’m just an ornery old man. Grease and oil stuck so deep into my skin and calluses that my hands look permanently bruised. Got a wealth of knowledge on systems outmoded, outdated, prehistoric, gone and vanished down the obsoletion well. Some point along the way I went from being an automaton repairman to a custodian of history, a guardian of forgotten lore.

One of these days I’ll program a robot to do something foolish. Something that’ll make a mess. Maybe I’ll have him turn on me, take me down, end it all. Fitting, that, disassembled by the very things I’ve spent my life constructing. Maybe some day soon. Till then, I’ll just keep working. Day by day. Starting with this droid, here in this tower. Look at his dumb face. Dumb as a load of bricks. Poor idiot. More like me than the people I see around. We’re dying breeds, both.

Swordsmiths and sniffer cats

The story challenges the boundaries of stories. Romance blossoms between a daring smuggler and a swordsmith, while difficulties they encounter include a dystopia and a mechanical cat.

The sky was toxic orange, overcast and glowed like a banked fire despite the late hour. Light pollution was ubiquitous, universally accepted, and no longer remarked upon. The only place darkness reigned was beneath the covers and within closed closets. The moon had become a thing of legend, and the stars were rumored to have long ago died out. Yuri wiped the back of his sleeve across his nose, and then, hitching his backpack, stepped out from the doorway into the umber lit evening.

His first run. The trick was not to fall into a regular walking pattern. If your face was lowered, the cameras would focus on your gait, and seek to match it to your file. By placing a small pebble in one of your shoes, you could confound their sensors, and force them to rely on your fake ID signal. Tonight Yuri was masquerading as Thomas Efrit, a Level 5 citizen. The ruse wouldn’t stand up to close scrutiny, but should be enough to fool the camera systems. Fool them for a few hours, perhaps, but that was all he needed.

Yuri threaded his way through the busy streets, keeping his head down, gait uneven. He crossed through Blackfriars, and then reached the area where the Thames ran below ground. The bridges were now architectural curiosities, arching up over the smooth, industrial ground that had been laid down decades ago below and about them. Yuri hustled under London Bridge, out the other side, and then crossed over into the East Side.

Fifteen minutes later, heart pounding, he reached the right building. There were less cameras here, but still his nonchalance was feigned when he knocked on the door, pressing his palm momentarily against the smart surface so that it could read his fake ID, the information laced into his subcutaneous layer earlier that evening by his home made chemistry kit. The door glowed subtly about his palm, and he dropped his arm to his side. The die were cast. Time to see what came up.

Two minutes passed before the door cracked open. The longest two minutes of the day thus far. Without a backwards glance Yuri slipped through the door and into the hallway beyond, the interior of the building constructed on the antiquated models of long ago. A woman was standing before him, her dark hair pulled back into a rough pony tail, her mouth set in a frown.

“Who are you?”

“Yuri,” he said, ducking his head quickly. “Matteo couldn’t come. He’s been Detained.” The woman’s frown grew deeper, and then she took his palm and before he could react she jabbed a syringe into the flesh of his hand and drew it back out just as quickly.

“Just a precaution,” she said, smiling humorlessly at him. She ignored him then, shaking the syringe several times before raising it to look at the LCD that ran along its side. Yuri eyed the hollow of her throat, noted the sweat the was cooling on her skin. He tried not to look at the swell of her breasts beneath her black sweater, barely succeeded.

“Yuri Kolchenko,” she confirmed, lowering the syringe. “Your first run?”

“Yes,” he said, decided on the spot to abandon all pretense, the lies he had prepared to impress her. He knew, somehow, that she wouldn’t have bought them. “But I’m not worried.”

“You should be,” she said, turning and leading him further into the house. “But perhaps in this case ignorance is bliss. Come on.”

“What’s your name?” he asked, tripping after her and then following her through a door and down a flight of stairs into the darkness below.

“Vic,” she said without looking over her shoulder. “You can call me Vic.”

“Vic,” he said, testing it out. “Nice to meet you, Vic.”

She didn’t respond, instead stepping out into a large basement which lit up as she walked into it. Yuri gave his customary look around for a camera lens, didn’t see any. Didn’t mean they weren’t there, though.

A forge dominated the low ceilinged room, and made of the air a hot, blasted thing. Deep crimsons smoldered in the heart of the pressure furnace, and the wall was hung with hammers, tongs, and other more obscure tools. No swords were in evidence though.

Vic strode over to a bank of monitors and crossed her arms as she stared at each in turn. Wandering over, Yuri saw that they covered different streets around her building. Avenues of approach.

“You’ve hacked into the cam network?” he asked, impressed.

“Hmm,” said Vic. “You sure you weren’t followed?”

“Followed?” Yuri felt a surge of adrenaline and mild panic at the very idea. “No, I don’t think so. The fake ID is good, top quality, stolen just thirty seconds before I began using it. And I kept my biometrics hidden. No reason I should have been—“

“Then what’s that?” asked Vic, stabbing a finger at one of the screens where a small shape was walking sinuously on four legs down the center of the street.

“That’s a… that’s a cat?” Yuri felt his heart plunge into his shoes.

“A sniffer cat,” confirmed Vic, voice grim. “If it finds us, if it keeps to your trail…”

“Shit,” said Yuri, bunching his hands into fists. “Shit shit shit. What do we do?”

Vic turned to him, and instead of looking angry she seemed tiredly amused. “If there was a sniffer cat out there, than there was little you could have done to avoid it. What do we do? I’m going to have a stiff drink. If it finds us, we’ll try to take it down, and then we run.”

“Run…” said Yuri. His first job and a sniffer cat had picked up his trail. That was impossibly bad luck. He watched Vic move over to a shelf where she opened a bottle and poured two fingers of a liquid the color of cigars into a tumbler. And then into a second.

“Come on, kid. You’re going to need this if things get hairy.”

Yuri walked over and took up the glass. “What is this?”

“Irish whiskey.”

“But that’s…” said Yuri, and then trailed off when he realized how stupid he must sound.

“Illegality doesn’t bother me much,” said Vic, her smile reappearing. “You sure you ready for this kind of work?”

“Yes! I mean, I think so. I don’t know.” He felt his face burn, and Vic laughed, and her face became strikingly attractive. She had a wide smile, bright white teeth. She clicked her tumbler against his, and they both drank. Warmth and fire and smoke washed down his gullet, and he tried not to cough.

Vic had turned to the screen. The sniffer cat had moved into another camera’s view, and was now pacing back and forth before her door, seemingly uncertain. She set her tumbler down and leaned over to open a steamer trunk. Reaching down, she pulled out a cloth wrapped object, long and heavy, and handed it to him.

Yuri took it and unwrapped the oiled cloth. The blade was brilliant in his hands, like a shard of lightning. Light and pliant, it seemed to thrum through the flesh of his hands, resonate in his bones.

“Easy,” said Vic, catching the look on his face. “You just watch my back with that.”

“No,” said Yuri, and wrapped the cloth back around the blade. “I’ve got another idea.”

“Oh?” asked Vic, clearly dubious.

“I’m going back out. I’ll cross a street over, let it catch sight of me. I’ve not been out of its sight for more than a couple of minutes thus far. I’ll draw it away. Send someone else to come pick up the swords next time.” Vic was eyeing him appraisingly. “There’s no need to expose your operation,” he said, feeling both doomed, excited, and numb all in one.

“You realize what will happen if it decides to move in on you,” she said, voice level.

“I don’t care. I knew this was serious when I volunteered.” He raised his chin. The whiskey was burning in his stomach. Made him feel like running, like kissing Vic on her generous lips.

She simply looked at him, and that was all the permission he needed. Turning, he strode toward the stairs, and turned as he gained the first and looked over his shoulder at her. “Nice meeting you, Vic,” he said.

“Don’t do this, Yuri,” she said. “You don’t know what you’re getting into.”

“True. But who knows. I might get lucky.”

“Ha,” she said, and her eyes gleamed. Perhaps she was feeling the burn of the whiskey again. “You come by another night, and we'll discuss the odds of that.”

Yuri blinked, and it took him a moment to understand what she meant. Then his face burned all over again, and she laughed at the sight of him. “Wish me luck,” he mumbled, managed to flash a grin at her, part disbelief, part panic at the prospect of hitting the streets again, and began to make his way back up.

“Luck,” he heard Vic say below, and then he was heading out the back door, and back into the street. He lowered his face automatically, fixed the hitch into his gait, and began to stride down the street. He’d hang a left past the sniffer cat at the next junction. The sky was a dull lambent orange above him, and the crowds had thinned out. Time to play at cat and mouse, but all he could think of was Vic down below. New motivation, he reflected with a rueful grin, to make it through the night.

The Masque of the Red Death

Your story is a romance between an efficient assistant and an undercover law enforcement agent. The lovers experience a pandemic and a partnership of equals while in a decaying palazzo. One of them is motivated to protect one person (regardless of who else gets hurt in the process).

The "Red Death" had long devastated the country. Bodies piled up like cords of wood, stiff and crimson of visage, faces startled by how sudden and gruesome death had been when it came for them. Cities became mass charnel houses, and bone orchards everywhere were inundated with cadavers. The skies grew dark with cyclones of ravens and crows, and everywhere the ceremony of innocence was drowned.

Rakehell and agent to the crown Honoré de March had been assigned by the failing King to travel deep into the countryside and locate Prince Prospero’s castellated retreat, his grand palazzo, his fabulous abbey. The King’s young seer, Miranda, had foreseen the Prince’s death at midnight two weeks hence, and de March had been ordered to save his life, come hell or high tide. So it was with grim determination that the pair headed North into the deep woods, traveling under the dark canopies until they reached the massive curtain wall that circled the abbey and guarded the Prince and his cohorts from the plague that raged across the county so.

Under cover of night they scaled the massive walls, and like moths falling from the night sky dropped to the ground undetected and melted into the festive throngs. At first de March was taken aback by the displays of gaucherie and decadence, by the lack of taste and decorum. Knights and ladies, courtiers and pages, all cavorted and danced, whirled and whorled under the night sky and within the halls, nude and partially dressed, slathered in grotesque costumes and sporting lascivious masks. Silks and velvet, minks and chains, spilt wine and spoiled food. The palazzo reeked with hedonistic abandon.

Miranda, barely twenty years old, flame haired and fiercely freckled, followed de March like a hesitant shadow, a candle flame in danger of being puffed out by the wind. She watched wide eyed as a circle of men and women cheered on a man as he mortified his flesh, wide eyed and lost. She stared with horror as a man turned kitchen instruments upon his partner, and averted her gaze when she saw a woman blank eyed being used by a line of petitioners.

de March shepherded her into a quiet space, a place where the music couldn’t reach them, as remote and secluded as they could get.

“Miranda,” he said, shaking her to get her attention. “Wake up, snap out of it.”

“They court death,” she said. “They court death, defy it.

“More fool them. Are you alright? Will you be able to retain your wits?

“I’ve seen much with my Second Sight, seen much on the roads and paths that have brought us here. But this, it is something else. Something worse than a corpse abandoned in a cross road, or a pile of bodies left to rot. This is solicitation. This is the will to life inverted.

“Well, I’m not sure what you’re talking about, but come on now, focus. When is it coming? When does Death come for Prince Prospero?

“Tonight,” said Miranda, pulling out a sheaf of tarot cards. She knelt down, cast them into a cross, and then referenced the cards revealed against a couple of slender tomes. “Yes, tonight,” she said, certainty in her voice. “Everybody dies tonight. The jig is up. Less than an hour, perhaps.

“An hour? Crap,” said de March. “Fine, fine.

“Prince Prospero is going to die. You’re going to die. I’m going to die.

“Your small talk is awful,” said de March absently, and then turned from her. “Ready?

“No, I’m afraid not,” said Miranda, sinking to her side. “I shall await death here.

“Fine, fine,” said de March striding off. It would probably be easier without her at his side,
muttering her dark aspirations anyway. Back into the throng he plunged, at home in this riotous element, spinning between dancers, lifting his knees in plange et fort when the music called for it, taking glasses of wine when proffered to him and tossing them, glass and all, over his shoulder. He waved aside an offer to partake in sausage rolls, and bowed out of a game of bridge. Finally he came to the colored suites, the green and white and orange suites, lit from without by the candelabra placed outside the windows that looked in.

There—Prince Prospero. The Prince cut a fine figure. Broad shouldered, confident, his handsome face was ablaze with delight and life. How could Miranda call this man anything but alive? de March glanced about, sought out Death. Nowhere to be seen. A clock somewhere began to strike midnight, the tones so disjointed and jarring that the music stilled, revellers ceased their dancing, and all gazed at each other with apprehension and doubt.

A hand gripped his, cold and slight. Looking down, de March saw Miranda. Her face was pale, the bones in her skull prominent. de March gave a start—she looked dead already.

“The time has come for the unmasqueing,” she said, and pulled him down so that their lips met. She pressed her cool lips against his own in a chaste kiss, and then stepped back. Surprised, unsure of himself, de March watched as she wrapped her cloak about herself, and straightened, seeming to grow taller. de March staggered back. Miranda’s face was growing increasingly ghastly, twisted and warped, wholly unlike herself. Her features grew contorted, and blood seeped out from her skin, milked from her flesh so that it soaked her robes and brow.

The clock finished chiming midnight, and the crowds turned to each other, relieved, only to see Miranda standing amidst them, tall and gaunt and altogether horrible. They drew back, began to murmur to each other.

"Who dares?" Prince Prospero demanded hoarsely of the courtiers who stood near him -- "who dares insult us with this blasphemous mockery? Seize him and unmask him -- that we may know whom we have to hang at sunrise, from the battlements!"

People surged forward and then stopped just shy of Miranda. She was staring with her ghoul eyes at where the Prince stood. de March drew forth his flintlock, and tried to cock it. His fingers fumbled. His breath was stilled within his chest. Miranda began to surge forwards, the crowd falling back like parted waters. From the blue room she went to the purple -- through the purple to the green -- through the green to the orange -- through this again to the white -- and even thence to the violet. None stopped her, only de March faltered after her, gun raised, trying to pull the trigger.

Prince Prospero then drew a dagger, his face contorted with rage. Into the black and final room he plunged, intent on Miranda, dagger held up high. A premonition hit de March, and he knew that should that blade pierce Miranda’s cloaks, then would the Prince’s death be terrible indeed, lasting a month for each day he had spent in seclusion here in the palazzo. Gun raised, he changed his aim, and pulled the trigger.

Screams. Prince Prospero fell, shot through the back. Summoning their courage, a throng of revellers threw themselves into the black velvet room, and clawed at Miranda, only to draw back once more as her vestments collapsed untenanted to the ground. Already people were swaying, moaning, clawing at their necks as blood sprang fresh and bright from their faces.

de March stumbled away, fled the crowds. People were screaming, raw and terrified. Down hallways and passages he ran, till finally he came across the nook in which he had last seen Miranda examine her cards. And there she lay, curled into a question mark, her chest rising and falling in shallow breaths. de March collapsed beside her, sat back against the wall. Pain was in his joints, his skin was on fire. There wasn’t much time left to him. His mission had been a failure, destined to be such from its incipience. Reaching down,he pulled Miranda’s slight form towards him, pulled her into his arms. Her eyes remained closed.

Not much time left now. The screams were horrendous. He would not cry out, no matter the pain. Lifting Miranda, he gazed at her fine boned face, at her pale, bloodless lips. She had kissed him, before the last. He didn’t know what it meant, but leaning his head, he kissed her of his own will, returned her kiss. Her eyes opened and they were scarlet, livid and solid red. Her lips smiled against his, and she bit down on his tongue.

Argentinean Steakhouse

The protagonist of this story is a recovering junkie who has a scar on their face. On the way to the story's conclusion the protagonist encounters a Canadian. This person has an armored draisine. Plot elements include learning to use new weapons and rivals seeking someone's favor, and at least one character is motivated because they've always wanted to open a really good restaurant.

It had all gone wrong. I must have been halfway up through Minnesota by the time I ran out of gas. Every pump and station that I’d passed on those final hundred miles or so had already been drained dry by previous pilgrims. One by one I’d discarded my reserve oil canisters, pouring them into the engine of my car, till finally the gas needle has sunk below red and my engine had coughed, sputtered, and rolled to a halt on the empty shoulder of I95.

I’d known this moment would have come, thought it was going to back in Ohio when I’d hit that lonely stretch of highway and had to hightail it on foot for two days before reaching a gas station with reserves. Still, it was hard to give up the car. The progress was going to be mighty slow from here on out, even on the bike, and I’d have to ditch most of my stuff.

Getting out of the car, I surveyed the gray, ashen skies. It was daytime, or so I reckoned, evinced by a lightening of the permanent cloud cover. A wind scoured the rusted hulks that lined the lanes of the highways, and I shrugged deeper into my jacket. Maybe another couple of hundred miles till the border, and then up further beyond the fall out zone. Safety. Maybe.

I unstrapped the bike and got out my hiking backpack. It was going to be exhausting work pedaling with all that gear on my back, but there was nothing for it. I was already weak from going cold turkey on the Warren Cocktails. Shaky. But there'd been no way to take them with me, given their shelf life. I balled my hands into fists, and walked to the back of the car.

I opened the trunk and surveyed my collection of stainless steel pans, my wide array of butcher knives, the Bain Marie’s and strainers, ladles and basting pots, frying pans and can openers. Things I’d gathered along the way for when I finally made it to my destination. Looked like I was going to have to scavenge a whole new set of items when I arrived.

I began cycling north. At first the bike weaved and wavered as if I was drunk, but I soon found my style, and the miles began to unroll beneath my wheels. The highway headed north, always north, leaving the disaster area that was the everything within hundreds of miles of Washington DC and pretty much the whole of continental North America behind. I’d heard stories of people living out beyond the Rockies, sheltered and safe along the California coastline. Heard that much of Mexico was doing fine, though the islands had all turned into blights amidst the silty ocean. Not for me, though. I wanted north, up to Canada, maybe as far as the Arctic Circle if I had to. Pure air. Fresh and cold. That’s what I wanted.

About evening, as the shadows grew, if not longer, than more pervasively dark, I slowed down. Sweat was dripping from my nose and chin, and I felt weak, fain about to pass out. I near fell off the bike when I stopped, and unhitched my pack and let it crash to the ground. Nothing to see for miles but bare, dead trees, abandoned cars and drifts of ash. Maybe I had the radiation sickness. Maybe Doc Haddow had been wrong, and not enough years had gone by. I hunkered down and pressed my thumbs into my eyes and tried to not think about home.

The Warren, we’d taken to calling it. Twelve layers of subterranean bomb shelter just south of DC, right where the blast hit. Twelve layers so deep in the ground it had been safe for those who’d entered and locked the pressurized doors and taken the elevators down, down, down into the darkness. Bedrooms and recreational areas, a few biodomes and plenty of communications equipment. Built to house over 8,000 people by President Clinton back in 2020, but only some 2,500 had managed to get in before the bomb went off.

The wind was picking up, and I was beginning to shiver, the sweat turning to ice down my spine. I should be setting up the tent, getting my sleeping bag out, preparing for the plunge in temperature that always accompanied nightfall. But instead I simply hugged my knees and thought of what people would be doing back home on Level 4 in the Warren. The traditions that had set up these past fifteen years. The routines that made life bearable.

I was only six when I’d gone below. I’d not seen the sky nor sun now earth now the horizon except in movies and simulations. Maybe that’s what had caused me to buck and run. That and the desire to find fresh food. Fresh produce to cook with. Something beside the algae and carefully managed farm meat that was cultivated so assiduously on Level 7. God, watching those movies where people sat down and ate and ate and ate. Enough to drive a man mad.

A rhythmic creaking caught my attention. I ignored, thinking it the wind at first, but it kept growing louder. I was so cold by then, so stiff from the biking that I didn’t rise, just listened, mesmerized, until the creaking began to die away. Suddenly, not wishing to be left alone in the dark, I rose to my feet, grabbed my back and went crashing off the shoulder of the highway into the brittle bushes that snapped and broke before me, chasing the sound down.

Down a ditch and up the other side, through sparse undergrowth and then I hit railroad tracks, nearly tripped on the rubble and the bright lines of metal. Looking up and down the line, I saw something dark moving away from me, heading north along the rails, and with a cry I gave it chase, feet pounding on the rocks, each step jarring my bones and causing my head to pound.

It was a machine of some kind, a platform stuck right on the rails, a massive and ornate bicycle set in its center on which a fellow was pedaling with methodical intensity. He didn’t even look over his shoulder as I came close, running alongside. I unhitched my bag and swung it onto the platform, but a bright flare of electric blue light sizzled into place when my bag flew through the air, and sent it bouncing back into the darkness.

Blind panic seized me, a fierce desire to not be alone. I’d not been alone these past fifteen years, not ever, and these last few months of traveling by myself had near unmanned me, more than I knew. This was the first person I’d seen in weeks, and I wasn’t about to let them get away.

“Back off,” they yelled at me, as I kept pace alongside the platform, “You’ll fry and you’ll die if you jump on board.”

“Let me on!” I yelled.

“Hell no,” called the man, “You think I’m crazy?”

“I’m going to jump!”

“Don’t you do it,” he yelled, sounding angry now, “Don’t you be a fool.”

I began to swerve in, trying to build up speed for the leap. I didn’t care if it fried me. I wasn’t going to be able to make it far enough up north on that bike anyways. I didn’t have the strength.

The man yelled something as I jumped, and I landed on the platform, legs dragging behind me on the rocks. I began to slip off, but hands seized me by the back of the jacket and hauled me on board.

“What kind of idiot tries to commit suicide on my draisine?” he demanded, sounding furious. I blinked and rolled onto my back, looked up at the darkened face above me.

“I’m sorry,” I gasped, “I just didn’t want—I couldn’t—“

“Alright, easy there, catch your breath,” he said gruffly. The platform was losing speed now that he was no longer pedaling. Rough hands patted me down, and took the knife blade from my hip. It was my prized butcher’s knife, honed to a paper thin edge, and never before used.

“What are you doing out here in the dark by yourself, anyways?” asked the man, putting the knife in his pocket and moving over to sit on the seat of his bicycle.

“I’m heading north,” I said, pushing myself up into a seated position. “Heading for Canada, or further, if I have to.”

“Canada, hey? Why you going there?”

I felt delirious. The sweat was burning on my skin, drawn from me by the run. What I wouldn't do for a Warren Cocktail, all spice and fizz and full of life. I lay back and stared up the at the dark clouds, the seared sky. I’d only ever seen moon and stars in films, read about them in books. I took them on faith. “Restaurant,” I said. “Want to open a restaurant. Argentinean Steakhouse. Angus beef. Filet Mignon.” I said the words which were like talismans to me. “Prime cut. Tenderloin.”

“You’re one crazy man, hey?” said the stranger. “Hang on, then. Let’s see if we can’t get you a little closer to your goal.”

I heard him get back on the bicycle. Begin to pedal, and with a groan the platform began to shift forward. I thought of Susie and Martin 1 and Martin 2 below the earth, back in the Warren. Thought of all the rock above their heads, and thought of the clouds above mine. I couldn’t see the moon or skies, but I knew, on some basic, primal level, that I was just a little bit closer to them now than I’d ever been.

A love story

The narrative features funny banter. Romance blossoms between a frustrated brain in a jar and a credulous person, while difficulties they encounter include showing off and falling from grace.

It was October, and leaves were giving up the ghost and preparing for their first and final fall. Along the beach people sat wearing sweaters on blankets, hugging their knees and watching the gray waters crash and ebb away. A pier extended battered and old out into the water, and its length was covered with tents and stalls. The remnants of a fair, the remnants of carnival.

Already the posters about town were beginning to curl and bloat, the ink announcing ‘Mr. Mysterioso’s Magical Marvels’ running and thinning. Everybody in the town had been and gone several times, thrown ping pong balls into cups, watched the clowns leap and tumble, gaped at the sword swallowing girl and the castrati who’s voice could shatter eyeglasses in the crowd. Only Meg hadn’t yet been, waiting and biding her time till she could have the carnival to herself. Only then, as evening turned to dusk, and the final stragglers had walked away, did she approach the pier.

The sky to the west was blazing into velvety reds and crimsons, and a cold wind was blowing in off the ocean, whistling between the stalls and causing the awnings to flap. Meg had been out on the pier many a time, when it was empty; it was her favorite spot to come and sit and puzzle things out, replay the events of the day and try to understand why people laughed when they did, and why they sometimes just stared and turned away. But now it was all changed, made somber and magnificent and mysterious and magical by the fair. She paused shyly like a bride at the door to the church, and then, with a quick breath, moved forward.

The stalls had been closed down, and nobody was about. No clowns walked the length of the broad pier, nobody hawked wares or sliced oranges. Padlocks were in evidence everywhere, and already several trucks had been pulled up to where the pier debouched onto the boardwalk, ready to be loaded up the next morning. But that was fine with Meg. She preferred the company of her thoughts and imagination to real people anyway, and as the shadows lengthened and grew thicker she peopled the pier with all the wondrous folk who might have worked the carnival, dancing and leaping and beckoning her further in.

She stopped before a small candycane tent, and gazed up a the sign over the entrance. “Mr. Mysterioso’s Miraculous Mind” it read. The wind cut past her, blowing her thick brown hair into her face, and she took a moment to pull the strands from her lips and eyelashes. Then she ducked her chin and stepped into the tent, half expecting for somebody to yell at her. Nobody did.

The inside of the tent was dark like the inside of a closet full of winter sweaters. Faint light crept in from under the edges of the tent, but that was all. Shapes loomed up around her, pedestals and boxes, vague dark shadows against blacker shapes. It smelt of chemicals and incense, and made her nose wrinkle. Meg paused and listened, and but for a faint bubbling sound, it was completely silent. She was alone.

“Hello,” somebody said, and Meg let out a cry and stepped back. “Can I help you?”

“I—I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have come inside,” she said, looking around for the speaker. “I thought it was empty. The tent, that is.”

“If you thought it was empty,” asked the voice, “Why did you come inside?”

“Because I wanted to see what was in here,” she said, looking down at her feet. “I didn’t want to steal nothing, honest.”

“Well, no harm done,” said the voice. “And nature does abhor a vacuum. Have you come to ask your one question?”

“My one question?” asked Meg. “But I’ve got lots of questions. Why just one?”

“Well, the policy, as proscribed by Mr. Mysterioso, is one question per patron.”

“Oh,” said Meg, “I didn’t know. I can ask you a question?”

“But of course,” said the voice, warm and solicitous. “To answer is my sole desire.”

“Oh, okay,” said Meg, thinking hard. What to ask? So much of the world confused her. Where to start? She could ask why people laughed when she asked her questions. Or why people tended to laugh even harder when she didn’t understand their answers. Or maybe she could ask why seagulls seemed so vicious. Or what it felt like to be a fish.

“I don’t know,” she said. “I’ve got so many questions I can’t pick one. What would you ask?”

“What would I ask?” asked the voice, surprise and pleased. “Nobody has ever asked me that before. Let us see. Tell me about yourself, and I’ll suggest a question.”

“Well, there’s not much to tell. My name’s Meg Carroway, and I live here in town, see. I’m fifteen, but people tell me I’m not too quick for my age. I like the sorts of stuff others don’t, mostly, and the stuff the like I don’t like much at all. Like—football games, or yelling, or drinking and saying things that don’t make much sense.” Meg ran out of steam, and suddenly felt self conscious and embarrassed. “Not much to tell, really.”

“I see. Well. Hrmm.” Meg got the impression that the person would have coughed if they could have. If they were less polite, perhaps. Moving forward, she peered around the gloom, trying to spot him. He sounded nice. “Well, I don’t know either,” the voice finally said. “I’m usually quite good at this. But after all these years I’ve grown used to talking about how to make money, or make somebody fall in love with you. Hrrm.”

“You know how to make people fall in love with each other?” asked Meg, impressed.

“Well, kind of. I can give very sensible advice that usually works,” said the voice, proud.

“Like what?”

“Like, what advice?”

“Yes.”

“Well, it all depends, see. Usually it involves giving flowers and telling the person you like them.”

Meg laughed. “Really? That’s your advice? Seems a bit simple to me.”

“Well, simple sometimes is best,” said the voice.

“True,” said Meg, reflecting. “I guess you’re right there. I like things simple too.” They fell into a companionable silence. “You must be in love with somebody, then,” said Meg, “Given that you have this good advice.”

“Well, no, not exactly,” said the voice. “It’s a bit hard for me.”

“To fall in love?”

“Well, I fall in love quite easily. But it’s hard for others to fall in love with me.?

“Why’s that?”

“Because I have no body.”

“Nobody to love?”

“No, no body.”

“Well, I’ve got nobody either.”

“That’s not true, I can see you standing right there.”

“Well, yes, but I’m alone all the same.”

“Alone in your body?”

“Alone in my body? What? No, I mean I’m alone in general.”

“But in your body. I mean, you have a body.”

“Of course I have a body. Don’t you?”

“No,” said the voice, impatience crackling in it, “That’s what I’m trying to tell you. I have no body.”

“Oh,” said Meg, unsure as what to say to that. “Like, you don’t have a body? You’re…. a ghost?”

“No, not a ghost, don’t be silly. I’m a brain in a vat.”

“A what?”

“Brain. Floating in a special compound saline solution designed by Mr. Mysterioso. Didn’t you see the sign above the door?”

“I didn’t understand it.”

“Well, I suppose it’s not absolutely intuitive.”

“I don’t know what you mean, but I don’t think you should let not having a body ruin things for you.”

The voice laughed, a rich and bitter purl of laughter that filled the tent. With a start, Meg realized it had grown quite dark. “Don’t let my lack of body get in the way of finding love? You should take my place, dear miss. Your advice is priceless.”

“Well, no need to laugh at me,” said Meg, face burning. “Everybody’s always laughing at me. I’ll be going, now. Thank you for you time.”

“No, wait,” said the voice, “I’m sorry, I’ve no right to laugh, I’m sorry.”

Meg paused by the doorway. “Are you really just a brain floating in a vat?”

“I might be,” said the voice quietly.

“I never know when people are telling the truth or joking with me,” said Meg, in a comparable tone.

“You could turn on the light and see,” said the voice.

“I could,” said Meg, and stood still. She could hear the wind whistling outside, and knew that soon she’d have to be getting home. She was late already, and would be scolded by her parents. She should be leaving. Getting home. Back to her house, her life, getting ready for school the next day. Instead, she stepped back into the tent. “I could, but maybe I won’t. Maybe it doesn’t matter, really.”

“No?” asked the voice.

“Maybe. I’m not sure. Maybe I’ll just stay awhile longer. Would you mind?”

“No, Meg, I wouldn’t mind at all. That would be quite nice. I was getting ready for another lonely night. Some company would be nice.”

“That’s what I was thinking,” said Meg. She sat down on the wooden floor, the boards of the pier rough against her bum. “I don’t feel like asking any questions though. Do you know any stories?”

“I know a few,” said the voice. “What kind would you like to hear?”

“A love story,” said Meg, and closed her eyes. It was warmer behind her eyelids. “Tell me a love story, please.”

“Very well,” said the voice, and began to recount a tale of a land far away from a time long ago. Meg remained still, and listened, and outside the cold wind blew and the awnings flapped, and the gray ocean crashed and ebbed on the shore.

Xmax Up Up Upped Cubed

The plot starts because of a misunderstanding about eldritch inscriptions. The protagonist, a tormented but brilliant general who has brass buttons, ends up in a tinsmith's with a caring mentor.

Higher Marshall Five Star Klock paused before the Cliffs of Agate and Doom, and stared down at the tablet in his hand. He frowned at it, scritched at the stubble along the length of his jaw, and then back up at the cliffs. They reared up like curtains descending from Heaven, a beach of black stones about their base. Higher Marshall Five Star Klock was standing on this beach, the ocean booming and booming behind him, washing up to his heels.

Turning, he stared out at where his galleon rode the waves, anchored and waiting. He frowned again, and sighed. There was supposed to be an entrance into the lost and forgotten tomb of Higher Most Up Up Seven Star Lopidi in the cliff face. There was supposed to be a stairway cut into the cliff leading up to it, and the Ultimate Weapon contained within. Higher Marshall Five Star Klock squinted up at the agate cliffs. Nothing.

Scratching his nose, he turned the tablet in his hand upside down. The runes cut into the stone could be read differently if so held, though their meaning became increasingly abstruse. He’d been certain this was the correct interpretation. Had staked two years of research and traveling across the Oceans of Frib to reach this lonely shore. The Great War that Never Ended would be unrecognizable by this point. Positions would have changed. Territories shifted, new commanders appointed. Uniforms with different colors, maybe, new and more fashionable cuts.

He’d have to go back to it empty handed. Higher Marshall Five Star Klock had been standing on the beach for two long and lonely hours, unwilling to admit his mistake. But there was nothing for it. Everybody on the galleon was most definitely well aware of his failure. Had probably been watching him through their telescopes, sniggering into their knitting as they waited. The most illustrious and successful Higher Marshall Five Star in recent memory, and here he stood like a putz.

In a sudden fit of anger he turned and chucked the three thousand year old tablet into the waves. It felt good for about a minute, and then he sighed once more and waded out into the water to retrieve it.

A year passed. Higher Marshall Four Star Klock was back in the Third Home City of Illumpti, recently demoted following a protracted investigation into his misappropriation of funds and failure. He’d had to trade in his big hat for a slightly smaller one, and the lack of weight on his head irked him. Walking through the streets, he fiddled at his new uniform. Two weeks and he’d have to go back to the Front, or one of them, to oversee the planning of the implementation of the incipience of strategizing over how to think about the next step in declaring an attack. Bollocks.

What he hated, more than the small hat, were the large brass buttons down the front of his navy blue jacket. Each bore the face of a Higher Uppity Up Up Ten Star Senex, each of whom had just spent the past three months denigrating him. He picked and plucked at them and then, in a sudden bout of rebellion, ducked into a tinsmith shop, determined to have them replaced, consequences be damned.

The shop was low ceilinged, dusky and dark, gloomy and dim, poorly lit, hard to see in. Tin cups hung from the ceiling and tinkled like wind chimes. The whole place smelled suspiciously of pickle juice. Suddenly leery, Higher Marshall Four Star Klock paused, considered stepping back out. But a familiar form arrested his escape. It was Higher Upper Xmax Up Up Upped Cubed Galaxy Star Jibooku. His old mentor, the most revered man in the world, the originator of war, its most dexterous practicator. The old man was bent over an old tin plate, examining an etching on its reverse side.

“Higher Upper Xmax Up Up Upped Cubed Galaxy Star Jibooku,” said Higher Marshall Four Star Klock, drawing himself to attention as he did so. Higher Upper Xmax Up Up Upped Cubed Galaxy Star Jibooku turned around, peered through the gloom, the dim interior of the store, and his craggy old face split into a warm smile.

“Well, well, well,” said Higher Upper Xmax Up Up Upped Cubed Galaxy Star Jibooku. “If it isn’t my young protégé, Higher Marshall Five Star Klock.”

Higher Marshall Four Star Klock felt his face color. “Actually, sir, I have been demoted to Four Star rank.”

“Oh?” asked Higher Upper Xmax Up Up Upped Cubed Galaxy Star Jibooku. “I am sorry to hear that. Your fault?”

“Yes sir,” said Klock. “I failed to find the Ultimate Weapon. Two years and precious resources wasted on my account.”

“Ah well,” said Higher Upper Xmax Up Up Upped Cubed Galaxy Star Jibooku. “There’s always another day in which to fight and win glory. Tell me, what do you think of this plate? Winsome?”

Higher Marshall Four Star Klock peered at it. “Yes sir. Very winsome.”

“Oh good,” said Higher Upper Xmax Up Up Upped Cubed Galaxy Star Jibooku. “I do so like things that win. I’ll buy it. Come over for dinner when you regain your rank?”

“Of course, sir,” said Klock. “It would be an honor. Unless death finds me first.”

“With your shield or on it,” said Higher Upper Xmax Up Up Upped Cubed Galaxy Star Jibooku. “Right? Am I right? Eh? On your shield or on it? Get it?”

“Of course sir. Very good, sir. Well, congratulations on the plate. I’m off to war then, I suppose.”

“Right-oh! Bon chance, and better luck finding the Ultimate Weapon next time.”

“Thank you, sir. Most kind. Most, most kind. To me, that is.”

“Kabosh it. Not a tittle or a thing to be considerated. You’ll do fine! Now, off with you. Go do some warmongering.”

“Ok. Ciao.”

Higher Upper Xmax Up Up Upped Cubed Galaxy Star Jibooku smiled vaguely, raised a hand in parting, and turned around to continue examine the plate. Higher Marshall Four Star Klock stepped back out into the sunshine, buttons forgotten, and trained his eyes on the closest horizon, and smiled.

A nasty sheikh up!

In a landscape lost in mist, a sheikh encounters shelter from a storm as the story begins. As the narrative unfolds, the protagonist meets a gentleman scholar with a throaty voice, and they wind up in a bazaar with secrets revealed in the dark.

The air was in revolt, its very substance rendered substantial, diffuse and pale. Plumes of fog whorled and ebbed and flowed about the Sheikh as he stumbled forward, lost and alone. Pillars of shadow would resolve themselves into columns of weathered stone, spires that ended in the kind of flat surfaces favored by desert wise men, by those who would parse their flesh with pain and privation to earn wisdom, understanding, death. A maze of geography and obfuscation that mirrored the Sheikh’s confusion, the loss of his mental bearings.

Through the pastel grays and glistening whites he staggered, his mind racing like some great engine that roars and trembles impotently, a key component broken. He had no recollection as to how he came here, where he was, where he was going. There was no immediate past before him, nothing beyond the past few minutes, though his body was weary as if he had been wandering for days. It was this lack of knowledge that scared him, he who had always been chief in surety and minister of wisdom.

A storm was coming. Its harsh tones could be heard above the mist, as if it were gathering its forces, marshaling its phalanxes of gales, sharpening the edges of its lightning strikes like the Grim Reaper might run a whetstone down the length of his scythe. The air crackled with electricity, the fog restive because of it. Shelter, thought the Sheikh desperately, Maslow’s pyramid of needs, security of body.

A cliff face reared before him, manifesting like a wall of serried shadow through the undulating waves of mist. Hands outstretched he hurried forward, and found that the base of the cliff was pocked with cave entrances.

“In here,” called a voice, sounding like the passage of a river through chthonic rivers, and the Sheikh turned as a man blind and guided and ran toward its source. A man stood within a cave whose entrance was low and wide like the mouth of a toad. “In here,” said the man, and stepped into the deeper shadows and disappeared.

“Who are you?” cried the Sheikh, faltering to a stop. Outside the cave the winds were beginning to shriek, tearing the mist into jagged streaks. “Where am I?”

“Follow,” bade the voice, “Follow me.”

The Sheikh stood panting. Where in past hours he might have felt the flash of outrage, indignation over his questions being ignored, now he simply lowered his head and struggled forward. Voices were in the depths of the cave, a soft susurrus of whispers and laughter, though all was still dark. The clink of objects being weighed on a scale, of coins being dropped into a bag.

Onward the Sheikh stumbled, reaching up with both hands to straighten his kafiyah. Shapes were resolving themselves from the darkness, the outlines of people wandering between market stalls which were arrayed against the cave walls. Shadow people buying goods the could not be seen

“You have strayed far from your path,” said the throaty voice, and the Sheikh turned to look at his guide. Though the cave was without light, his eyes had grown accustomed to the dark, and he saw a face ashen and noble, generous of bone and with broad eyes.

“I have, yes,” agreed the Sheikh. “Last I remember I was within my home. Now, all is strange and distant. Where am I? Who are you?”

The man took him by the elbow and guided him forward as one might an elder bereft of his wits. Never had the Sheikh been so handled, but again his customary anger remained quiescent. “Come,” said his guide. There is not much time.”

A few steps and they were before a stall, canvas awning hanging low over the table of goods. Bric-a-brac, trash and broken toys. The guide reached out with one hand and stirred the relics of childhoods past, looking up at the Sheikh with bright eyes. “Does anything seem of interest to you?”

“No, of course not,” said the Sheikh, and then paused. A long second, and then he reached out tentatively and took up a broken wooden sword, its upper third snapped off and long gone. Turning it, he saw the painted mark across the hilt, the curlicue of black ink that he had drawn himself over sixty years ago. “This…” he said, voice soft in wonder. “I had not thought to see this again.

The guide said nothing.

Memories of arid summers chasing friends down alleys, leaping over the chasms that separated one roof from the next. Enacting legends, composing new ones. Friends and battles, screams and laughter. Everything washed out by time, but there, the firmament to his sense of self

“Lost,” he said. “This was lost.”

“No,” said the guide, taking it from him, pulling it from his hands. “Stolen. By your brother, that morning.”

“My brother,” said the Sheikh, eyes growing blind. “Mustafa?” His younger brother. Precocious and fierce, lonely and long dead. Found broken and still in a street, bloodied where he had fallen five stories from an ill considered leap.

“Found by his side, broken and bathed in his blood,” said the guide. “Lethal emulation.”

“No,” said the Sheikh. “It was a senseless accident.

“No,” said the guide, and tossed the wooden blade back onto the pile of trash. “Come.”

On they walked, cross to another stall. A long beam of wood crossed above them, and from it hung bodies by the neck, spinning slowly as if caught in a cross breeze. The Sheikh threw up his hands, would have fallen back had not his guide caught him by the shoulder and directed his gaze to the third body to the left.

A young woman, olive skinned, face bloated, eyes bulging. Beautiful once, she had been, and her voice, her voice could have stilled a riot, silenced guns, stolen hearts. It had stolen his. Slowly she spun, hung from the neck, eyes trained on his face.

“Sofia,” he whispered. He felt scalded by white, reduced to two dimensions.

“She hung herself, after,” said the guide, leaning in close as if in deference to the dead who hung over the stall and watched them. “Hung herself but three months after you were done.

The Sheikh remembered her demure protestations, her half hearted struggle against his tender attentions. How she had cried after, overwhelmed by the experience. He had not seen her after that night, not wishing to mislead her in thinking he was interested in a relationship.

“Not for love, did she hang herself,” whispered his guide. “But for shame and horror.”

The Sheikh could bear her eyes no longer, the cold malice that gleamed in their depths, and turning he ran further into the cave, passing through the crowds of shadows. He ran until he could breath no more, and stopped, leaning over to plant his hands on his knees, great belly hanging over his belt and surging in violent heaves.

“You can run, but you can’t hide,” said his guide in what sounded like Teutonic accents.

“What manner of place is this? I am bedeviled!” cried the Sheikh, falling back from his guide.

“Why, tis but an innocent cave into which you have stumbled while seeking refuge from the storm,” said his guide, grinning like a Cheshire cat.

“But these things that have been revealed up and onto me!” cried the Sheikh. “How is this possible?”

“Not all that glitters is gold,” said his guide slyly, running a finger up and down the length of his nose as if he wished to saw it off.

“What?” asked the Sheikh.

“Nevermind. Come on, more to see, don’t dilly dally.” The guide grabbed him roughly by the arm and jerked him to the next stall. Half terrified, the Sheikh sought to avert his eyes, and saw instead that the bare board contained a mere pile of coins.

“What’s this?” asked the Sheikh. “Money for sale?”

“Well, no,” admitted the guide. “Do you see how much money is before you?”

The Sheikh leaned forward and counted quickly with a practiced and beady eye. Money always brought out the hawk in him. “About… five hundred rupees.”

“A paltry sum, no?” asked the guide, leaning back on his heels and tapping his chin.

“Sure,” said the Sheikh. “I own much, much, much more money than that.”

“Five hundred rupees. The cost of a life?”

“Alas!” cried the Sheikh, comprehension dawning on him like a falling pile of bricks.

"Yes, quite,” said his guide severely. “I can’t believed you paid so little to have Sheikh Ahmed killed. Honestly. You could have shown largesse if only in your most disgusting deeds. But even there did you seek redemption through generosity.”

“But nobody was to know! What is this place?” The Sheikh, enraged and terrified, grabbed hold of his guide’s shirt and began to shake him violently. So violently did he shake him that the man fell to pieces, his head rolling off and onto the floor, his body rattling apart within his clothing. His capacity for being shocked not yet exhausted, the Sheikh released the guide’s clothing and watched with wide eyes as it all collapsed into a pile. Leaning down, he took up the man’s head. It had become a skull.

Screaming, he lobbed it underarm away from himself, and began to run again, running toward the cave entrance, away from this horrid bazaar and the dark secrets it revealed. He passed endless shadow figures, eyes riveted on the white blur without, until finally he emerged into the fog and storm.

The Sheikh managed but a few steps, and then the wind that razored the mist apart did likewise to him. Even as he dissolved, he finally recalled his last memory: his lying on his bed, surrounded by friends and relatives… waiting to die!

Grind Show

Ffrogwhist will for the next couple of weeks be put to a very different use. No longer will it be a collection of daily writing exercises, but instead a chronicle of my attempts to write a new novel. Not entirely new, to be clear, but more a rehash of an old one. Grind Show. Demon hunters racing and battling out against the forces of darkness across the desolate landscape of the Mojave desert. I wrote some 25,000 words last time, racing bullet fast through the chapters, throwing shotguns, car chases, rock bands and merciless bounty hunters around like a desperate juggler attempting to keep the attention of a waning crowd.

Now I'm going to try my hand at it again. Not simply pick up where I left off, but rather go back, right to the root, the first Chapter or two, and see if I can do it right this time. It's to be more of a commercial novel, something that can actually sell; but that doesn't mean it's any easier to write. Something that became clear over the year I worked at Penguin is that the big selling 'commercial' novels are every part as challenging to write as the more literary ones.

Why? Consider Howard and his creation, Conan. There have been hundreds of Conan knock offs, but nobody has achieved the fame and excellence that Howard did. The reason is because he believed in his creation, poured his heart and soul into it. Conan walks and breathes and glowers and roars on his pages, where in the other books he never manages to be anything but a two dimensional hunk of muscle and steel. Same with Lovecraft; despite his at times terrible dialogue, purple prose and contrived endings, there's something about his body of walk that has captivated and mesmerized generations of readers, to the point that today he is still actively read, with new collections being released yearly with forwards by the likes of Joyce Carol Oates and China Mieville. Lovecraft believed in his creations, and thus others are swayed.

So if you're going to write something, you have to care about it. Or people will notice, and toss is aside. That's why people who decide to write a 'commercial' novel for a quick buck rarely succeed; their audiences can hear the silent sneer, detect the patronizing tone, and kick the book to the curb.

There's my challenge. Write something fast paced, compelling and fun that I'd want to read, something dark and harrowing and sarcastic and smart. I've already edited some 5,000 words into the beginning of the new book, lifted from the first draft. I'm going to go from there, day in, day out, and see where it takes me.

Wish me luck!

I love meeting because of the moon!

The story begins in Ellis Island, when a sullen, slightly sultry sword-wielding mechanic and a gentleman meet because of the moon. It is about affirming life in the midst of death. The antagonist is motivated because of an addiction.

We will be seeing more of Flamboje.

This story begins as it ends, with a high-spirited tourest. In a school for would-be inventors, a secretary and an expat struggle against the odds and encounter building a family, a deadly competition, and a carny who is motivated because they want to understand how the world works. The text features the social intimacies of tribes or camps.

Page 1

You are a high-spirited tourest. Your yips and chirrups are the delight of the aether. Currently without host, you decide to place a fortunate soul under your aegis. If you wish to place a 19^th century dandy under your aegis, turn to Page 43, if you would prefer a salacious Roman Centurion, turn to Page 329, or turn to Page 92 if you would prefer a 21^st centurty secretary.

Page 92

The secretary is at ease behind a faux-mahogany desk outside an Imperial office. She is filing her nails and keeping a weather eye on her Inbox. She is prolix, and hard nosed. Her day seems quiet. If you would like to have a terrorist cell attack the office building affording her a chance at heroism, turn to Page 33. If you would prefer to have her meet her future husband tonight, turn to Page 21. If you would prefer to have her fired and become caught up with an insane expat who believes he’s a tiger, turn to Page 233

Page 233

Roxor the Expat takes The Secretary by the hand as they race down the dingy hallway. “It is here that we shall learn the truth about the Universe,” he informs her, “And divine the means to realize our potential.” The Secretary is dismayed, but remains calm, professional. She asks for clarification, but Roxor the Expat simply roars at her in a tigerish fashion. If you would like her to slap Roxor, turn to Page 53. If you would like for her to kick him in the back with her high heeled foot, turn to page 7. If you would prefer that she internalize her rage, turn to page -493.

Page 7

Roxor the Expat roars in pain and rage as The Secretary’s heel digs into the small of his back, sending him stumbling. He is but a small expat, however, and though his heart is great he is unable to reciprocate. “I apologize,” he says, “Let me be more specific. We are here to learn the social intimacies of tribes or camps, and shall do so within this school for would-be inventors. They are an eclectic lot, and like shattered prisms we shall be able to use them to see the world in manners skewed and unexpected.” The Secretary nods, her fatalist streak flaring. Turn to page 278, unless you would prefer to turn to Page 90. Do not turn to Page 79.

Page 79

Turn back, do not read on. Turn to Page 341 now. Turn. Go back. Your mother sucks –

Page 341

The Secretary and Roxor the Expat pause before the iron golem. It is piecing together two other golems, one of its size, the other shorter by far. “Doldrums result until family is mine,” it intones. “What he means,” says Roxor, “Is-“ He stops when The Secretary glares at him. “I am creating a camp,” intones the golem, within which I shall be King. I shall rule and in so doing know myself complete.” “How unimaginative of you,” says The Secretary, and turns towards –

Page 79

Turn back, you have been warned, curiousity munged the –

Page 412

“I see,” crowed the moustachioed space pirate, wielding his laser rapier with panache, “You wish to challenge my rule. Well, Flamboje, there can be only one captain of the Jolie Roget, and you shall have to fight for the spot.”

“Avast and bodega,” cried Flamboje, drawing his thunderpipe, “I fear not the swaying of the—

Page 55

Moaning, the man leaned down and kissed him on the –

Page 79

I know you and what you seek within this book, and I shall have your soul before you reach this tale’s end, no matter how fast you change from page to page –

Page 982

The Secretary laughed, delighted, and reclined on the divan. “But Roxor, that’s what the bishop said!” Everybody laughed, turning to look at each other as they did so, their hilarity confirmed in each other’s eyes. “Excuse me, The Secretary, but I have a theory,” ventured Iub the Dwarf, “A theory that might unify Einstein’s General Relativity with String Theory. I have tentatively dubbed it M-Theory, and it goes a little something like this…” “Oh, do be quiet, Iub,” said The Secretary, “Do you not see that you are spoiling our little gathering? We have formed an impromptu tribe here, a camp of friends who want nothing better than to relax in sophisticated company.”

Everybody laughed again. Iub’s face flushed, and he turned, sticking his hands into his armpits. “I would that I could, I would that I could,” he muttered, gazing longingly at the circus that was visible through the window.

Page 79

You are trapped.

Page 79

There is no where you can turn to.

Page 79

There is no more escape. All entries are become me.

Page 79

Give me the high-spirited tourest and you can leave. Give it to me.

There. Ah, yes. Ah.

THE END

Matobo the Croc Killer

The text starts as a union organizer encounters things that go SPLAT while in a library. The overall narrative is a sports story and the motivation behind the major plot events is: because of guilt.

Lionel the union organizer was expanding. He'd been sitting there, right, reading USA Today or People magazine or something, checking out the pics of Jessica Simpson, when his belt began to cut into his belly. His cheeks began to puff out, and his shoes to feel tight. Huffing, he pushed away from the desk, thinking: gas? But everything was swelling. Reaching down he undid his belt, and rose to his feet, panic hitting him hard. What in Sam Hill?

Around him other people were beginning to puff up too, puff up real bad, looking mighty unsighty. Like they each and every one of them had an air tube stuck in their mouths, the kind you get at gas stations to fill up your tires, and each were being piped up full of air. People's eyes were bulging, necks swelling, hands expanding like kitchen gloves filled with water.

"What in Sam Hill!" said Lionel. He staggered towards the Librarian's counter, but she wasn't in sight. Outside, through the plate glass entrance doors, he could see a large group of gorillas all laughing and shrieking and slapping each other on the back. Lionel blinked, felt the buttons on his shirt begin to pop off.

"What in Sam Hill!" he roared, outraged. Damned apes, out there laughing while he was on the verge of going pop. There must have been some thirty of them out there, a few large old silver backs, a horde of smaller males, and one or two chimp looking ones rolling around on their backs, smacking their feet together in monkey claps.

Lionel turned to the other people who were rolling around on the floor, or mewling to each other. "Apes," he said, and tried to point. He had significantly reduced flexibility by this point. "Outside, laughing. Apes."

Nobody listened. Close by, an elderly man who had expanded too quickly, his parchment wrinkly skin distending, went SPLAT. Red stuff went everywhere, viscera and bones bouncing off shelving. "Sam Hill!" cried Lionel, back away, "Sam Hill!"

The hooting and hollerin' from outside grew louder, and he turned to see two of the gorillas high five each other while a third drew a mark in chalk on the sidewalk. Behind him he heard another SPLAT, but he didn't turn. The gorillas were falling over with the sheer violence of their hilarity.

But sadness crept into Lionel's heart. He'd been to the zoo as a kid, and had seen the monkey house, visited the maccacs, but nothing had hit him as hard as the gorilla cage. There had been one gorilla in there, a threadbare guy called Matobo the Croc Killer, with photographs of him as a young tough, all puffed up with muscles tearing a crocodile in two. Looking at Matobo, Lionel had felt like a connection had but for a moment been forged between the two of them. Matobo's eyes were deep and soft like cups of chocolate puddin'. He'd stared deep into those twin wells of sadness, and shook his head. Was his name really Matobo? Had he ever really killed a Croc? Even if he had, had he even wanted to?

Lionel lowered his head, or tried. His neck was enveloped in flesh. He felt like he couldn't breath. The gorillas were shrieking and covering their faces with their feet. But Lionel didn't mind. Didn't resent them. He thought of Matobo, and lowered his head.

Behind him somebody went SPLAT.

And then again.

Scissor Men and Tarantula Blades

The text starts as an otherwise bumbling person who is competent at one specific thing encounters a marriage of necessity while in a war. The overall narrative is about the uncanny and the motivation behind the major plot events is: because they are under a curse that forces their actions.

"Fuck fuck fuck," moaned Boribur, wiping his hair back out of his face for the millionth time. The sun was going to set, and soon Moki would launch his army down out of the attic to come swarm and swamp him here in the basement. He had, what, maybe fifteen minutes left? Glancing up at the window, he tried to gauge how much longer there was till the sun set by the crimson light pouring in and setting the dancing dust motes on fire. Fifteen, maybe twenty. Not enough.

The basement was huge. Vast. Larger than an airplane hangar, bigger than the biggest building in the world. They'd all been shrunk to the size of thumbs by the ArchMagus, barely a couple of inches tall, and now everything was cyclopean, of a scale absurd, so large that he felt agoraphobic. The attic was another land, up two flights of interminable stairs. But down it would come Moki's army, in whatever form it took, coming down to tear him apart.

"Focus," he whispered angrily to himself, and stared at the huge pair of scissors that lay gleaming before him. He'd known about the box before the spell, before this ghastly tournament had commenced, and had raced down here as fast as he could, falling from step to step, and then wriggling under the basement door to enter the gloomy basement. Had cast a spell to tip the cardboad box over, and been rewarded by a silver waterfall of falling scissors. The perfect material with which to construct a fighting force. Perfect, if he could but get his act together.

Several constructs, miniature golems, stood assembled, prepared to do battle. Already Boribur was shaking like a leaf, drained and expended, but this was his specialty, what he was good at--the construction of machinae. Eight men composed of blades and handles, walking dervishes of gleaming edges, and two large spiders, each leg a scissor blade, the central knot a mass of intertwined metal. Ten soldiers. A good start, but not enough. And worse yet--he didn't even know if he would be able to animate them properly, command them into battle. What use would they be if they simply stood there and watched him get hacked to pieces?

It had been Larissa's idea, but Moki had taken to it quickly enough, dragging the reluctant Boribur in along with him. Kill the ArchMagus, take him by surprise, and become the youngest graduates ever. Gain access to the forbidden spells, the ArchMagus' staff, fame and riches and power. Surprise, three against one, no problem. Larissa, excited and charismatic and undeniable had wooed them over, stroking Moki's ego and bullying Boribur, until they'd all agreed to go along.

Closing his eyes, Boribur forced himself to channel the magic, shape it with spells and motions, discipline it with a muttered mantra and weave it about the scissors. Such a trivial spell, but there was only so much magic available to him at this size, his very anima shrunken along with his body. He felt the metal grow soft, malleable, felt it curl and bend and shape itself anew. Sweat broke out on his forehead, and when he finally opened his eyes, he saw a ninth bladed soldier standing before him perfectly balanced. He wanted to retch, to sit down and pass out. But there was no time.

"Well done, Boribur!" came a voice, piercing and amused, and he half jumped out of his skin. Larissa. She was standing but thirty yards away, hands on her hips, alone. "Now, before you try to attack me, just listen."

"What, listen to you again? Not likely. You're the reason we're being forced to kill each other as is."

"Ah, but think: you kill me, expend what power you have left, and Moki will wipe the floor with you."

Boribur narrowed his eyes. "What choice do I have?"

"We could join forces. Together we can defeat Moki. Alone, we've got no chance."

It was true. Moki was the best of the three, though Larissa was perhaps smarter. He simply had more power, a greater intellect, a more vivid imagination. It was why Boribur was so close to pissing his pants.

"And what'd stop you from killing me after?"

"Nothing," said Larissa, smiling sweetly, hands behind her back. "But there's nothing to stop you either. So what do you think? Risk being my ally, or certain death in... ten minutes?"

Boribur scowled, looked at his creations, where they stood gleaming in the basement's gloaming. Nine scissor men, two tarantula blades. "All right, fine. You power them, I direct them. You don't get to have any control."

Larissa chewed her bottom lip for a moment, and then nodded. "Fine."

Her capitulation made him even more uncertain. "Fine then," he agreed belligerently. "I'll try and shape a few more. Unless you want to try and help..?"

"No, I'll save my power for the animation. Plus you were always the best at golem making. Better even then Moki."

She was buttering him up, Boribur knew it, but still he couldn't resist a flush of pleasure. He nodded curtly, and then turned back to the remaining pile of scissors. Ten minutes left. Keeping a wary eye on Larissa, he got to work.

***

Their forces were assembled. Eleven scissor men, tall and angular, moving forward with jerky precision, the points of their feet digging into the wooden floor of the basement as they advanced on the door. Boribur and Larissa were each riding on one of the tarantula blades, the seats uncomfortable, knots of metal digging into their butts, but the ride was smoother, a ripple of legs moving them forwards, an undulation of sharpness. A small force, compact and tough. Time to seek out Moki, to see what he had devised. Time to engage, for night had fallen.

The door was levered open by the scissor men, vast and nearly two yards thick. It groaned and shivered by small degrees, till finally momentum caught it and it swung out, a ponderous sweep that would have knocked them flat had they remained in its way. Beyond, the stairs. They approached, and began to ascend; no problem for the scissor men and tarantula blades, who simply sank the tips of their feet into the wood and climbed.

Boribur held on, growing nauseous as his tarantula blade flowed up and up and up, the thok thok thok of its legs punctuating the otherwise smooth climb. The basement had been dark, but the house was darker yet, bereft of even the dubious benefit of the windows that had looked out into the night. Up they climbed, powered by Larissa's will, till they reached the entrance hall and paused, their forces puddled at the edge of the top step.

"Should we climb to meet him on the steps, or await him here?" asked Boribur, swallowing repeatedly to settle his stomach.

"Hmm. Our forces have great stability on the stairs. Probably better than his. But from here we could see them coming and plan a violent defense."

Thok. Boribur turned to see which of his scissor men had moved, and then startled at the sight of a dart as long as he was tall embedded in the floor next to his tarantula blade. It had appeared from nowhere, its angle nearly perpindicular. He looked up. The darkness of the hall was vast, but somewhere overhead something flew. 

"We're under attack!" he yelled, and suddenly his forces were moving forward, galvanized by his will. They raced towards the stairs leading to the first floor, but Larissa was yelling, pointing at a megalithic armchair. For a moment Boribur didn't understand, and then he willed their forces to swerve to the left and scuttle under the chair and into safety.

"Damn," said Larissa, combing her hair out of her eyes with her fingers, "You've got to admit, that's impressive."

"What," said Boribur, willing his tarantula to creep right up the edge of their cover and then peer out at the dark sky, "An assasination attempt? That's not impressive, that's cowardly." But it was impressive. He'd not even thought of a pre-emptive strike. Had that playing dart hit him, it would have all finished right then. As it was, they were pinned.

"Well, we're trapped. Unless you can fashion a canopy for us?"

"That's mean sacrificing a scissor man, maybe two or three."

"Well, what choice do we have?"

"We could wait for him to attack us here."

"Under the chair?" She consided the option. "A bit ignomious, isn't it?"

"Fine, fine," he snapped, and closed his eyes. Reached out with both hands, as if grasping the matter of the universe, and clenched his hands into claws. Moved them, directed them, murmuring and muttering as he did so. He could feel the fabric of two scissormen unravel, easier now for their first manipulation, and directed them towards each tarantula. For a moment the thought occured to him--kill her--and then he dismissed it. He didn't want to be alone. Not yet, not with Moki out there. 

"Well done," said Larissa, looking up at the lattice work of gleaming metal coccooning her on her mount. "Should do the trick."

Sweat was dripping from Boribur's nose. "Yes, well. If it doesn't, won't matter. Those darts look like an instant kill. Ready?"

She nodded, and with a final cautious glance up at the dark sky of the hallway, their force emerged, thok thok thokking into the open.

Both Larissa and Boribur craned their necks back, staring up into the gloom. There--movement--and then thok, a second dart plunked down right next to Boribur's tarantula.

"They're not very good at--" began Larissa, and then let out a cry of pain. The cocoon over her tarantula had suddenly spouted a dart, its point sinking through a gap to embed itself right into her arm. "Oh fuck!" she screamed, and slowly edged herself down and pulled herself off it. "I thought you made these things to keep the darts off of us, you bleeding idiot!" She clasped her hand to her wound, which was pulsing blood. 

"You okay? Larissa?" Boribur urged his tarantula forward.

"No, I'm not okay. I just got stabbed by a huge dart right through the arm. God damn that hurts." She closed her eyes, squirmed and bounced her knees up and down for a moment, and then opened her eyes with a gasp. "All right. I'm fine. I'm fine. Let's just hurry up. I'm feeling faint already."

"Okay, let's go," said Boribur as a fourth dart clanged on the caccoon above his head and went bouncing and spinning off into the darkness. "Let's go find that asshole!"

The nine scissormen and the two tarantulas surged toward the stairs, which they began to ascend in their methodical way. Up and across, up and across, Boribur and Larissa heaving and swaying with each step. The stairs seemed to extend forever into the darkness above them, each three times as tall as they were, and soon Boribur was feeling nauseaus again, clinging to the cold metal about him for dear life.

***

They gained the first floor. A pause, the scissormen bunching together, both Boribur and Larissa peering around for more trouble, and then they espied water flooding out from under one of the doors to their left. 

"That doesn't look good," said Boribur.

The water began to flow together, forming a thick puddle, then a translucent mound, and then it lifted itself up and became a fluid pseudopod.

"Fuck me," said Boribur, and sent his scissor men forward to attack it. They jerked forwards, limbs scything, and when they met the watery tentacle began to lash at its corpus. Their attacks caused droplets to fly, but failed to stop it. "It's heading for you," cried Boribur, sensing the tentacle's direction. "Move!"

Larissa's tarantula began to stalk rapidly away, but the water was faster. Even though it grew attenuated as it extended out towards her, it was able to close the distance in a flash. "Larissa!" cried Boribur, but it was too late. The watery tip sloshed through the metallic cacoon, and suspended her within it. She began to flail and attempt to swim out, but it simply followed her movements. The tarantula began to circle and stop, her attention faltering, and Boribur concentrated on directing all the scissormen at attacking the pseudopod at its base.

Futility. Within a minute Larissa stopped. Hung suspended in the watery globule, hair floating about her face like weeds. The scissormen continued to hack, and then almost all of them collapsed, falling apart like so much detritus. Larissa was dead. A sudden, fierce and unexpected anguish seized him, and then he bottled it up and focused on his failing mount.

With a gasp, Boribur directed all of his energies at maintaining his tarantula together. The pseudopod began to retract, leaving Larissa to lie sodden in the metallic folds of the collapsed construct. Boribur leaned forwards, scowling, and his spider fled. Fled across the landing, towards the stairs that would lead up. Up to the attic. Up to Moki.

Thok thok thok, went his tarantula, and for a moment, looking over his shoulder, he thought he was going to suffer the same fate as Larissa. But no. He had enough of a headstart, and panic leant his spider wings. Up they surged, and the glistening rope of water was left behind to pat and prod at the steps blindly. Swaying and jostling they ascended, and they he was at the attic door.

The tarantula extended a leg, and pushed the door open slowly. No explosions, attacks, ambushes. Just darkness, dust cloaked and deep. 

"Moki?" called Boribur, feeling the fool, the child, the amateur. "Are you in there? You killed Larissa. Just you and me now."

Fear was falling from him, leaving him tired. With Larissa gone, he realized that a need to impress had also left him. Just him and Moki now, and he remembered their first days studying under the ArchMagus together, before they had become rivals, before this had all become such a serious endeavour. Just two kids revelling in their newfound abilities.

Boribur urged his tarantula forward. It entered the attic, and he was glad to see that it wasn't quite as dark as he'd feared. Cases and boxes reared up like boxes on both sides, but the center was clear. Moki stood in the middle of the floor, out in the open, hands behind his back.

"Hello, Boribur," he called out. "Ready?"

"What are you going to do?" asked Boribur, suddenly  nervous again, his indifference evaporating. Where were Moki's men? What was he going to attack with?

"Oh Bori," said Moki, shaking his head. "You never could think outside the box, could you? Always connecting the dots, and never trying to loop them. I'm going to take control of your tarantula and kill you with it."

And like that the battle was joined. Boribur felt Moki's will envelope him, and he threw up a wall, a thick, impenetrable wall with which to defend his creation, all the while urging it forward. If he could reach Moki and impale him before he lost control of his mount, he would win. Simple.

But Moki was powerful, and hadn't expended his energies in creating a legion of constucts. His will was tenacious, unpredictable, and came at Boribur's defenses in sharp bursts like arrow strikes. Boribur was halfway there when a chink opened up in his defense, and Moki was in.

The tarantula stopped. Quivered. And then it raised one of its legs, reversed its angle, and plunged it up and into Boribur's chest. 

Boribur looked down at where the broad, oily blade stuck into him. Blood was welling up, thick and dark, pouring out along its gleaming haft, running down his front. 

"I'm sorry, Boribur. But as the ArchMagus said, only one of us gets out of this alive." Moki was walking up to where he sat, still controlling the tarantula. Boribur wanted to sag, to keel over, but the blade held him upright. His sight was growing dark. Spots were flooding his vision, and his breath was coming in hitches. Suprisingly, there was very little pain. Just a spreading numbness.

"No hard feelings, eh? You would have done the same. If you had been capable." Moki looked up at him, and the tarantula slowly lowered itself until its belly was flat against the floor. It withdrew the blade with a sucking sound, and Boribur toppled forwards. Moki caught him, and then lay him on the floor.

"Easy now. Don't fight it. It will be over soon."

Boribur hitched his breath. He wasn't mad. Moki had always been better. He'd known he was dead. Had had no hope till Larissa had joined him. That had been good. Larissa being on his side. Against Moki. Larissa. He blinked his eyes, couldn't open them. He saw Larissa then, waiting for him, standing impatiently with her arms crossed. I'm coming, he thought. I'm almost there. Wait for me. But then she turned and walked away into the darkness and disappeared.