David's Writing Blog

Zombie Drabble #403 "One Eye Open"

noreply@blogger.com (David Blackstone) — Tue, 21 May 2013 06:55:00 +0000

He rolls over, sticks his head out over the edge, peers down into the darkness, lets his eyes adjust. The undead file past in groups of five, thirteen, forty-two. They don't notice him; all they see or smell is the distant fire that used to be San Antonio. They are drawn to the light, at least while the sun is down. He wonders if they will walk directly into the flames once they arrive. Maybe that was the idea. Maybe it was intentional.

He rolls back over, closes his eyes. He should sleep now, while he can, while he's safe.

Fantasy Drabble #312 "Champion"

noreply@blogger.com (David Blackstone) — Wed, 15 May 2013 21:43:00 +0000

"How old are you?" The little girl whispered at the darkness.

"You swallow dust that was my bones with every breath. I planted the trees that made the acorns that birthed the trees that were cut down to build this house. Old."

"But you're not real anymore."

"Real enough." From the darkness sounded a knock, knock, against the hardwood floor.

"But are you strong enough?" She glanced nervously at the door; her father would be home presently, smelling of smoke and liquor.

"I don't have to be strong. Smart is better than strong. And old is smart."

"I hope so."

SF Drabble #403 "Former Assistant Director, CERN"

noreply@blogger.com (David Blackstone) — Sun, 05 May 2013 23:32:00 +0000

There are eight people on the bus. The driver, me, an old lady, three teenagers sneaking drinks from beer cans hidden in paper bags, and a couple who are so intent on making out they're oblivious to all else.

The world's going to end in twelve minutes. Don't ask me how I know.

I wondered where I was going to be when it happened, and I guess this is it. I could pull the cord, get off at the next stop, but what would be the point? Maybe if we pass a bar… I wouldn't mind having one last drink.

White Lie

noreply@blogger.com (David Blackstone) — Sun, 05 May 2013 19:24:00 +0000

The woman sees him tramping up the dusty road and waves him over with a gentle smile. She offers him water and a tear of bread, and asks his name. He does not say, I am Rekkit. My father is Myn who rules all, and his father was Ul the exploded God.

"I am Juho, Chi-Eyd." He uses the word for mother that means 'adoptive'; it is a tradition among road-travelers. The name he chooses for himself once meant 'well-meant falsehood'.

"Sit, Juho, here in the shade of the awning. My sons are away at sea, and I have no one to talk to."

"I am grateful."

Her name is Kistril; she is a widow. From their sailor's pay, her sons send her scrip for gold through the mails so that she may keep her house and her full stomach. She sings to herself to pass the time; when he asks, she sings to Juho.

At song's end, she asks, "Where do you come from, and where do you go?"

You are foolish and impetuous and ungrateful of life, says his father's voice long ago in his memory. Go walk among your Aunt Vyl's creation, the Folk, and learn humility. His answer is piously evasive: "I come from East. Where I go is for the Gods to decide." It is, he is pleased to note, literally true.

Kistril has never been East, knows of the cities there only from songs. She married young, and bred young, and cared only for her children, and knows only the part of the valley she can see from her doorstep.

He finished the last scrap of bread. "You have been generous, Chi-Eyl. Is there work your sons would do were they here?"

She refuses the offer half-heartedly, but eventually admits that the fence has a hole in it that wild kree get through to steal from her garden; if it were fixed she would have more to eat. He convinces her to show him the break that he might repair it.

The garden is large and well-tended. To one side there is a weathered stone bench for reading and a gravestone, both cut from the same rock. On the gravestone is a girl's name and a rune that is well familiar to him.

"Your daughter was favored of Simkit?"

She gives a brave smile. "The Governor of the district sent his own physician as a Devotion. He said she would live only five years; she lived seven. So small and yet so strong." She laughed. "Folk who wanted good luck or special favors would bring her hard candies. I teased her that other people's misfortune would make her fat!"

Rekkit finds suitable wood and repairs the fence. It is hard work on a hot day, but he is free from care. When Kistril is not looking, Rekkit speaks to his brother Akril and his sister Bookt to ask their favor for her garden and house; the widow would have a comfortable winter, for once.

SF Drabble #402 "Be The You You Remember Being"

noreply@blogger.com (David Blackstone) — Tue, 30 Apr 2013 14:42:00 +0000

"How long will this take?"

They always ask, as though they had somewhere to be. "A few hours. Do you have someone to drive you home? You may be dizzy or drowsy, or both. Best not to operate heavy—"

"My car has A.I."

"Good. Now just lie down in the tank… there we go." I put the mask on her myself: they always get it wrong if you let them do it.

The tank filled with goo; I only stayed long enough to make sure she wasn't panicking. I'm over the novelty of standing there watching the years melt away.

Zombie Drabble #402 "So You Thought You Might Like To Go To The Show"

noreply@blogger.com (David Blackstone) — Wed, 24 Apr 2013 06:00:00 +0000

"Going somewhere?" Rick's voice, behind her.

Violet froze halfway up the ladder; in her attempt to climb silently with a heavy pack and rifle over her shoulder, she had forgotten to keep watch. "I'm leaving. Don't try to stop me."

"Technically all that stuff belongs to the town."

She didn't want to have to kill him. "I brought more than this in with me. You've made a profit."

"There are zombies out there."

She didn't respond, just resumed climbing, dropped down, sprinted off. The town wasn't going to last the winter; she'd seen it before. Better to risk the zombies.

Zombie Drabble #401 "Soles"

noreply@blogger.com (David Blackstone) — Mon, 22 Apr 2013 03:52:00 +0000

"This guy looks about your size." Farris stood over the now mostly-headless corpse.

Shepherd finished reloading and knelt down: like-new basketball shoes, not so much as a scuff on the outside. But the inside… "He's been dead too long. I'd never get the stink out."

"Beggars can't be—"

"I'm not taking his shoes."

"Suit yourself." Farris moved on, peering into cars that hadn't moved in three months. "Maybe there's a strip mall around somewhere."

"I don't even know where we are." Shepherd turned, called to the group. "Hey, anybody from around here? Or just knows where there's a shoe store?

Fantasy Drabble #311 "Vocation"

noreply@blogger.com (David Blackstone) — Tue, 16 Apr 2013 03:29:00 +0000

There was only one table in the tent where Orley waited. She stood silently, hands folded, while Kranz helped the orderly strip the wounded swordsman of his plate mail. Under where the metal had been pierced: a great gash of a wound.

Orley stepped forward, placed her palm on the injury, spoke the words as she had a thousand times before. The gaping wound began to close as sweat dripped from her quivering brow.

Kranz reached out to steady her. "I don't know how you do this, My Lady."

She smiled weakly, wanly. "It's all I ever wanted to do."

Fantasy Drabble #310 "I'm Saving My Love For You"

noreply@blogger.com (David Blackstone) — Tue, 26 Mar 2013 05:18:00 +0000

He needs no rope to help him reach the window, he has a spell to float himself up the wall. He needs no cover of darkness, he has a spell to render his form invisible to the guards. It is night, though, because that is when she asked him to come.

The Princess is waiting at the window. She cannot see him, but she hears the rustle of his clothes. "My father is asleep."

"Heavy snores the head that wears the crown?"

"Something like that. And…" She pushes a strap of her dressing-gown from one shoulder, and grins. "Stay invisible."

Entrapment

noreply@blogger.com (David Blackstone) — Sun, 24 Mar 2013 23:40:00 +0000

The security door closed with a whoosh of sucking air and a loud click.

"Lieutenant." Of course they'd sent someone like her in: pretty, clothes a little too tight, disarming smile. They're too sophisticated to send in a heavy with a phone book.

"How're you doing?"

"I should ask you how you are. Have you been treated well?"

"Nobody's beat me up, if that's what you're asking. They could be more polite."

She sat down opposite me, across the table. In front of her she set down a file folder, a PDA, and a plastic baggie. "People don't tend to be polite to officers who talk about losing the war."

I shrugged.

"Do you think we're losing the war?"

"The first battle was seventy light-years away. The next one will be here. At Sol. What does that tell you?"

"We'll be ready for them."

"That's what we said before Epsilon Eridani. That's what we always say, officially, isn't it? Isn't it?"

She'd been trying not to stare at the burns on the side of my face; now she let me catch her doing it. "You had quite a hard time at Epsilon Eridani, didn't you?"

"I came back. I'm the exception." I shrugged. "Forty ships, plus the troop carriers. Nearly a hundred thousand dead? Or worse, captured? I had it easy at Epsilon Eridani."

"Is that why?"

I let it hang there. Eventually I said, "Is that why what?"

She held up the plastic baggie. I couldn't read the markings on the bag, the writing was too small, but my slipdrive was clearly visible at the bottom. "Why you were taking this out of the building—"

"I work from home sometimes."

"You know that's against the rules."

I shrugged again. "You know everyone does it anyway. If we didn't, the work wouldn't get done. Is that what this is about?"

"No." She opened the file folder, took out an 8x10 photo — actually printed on paper — and held it up. "Do you recognize this man?"

Of course I did. "No."

"You were in the same place as he was eight times over the past year, always on a Sunday, always after copying classified data to your slipdrive."

"It's not a crime to be in the—"

"Did you pass the data to him?" She leaned forward. There wasn't anger on her face. She was showing just enough cleavage to be mildly distracting. "I can't help you if you're not honest with me."

"You think he's a Woolie agent?"

"I think you think he's a Woolie agent. He actually works for us."

I blinked. "So then why all of this? Why am I not already out in front of a firing squad?"

She leaned back in her chair, sighed. "Because regardless of what you say, you did have a hard time at Epsilon Eridani. I read the file. You floated in an escape pod full of smoke and your own filth for three weeks. It broke you. You're not a traitor. You're sick."

Fantasy Drabble #309 "Now I Lay Me"

noreply@blogger.com (David Blackstone) — Tue, 19 Mar 2013 00:49:00 +0000

Mother will come back to the bedroom, tuck me in, whisper soft words of comfort, kiss me on the head. Father will call from the doorway with a tired smile in his voice: "Night, sport". I won't bother asking them to check under the bed: it won't be there yet. Uncle Rey has explained the rules carefully.

Tonight will be a bit different, at least for the monster. Uncle Rey built the trap, and installed it. Pressure plates and springs and chains. It will be loud, it'll wake Mother and Father, and they'll come rushing in, and then they'll believe.

SF Drabble #401 "Rattle and Roll"

noreply@blogger.com (David Blackstone) — Wed, 13 Mar 2013 04:01:00 +0000

"She'll hold." He said it to no one in particular, over the roar of the atmosphere battering the heat shield and the whine of the air system trying to keep them from roasting in their crash webbing and the clattering of his own teeth. "Passing below forty kilometers!"

"I've never been to Earth, you know," Mintz shouted from the jump seat.

"I know. You told us before. A couple times."

"I'm just saying." Mintz shouted as the noise intensified. "It would be a shame to come all this way and burn up on re-entry."

"She'll hold!" He yelled. "Thirty-eight kilometers!"

Penny

noreply@blogger.com (David Blackstone) — Fri, 01 Mar 2013 11:02:00 +0000

Penny picked up a tray and stood behind a pair of Vylid; she had six meal allowances for a trip of three days and she was already starving. At least the food up here would be better than whatever they were eating down on the lower decks.

"You," said a voice from behind her, "are human."

She turned, looked up, met the eyes of the being towering over her: a Ryi, and at nine-feet tall, clearly an elderly one. "Yes."

"This facility is for Class C and above; humans are class D. You should depart." The Ryi nodded its elongated head towards the lift.

The Association worked on a rigidly-enforced class system delineated by race. The mysterious Class A races ruled; Class B races like the Vylid or the Grodon served as middle management or military; Class C races worked; Class D, like humans since the invasion, were little better than indentured servants to be used where needed and ignored when not; Class E were slaves, prisoners, or the barely-sapient.

"I'm Class C."

"Show me your identity card."

"You," Penny answered, before turning away, "are not Security."

One of the Vylid in front of her glanced back, but said nothing; most beings living under Association rule knew to mind their own business. The line moved forward half a step.

There was a light tap on her shoulder.

"Forgive me," the Ryi began as she turned again. "I am only curious. All Ryi are Class C, or lower if they commit a crime. I have always been told that promotion to Class B is impossible."

"It might be impossible," she shrugged, "to class B."

"How did you manage to be promoted?"

"I managed a Vylid hatchery on Whynn for ten years." Penny looked behind her, to see if the Vylid pair were listening in, which they were. "It burned. Whynn is hot, and dry, and the oxygen content of the atmosphere is high. Had to run back into the building three times, but I saved all the hatchlings. By the time the Oblogo fire brigade got there, the hatchery had burned to the frame."

"Remarkable."

"The local governor promoted me to Class C; good public relations. The Vylid didn't object, they were just glad to have all their hatchlings safe."

"I can imagine."

Two Grodon officers sauntered in, clad in their omnipresent power armor. They seemed casual, off-duty, until they spied her in the line. They walked towards her, hands on shock-sticks.

When they were close enough, the two Vylid in line ahead of her whistled something at the officers, and waved them off. The Grodon looked confused, but stopped just before they hauled her out of line. The Ryi she'd been speaking to sputtered, trying to speak but clearly intimidated.

Penny turned, fished the lanyard out of her blouse, and held up the attached ID card so they could see it clearly. "Class C."

The Grodon lost interest and moved on. She whispered to the Ryi: "I love doing that."

Fantasy Drabble #308 "Micromanagement"

noreply@blogger.com (David Blackstone) — Wed, 27 Feb 2013 10:20:00 +0000

She walked with a purpose, climbing and descending through the rolling hills. Only after some hours did She finally pause, stop, kneel to sift the dirt through alabaster fingers.

The newly-frocked priest stumbled up, huffing, placed hands on knees, managed: "I feared that you would lead us to the edge of the world!" The rest of the crowd stayed back a respectful distance.

"The world has no edge, Gorrick. It is round, like a grape." She reached effortlessly down into the earth, pulled to the surface a marker stone the size of a man. "Here. Build my first Temple here."

Zombie Drabble #400 "The Finals"

noreply@blogger.com (David Blackstone) — Wed, 20 Feb 2013 08:46:00 +0000

There were ten of them, until there were eight, and a while later, five. When they were five they came down-river; carefully, slowly, silently, because they had learned. Five came through Mount Hope, Goddard. Five went to the Witchita Airport to see if they could find a fueled plane and then there were only two.

"What now?" It was a whisper, face pressed against a black tar roof.

"Wait."

"They'll just go away?"

"Eventually."

"It gets hot this time of year. Dawn soon."

"We wait." He closed his eyes. "Until they thin out. Then we make a break for it."

Fantasy Drabble #307 "Unrestrained"

noreply@blogger.com (David Blackstone) — Tue, 12 Feb 2013 22:21:00 +0000

The dragon lowered his head, opened his mouth, and a fortune in gold coins spilled down his tongue and onto the already-immense pile of treasure.

From a gallery far above, Winnis — the Oreiad — called, "Still more wealth for the hoard, My Lord? I fail to see the necessity."

Midz-Aset looked up and sniffed. "I am a dragon; I collect riches. You are a wood-nymph; you… I don't know what you do."

"Merely observe, My Lord." She grinned. "Will you fill the cavern until there is no room for yourself?"

The dragon took on a wistful tone. "If I am lucky."

Soul

noreply@blogger.com (David Blackstone) — Thu, 07 Feb 2013 23:40:00 +0000

I knew when the church on the corner — the Episcopal one with the gargoyles — wasn't there. Not torn down, not burned, just not there. I'd been feeling strange all morning: sick, angry, lost. Now I knew why.

They're not supposed to be able to just take it. You have to bargain it away, or gamble it away, or curse it away. I didn't do any of those things. Not even accidentally. I've been good.

I went to the shop see Mama Rayes, who knew it the second she looked at me. "You're empty. Get out."

"No," I said, pleading. "I didn't do this. I've been robbed."

"That's not possible. That doesn't happen."

"But it has, I swear."

"You have nothing to swear on." She stared at me. "And I can't save you, you're already gone. This is just the meat and bone that's left over. All I can do for you is end the suffering." She produced the sawed-off from under the counter.

I left. I got on the train out to where Harry lives. He'd do anything for me; we're brothers.

The people on the train wouldn't make eye contact, but that wasn't unusual. Nobody sat next to me, even when it started to get full up. Was there a smell? None that I could detect. Did I look sick? My reflection in the car window wasn't sharp enough to answer.

I got off the train, walked down to the corner and caught the bus. There was a nun sitting in the back, and she locked her eyes on me until I got off. I'm pretty sure she was praying under her breath and white-knuckling her crucifix.

Harry's place was locked but I know where he hides the key: a little pewter frog in the front garden. I let myself in and collapsed onto the couch. I hadn't realized how tired I was; I drifted off to sleep. It was three in the afternoon.

Harry woke me by bursting through the front door at one in the morning: wearing a new suit, singing, with a girl on his arm. "Bobby! What are you doing here? Hey, meet Angelica. Angelica: this is my twin brother Bobby."

"You," I said, as soon as I understood the situation, "are an asshole. Not you, Angelica; Him. Will you excuse us?"

"Sure." She teetered on drunken high heels back towards the bedroom.

"Okay. Why am I an asshole?" Harry was laughing. I wanted to punch him but I didn't have the energy.

"You sold your soul. For money? The girl?" As I spoke he started looking confused, guilty. "It doesn't matter. They came to collect. Only they took mine by mistake, Harry."

"They shouldn't have done that…"

"You shouldn't have done it, Harry. Do you know what this feels like? And then Hell, eventually? What were you thinking?"

"I'll fix it."

"They'd just take yours, Harry. What would I tell Mom?"

"I'll fix it."

"Don't do anything." Mama Rayes would fix it.

Zombie Drabble #399 "Last To Know"

noreply@blogger.com (David Blackstone) — Wed, 06 Feb 2013 03:08:00 +0000

"Where'd Dwayne go?"

She chuckled. "You mean, 'where did Dwayne and Annie go'."

"What?"

"Oh, honestly, Bob, you're so thick sometimes. They've been disappearing up to the roof for weeks now."

He moved closer, and spoke in an irate whisper so the others couldn't overhear. "And you knew about this? And let it happen? Edie, what if he gets her pregnant? He—"

"So what if he does? They're young; someone's going to have to repopulate the species. And don't look at me."

"He's too young—"

"He's been killing zombies with a crossbow for three years now. Too young for what?"

Zombie Drabble #398 "Prostration"

noreply@blogger.com (David Blackstone) — Tue, 29 Jan 2013 03:01:00 +0000

Dear Lord,

Please protect Bill and Allison, and the kids, and Greg wherever he is, and Floria wherever she is. And please let the door hold. Please, Lord: there are so many of them and the door is so thin.

Why have you done this to us, Lord? Is it a punishment for our sins? Do we all have to die for the sins of a few? Do the innocent children have to die?

Help me understand, Lord, please. I've been good and faithful all my life.

Are you listening Lord? Will you help us? Are you even really there?

Entertainment

noreply@blogger.com (David Blackstone) — Tue, 08 Jan 2013 06:18:00 +0000

Creep across floorboards, avoid the ones that creak, step here, and here, and here. Choose the window that slides easy, slip out and shimmy down. Tiptoe through cold, wet grass between streetlights and run like a ship with the spinnaker set.

The graveyard is not far; friends are waiting in their boxes in their holes in the ground. Their bones will clatter together and clamber up and out, and dance and tell their stories and sing until the time comes to rest again or until they fall into exhaustion and dust. They are beyond caring which outcome awaits them tonight.

Couples Only

noreply@blogger.com (David Blackstone) — Sat, 05 Jan 2013 23:25:00 +0000

She was wearing a 'smart' dress, and she changed its cut and color five times before he found an opportunity to introduce himself. He didn't ask how much such a thing costs; such a question would have given away that he was not native to this social echelon, that he was an Academy 'charity case', that he was orbiting above his station. He did manage to get her to demonstrate its full range, however: from evening gown to swimwear and back. Later, privately, it even managed convincing lingerie.

Now it lay draped over the end of the bed, lifeless and unimpressive on its own, but that was hardly cause for disappointment; Jules was more striking without it.

"Who did you come to the party with? I mean, who did you know?" She rolled over onto her stomach, reached for her purse on the floor. He watched her light a cigarette, casually, as if it was normal behavior.

"I went to school with Liam."

"On a scholarship." It wasn't a question; she'd made him.

"I suppose its obvious."

"Oh, don't be embarrassed. I knew straightaway that you weren't an Heir. I wouldn't have fucked you if I cared about that sort of thing. Do you know Liam well?"

"Roommates three years."

"Do you know the girl? The one he picked?" She didn't sound jealous, though she must have been in the running herself; all the girls at the party had been. Attendance at Liam's 'going-away' was something of a consolation prize.

"Shelley. She seems nice. They spent most of the week together, at some cabin."

She took a long drag, nodded sagely. "That's smart. They'll know, by now, then, one way or another. If it'll work or not." Liam's Slot was conditional, and probably so was Shelley's, but he hadn't asked. Two and a half years cooped up in a cabin smaller than most Heir's closets, and then a lifetime together on a new world.

"They held hands most of the party."

"Sure." She took a last drag and then tossed the half-burned cigarette onto the carpet for one of the miniature cleaning robots to chase down, extinguish, carry away. "What are you doing now? Any plans?"

She hadn't turned over; her hair lay spilled across her naked back. "Enjoying the view."

"No, really."

"I have a Slot too."

Jules rolled over, looked at him. "No you don't. Do you?"

"Yeah."

"Conditional?"

"Nope."

"No, of course, not. You're there on a scholarship. You're probably some sort of genius. They'd give you a walk-on Slot." She sighed. "Mine's conditional."

"I figured."

"I really wasn't…" She sat up, moved closer. "I didn't know. I wasn't trying to rope you in so I could claim my Slot. I just thought you were cute."

"I believe you." Impulsively he said, "Wanna go?" He realized immediately that he meant it.

She sat there, naked, staring into space, for a long moment. He'd never watched someone decide the rest of their life before. Eventually she smiled, "Okay."

Courtyard By Marriott

noreply@blogger.com (David Blackstone) — Wed, 02 Jan 2013 01:52:00 +0000

"So here's my question…" I waited for the redhead to turn, to see me, to process what I had said, for the decision to hear the rest to play across her face; all of which happened quickly. Which was a good sign: if they're slow on the uptake I usually abort. Not this time. "What would the perfect thing to say to you be, right now, to convince you to give me a shot?"

"Probably not that."

I smiled; it had been worth a try. Women appreciate honesty. Especially women in hotel bars at midnight.

"But it's probably good enough."

Zombie Drabble #397 "Expression"

noreply@blogger.com (David Blackstone) — Wed, 19 Dec 2012 00:50:00 +0000

They'd met on the train the summer after his Junior and her Freshman year, taking the obligatory wanderjahr through Europe. He'd made a joke to the conductor, who took his ticket and frowned disapprovingly; but she'd smiled mischievously, changed seats to be next to him, started a conversation.

Now, her face was frozen into a map of pain; whether it was pain she had felt at the moment of her death, or pain she was feeling currently, somehow, he had no way to know. He backed through the kitchen and into the living room. She followed him, vacant-eyed and moaning.

SF Drabble #400 "The Girl With The Dragon-Tattooed Spacesuit"

noreply@blogger.com (David Blackstone) — Wed, 12 Dec 2012 04:04:00 +0000

She's still alive. Her comms switch was set on 'open' when she fainted and I can hear her breathing into the helmet mic.

Four hours of air in a single charge, two tanks, she's been out here for six hours already. The rollabout manages about twenty kilometers an hour on flat, even ground, of which there is precious little on the moon. I'm zig-zagging back and forth, driving a search pattern, but she could be anywhere. I need her to wake up.

I'll find her; I have to find her. If I don't, she stops breathing, and I'll be alone.

Zombie Drabble #396 "Whatever"

noreply@blogger.com (David Blackstone) — Tue, 04 Dec 2012 23:46:00 +0000

"Bobby!" His mother knocked on his door, called through it, did both more quietly than usual. "Bobby, get up!"

It was Sunday morning. Well, all right: technically, it was Sunday afternoon. "No."

"Bobby, there's something happening. On the news." She had the beginnings of panic in her voice. "There's shooting downtown. People being attacked."

Three weeks ago she had refused to let him go to a party because someone 'might put drugs in your cup and then murder you'. He clarified, "Go away."

"Bobby!"

He didn't respond. After an hour, he finally went downstairs. By then, they were already surrounded.