Category: General

Saying Goodbye ( a short story ) – J Dark – part 1

Do you know how you’re going to say goodbye to someone? Is it going to be a loving embrace and a soft caress of their cheek before they go to the great beyond? Or, is it going to be heated words and a pistol stuck in their belly as they try to argue, or to plead with you, not to pull the trigger? Or is it simply a call in the night? A quick stop at the mortuary to look at a lump of flesh bloated with formaldehyde, because that’s the law? Or, will you, like me, wonder what happened when they just disappear? Here one day, and gone the next, and no clue where.

I remember, or think I do, the last time I saw Mom and Dad. They’d dropped me off at Uncle Soap’s apartment after packing the beat-up gold Ford Taurus for a camping trip. They often went camping alone at least twice a month, down in the Big Bend National Park. I remember him having on his red and black shirt he’d pulled the sleeves off. Mom always told him that was her favorite shirt of his. She’d wear it around the house sometimes to tease Dad. Not that they were all sweetness and love. More than once I heard them screaming back and forth about all sorts of things. Always it was mostly about drugs.

I didn’t understand then, but I think I do now. They argued the most just before they went camping, and were best together after they got back. As a child, I saw the change, and knew it had something to do with them going camping, but it really didn’t matter. Mom and Dad were happy. They paid attention to me, and bought me things like a new set of shoes, or a cool shirt. It’s funny that I remember the clothes but not their faces. I remember Dad always being skinny, and he had fuzz on his face. I don’t remember if it was a beard or mustache, both, or if he just didn’t shave every day. Mom was like Dad, skinny.

When they didn’t go camping, Dad stayed home nights with me while Mom went to work. She’d always dress up in baggy pants and a shirt, and carry lots of bright, flashy clothes that fit in a little carry bag to work. Dad would stay awake with me until I got tired, then I’d get tucked into bed on the couch at the far end of the trailer. I’d fall asleep listening to Dad watch television. Every so often, before I passed out, I’d watch him give himself a shot of ‘medicine’ in between his toes. I know he was shooting up now, but then I knew he was always more happy afterwards, so it seemed a good thing to me. I knew something was off, most four-year-olds can sense things. We’re not yet aware enough of how to lie to ourselves and avoid uncomfortable truths. Denial and delusion aren’t something that’s learned right away.

Saying Good-bye

Good-bye is a word we use a lot.  When it’s going away for a couple weeks, or leaving to go home from visiting parents or children, good-bye is the one word everyone uses.  But, what if, it is the last thing you are able to say to a loved one?  How does it change in meaning?  How do you resolve those words in yourself after uttering them, knowing that the one you’re talking to, will hear them as your last communication?  It’s a deep gut-wrenching reality that everything in this universe is finite, that everything will, at some point, cease.  ‘Saying Good-bye’ is a look at this shift from existence to history.

The New Year, and a skill plateau

Hiya, as you can tell it’s eight days into the New Year and this is the first post.  it’s been a little slow, and for that I apologize.  To get to the situation, Book Three, (current working title “Beguiling Words”) is stubbornly refusing to finish.  It may require a rewrite of the last portion again to find that elusive path to the end.

Frustrations aside, things feel like when a person is moving from conscious thought to a more instinctive reply.  There’s a point in practice, where, at the start you have a steep learning curve, and then a plateau, where movements you have to think about to perform, struggle to become a learned response one doesn’t have to think about.  This is where I’m feeling my writing at the moment.  It’s like I can see more of my weaknesses, and I can get around them by thinking about each word and situation, but there’s the struggle to push on and let the words flow, which then loses some of the descriptive emotional color, or vibrancy of the background.

The job now is to let the lessons I’m seeing in writing sink in and become part of the learned response so I can add more to the story while the instinctual flow can add more color, description, and emotional impact without the conscious part interrupting the creative flow.

Skid Style – 2nd post

He turned off Belcher, then slowed and turned on Collier. The street ran north and fronted the warehouses that stored good from the ships being serviced at the docks. The pace on the docks and warehouses was frantic. It looked to Charlie like an ant nest that had been kicked open. Cranes were moving cargo off the freighters in large pallets. Another freighter was sliding containers down a ramp to waiting eighteen wheel tractor-trailer flatbeds. The line of trucks stretched over a quarter mile by his estimate.

He looked back forward just in time to avoid drifting into the curb at forty miles and hour. He over-corrected and moved into the oncoming lane. He grunted as he planted his foot and shifted back into the proper lane. I gotta pay more attention. I can handle a wipeout, but not an oncoming car. Where is the turnoff to the dockyard? Charlie’s thought was answered a moment later as the road ended at a ‘T’ intersection. He slowed then slewed right, skidding on the loose gravel, then straightened out, slowing to avoid a tumble, and approached the gate. The gate was a railroad crossing re-purposed to be a traffic control. It was currently down as the gate guard was checking the papers on a white and blue UPS truck.

The outbound lane had a tractor trailer slowly moving forward to leave the docks. At his speed he’d bee there before the truck could clear the gate, and with four others behind it, there was no way to use the oncoming lane to bypass the guard. ‘Skid’ slowed as he approached the gate, raising his hand to his pullover mask to make certain it was still in place. The heavyset gate guard stopped talking as the bright red and blue stocky superhero trotted up to the gate.

“Whatta ya want, uh, kid? I’m kinda busy here”, the guard said with a surprisingly soft voice. ‘Skid’ took a moment to realize that the guard was a woman. He could feel himself blush as he tried to sound authoritative.

“Sorry, ma’am. I’d heard that some stuff was stolen last night. I came by to look the, uh, scene over and see if there is something that, umm, would help find the crooks.” He tried to puff his chest out, and got the mental image of a cartoon mouse trying to look tough while facing a cat. The man the guard was talking to had also turned to look over at ‘Skid’, then turned back the guard with a small chuckle, making Charlie blush even redder.

“I suppose I could let you look around. Heck, seeing you prowling might make them guys with sticky fingers decide not to try anything if a costume’s poking around.” She pressed a button, raising the gate, then waved her clipboard at ‘Skid’. “G’wan through. Place that got hit’s on the north side up there.” ‘Skid’ nodded, then trotted around the van, accelerating back to a somewhat leisurely thirty miles and hour. He slowed again as he dodged a swarm of fork lifts moving pallets of crates and boxes to the white concrete warehouse to his left. The traffic was incessant, with two men shouting orders to the stream of men, and equipment coming from a docked freighter. The noise was near deafening as ‘Skid’ dodged swiftly, and awkwardly between the moving vehicles and people.

Reality vs Stubborness

There is a quote from Calvin Coolidge above my computer:

 

‘Nothing in the world can take the place of Persistence.

Talent will not; nothing is more common than unsuccessful men with talent.

Genius will not; unrewarded genius is almost a proverb.

Education will not; the world is full of educated derelicts.

Persistence and determination alone are omnipotent.

The slogan ‘Press On’ has solved, and always will solve the problems of the human race.’

 

This is also the case in writing, with a caveat.  Writing requires personal determination and persistence to finish a story once begun, because there always will be rough spots in developing the story, dissatisfaction of the editor with the presentation, and numerous edits to fix errors in spelling, language, and word usage.  The problem with ‘Press On’ is that there are times where starting over on the idea of a story works better than attempting yet another re-write.  There’s no way to figure out where the line is, except your own opinion.  You have to honestly look at your work and decide where the line is between re-editing, and starting over.  Only you can make that final decision, as you’re the one with the vision and the story.

Skid Style – opening

Charlie 'Skid' Moore ran leisurely in traffic, easily keeping up with the forty mile an hour pace. His bright uniform of red shirt and blue pants stood out in the crush of lunchtime vehicles. He'd originally gone for a dark grey and black, thinking it looked cooler, but after four very near misses, he'd opted for a brighter, more visible color combination, which created a wholly different set of problems.

People, especially those in the news business, and fanatics on both sides of the 'superhero' argument were prone to following him around. It made it hard to enjoy just being himself for the sake of it. Now however, the congested traffic made it easy to avoid the Newsies and just enjoy running.

Skid accelerated to sixty miles an hour, weaving quickly between cars. Drivers leaned on their horns, with some swerving to avoid the speedster in traffic. Skid grimaced at the screeching tires and prayed that he just hadn't started a chain reaction wreck, but beyond agitated honking, there was no metallic crunching. Thankful, and just a bit tense, Skid took the down ramp and dashed east towards the dockyards. 

I'll start patrolling there. The scanner last night said there were a few robberies. Some missing crates and busted loading doors. I can check that. 

He angled off on to Belcher street, then sped up. His field of vision narrowed. His eyes started to have trouble registering things closest to him. The 'tunnel effect' continued to narrow as he accelerated. God if I could only see stuff around me. That was what had gotten the papers to nickname him 'Skid'. Early on in his career, he'd tried to use his full speed to catch a van escaping from a convenience store robbery. He was on the van so fast that he barely had time to register the impending collision and darted out of the way. He tripped on steps to a brownstone, then stumbled along the sidewalk, still at high speed. 

He'd managed to dodge a couple out for an afternoon stroll, then angled back into the street and stopped running. The skid marks of his melting sneakers as he tried to stop like a comic book hero were over sixty yards long. The van got away by turning on a side street while Charlie had been frantically avoiding collisions. He learned his lesson after that, staying under sixty miles an hour in moving traffic. He'd accelerate, when he had room, but in a city like Boston, room to run flat out was near impossible to find. Considering he'd never figured out his top speed, he wasn't certain he knew of anyplace he'd be safe testing it.

Persistence and Determination

Calvin Coolidge once said that it is “Persistence and Determination” that wins through to the end. Not talent, genius, or education, it’s the determination to push through, set and reach goals, that determine success.  I have to agree.  I’m not the greatest writer by any stretch of the imagination, but I was determined to get published.  I set the goal, and then, more importantly, followed through to reach it.  You can have all the talent, genius and the best education around, but if you’re not determined to use it and set goals, you’ll get nowhere.

Babble-On part 2

The next day, Hermes returned to earth, and sought out Prometheus, who had built a small fire, and was busy roasting a haunch of meat. The sky had darkened as Apollo’s chariot had long since vanished to the west, and dusk had settled over the land. The enticing smell surprised Hermes, who’d to this moment had never encountered it previous, excepting on the battlefield.

“What happened to the beast?” he inquired.

“A sacrifice for my coming to their village. They slew it, and allowed me first choice of the meat. This haunch was my portion and the rest was stripped and eaten by the village.”

Hermes looked at the meat, suspended on a wood stake over the glowing embers of Prometheus’ fire, sizzling and dripping juices onto the hot coals. Flat stones kept the fire from igniting the surrounding grass. “What made you decide to sear it with the heat?” Prometheus shrugged.

“It was the war. I noticed that the bodies seared by Zeus and Apollo took much longer to breed maggots in their flesh than the dead who had been speared.” Prometheus closed his eyes as he remembered. “I had been wounded when I stumbled upon the recent battle. I’d been wounded on a mission that Zeus had used to divide the Titans forces. The smell was awful. The rotted meat and coagulated blood were a stench that made me gag to cross that battlefield.

The animals that were there, were busy consuming the scorched bodies first. So I thought to see why and roasted a bit of horse. The taste changed. It was altogether more savory than the dried strips of meat, or the fresh raw chunks. I have to admit I prefer it over raw.”

The fire hissed and popped, flaring every so often as a thick drop of fat fell and caught fire. the red glow had a comforting warmth as the two gazed up at the ceiling of stars in the night. Hermes took his floppy Petasos and laid it on the ground. He lowered Caduceus onto the hat, then lay down. He lolled on his back next to Prometheus. “It was discoveries like your fire, that I miss from the war.”

“You said that mid-day. Clearly, you miss it.” Prometheus sat up, then picked up a stick. He idly tapped the roasting meat, then nodded and grabbed the meat off the stake it had been impaled on. He quickly dropped the hissing haunch on a flat rock, then lay back down to gaze at the stars while the meat cooled. “I’ve wondered too, about the humans.” Hermes groaned.

“You mean that you are fascinated by their resemblance to us.” Prometheus nodded. “Zeus asked and I answered that making our allies, the myrmidons and humans, look like us, it would sow confusion in the Titans. I know that my kin have difficulty identifying individuals, so it made sense to compound that weakness.” Hermes nodded then gazed at the haunch of meat. “May I try some?” Prometheus smiled. “Certainly. I guarantee you’ll be pleasantly surprised.”

* * * * *

The pure columns of the Great Hall of Olympus bounced echoes of footsteps and muttered conversations throughout the room and the surrounding halls. The gods walked quietly, discussing the latest edicts from Zeus amongst themselves. Hermes strode away, his purposeful steps matched by the long, easy strides of the Titan, Prometheus.

“Zeus is determined to maintain this peace.” Hermes sounded agitated. Prometheus gazed down at his friend. The floppy Petasos hid his features from the taller Titan, but Prometheus could tell by the stiffened walk and hurried stride Hermes did not enjoy this latest conclave of the gods.

“He must constantly shift to maintain the status quo. Otherwise the edicts would become too rigid, and create oppression rather than peace.”

“He’s doing that already” Hermes answered quietly. “Everything seems aimed at restraining the humans. They were our allies in the war, and this is how we repay their efforts?”

“It’s not fair, no. It is practical. Humans are modeled after the gods, with many of the same drives all mixed together. Zeus wants their lives to depend upon the gods. The edicts are in place to foster this relationship.” Prometheus’ face scrunched up for a moment. “And language.” Hermes pushed his Petasos off his head, and turned his gaze to the tall titan.

“Language. Hmm. I see. No one knows any different language, and so no one can say anything that Zeus cannot understand.”

Prometheus nodded.  “Or hide, since his interpreter knows all languages.”

Hermes steps slowed as his mind turned that statement over, looking at possibilities. “Perhaps it’s time to bend the edicts, just a little. I wouldn’t be breaking them, just making a few changes so that humans can barter more effectively back and forth.”

Hack the Future part 21 ( Steven Schaufler & J Dark )

One hour later, she listened to the rumble of the bus leave the stadthalle. Cannibal Lighthouse had arrived the night before. The road crew had been up all night setting up the stage and special effects, and were just pulling out of the parking lot to get a well-deserved rest before kicking the concert off tonight. Cannibal Lighthouse’ show was due for 9 pm to 12 am. That gives me plenty of time before security gets paranoid to walk around the stadthalle.

The tour around the building turned up no visible exits that weren’t on the plans. Let’s see what a spell can get me. She moved across the street to the small park across Rosenstrasse. Making certain she had line of sight on the building, she crouched down near a large oak, then idly scratched a circle in the ground with a stick. It wasn’t a perfect circle, it didn’t need to be. All she needed was the circle, and the four ‘ordinal’ runes that defined her purpose.

To the direction of the building, she scratched the rune ‘to see’. To the left, ‘silence’, to the right, ‘to be hidden’, and opposite her target ‘the all’. She finished the runes, then slowly sang the runes quietly as she sat down against the oak, her feet pointed at the stadthalle. As she repeated the chant, she felt the world go fuzzy. She rose above herself and floated into the stadthalle. There was darkness in the walls, which brightened as she floated into a hallway.

She followed the hall, looking down through the rock, comparing her vision to what she remembered of the public plans. Slowly floating over through the auditorium, she saw the huge paper mache’ lighthouse, with half eaten bodies holding up the banner proclaiming ‘Cannibal Lighthouse’. The pyrotechnics showed up in her sight as a pulsing yellow energy, waiting to be fired. Security was posted top and back. She’d managed to get lucky as the teams were going through final checks of patrols and stations for the show. It was no surprise to see the dark brown shirts and black pants of Kruss. They were the biggest security provider in Nurnberg, so it was expected they’d be the ones to handle the concert.

Two at each back door to the stage, a two man team above the lights, three two man teams in the halls, and six in front of the stage. They’re all armed. Movement below her caught her attention. She floated down to get a better look. Her vision wien black as she drifted down through the rock, becoming bright once more as she found herself in a hastily dug tunnel. Two short stocky men were operating spells to push and solidify the earth moved. Both were dressed in leather robes, with small gems of all colors set all across the leather like rhinestones. The shorter of the two men had a thick thatch of black hair that was bound into a ponytail that almost dragged the floor. The larger man was bald, and slightly thinner than the first. Both sere still under one-point-five meters, and seemed about one meter wide.

The men formed a six foot tall tunnel, the earth being forced to the side and heating slightly to reinforce the walls of the tunnel. Earth magic was expensive, and required both endurance and strength to wield like this. Dwarven stoneworkers didn’t come cheap. She backed into the wall, leaving only her head in the tunnel. These mages could see her if they turned around.

After a few minutes of watching them grow the tunnel another twelve steps away from her, they stopped. They both looked up, and stayed that way for a long moment, then their faces turned to look at each other. They started to turn, and Blade ducked back into the wall. Darkness surrounded her. She started a slow count to thirty, but at five, light started to strike her incorporeal eyes. They’d seen her! She floated to her left towards the end of the tunnel. She heard a muffled curse as the diggers tried to follow her movement. She increased her speed slightly, feeling the strain on her heart. A quick pop of her head showed she was right at the ront of the tunnel. Forgoing any slow movement to conserve energy, she shot upward as fast as she could, drifting up through the rock and into a small dressing room.

She estimated the size at maybe one and a half meters wide, and three long. The room was taken up by a small army cot in a corner, a foldable dressing table with a full kit of makeup. Two guitar cases sat in the corner, with the letters ‘D.E.’ on them. Darkos Edge’s dressing room? Are they after the bell? She floated up out of the stadthalle and rushed back to her body. Her chant faded as she settled back in. There was a moment of weakness due to the extra energy used to return so quickly, but she rose off the ground and strode deeper into the small park and away from the stadthalle. Looks like we have competition.