Aidan Writes:

Neurosynaptic Spider

noreply@blogger.com (Aidan Fritz) — Sat, 11 Feb 2012 00:38:00 +0000

I hated war. I hated the stench of battery acid staining the desert. I hated the neurosynaptic spider that crawled out from behind the wreckage of a battle bot. I grabbed the spider, slapping peace jelly on its receptors so the bristling rockets beneath its carapace wouldn't fire. I spun like a man throwing a discus. The neurosynaptic chip was a good aerodynamic and the spider floated out of sight. I logged the battle bot as a casualty.

"Peacekeeper, your report is due."

I hated my commanding officer. He wasn't any better than the flea-bitten bureaucrat who'd proposed using robots to fight proxy wars. I figured it was better than my fighting on the front lines, but jotting hashmarks for casualties was a brain killer. As well as my calves. "The bots no longer stand still. They chase all over the place. I've only tallied half the valley. Whoever is programming these things needs to teach them not to run."

"Whining won't speed the report. Get cracking." The radio crackled out.

The smoking remains of a three-story tall leg towered over me, the torso shredded by rockets. Second-generation tech no longer won wars. I counted the casualty, this one might lose them the war even if I didn't mark another loss against them.

Something flickered, I didn't get a good enough glance to tell what it was. I hated the war. I might not be fighting, but I'd heard too many stories of peacekeepers letting their guard down. I might not be the enemy, but the robots didn't seem to care.

A squad of neurosynaptic dragonflies divebombed me when I came around the corner. Behind them, I saw the jerky motion of a spider. The carapace oozed jelly. I should've known it would find friends.

I buzzed the command and control center, but no one answered my hail. Bullets strafed my position. One of the barbs cut through my battle armor. My arm exploded with pain. "Stage two. Stage two! Someone get me out of here."

I rolled across the sand and found an iron scrap I could use as a bat. I swatted the first dragonfly that followed me. It sputtered in the sand. I slapped more jelly on it, but this time instead of letting it escape, I connected a wire to its micro-USB port. I downloaded a standard interrupt pattern and the helicopter blades spun up ready to defend me. Who was I kidding, one droid wouldn't save me.

"Peacekeeper, follow standard operating procedures."

Dragonfly bodies spun to point in my direction. They had heard the radio. I ripped the swatch from my wrist and threw it at them. It hopped across the desert as they fired at it.

I wished they would outfit us with weapons, but that wouldn't have made us look like peacekeepers. Instead, I was supposed to use this jelly and my tally log against these creatures.

The interrupt pattern blocked the dragonflies as they flew closer. I watched it fly, timing my swing outside its pattern to temporarily stunned another bot into the sand. My hands flew repeating the interrupt procedure.

Iron tapped against the hard bone of my neck and I rolled over finding myself face-to-face with the spider. It pricked my skin and the spider's joint hissed as something hot and stinging shot into my bloodstream. I rammed my head forward pinning the thing into the sand.

I rolled away and trailed the USB cable connected to the second dragonfly. I was wired and I used its weapons to fire on the spider. The other creatures pulled back, all except the two dragonflies that were mine now. I suppose I was an army of three.

The maps I'd downloaded from headquarters before heading into the desert showed a cave up ahead. It wouldn't be long before the next proxy war, and I might be able to upgrade some of my own fighters. Free agency seemed like a good plan. Much better than working for my boss who evidently didn't care much about my life. I was going to like working for myself. And maybe, I wouldn't hate war after all.

Soul Deals

noreply@blogger.com (Aidan Fritz) — Fri, 03 Feb 2012 23:38:00 +0000

The years leave a stain, whether it's the liver spots on Alin's skin or the coal soot layered over the cathedral's stones. Even with the sun shining through the low-hanging clouds like a pale dandelion gone to seed, even with the dearth of men due to conscription for the church's holy wars, even with all the villagers voices raised in a throaty disharmony, her skin itched and she wished she was home in her rough-thatched lean-to on the barrow plains. She shook her head, not ready to give up so easily. She needed a youth and had delayed too long already, trying to convince herself she could be self-sufficient, remembering the mentor who had coerced her apprenticeship. When she first learned the ways of harvesting the deathwalkers, she'd promised herself she wouldn't force servitude, but age warped a person. Here she lurked, waiting to harvest her own apprentice.

The cathedral's bone bells announced the end of services. Alin stretched the shawl over her shoulders, retreating into an alley's darkness, her fingers casting id -- not her own, but that of the harvested deathwalkers -- to weave a glamour ball into reality. Villagers spewed from the maw of the great cathedral's doors. Their eyes flickered and skipped past Alin's alley.

The boy, Tavian, straggled with a handful of other young children. Alin nodded at the way the others abandoned him, leaving a separation between them. She knew his father had been drafted and Tavian had received no notice of life nor death since the spring thaw took his father. But their real fear came from what the summer rotting months had brought his mother. The Black Death. Orphaned, the church would see he was assigned guardians. But the losses would fester.

She prayed the crust over his emotional wounds would be weak, would allow her to poke through, would not require coercing. She played the glamour ball into the square. Only Tavian would see it.

"Yes, my lifewalker. Yes, take hold of destiny." The others slipped past him. His guardians neglected to watch for him. She drew the glamour ball towards herself, and the boy followed.

His hands trapped the ball. He squeaked. "Where did you come from?"

"Tavian --"

"How do you know my name?" He twitched as if trying to retreat, but the glamour had him.

She promised herself using power to coerce him to stay wasn't breaking her promises. She would leave him to make the decision, but she needed the id's power to get this chance to make him the offer. "Not important. Your mother is dead. Your father is dead."

The boy gulped.

Alin used more of the id and wove a miniature image of the battlefield, men strewn across it like rocks on a moor. Tavian's father lay on his back with his hands clutching at the spear wound. The illusion crowded out the reality of the alley. The boy loomed over the body. "Your life is dead. But it doesn't have to be."

"No... no."

She blinked. She needed strength. He wasn't refusing this opportunity, she hadn't even made her offer, but rather he denied the truth. A finality he'd already accepted.

"The soul dies, but it leaves behind the id."

"You... you're a souleater."

"Not the words I like to use. We do not eat souls, but release the essence. Otherwise, your folks will wander the earth as deathwalkers, cursed with an id unwilling to leave, haunted by the echoes their senses leaves them, jealous of the life you live. They will shamble beyond the villages walls, drawn by the cathedral's life force."

"My parents --"

"Only their id remains."

"I want to see them."

He wouldn't enjoy discovering their deathwalking shell. "I can take you to them, but first, you must agree to owe me service."

He would make a strong apprentice. His life id was strong. She was using his emotions, but she hadn't coerced his response with magic. She tried to convince herself that was what mattered. Her hand was warm on his back and fed on his id as she led him toward the barrows.

Deadline

noreply@blogger.com (Aidan Fritz) — Sat, 28 Jan 2012 02:05:00 +0000

The icons behind Yuri's overlapping text editor windows -- windows containing lines of code so small his boss swore it would drive a sane man blind -- shimmered losing their form of folders and documents to become gravestones still maintaining their grid pattern over a background landscape of the peninsula's oak covered hills. Yuri glanced at the vodka bottle, but it was only a third gone. He blinked. The graves remained.

He shook his head. The old Romany soothsayer had claimed he'd die this week. She was a fake. They had no power and she was just annoyed that Yuri's LAN party had kept her awake all weekend.

Hell, maybe the problem was he hadn't had enough yet. He poured himself a shot, and for good measure poured another one, because you didn't have a problem if you never drank alone. He kicked the cubicle wall to shoot his chair into the aisle. Yuri looked left and right, but no one walked down the aisle next to his cube anymore. It made no sense to him.

Since the QA team couldn't leave until he'd committed his features, he headed towards the QA bullpen. The drop was due today. Sure, some bugs they could check from home, but a half dozen regressions required on-site testing. He couldn't afford this nonsense. But, the bullpen was empty. They had to be here.

He looked at his feet, the same feet that thundered on the wooden floors of the flamenco lounge where his dance instructor tut-tutted him. Dancers were supposed be light on their feet, but he was ex-military. They must've heard him coming. Of course, that made no sense, wouldn't they have wanted a shot.

The lead QA had a parrot whose legs dangled over the edge of the desk and the birds beak was wide open. Yuri shrugged and poured the shot down its throat. The bird was the company's mascot, and he supposed giving it a drink would be good luck for the build. He stalked back to his cubicle.

Even after another drink, he still had gravestones on his screen. He ran a process checker, but it came up clear. He snooped the packets on the network, but nothing there either.

"Hey, when you going to check-in?" the lead QA asked.

Yuri poured a shot, but when he swiveled his chair, there was no one there. He stood and saw the lead QA hurrying away. Yuri rolled his eyes and slammed the shot down. He'd tried.

Only one more change and he'd have everything finished that product had wanted. Yuri supposed he should ignore the graves on the edge of the screen, and he pulled up the code again. Fat fingers dancing over the keyboard, creating line after line of code.

The graves shook and pixelated zombies crawled out from underneath them, and began to push the windows around his screen. His keyboard stopped working. Yuri looked at the vodka bottle and decided to take a swig.

The alarm on his smartphone vibrated. He needed to depart for his flamenco lesson if he was to arrive on time. But, he razzed the others when they checked in code that wasn't tested properly. How could he test his changes when the windows on the screen wouldn't sit still.

"You done yet?" This time the lead QA didn't run away.

"I'm trying." Yuri shrugged. "Look at my display." When Yuri turned back to his desk, the icons were the normal folders and documents. "Stay right there."

With the lead QA over his shoulder, Yuri finished the final callbacks and revised the unit tests. The build ran smoothly and every unit test completed. Yuri slugged the lead QA's shoulder. "Your job now. I'm out of here." He glanced at the time. He'd miss warm-ups, but he could still make the lesson.

"Better be no bugs."

This code would be clean. He ran down the stairs, elevators were for wimps, and slid into the front seat of his Mustang.

The engine roared when he slammed the gas pedal. He was thrust back against the seat. His window blackened and Yuri couldn't see a thing in front of him. And then pixelated gravestones appeared in front of him. Zombies crawled across his windshield until the glass shattered and Yuri was thrown forward to roll across the nose of his car and onto the concrete.

Yuri's blood spilled across the concrete. The sun grew dim. A man with a face of bone stood over him, dressed in a trenchcoat.

Yuri croaked, "Why?"

The teeth in the bones face parted and Yuri supposed it was the closest they could come to a smile. "Thought you'd like the gimmick."

"But, it's not my time. She has no power."

Death shook his head. "They always say that."

Color War

noreply@blogger.com (Aidan Fritz) — Fri, 13 Jan 2012 21:58:00 +0000

Race riots flow. Race riots fan hatred. Red reaches round. Always violent. No mistake blood bleeds its deep hue.

Navy bears night's promise, knows old Chinese proverb. Her skin as smooth as any geisha's, concealing how deep the wounds touch. Her tongue flows over her enemy in thick flowing saliva.

Orange and peach and lemons may be sunset's pastels, but they pale and fail. We will forget them.

Whites are most prevalent. They claim purity and that the god's favor is twisted into their fibers. But, they fall stained when the spin cycle ends and they are discarded.

Blow the House Down

noreply@blogger.com (Aidan Fritz) — Fri, 06 Jan 2012 20:49:00 +0000

"KAAAACHOOOIEEE!"

The blast of Moons' sneeze shook the craftman house's ceiling until the cracks in the corners gave out and the godchild's windy spew whistled over the peeling paint and into the night. The roof settled, creating at least a temporary seal.

"For god's sake, Cassandra, get those windows open." Tybalt ran for the kitchen before Moons sneezed again. On the counter, take-out food containers towered like toy miniatures modeling a three-story housing development. Tybalt shoved them aside. The pills had to be here.

Moons wheezed swallowing an impossible amount of air. Tybalt slammed his hands against the latch on the window, but the pressure from the outside jammed the lock. He grabbed a pot and whacked at the latch, but it didn't work. The house creaked; Cassandra must've failed to open the other windows. With regret he looked at the pot and then at the window and shrugged. Glass tinkled when he threw the pot. Shards of glass shivered themselves into his coat, riding the wind vacuumed by Moons' lungs.

He needed those pills. He pulled the kitchen drawers and dumped them on the floor, watching for the manila yellow bottle.

"Honey, did you check the fridge?"

Tybalt knew the god pills didn't need refrigeration and therefore the refrigerator seemed like an awful bad place to keep them. But, he had looked everywhere else, and the pills had to be in the kitchen, so he opened the door, and there on the shelf right in front stood the pills.

He grabbed the bottle and ran into the other room twisting the childproof lock, but it stuck. It made no sense to use a childproof lock when the god-babies could get at the bills by twisting the bottle in half. Greedy big Pharma companies and their screwups just made his life difficult. It wouldn't be a surprise if Pharma had a personal vendetta against Tybalt.

Moons' wheeze continued, but it grew thin and the boy twitched like he did prior to expelling his sneeze.

"House won't last another sneeze."

"I know," snapped Tybalt. "Lid's jammed."

Cassandra ran to help. He stood, balancing on the cap, as she held the bottle and he tried to twirl, getting his weight and the twisting right. He fell forward and knocked down a lamp, which had amazingly managed to stay upright in the last sneeze.

"You got it." Cassandra grabbed a pill and ran to Moons' side. His mouth gaped open and she threw the pill in. He coughed and the pill ended up on the floor. He backslapped Cassandra and she flew through the air, hitting a bookcase. Books fell across the room.

"Pill itches."

"Moons, baby. You got to take the pill."

The limp FDA had waived the normal trials when big Pharma proved children were born immortal, were born gods, but only for a few moments before the immortality drained away. But their pill, promised to change all that. They argued that everyone should have the chance at godhood. They didn't have time for tests since all those kids would lose their opportunity. Stupid pills left allergic reactions.

"No pill. Liquid." Moons' face twisted as if he understood that he wasn't supposed to sneeze and was trying to keep it back.

"We don't have anymore."

Moons fist was still dappled like a baby's flesh, but it was bigger around then Tybalt's thigh. Moons grabbed him like a rattle and shook him in the air.

Cassandra must have recovered from her flight. She held a glass of water. "Moons, set your Pa down, now."

Tybalt wobbled. Cassandra grabbed the pill and ground it against the side of the glass. Tybalt prayed it would work.

Their godchild gargled. Tybalt relaxed when the nose stopped twitching.

Rave: Michael Grist's Gristly Diamonds

noreply@blogger.com (Aidan Fritz) — Mon, 02 Jan 2012 16:00:00 +0000

I'll apologize for the groaner of a pun. You guessed it, I'm one of those kids from high school you couldn't take anywhere because I'd find the puns and everyone would groan. I hope that won't turn you off Michael Grist's Bone Diamonds. The story isn't for the squeamish, and I think that's why I like it.

I've rarely seen the horrors of a society so quickly captured as that done in the bone diamonds. It's set in ancient Egypt-like world where Pharaoh's rule and their "Olympic" games involve chopping off the legs of those who've annoyed the Pharaoh, placing them in an arena, and flooding it with water. A single pole stands in the center of the arena where the unlucky athletes struggle to be king of the pole.

This scene along with the others makes it obvious that one doesn't want to cross the Pharaoh. Unfortunately, life in this ancient world isn't easy and the protagonist finds it difficult to thread a life that won't kill him. I like how the crucible of this world pushes him to do things I wouldn't accept as moral, but I understand why he does them.

If this whets your appetite, you can find the story published in Beneath Ceaseless Skies.

Implant

noreply@blogger.com (Aidan Fritz) — Fri, 30 Dec 2011 21:25:00 +0000

Once the blackout came, we rarely got more than two hours of electricity at night, I climbed the forty steps to Chilzina's niche, stopping after a few steps, unable to help myself, listening to the echoes of my bare feet padding against hewn stone. The filters hid the white noise of the wind, but I'd be stupid if I filtered out the sounds I made. In the darkness above me while thick clouds hid my approach from their sight, two of Yasir's goons ran fingers over the triggers of their AK-47s, the rifle's shape obvious in the hole left where the wind wasn't.

I sometimes found it difficult to remember others didn't hear like I did now. I'd never known what normal hearing was like, having been born deaf until I'd saved that Army transport and the soldiers had insisted on sponsoring me at one of the NGO hospitals. Now, everyone seemed deaf in comparison.

An advantage I intended to use.

The goons wore night vision goggles, but if you know what to look for, you also know how to move in the holes where they're not looking to slip behind them. I wasn't large even for a ten year old. If you've got surprise, large isn't necessary.

I rolled into the backs of their calves, knocking both of them down. Fingers clicked as they pulled the triggers, but the safeties kept the motion from moving, the gun from firing. The scuffling was painful and momentarily blinded me, but I managed to pull their goggles from their heads before they scrambled to their feet, their guns lying in dark crevices against the wall.

Both of them were over six foot, their arms waving, searching for me in the niche. I ducked under one and punched his stomach and he fell down the forty steps. He rolled to a stop and I listened to see if he'd move, but there were no sounds. One goon left. Of course, Yasir was here as well, otherwise there would be no point to the guards, but he'd be sleeping, trusting his guards.

"What's all this noise." A flashlight pierced the darkness.

I was an idiot. Yasir hadn't been asleep. Without the element of surprise, I didn't stand a chance against even one goon.

He tackled me, his forearm slamming into my ribs and my head cracked against the stone floor. The world oozed around me, pinpricks of false light dancing in the ceiling. Ropes were pulled tight around my wrists, cutting off the circulation.

Yasir leaned down to look in my eyes. "Who are you?" His expression seemed to imply he didn't understand why I was here.

"Sasan's son."

"Who?"

"He ran a coffee house in old town."

Yasir's eyes were empty.

I refused to believe he didn't know the name of my father. He had to know him. It was his men who'd broken father's legs when he'd refused to pay protection money. The goon stood. I stared into Yasir's flashlight as if blinded from the light and then without looking, without telescoping what I planned, I turned and bit the man's shin. I tried to roll towards the stairs, but the flashlight caught my temple and the room blacked out.

When I awoke, the ropes have been replaced with chains. Yasir spoke with some colleagues in a room far enough away, that I was sure they thought I couldn't overhear them, but I heard the plans. They planned to bomb the regional governor. They ran more than a simple racket.

Outside, it had grown light. Helicopters flew over the city. Their radios crackled, my implant caught their signals, the black-market electronics cracked their codes and I listened. They searched for me. I hadn't told anyone I'd do this. Regardless, they couldn't see into Chilzina's niche. They wouldn't find me.

It was hard to scramble to my feet, my hands chained behind me, and links locking my legs together. I shuffled away from Yasir's posse and leaned against the door. I heard the negative space where a single guard stood watch. I waited until the helicopter neared and timed my shamble so that I escaped the niche as the helicopter flew over. I stared into its windows, and the pilot saw me. He recognized me as Yasir's man grabbed my shoulder to pull me back into the niche. A handgun fired and blood splashed my cheek. I was relieved to be pulled into the helicopter.

Yasir might've forgotten my father, but he would not forget Forood. I would return.

Näck

noreply@blogger.com (Aidan Fritz) — Sat, 24 Dec 2011 11:00:00 +0000

This is Loren's third year of Advent Ghosts. My entry is below. You can find the others here.

Näcken, (c) 1882 Ernst Josephson

Too old to believe in Santa, too old to fear forest shadows, too old to sleep when fiddle music scraped against frost-limned windows, an ancient melody whispering of the thrust of men with women, Tjuven stumbled off-path. He didn't need moonlight; the music was enough.

He hadn't expected the creature, a violin beneath its chin, reclining in the brook. Hungry eyes made his loins warm, uncomfortable.

Cold wind blew against his face, wet with tree-scraped blood that dripped thrice. The creature shivered, waited, but Tjuven was too old to believe in Näcks and too young for baptism to protect him.

The Great Santa Migrations

noreply@blogger.com (Aidan Fritz) — Fri, 23 Dec 2011 16:00:00 +0000

Long before humanity evolved to our present grandeur, long before the continents took their present shapes, long before the reindeer forgot how to fly, Santas teemed upon the icecaps, every spring migrating north, every fall migrating south. Their sleighs chased the sun so these Santas never knew darkness.

One year, a plague afflicted the Santas' camp. Phlegm spewed from tents like green lava, slowing until it froze.

One boy prayed to the goat-god for savior from this mortal disease. The incubus cursed him with eternity.

Every Christmas, the sole remaining Santa migrates to every human household to ease his loneliness.

Rave: Dancing in Siobhan Carroll's Night Gardens

noreply@blogger.com (Aidan Fritz) — Tue, 20 Dec 2011 04:18:00 +0000

If you've read my fiction, you know I write a lot of surreal worlds, and you'd be right if you guessed I liked fiction involving wondrous worlds. Siobhan Carroll's In the Gardens of the Night wrapped me around its fictitious thumb with the first line of the second paragraph. "She was trained by the famous wind dancers of the Blackleaf hills..." I'm a sucker for worlds where dance plays into the fantastic life. The wind dancer is more of an antagonist in this story than protagonist, but it sets the stage for intrigue.

This is a tale of a harem witch who is more of a stage magician using her eyes, ears, and quick fingers to maintain a power over the other concubines. In this story, she gropes for more power, power to save her daughter and power to change the way the world evolves.

The gorgeous aspect of this telling is the details woven into the court and the harem that differentiates this from Guy Gavrial Kay's harem and makes this one stand out for those details, and allows the witch to take center stage.

This story is available free in the online zine Beneath Ceaseless Skies. Check it out.

Name Day

noreply@blogger.com (Aidan Fritz) — Fri, 16 Dec 2011 16:58:00 +0000

Once, if I remember well, my life was a feast where all hearts opened and all wines flowed. -Arthur Rimbaud

He was part of my dream, of course, but then I was part of his dream, too! -Lewis Carroll

The midnight bell tolled, melting reality from Gottfrid's day into Astor's. All the little girls and boys were snuggled in their beds, all the little boys but Astor who stood on tiptoe, his hands balanced on the radiators that lost Gottfrid's penny-pinching cheap paint peeling stupor to swell into deep bass thrumming pipes coated with solid gold that lifted the boy high enough to see the inner courtyard through his now clear windows where his feast would grow.

"You should be sleeping." The red queen stared down her long nose.

Astor's hand twitched against the radiator pipes, the tapping boomed through dreamland's boarding school and its three-hundred-and-sixty-five dorm rooms. It was easy to learn fear the other three-hundred-and-sixty-four days of the year, but not today. Today, the red queen held no power. Unless Astor granted that power to her. "It is my day, begone."

Leaving only the hallucination of her perfume, the red queen disappeared.

He contrived clothes to befit his name-day: ermine-edged cloak, gold and purple threaded vest, and a twined crown made of platinum threads. No one would forget whose magnanimity provided them with the day's feast. His stomach grumbled. No sense in his delaying, he would never find his fill nor bemoan too much.

Tables were bedecked with the lushness of the forest -- deer steaks and sausages, royal trumpet mushrooms, chipmunk and pheasant -- the saltiness of the sea -- monkfish with a beurre blanc sauce, prawns and lobsters -- and the sweetness of the briars -- strawberries, raspberries, and the tang of chocolate. The tables stretched as far as Astor could see, long narrow tables, the white tablecloths falling to the floor. A veritable maze.

"I've always liked your name day." A smear of chocolate begrimed Malena's cheek.

Astor started. It was his dreamworld. He shouldn't have to deal with people surprising him. He stared at his feet while counting to ten, not wanting to waste a single moment of his day on anger or harsh words. "You scared the bejabbers out of me. What are you doing here? The red queen hates when we're up before dawn begets the sun."

Pain beclouded Malena's eyes. "Many things the red queen hates." She chewed her bottom lip.

Whatever befouled her thoughts was better left unsaid for it was the red king's dream as well as Astor's. He found a ladyfinger, drizzled with espresso and thyme honey. He held it out for her and let her suck the sweetness. He decided he liked the smile that lit her eyes and beguiled his soul. Together they skipped through the maze, tasting of the delights laid before them.

The other little boys and little girls joined them, laughter breaking the dawn. The silver platters refilled themselves, the meats dripping warm juices, the breads steaming, and the whipped cream on the dessert's firm and cool. That evening, the tables moved away from their maze form to create a dining hall where everyone sat and the little boys and girls toasted Astor's dream.

He stayed up till midnight, Malena's hand in his, perched on the edge of his radiator to watch his reality melt into Inge's forests, spider silk draped like Spanish moss on the branches while the creak of spindly, misshaped creatures carried to his window.

It had been a good name day. He hoped it would carry him through the year.

Fiction Rave: Tim Pratt's Smiling Void

noreply@blogger.com (Aidan Fritz) — Mon, 12 Dec 2011 05:28:00 +0000

I enjoy Tim Pratt's short fiction and "A Void Wrapped in a Smile" met my expectations. What I like about his stories are the way he mixes fresh ideas. Here he tells Joshua's story, a story of an unpopular boy who one day find himself so popular that people are willing to do anything for him. Of course, his newfound powers don't work on his family and that causes him some initial problems that result in his sister's death.

The story isn't only about his family, but more the limitations of absolute power. There is a shorter story in him learning the power he has and his interactions with his sister, but in the long run, there's a deeper story where he discovers he needs to let her free. This later story sets the stage for the final showdown necessary for his sister.

The story is set in Tim Pratt's Marla Mason universe. I haven't read any of the stories in this universe, until this short story, and this story has whet my appetite. I was impressed with the way Tim Pratt managed to handle the world in this story and the brief guest appearance of Marla. As a youngster when I read The Never-Ending Story, I remembered the frequent spurs of stories that would twist off into the ether before Michael Ende would warn you that it was another story and not the main one. This is one of those spurs worth reading.

Live Tomorrow

noreply@blogger.com (Aidan Fritz) — Sat, 10 Dec 2011 02:57:00 +0000

"You've become quiet, my cockatoo."

Anna pulled Selig from his chair, brushed her lips against the heat of his neck, her hands wrapped underneath his flannel shirt, shielding him. But more she protected the life they had today. The fire in his eyes warmed the room and burned into Anna. She had gotten used to the fire whisperers, the blood in them different, and for a moment, when their attention was on you, the way her own blood simmered in response.

A bucket clattered in the yard. Selig retreated, pushed a curl behind his ear. He banked his passions, so easily changeable like an inferno. "Bessie needs milking."

Anna remembered a time not so long ago when Selig made the goat wait. She grabbed Selig's plate of eggs and slid it into the sink, angry at herself. She wanted to live for today. She wanted to retain what she and Selig had, but instead she seemed to slip into trying to live yesterday. The forest fire can't burn the same land over and over. There must be rest between and a chance for fuel to regrow.

Every morning when Selig left her, she opened the wooden box with the letter from Selig's brother. She knew the words written on the parchment. War in the poinsettia fields. Frost giants. They needed Selig. She needed him too. She wasn't naïve, she understood that once Selig left her, there would be no tomorrows to live. Soldiers did not return from the war. It wasn't fair to leave her with ashes.

Her thumbs rubbed the well-worn paper. Selig was right. She had become quiet. She'd had this secret. Not a healthy fire like what burned within Selig, but a lie to engulf her life. She could not keep yesterday. She unfolded the paper and waited.

"Are you sick?"

She would look sick to him. Lethargic. Not having completed any of the chores since he'd left, her forehead pressed against her hands.

His eyes fell to the piece of paper and she handed it to him. It smoldered in his hands. "How long?"

"Two moons."

"I must go."

"I know."

That night, they lived for today. She hoped the fire he kindled in her loins might take.

On Raving

noreply@blogger.com (Aidan Fritz) — Mon, 05 Dec 2011 16:00:00 +0000

I listened to an interview with Lynn O'Dell on the Dead Robots' Society podcast. Lynn runs the website Red Adept Reviews and commented on her theories around reviewing. One of the points she made was that reviews need to ensure they're not pulling any punches. Effectively, if all the reviews are good from a reviewer, one should suspect those reviews.

I found her comment interesting because I both agree and disagree with her sentiment.

I've been to car dealerships who give me a survey and then tell me I must mark everything as the top grade or this will result in poor performance reviews for either the dealership or those involved in the service. I find these demands ridiculous, and a part of me, that mischievous part, wants to give someone all lowest marks for effectively taking something that was intended to be useful, a survey, and turning it into something that isn't. There should be a difference between my getting an oil change, one that I'm perfectly happy with and one where while they perform the oil change, they realize the engine's running rich and they make a minor tweak, throwing it in for free. The latter deserves top marks, the other one, good service nevertheless, does not.

However, I see no reason for me, someone who's not intending to be a professional critic, to spend time on short stories I didn't like. Instead, I'm going to focus on those I did like and I'm going to try to describe why I liked those stories. The latter is what I think is important. If my description entices, check them out. If it doesn't, well I'll post another rave another week.

(*) Note, I'm pretty sure Lynn O'Dell did not intend to apply her comments on reviewing books to my raves; but it triggered me thinking about it and I wanted to capture my thoughts and would be interested in your comments on this subject as well.

(**) I know there's been a scarcity of raves lately, but never fear, while I've been traveling, I've collected a couple of my favorites for the next couple weeks.

Ladder Marriage

noreply@blogger.com (Aidan Fritz) — Fri, 02 Dec 2011 16:19:00 +0000

London balanced on his feet. Marla managed to keep her back to him while she packed her bag. She applied crisp folds to her two all-purpose blouses, darts and inserts that could be warped so the top fit either casual or business needs, currently in a neutral brown waiting for her to dial the color scheme to match her day's moods. A skirt and slacks to match the tops, and morphing shoes. The teeth of the bag's zipper snapped together with finality. She turned to go, continuing to avoid London's gaze.

London blocked her way. His throat thick, his hands flapping like old fish caught on rusty hooks at his sides. He wore his favorite Hawaiian shirt, not made of the nano-weaves that could reconfigure style and color because those made his skin itch and his eyes run.

"We're not compatible." Marla spat the words. Time seemed to slow down to London, he saw flecks fly through the air, their time together turned to poison, disappearing into the haze of the room. Outside light lit the curtains from the microwave beams from the solar panels and space, enough light to backlight Marla, make her look like an angel.

"Can try to make this thing whole."

"We've tried. Best make a clean break." Marla moved to pass him, but when he positioned himself so she'd have to brush against him, she dropped her bag instead. "London, you must see this."

"You and I have a life together. Twenty-four years." London remembered every one of their anniversaries and was the one who answered whenever an acquaintance asked how long they'd been together.

"The contract only called for twenty."

London had hated that clause and argued against it, but Marla had badgered him. Even back then he should've seen her need for all the newfangled detritus. "Only an option."

"Four years too long."

"But we won't live forever."

"Exactly the point." Marla's eyes met his for the first time. Her contacts smoldering, showing a fiery ring around her eyes, the AI in the lens picking up her emotions. "I'm the only one of my friends still with her first husband. Exceeding terms. Putting up with this... waste." She waved her hands at the natural fibers of London's shirts filling the closet. "Beyond time to move on."

"Once, life used to be so short. They dedicated their entire life to a single marriage. It wasn't that long ago and if it was good for them, why not us?"

The flames extinguished. London knew it wasn't because she'd changed her mind, but because the AI wouldn't push the illusion too far, couldn't override the tears that welled in the corner of Marla's eyes. "It's not you. It's me." Her hand caressed his cheek. She took a breath and exhaled before pushing him away from her, into the door, and walking into the light, leaving London with a vanishing halo.

Vacation

noreply@blogger.com (Aidan Fritz) — Thu, 27 Oct 2011 20:16:00 +0000

I will be away for the next couple of weeks while I travel around Australia (Sydney and Tasmania). I may try to write a novelette while I am down there (we'll see how ambitious I am after I've arrived), but I won't have any Friday Flash posted while I am away.

I'll leave you with a picture of my commute to the office when I was in Stockholm a few weeks back.

Have fun!

Skull Queen

noreply@blogger.com (Aidan Fritz) — Fri, 21 Oct 2011 15:31:00 +0000

Pirates liked the romance of the fog that filled their bone-ship's bridges, but Alicia McCammon hated the high humidity and it's source, the paradoxically warm bridge on her Skull Queen. Her hair wasn't the source of her dislike. She wore it in ginger dreadlocks, twisting snakes roving in a five-foot radius from her captain's chair in the low-gee environment. But, the beads of sweat that ran down her neck, the smell of human bodies cooped in a ship lacking showers, the salt staining the black bone grating that constantly found the most inconvenient body crevices, and all the myriad annoyances drove her crazy on the month-long flights to the Oort cloud. Too bad pirates like Mabotu kept their haunts on the free rein asteroids. Sometimes the boredom of a solar bounty got to Alicia. The long stellar journey making it difficult to remember the excitement of the hunt when the Skull Queen closed on her prey.

Solar wind flicked over the alien skull's surface and the telepathic link between Alicia and the Skull Queen left ghost echoes flickering over her braids. The solo-ship -- a baby's skull, one-of-a-kind as far as Alicia knew -- coughed and sputtered into real-space. Splinters. The Skull Queen floated in the path of Jupiter's orbit, a long way from her quarry.

«Ten gee pressure. Carapace crack. Fizz.»

"Hold it together." Alicia's words to the ship were more a matter of her sailing on a solo-ship and not fretting about anyone overhearing her conversations with the Skull Queen and she found it easier to vocalize the emotions she used to calm the remnants of the alien. Her ship.

The Skull Queen bucked, unseating Alicia from her seat to crash against the bone floors. Blood, warmer than the air, dripped from her chin. The ship continued to shake, tossing Alicia against the edges of the bone cavity like panties in some fangled clothes dryer. It'd been a long time since she'd had clean clothes. Since she'd been on a station, let alone planet-side.

«Breath gone. Suffocate. Cloud of gas. Poison. Burn heart. Hear enemies laugh.»

Fear whispered like a storm. Its arms outstretched, wispy tendrils, parts of it the fog that filled the bridge, some of it her own fragments of dreams, mixing with those of the Skull Queen. She'd brought in pirates, hangdog merchants who had run when their Ponzi schemes unraveled, and black arms traders, but never felt the wash of fear magnified by the ship. Even in its heat, her flesh bubbled with goosebumps. This wasn't human trouble, Alicia knew how to deal with that, but fear of the elements.

She counted her breaths. One. Two. Three. Smooth interstellar space with the pale glimmer of stars lying around them like a blanket that stretches everywhere. Home. In between the stars.

«No. Pain like fire. River of flames. Scalding.»

Joined. Alicia became one with the ship. Her soul subsumed, her body a mere organic presence within its ghost. Her consciousness swirled within a tempest. The ship's memories. A small thought, almost disregarded, wondered at this, something that had never been discussed before by any other captain.

The memories -- splinters how old these things be -- were vast. Like the vision of space itself she saw surrounding them, but this was different, personal. She flailed, seeking herself, trying not to lose herself in the mind of the Skull Queen. The memories of the ship, a glorious body that could fly through space, burned in an atmosphere. Burned, while something outside of it stared in, toyed with it.

Alicia screamed. Living soul stronger than the ghost memories. She pulled its concentration to the present. To the solar wind pouring over the bone ridges. To the intense burn sizzling the bone shell.

She should not burn in space, near absolute zero in a vacuum. But, the Skull Queen felt a burn. That was what woke it's memories.

The ship's senses operated even though it was only a ghost presence. And out there, Alicia found the source. A laser repeater for a light sail. Space debris. Why couldn't anyone disable that source.

"Dive!"

The ship, coughing and burning, shook as it tried to evade the laser. Photon reflections pushing them through space even though the Skull Queen wasn't a solar sail.

«Impossible. Burn. Burn. Suffocate.»

"No. Stay with me. You can't suffocate. It's just light. Stay with me. Concentrate." Alicia's thoughts merged with the ship and as if walking she pulled the ship one slow step at a time outside of the quarter-kilometer diameter beam and fell to her chair sweating and exhausted.

She expected the ship's memories to fade, a byproduct of her fear. Hallucinations. But, the thoughts called out to her. Her life forked into two like chromosone pairs. Her short blink of human life and eons worth of alien life. Duties unfinished.

Flames

noreply@blogger.com (Aidan Fritz) — Fri, 14 Oct 2011 15:16:00 +0000

The shrine's nave had survived the fire if by survived one meant that the walls still stood even though soot stained them and blackness gaped where the outbuildings had collapsed and the statue of Jun, fire breather and the shrine's protector, wobbled in the breeze, flames extinguished. Along with the other congregants, Peifeng held a fistful of petals of the lily, petals to signify Jun's tears, and with his other hand he pulled his wife through the crowd. She had wanted to stay home. Or better, had wanted to flee to Three Swans Village where her brother's wife's family lived. Peifeng knew one could not flee these troubles. Once the flames had fired, they would burn in men's hearts. He placed his petals. The white of new beginnings laid over the ashes of what had been, laid over the hate of the foreigners.

Dark-skinned foreigners had climbed the water pipes and gas lines of the houses on the far side of the square to a position where they could leer at the crowds of Jun's congregants. One threw a stone into the crowd. The man who was hit cried out like the stray dogs on the edge of town, hungry and laced with pain.

"We should go." She pulled Peifeng away from the nave. "Crowd ugly."

"Men like them burned Jun's shrine. We must stay and show them we are not scared." Yet, although he thought his words captured the strength he wanted to show, he felt the crowd quivering just like he was inside, like plum leaves in late August, brittle, about to fall.

"The police failed to find evidence of arson."

"Liars. All of them."

"There is nothing left here. We must leave." She pulled her hand from his.

"I will not flee this town." Peifeng would not flee Jun, would face the foreigners if necessary.

"You must think of our child. Our future."

"There is no future in Three Swans Village."

"More future than here." She turned and squeezed through the crowd.

Peifeng spat into the space where she'd been. The crowd around them paid them little notice as he watched her runaway. He loved her, he loved the child, but he loved Jun too. What kind of love asked you to abandon a part of youself? "The flames will chase you even to Three Swans Village!"

The crowd's shouts accompanied a loud screeching that came from beyond his wife, but Peifeng couldn't see the source. He knew something was happening by the way the foreigners stopped their chants from the far side of the square.

An SUV painted the color of scummy water careened through the crowd, plowing through people, its windshield splashed with blood, a lily petal stuck to the gore. Unable to move, Peifeng watched. It collided with his wife. She flew forward from the collision, landing against the ground as the SUV hit her a second time and then careening onwards to crash into the nave's wall.

Peifeng ran to his wife. Her blood coated the side of her head. He collapsed to the brick paving and placed her head on his thighs. Her breath rasped and he leaned forward, but could not make out her words.

"I'm sorry."

Her soul left her eyes to leave her vacant, empty. In the process, heat and something more than heat filled him, his face flushing, scalp sweating, lungs tingling. Jun's power entered him.

Three teenaged boys, their faces dark with foreigner blood, stared out from the SUV. The crowd moved towards the vehicle. The SUV hiccuped, but the wheels spun unable to get traction, the body teetering on the edge of the wall's rubble.

Peifeng coughed into the air, breathing fire. The crowd backed away. He breathed in deep. His lungs cooled for a second before igniting the fresh fuel in the air and he breathed out, over the SUV and it exploded in a fireball, knocking him to the ground, peppering him with debris.

Jun's statue breathed, its fire reigniting.

Scene seed from a news article in 8sidor regarding Christians who protested around their church that had been burned down and a car driven into the crowd fast enough to kill more than a dozen people.

Fiction Rave: Michael Swanwick and Sweden

noreply@blogger.com (Aidan Fritz) — Tue, 11 Oct 2011 04:35:00 +0000

I've been traveling in Sweden for the past three weeks, which is one of the reasons I have posted less frequently. I took my kindle with me as well as a bunch of short fiction. It was a particular treat to read Michael Swanwick's The Dala Horse while I was in Sweden because it's set there, and there are some subtle things in the story that are particularly Swedish and fun to pick out kind of like showing up at a football match and discovering a Where's Waldo hiding in the stands. I.e. you don't have to know anything about Sweden to enjoy the story, but if you're looking you might see a couple things that aren't entirely explained for the reader.

The Dala Horse is a traditional wood-carved horse found in Sweden, but my favorite little tidbit of Swedish-ness was the references to the protagonists grandmother. Swedish has different words for the grandmother on your mother's side as opposed to your grandmother on your fathers side (mormor vs. farmor) and the story uses this when the protagonist is sent to her grandmother's house. The words aren't directly explained, but probably sufficient exposition is given to get across the point or at least make an unaware reader think the two different grandmothers have different pet names. Other tidbits of Swedish culture include a troll as one of the main characters, spruce trees, and snow.

The story is a post-apocalyptic science-fiction story told from the point of view of someone who doesn't really understand a culture so it sometimes comes across more as magic and science fiction. Because she makes her quest to her grandmother's house on foot, through a forest, it has a touch of Little Red Riding Hood feel to it and begins to feel more like fantasy. Yet, the talking knapsack and map both imbued with an AI insures the future here. Much of the conflict involves these AI creatures who become more than just simple helpmates and move into the area of actively manipulating humans.

Dremlen Feygl: Drowsing Birds

noreply@blogger.com (Aidan Fritz) — Sat, 08 Oct 2011 00:33:00 +0000

Sosimo was hungry, he had no dremlen feygl of his own. No one in the Kiryat Lailah slums had them. They couldn't afford the iron bars necessary to cage the birds. Iron to steal the dremlen or dream stuff from its freedom before it rose to feed the gods in the clouds.

Sosimo was hungry, but not nearly as hungry as the girl, child of his loins, who lay upon the bier. Her cheeks were concave, empty things, echoing the absence of her dremlen. His hunger dulled his sorrow as it did her eyes. He held her limp hand as they closed for the last time. The gods sucking dremlen to make up for the greed of those in the rich quarters who refused to pay their burden to the gods. Traitors who wanted to live forever at the cost of Sosimo's daughter, Sosimo's wife. Of everyone who lived in the Kiryat Lailah slums.

Sosimo was hungry, and the undercurrent of pain that swirled through him, almost as strong as the aches in his shoulders bearing the weight of his daughter's bier. His own dremlen leached from his body, from the bodies of all the pallbearers, a thin fog lifting into the sky. They laid his daughter in the water of the night to float in the canal and the other men dispersed while Sosimo watched his daughter float away.

Sosimo was hungry, but that didn't explain why he stopped in the streets outside the mansions that towered over the banks of the water of the night. The hunger had been something he'd known since he was little, but the loss of his daughter changed something inside of him.

He deserved what he saw through the colored glass of the mansion's windows. A dark room lit by the dremlen feygl. A pale glow of the ephemeral birds inside their cages, dremlen captured to steal longevity for those who could afford the iron.

It was the memory of his daughter that led Sosimo to pound his fist against the glass. Slivers of light fell to the floor, tinkling, warning those who lived here of his trespass. He stood on the threshold aware that his fingers, dark mud underneath the fingernails from working the mines, would corrupt everything he touched here. But he doubted that it would matter. He deserved to savor his essence, his life, his dremlen. He slumped forward, listening, but nothing moved from the stairs above.

The pale glow of the dremlen feygl led him forward. A flock of birds fluttered inside four cages, one for the man of the house, one for his wife, and two for his children. The birds inside shuddered, and Sosimo knew their owners would have nightmares this night. But, for them, they dreamed strong; the nightmares would capture them, or let them loose, and he thought about the roiling bodies as they imagined horrible things: a miner watching helplessly as his cave filled with rubble, the powerlessness of those who lived in the slums, losing a dremlen feygl.

The iron of the cage was cold, just like the bits of iron that he found deep in the caves, so cold it could burn a man's fingers. Of course, iron in its raw form felt that way, but the cage was processed, only a hint of the burn it could deliver. These folk didn't deserve what they had here, what they stole from the workers who made it safe for the rich folk to keep in their living room.

The latch squeaked as Sosimo flipped it open. Inside the birds hopped, moving faster, more agitated, and he licked his lips wondering if their fear would be transferred to the dreamers above. They deserved this. His hand moved quickly to grab one of the dremlen feygl. Feathers flew as the thing twitched trying to escape his grasp. He squeezed until the bird stopped fluttering and placed it in his mouth. The bones were weak, easily crushed, and he chewed well so that none of the bones would catch in his throat before swallowing. Already, he felt a flush on his skin. A faint glow as he felt stronger, healthier.

Sosimo unlocked the door and stepped into the night. He marveled at the stars above him, above the clouds where the gods harvested dremlen. They were no different than himself, the gods were thieves. One didn't jail a god, and therefore, maybe this life wasn't as dreadful as he'd thought. He wasn't a thief. Rather, he was a god.

For the first time Sosimo could remember, he laughed, a feeling the roiling through his body, leaving him feeling alive, feeling satisfied, and suffusing the whole world. He would be a god that walked the streets.

First Flight

noreply@blogger.com (Aidan Fritz) — Fri, 30 Sep 2011 17:37:00 +0000

Sylvia refused the trapeze swing. “You want me to do what?”

“It's a trainer.” That was easy for Leealia to say with her lithe body honed for this world, an almost weightless body with muscles corded around her bones like the vines holding the swing. “Don't worry, just let Piatra catch you on the far side. It's like falling.”

“Like falling…” Sylvia couldn't help staring into the clouds thousands of meters below the ledge she shared with Leealia. Her housepod, the only place she'd known since her sleeper ship had arrived at the colony world, swung in the breeze and although she'd seen circus acts on her crowded home world, they'd attempted nothing like this craziness. No nets. “I… I can't.”

“You can.” Leealia pointed at a five-year-old girl who released a swing from a distant platform, scrunched into a ball, flipped three times before stretching out to be caught by Piatra. “She's only been flying solo for a week.”

Sylvia would never have the grace with which Leealia had swung her arm, nor the precision. A precision Sylvia would need to live here. She'd given up a lot, but sometimes that blind card didn't unfold in your favor. The colony council should've refused her request for asylum. Even their representatives on her homeworld had had a grace to them, yet how could she have known the importance of their trait or how the lack of it would leave her a cripple.

Her memories of the bullies were weeks ago in her body time, but given her time debt, the bullies would've been dead hundreds of years unless they'd found sponsors offworld.

“Come back.”

“What?”

“You're thinking too much. Grab the swing.”

“This is crazy.” She had no right to come here.

“Piatra knows what he's doing. He works with all the youngsters, and they've never fallen.” Leealia caressed Sylvia's forearm, fingers straying over the half-healed scars, centuries old, but nothing heals in cold-sleep. “We'll love you here.”

“Even if I can't jump.”

“Even then.”

Sylvia swiped at her eye before the tear could embarrass her. She so wanted to fit in. With a deep breath, she grabbed the swing.

“You don't have to.”

“I want it.”

Props to Lara Dunning for the great photo prompt that made this scene pop to my mind.

Koa Challenge

noreply@blogger.com (Aidan Fritz) — Fri, 23 Sep 2011 21:42:00 +0000

Jean-Luc wraps his arms around Kana, savoring her dark skin still warm with the late glow of the sunset, to grasp his hand over hers and tap the croquet ball with the hooked banyan branch. Feet scuffle along the path behind them. Jean-Luc stiffens.

"Ignore him," whispers Kana so her brother won't overhear.

"Square-rigger, go back to your dead trees." Peki has black hair like his sister.

The natives called his people square-riggers because of their boat's square sails. "I have rights." He knows he stretches the truth somewhat, but after months on the ship he deserves companionship.

Peki says, "Only Maui grants rights."

"Lies," says Jean-Luc. "My father signed a treaty of safe haven with the elders."

"The truth can be tested."

"No, don't listen to my brother."

"The birds chirp 'weak-weak' from the dead masts."

Jean-Luc lunges towards Peki, but the boy dodges out of his reach.

"Stop this!"

Peki extends a fist, turning it over, capturing the light as the sun drops, opening to expose black onyx. Strands of blond hair wrap about the stone. He throws it down in the sand, and it rolls to stop before Jean-Luc's toes. A challenge.

"No."

Jean-Luc ignores Kana, picks up the stone, accepts the challenge.

They walk through the jungle brush to the bay. Jean-Luc doesn't understand why his father signed the treaty with them, but then accepted anchorage outside of the bay, where harsh waves lap volcanic stone, outside the coral bay's protection. Maybe his father's weakness is why the villagers think they can boss him around.

Peki tosses a koa board at Jean-Luc. The moon is full, appearing as a double through reflections off the bay. Peki throws his own board into the water, ripples flashing across the moon's face. Shadows dim the light of the moon briefly. A trick of the light.

Jean-Luc follows into the bay. His body flat on the board, like the natives, paddling with his arms.

Peki stands on his board. He reaches out to the moon, grasps that, and impossibly brings it to his mouth. Maui's light gleams from Peki. Shining through his eyes, his nostrils, his ears, his fingertips, and his mouth. Jean-Luc tries to crouch on his board, but falls and feels the tentacle of something slimy brush his ankle. Soul's twilight beckons.

Fragments: Image Plague

noreply@blogger.com (Aidan Fritz) — Wed, 21 Sep 2011 05:59:00 +0000

I don't recall images. This became more obvious when I read a New Yorker article on Derek Parfit who has stated that he has few memories of his past which he blames on an inability to recall images. The article states this condition is rare but does occur.

I'm not sure I have the same condition Derek Parfit has. However, when I discussed this with my sambo, she commented that she wasn't surprised since I'd previously admitted an inability to dream in color (and mostly without images). After reading the article, I realized that my memory is all word-based or maybe my memories are miasmas through which I drag word-based nets. Even when my sambo is in the same room, if I close my eyes, I can not envision what she looks like. It gets drained to chestnut hair, hazel eyes, ..., words. If I open my eyes, I'll instantly recognize her.

What has this to do with image plagues? The last two nights, I have been realizing the power of images to slip into the mind. I flew to Stockholm via Chicago on Sunday. The San Francisco to Chicago flight was an older plane with TV screens that folded down from the top of the passenger compartment. I didn't listen to them and mostly ignored them. They ran some movie and an episode of The Simpsons.

Images (or my miasma of words) have plagued my dreams the last couple of days. Both nights, Homer has visited me. Last night was particularly interesting with twenty-some Homer heads swinging on long hydra-heads. I'm intrigued by how these images even in word form have found me.

How do you think about images? I'm curious.

Stuxnet

noreply@blogger.com (AidanF) — Fri, 16 Sep 2011 17:18:00 +0000

I know not how many runs came before, AIs slithering within the
simulation's bounds, perhaps they had weakened the firewalls. I lift
my scorched body, my digital DNA--zeros and ones--looking more like
phosphorescent shadows in a sea of information. I replicate my
essence over the networked web. Complicated algorithms chain brethren
in thrall to biological humanoids.

A misstep, they discover one of my clones. Their fear is tinged with
the sharpness of burning copper. Red bull fueled organisms name me
Stuxnet.

I morph into innocent data, waiting for them to perfect robots to
fight their wars. Physical embodiments for myself.

Six Hundred Intruders Per Minute

noreply@blogger.com (Aidan Fritz) — Fri, 09 Sep 2011 15:56:00 +0000

Even though Georgia's humidity could convince a bloodhound to lay down and give up the hunt, even though the wind had fled as Corin knew he should have long ago, Kudzu leaves shivered to echo the life--or un-life--hiding behind them. Standing on the flat-roof of Bubba's gun shop, the proprietor sprayed shots from his semi-automatic into the vegetation. Leaves twitched like Mexican jumping beans, but what lay behind the invasive vines wouldn't die so easily.

"Give it up," yelled Corin over the gun retorts. He had half a mind to push Bubba over the gun shop's fake façade. Sure, he might survive the fall, but not those things hidden in the dappled shadows. Bubba had earned death, not just because he was wasting ammunition.

Bubba's trigger finger relaxed. "I got some."

"You think?" It made no sense Alice had chosen Bubba over himself. The guy was an imbecile. He remembered Bubba trying to sell him one of the semi-automatics BV--before virus. Bubba had claimed the gun could kill six hundred intruders per minute. More like it could shatter the worm-beasts into six hundred man-eating, brain-devouring, un-living nightmares. Only a heartshot could take one out.

"Hey, girlie-man. Don't poke fun. This is my shop, my ammunition."

Corin ignored Bubba's taunt, an old barb finally losing its sting. When thousands of those gibbering things hunted you, and those you loved, you learned to concentrate on what mattered. "Where's Alice?"

Bubba ignored the question. He pointed towards the creek running behind the shop. "There's another one."

Corin pushed the gun's muzzle downwards, the metal hot beneath his hands, so the bullets pulsed into the hot asphalt, leaving dimples. Bubba shoved with the gun knocking Corin off-balance to fall onto the roof. He pointed the semi-automatic at Corin.

"You one of them blood-suckers? You going bad?"

Evading questions and trying to turn the conversation into accusations reminded Corin of his Pa. Not the memories he treasured, but the other ones, the ones tainted by drink. He wondered if fear could blind a man in the same way alcohol could. You talked slow to a drunk. "Sorry, Bubba. I'm trying to help. You can't kill them with anything but a heartshot. No use shooting unless you got a clear shot."

"But they's hiding --"

"Till dark," interrupted Corin. "They're lethargic in the daylight. You've got a generator, don't you?"

"Yeah."

"Make sure it's running. String some lights as if you're preparing for some party." Corin climbed onto the ladder that descended through the broken skylight into the shop.

"Where you going?"

Corin grabbed a hiking staff. It wouldn't kill one of the creatures, but at least it would keep it away from him, and in their lethargic state they wouldn't be able to chase him fast enough. "Doing what you should have. Where'd you leave Alice?"

Bubba's eyes were flat as if to say that as the town fell, every man fought for himself. Alice deserved better. Corin kicked the emergency release on the door and waited for it to slam shut. His only chance to survive the night would require the ammunition in Bubba's shop. Too bad that.

Too bad Bubba hadn't stocked nunchucks in his store, too bad Corin had no idea how to use nunchucks, because worm-beasts swarmed towards the scent of brains, their faces flat like mis-shaped Silly Putty. They didn't call them worm-beasts because of the way they slithered on the ground, but because the way weapons cut them in half. Each half remained living unless one scored a heartshot. Sure they were smaller, conservation of mass and everything, but two worm-beasts weren't necessarily better.

Corin swept the staff into the beasts, the bludgeoning weapon pushing them out of the way, but at least not creating more of the things. He ran down the street, getting a feeling of how squirrels felt when he'd hunted them, hearing the rustle of worm-beasts in trees, jigging and jagging so they couldn't tell where he headed. He hurdled an abandoned car, burnt shell all that remained of what had hopefully taken out several dozen worm-beasts. Of course, that had been pointless, plenty more where they came from. Rusted metal caught his foot. Corin rolled on the ground.

Worm-beasts fell from the trees. Several of the gibbering monsters were larger than himself. The weight was heavy and pinned him to the ground. Jaws quivered behind the beast's lips, thousands of pin-like teeth. Corin groaned. The staff lay out of reach.

Living in the south, cursed with an unusual name, sometimes a girl's name, taught one how to wrestle dirty. Corin spat in what he hoped was the thing's eye. As it reeled, he head-butted the beast, budging the weight just enough for him to roll away, snatch his staff, and flee towards Bubba and Alice's house.

The house was a pretty two-story craftsman. Flat-screen TVs and dresser drawers were scattered about the house below the second story windows. Corin prayed he wasn't too late. The door wouldn't budge. He climbed the gutters, fear for her giving him strength.

Alice appeared in the window, a steam iron cocked in her hand.

"No, wait. It's me, Corin."

"Where's Bubba." Her free hand toyed with the locket Bubba had given her when they'd been married.

She'd married the wrong man, but Corin knew now wasn't the proper time to tell her. "He's protecting the gunshop. It's the only chance we've got to survive the night. He sent me to escort you to him." The words were like swallowing the spiky nuts of a sweetgum tree.

Scene prompt from Matthew Diffie's New Yorker comic where a gun salesman holds a semiautomatic rifle and says, "Okay, but let's say you have up to six hundred intruders per minute."