Tag: fiction

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Mark of the Magicka

Kip gazed up at the iron gates in front of her. The entrance to the Magicka was forbidding, but deceptively so: the metal was twisted into an intricate design that left many holes large enough for a man to climb through. Upon closer inspection, however, Kip noticed that the air in the space between the bars faintly glowed blue, and her heart beat a little quicker when she imagined what might happen to the fool attempting to breach the gates.

“State your name and business,” a low voice called out. Kip looked around, but she saw no guard house or window in the smooth walls. In fact, from what she could see through the gates, the courtyard itself was deserted.

Summoning her courage, she stepped forward and squared her shoulders. “My name is Kip. They sent me here from Olstrick.”

“We don’t have room for every orphan to come begging for shelter. If Olstrick is full up, they shouldn’t be sending you here. Move along, boy!”

Kip frowned and crossed her arms over her flat chest. “Beg pardon, but I’m a girl.” Sister Kay said in a few months I’d be bleeding, and then I’ll be a woman. “I was sent here because…they don’t want…someone…like me.” She raised her left hand to show a large, dark circle on her palm.

Silence.

Kip lowered her hand slowly and bit her lip. Her palm still itched something fierce, with the new skin having just begun to grow back after the elders at Olstrick had branded her as a witch, and their voices still echoed in her mind: Mark her before she marks the rest of us. She’ll grow up to be a monster, just like her mother.

Still no response from inside the keep. If the Magicka didn’t let her in, she had no idea where she would go. “Hello?” She called.

The blue glow between the iron bars grew brighter, and with a click, the gates swung open. A broad-shouldered man with dark eyes and an even darker beard stood behind the gates. He wore black leather armor with a silver crescent moon emblazoned on the chest, but his thick-as-logs arms were bare, save a ring of symbols and animals tattooed around each of his biceps. Kip’s jaw dropped.

Photo taken by enderFP

“Well, I’m not going to wait all day,” the man said.

She didn’t need to be asked twice. She was inside the gates before they could change their mind about her.

Once inside the courtyard, she saw that it was not at all deserted as she first thought; in fact, there were so many tents and tables set up that she realized there was a full bazaar in the middle of this castle keep. She looked back at the gates and wondered why she couldn’t see it from the outside.

The man followed her gaze. “It’s enchanted, boy,” he growled. “Lots of things in this place are. You’ll get used to it.”

Kip craned her neck up at him and frowned again. “I’m not a boy,” she insisted, but he was already walking through the marketplace stalls, and she had to race to keep up with him.

The marketplace was a maze of vendors and wares, and Kip lost her bearings after the first few turns. Every once in a while, the large man would stop and point out different vendors in the stalls. As he mentioned each person and what they did, the tattoos on his arms began to shift and turn as if in response. Kip began to get dizzy watching the tattoos, but they were so fascinating and intricate, she couldn’t look away.

The man stopped walking abruptly and turned to face Kip, who nearly collided into him. He bent over to look her straight in the face.

“Listen, boy,” he warned, “I don’t know who you are or what you think you’re doing, but whatever is, quit it. My spirits haven’t been this talkative since I got my first mark, and it’s driving me nuts.” His inky eyes were angry.

Photo by enderFP

She shifted her gaze back to his tattoos. They had all stopped moving, but the creatures had shifted so that they were looking directly at her. She reached out to touch them. “What are they?”

In the blink of an eye, he grabbed her wrist. “First rule of the Magicka, boy: never touch another wizard’s mark. Not without permission.”

His hold tightened. Her palm began to burn, as if the fiery brand was pushing into her flesh all over again. Tears came to her eyes, but she refused to cry out.

“Rory!” A woman’s voice rang out sharply from the crowd. The man released Kip’s hand, and the burning immediately ceased. He dropped to one knee in a reverent bow.

Kip looked up and saw the most beautiful woman in the world standing before them. The woman’s long auburn hair was pulled into a loose braid, and she wore a flowing azure tunic with vertical slits all the way up the side, and as she moved, Kip caught glimpses of a large, ornate tattoo of roses on the woman’s ivory skin. As she looked into the woman’s deep blue eyes, Kip was overcome with awe, and she, too, dropped to her knees.

“Rise, child,” the woman said, with a gentle voice. Kip stood up, but kept her gaze to the ground. “Has Rory here been bothering you?”

Kip glanced sidelong at Rory, still kneeling before the woman, his gaze also averted. “No, ma’am. I shouldn’t have tried to touch his mark. It’s the first rule of the Magicka.”

The woman laughed. Were those bells tinkling, or was that just her voice? “A quick learner, this one.” She placed her hands on Rory’s broad shoulders and leaned forward to kiss the top of his head. “Be at ease, my champion. Arise, and accompany us. We shall both take the child where she needs to go.”

Rory rose, and Kip could see that all the anger in his face had disappeared. He grunted and walked ahead of them through the crowd.

The woman turned to Kip and held out her hand. “I’m Lady Rose.”

“Kip,” she responded as she shook the lady’s hand tentatively. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Ask away,” said Lady Rose, her eyes scanning the crowd as they navigated around the stalls.

“These tattoos — the marks — what are they?”

Lady Rose smiled. “It’s the mark of the Magicka. We all have them inside us. When you embrace your own abilities and follow our ways, the marks rise to the surface and show themselves to the world.”

Kip looked at the circle burned into her palm. “But…why would you want to reveal that?” Tears came to her eyes as she remembered the angry faces of the men who wielded that brand.

“It’s true that there are many in the world who fear us,” Lady Rose said gently as she took Kip’s dirty, scarred hand into her own. “But there are also those who love us, for we provide great services. We use our abilities to help the crops grow, to solve problems…and to heal.” She opened Kip’s hand, revealing new, smooth skin, with no sign of any scar.

Rory turned around in time to see Kip’s eyes grow large in amazement. He chuckled, and for the first time, Kip felt like Rory was beginning to acknowledge her as a human being. “Folks around here are grateful for what we do, and these marks show them who we are.” With a wink, he pointed to a small building at the edge of the courtyard with several scantily clad women draped around the entrance. “The tattoo means I get all their services for free.”

Lady Rose loudly cleared her throat, and Rory quickly shut his mouth and turned back around, leading them at last to the tower entrance. At the doors, he bowed to them both. “Welcome to the Magicka, boy,” he said with a twinkle in his eye. “I’ll see you tomorrow, for your first lesson.” And with that, he wandered back towards the front gates.

Photo by alyssagoesbang

Kip noticed that the roses on the lady’s side were undulating, growing all the way up her back and entwining her arms. They were so realistic, Kip thought she might prick herself on one of the thorns. She grew dizzy watching the roses bloom and fade in rapid succession.

Lady Rose turned to Kip and cupped her face with both hands. “You haven’t even learned what magic is and already you’re tapping into some of the strongest sources of energy. With the right guidance and enough training, you could easily become one of the most powerful mages in four worlds.” She leaned over and kissed Kip on the forehead. “But for now, Kip,” she murmured, “Go inside. Find your room. We will start your training tomorrow.”

This week’s Indie Ink Challenge comes from Brad McDonald, who writes:

The tattoo means I always get their services for free.

If you’ve been reading along, you know that I decided to put a little twist on this challenge and create a challenge of my own! I wasn’t flooded with responses, but the ones I did get were really great! Much thanks to alyssagoesbang, enderFP, and Tara Roberts (whose tattoo unfortunately didn’t make it into the story, but was awesome nonetheless). They are really beautiful, and I loved the stories that went with each one.

I challenged Runaway Sentence (again! woohoo!), who answered it with a surprising twist here.

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Drifter

“You’ve done it again, Kelly.”

Startled, Kelly looked up from the magazine he was reading.

Pettigrew stood at the door of the cockpit, arms crossed. “Every time you have been on watch this week, you’ve managed to get us off course.” He reached over and grabbed the magazine from Kelly’s greasy hands. “What the hell has got you so distracted?”

Kelly started to protest, but it was too late. “It’s nothing, just…a magazine I picked up when we were docked at New Mercury.”

Pettigrew thumbed through the dog-eared pages. It had only been five days since their stopover at New Mercury, but Kelly had clearly read it cover to cover several times over. With months at a time between ports, most crewmen considered any new reading material a lifeline to stave off the boredom, but this magazine was more worn than most after five days; it looked like it had been been through the wash and then some. And there weren’t even any naked pictures! He tossed it back to Kelly. “Well, stop reading and look to your station. We’re drifting towards a supernova, and Cap’n will be pissed if she has to burn another wormhole just to fix your stupid mistake.”

Photo taken by the Chandra X-Ray telescope
Kelly’s eyes grew wide at the mention of a supernova, and he began to busy himself with the computers at the helm.

Pettigrew snickered and went below.

Kelly had never meant to end up in space. When he was young, while all the other children were playing Cops & Aliens, he had dreamed of staying on Earth and opening his own ice cream shop. He loved ice cream — the real kind, not the stuff they feed you in space.

But before Kelly was old enough to tell anyone about his dream, Da had gotten a promotion and shipped off to Cerberus to oversee the uranium mines. And then Ma had gotten sick and died before Da’s first message even made it back home. Da had sent for him immediately, but the trip from Earth to Cerberus took longer than expected, and by the time he saw Da again, Kelly had grown into a young man. Da had been able to tell right away that Kelly would never make it on the inside of a mine, so he had immediately signed Kelly up to be an engineer on a Runner — mid-sized ships that delivered goods from one planet to another. “You can go anywhere in the universe, m’boy,” he’d said, thumping Kelly on the back. “Who wants to stay on a dingy ol’ planet, anyhow?”

Kelly never was able to tell his da that he hated space.

A warning light flashed on the console in front of him. Kelly sighed and moved his hand to the controls to pull the ship out of light speed. With luck and a little bit of finesse, he could do it slowly enough not to wake the Cap’n.

He really didn’t want to wake the Cap’n.

He moved the throttle ever so gently, but halfway down, the lever stopped. He gave it a little more pressure, but it didn’t budge. He crouched under the console to investigate the problem.

“What the…Kel-LY!!!”

Kelly jerked to attention so quickly that he banged his head on the console. He winced.

A short, stocky girl stood a few inches away, her short hair sticking every which way and her face bright red with anger.

“C-c-cap’n Rowan,” Kelly stammered. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“Well of course you didn’t mean to wake me, idiot,” Cap’n Rowan sneered. “What in the Seven Sisters of Pleiades do you think you are doing to my ship?”

“I’m not an idiot,” Kelly objected. “I just–”

“No, you’re right. You’re a moron. A scab that keeps growing back. I took you on against my better judgment because your daddy owns the biggest mining business in ten systems, but you don’t seem to have any of your daddy’s sense, do you?” Her face started to turn purple, and she poked him in the chest repeatedly for emphasis.

“I-I-I, there was gum–”

“I don’t give a flying turd what your excuse is this time. You’ve fallen asleep at the helm more times than I can count, and now Pettigrew tells me that you’ve gotten distracted again reading some stupid magazine.” She leaned down and picked up the magazine. “What is this rag, anyhow?”

“Just a–”

Cap’n Rowan’s eyebrows furrowed as she looked at the cover. “Gelato Companion? What kind of a pervert are you, Kelly?” She leafed through the pages quickly. “Chrissake, there’s not even any naked pictures!”

She stopped with a sudden realization. “Oh my god. This is something you really love, isn’t it, Kelly?” she said slowly.

Kelly swallowed.

“I’m so sorry.” Her voice got sickeningly sweet. “If I had known, I wouldn’t have treated you this way. I would have just done this.” She carried the well-worn magazine to the trash bin and threw it in. With a push of a button, it was incinerated.

Stifling back tears, Kelly busied himself with the controls at the console. But Cap’n Rowan was back in his face. No matter which way he turned, the little woman was inches away. “Aww, are you going to cry? Is the pansy-ass gelato-eating crybaby going to cry? Do your fracking job, Kelly. Get us to where we need to go. Because as soon as we get there, I’m throwing your ass off the ship.”

Something in him snapped. He knew he wouldn’t see his da again, but he didn’t care. The supernova loomed large on the monitor, and he suddenly wanted nothing more than to be somewhere, anywhere, away from space. He reached down to the throttle and pushed it as high as he could go. Faster than light speed, straight into the supernova.

She was still shouting at him, but he didn’t hear her anymore. Everything was moving so slowly. Pettigrew running in, diving for the wormhole switch; Cap’n Rowan looking scared, for once. And then light. And heat. So much heat.

And then cold.

This week’s Indie Ink Challenge came from Carrie, who writes:

drift into trouble

My challenge went out to Angela Alvarez, who posted her awesome response here.

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Straw Into Gold

They call me Rumpelstiltskin.

I’m telling you that up front, because for a very long time, people could never remember my name. And when I finally could get someone to say my name out loud, I ended up becoming villified by the media for centuries. Never mind the fact that I took a poor girl and elevated her to the richest and most powerful position in the country. Never mind that I brought the kingdom from the brink of financial ruin into economic prosperity. They always forget that point when they tell the story; they like to focus only on the negative bits.

Maybe it’s time I got to tell my side of the story. Maybe you won’t be so quick to judge next time.

It all started when I was a stupid teenager. I was exploring the caves near my house and stumbled upon a pile of old, discarded spinning wheels, probably from The Burning Times (a few generations ago, when the king ordered all the spinning wheels and spindles in the kingdom to be burned. I never could figure out why someone would want to destroy such an important tool of industry, just on the off chance your daughter might be hurt using it. That king had eliminated a major export: fine cloth. The economy had begun to take a nose dive from there, and the kingdom was now heavily in debt. Talk about cutting off your nose to spite your face!).

On the back of the heap, one spinning wheel stood out that looked to be not as broken as the rest. The wood was still in good condition after all these years, and all the parts were still intact.

And then I noticed something glittering on the bobbin. Gold thread!

I rummaged through the rest of the heap for hours, but couldn’t find any more. Still, even this small bit of gold was more than I had seen in my short lifetime; I moved the fly wheel back and forth, watching the gold gleam on the bobbin. There were a few tufts of grass stuck to the orifice, which I tried to pull off, but they did not come off so easily. Instead, the fly wheel seemed to pull the grass through the orifice right onto the bobbin, transforming it into gold right in front of my eyes.

With the sun already beginning to set, I wasted no time. I strapped the entire spinning wheel to my back and returned to my house, imagining how excited my family would be when I showed them this unusual object.

To my dismay, nobody recognized me when I came home. No matter what I did or said, my family and neighbors treated me like a complete stranger — and nobody in town liked strangers. I was beaten and left for dead by the side of the road, with my spinning wheel still strapped to my back.

I was discovered the next day by an old wise-woman who had been cast out of the town years ago after being accused of witchcraft. She took pity on me and brought me to her home in the middle of the woods. It was she who told me that I should never have put my hands on such a powerful magical item. “You’ve probably been cursed with anonymity,” she informed me as she nursed me back to health. “I’ve seen this kind of thing before.”

I sat up in bed. “You have? Is there any cure? Should I destroy the spinning wheel?”

She chuckled. “The previous owners obviously couldn’t destroy it. What makes you think you can?”

“Then what should I do? How do I get my life back?”

Her withered face turned thoughtful. “If you can find someone who will remember your name and say it out loud, the curse should be broken.”

“Then do it. Say my name.”

“What is it, dear?”

“It’s Rumpelstiltskin.”

“I’m sorry, what? I couldn’t hear you.”

“Rumpelstiltskin.”

We went back and forth like this for several minutes, until she finally shook her head. “I think the curse is too strong for me. The second after you tell me your name, I forget it. You’ll have to find someone who is really stubborn and has a really strong motivation for remembering your name.”

The wise-woman let me stay with her, and in return I helped her around the house and the garden. Knowing I was stuck with the spinning wheel, I decided to put it to work for me. I learned how to spin straw into gold. I never spun too much, but we were able to afford plenty of fresh-milled corn and flour, and I kept us both well-clothed.

Every night after dinner, the wise-woman and I would sit in front of the fire and brainstorm ways to break my curse. Our plans got more and more elaborate as the months wore on, although we both knew that in all likelihood I would never find a cure.

Two winters after she found me, the wise-woman died. I stayed in her house, took care of her garden, but with every passing year, I became more and more determined to find someone who could speak my name out loud and break the curse. Every night I made plans, just like the wise-woman and I used to do, but I did so patiently and methodically. I learned how to read people and manipulate them through their greed. It’s amazing what people will do for gold. I should know.

I got my lucky break a few decades later, when a new miller moved into town. His eyes lit up the first time I brought my strands of gold to him as payment for flour. He invited me to dinner that night, and I knew he was hoping to foist his daughter off on me to get to my gold. I happily accepted.

His daughter was very beautiful, but she was not very bright. She paid more attention to her looks than her domestic duties; dinner that evening was terrible. She seemed frightened by her father and shy around me. When her father left us alone together, I tried to make her a little more comfortable.

“You’re not very attracted to me, are you?” I asked bluntly.

“Oh…uh–” she stammered, glancing nervously at her father’s silhouette in the garden.

“It’s okay. I know I’m no catch.” My beating so many years ago had left me with a disfigured face and one leg that had healed shorter than the other.

“My father thinks you would make a good husband.”

I peered closely at her. “Don’t you want to know my name first?”

“Oh, of course!” she answered, giggling. “But I know your name already, don’t I?”

“Do you? What is it?”

“It’s…um…it’s…I can’t remember.” Her bright blue eyes welled with tears. “But I’m sure I know it!”

I gently placed my hand on her arm, and she flinched slightly. She was perfect for my plans. “Don’t worry, my dear,” I said. “I don’t actually want to get married.”

She breathed a sigh of relief.

“Would you like to be my friend instead?”

“Friend?” Her eyes widened. “I…suppose,” she answered. “As long as Father doesn’t mind,” she added, the nervous edge coming back into her voice.

That’s when I put my plan into action. I gave the miller’s daughter some of my golden strands and told her to keep them in her yarn basket. I visited often, bringing more and more golden strands, especially when I noticed her father taking them for himself. I set up the road block that caused the king to pass by the miller’s house that day, and I was the one who suggested to her that she start spinning by the road, with her shiny golden strands hanging out of her basket.

I was all too happy to oblige her when she came to me for help after the king demanded that she spin straw into gold. And at the end of every night that I would deliver her gold, I would see her slumped over her spinning wheel, dried tears streaking her cheeks. “My name is Rumpelstiltskin,” I would whisper in her ear. “Tell the king who is helping you. Say my name and we shall both be free.”

But she never said my name.

That last evening, I arrived in her cell, and I was angry. “What is my name?” I demanded.

“I don’t remember,” she replied. “I know you’ve done so much for me…but I need your help again. I’ll give you anything.”

I pretended to think about it, but I knew what I was going to ask for. “Will you give me your first born child?”

She gasped. For a moment, I thought she was going to refuse, but she glanced at the skein of gold I held in my hand. She nodded. “Anything.”

And so I brought her the rest of the gold and whispered my name in her ear at dawn.

The king, pleased with all the riches this stupid woman had provided him, married her. I sent her messages, trying to remind her who I was, trying to get her to say my name, but the harder I tried, the less she remembered me.

Finally, she gave birth to a son. And I watched from afar as she nursed and cooed over her baby. Finally, I thought. She will have motivation.

In the middle of the night, I sneaked into the nursery and plucked the sleeping baby out of his cradle.

“I knew you would come.” She had been sleeping in a chair near the cradle and had woken up as I had entered the room.

“We had a deal.”

“I know…but…he’s my baby. I can’t let him go. I just can’t.”

I sighed and put the baby back down. He tossed and cooed but did not awaken. “Then I have a deal for you. Say my name, my true name, and I will never return.”

“But I don’t know it!” She began to weep in frustration.

“Well, then, I’m sorry. I’ll just have to take–”

“No!” she cried. “Give me three days. Three days, and I’ll figure out your name.”

We stared at each other for a long time. Finally, I turned and limped out of the room. “Three days, your majesty. And then your son is mine.”

You know the rest of the story; she used the vast resources she had at her disposal to find out my name, but the curse affected everyone. It wasn’t until she followed me out into the woods herself and saw me in front of my little cottage, singing a song about my name.

She thought she was the victor; she thought she had saved her baby and defeated the monster — that’s what she told people I was, after everything I did for her! What she never realized was that I was just as much of a winner as she.

Once my veil of anonymity was lifted, I had no desire to go anywhere near that cursed spinning wheel again. I tried starting over again, but the queen was so afraid that I would tell everyone that she hadn’t spun the straw into gold that she spread terrible rumors about me (That bit about me stamping my feet until I fell into hell? Not true. I happened to step on a rotted board and got my leg stuck in the floor for about a second. They don’t keep those palaces in nearly as good shape as you might think). I hoped to put the past behind me, but the rumors kept following me, wherever I went. I almost began to wish for anonymity again. Almost.

All those years of planning paid off, though. I knew exactly how to pay her back for making me infamous. I waited until her son had grown and her husband had died, and then I had the spinning wheel hand-delivered to the queen. She couldn’t resist touching it.

Think about it: in all the times you have heard this story, did you ever learn what her name was?

This week’s Indie Ink challenge came from Jurgen Nation, who gave me this prompt:

Name something (a person, place or thing). Then take it from there.

I challenged Stefan, who answered his prompt in kick-ass fashion here.

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Powerless

Photo by KK Lo

Day 1
The President announced yesterday that due to the mounting energy crisis, we would all have to start rationing electricity. I think the idea was that they would wean us off electricity, but something must have gone terribly wrong. Today, when we woke up, there was no electric current running anywhere. And I do mean anywhere: not in our township, county, or even, as far as I understand it, the larger cities.

That’s OK; I’m sure they’ll get things up and running soon. I could use a vacation from electricity anyway. I just have to make sure I eat all the stuff that’s in the fridge before it goes bad.

Day 2

We realized yesterday that we can’t really use our cell phones to talk to anyone since none of the cell towers are working. That certainly put a damper on our communications. And since there were no electric currents running through any of our wires, even the land lines weren’t working. We have been relying on our neighbor for news; he has been driving around the township, checking up on people.

The other annoying thing is that our stove is electric. I didn’t think about how much of a problem it would be until I tried to cook up all the perishables. We just ate everything cold. It was pretty gross.

Apparently the hospital is working on backup generators, but I’m not sure how long that’s going to last. I’m just happy nobody has started looting.

Day 3

My husband decided to look at the gas line for a possible source for heating food. We do have an alternate stove in our living room: it’s a kitchy old-timey wood-burning stove that’s been modified to run on gas, just like our fireplace. Apparently, the gas still works, so now I’m cooking with gas. Thank goodness for hot meals!

The police came around today. They wanted to remind us to lock our doors and not go outside at night. Apparently there has been some looting a couple of towns over. I’m not too worried; our neighborhood is pretty safe.

Day 7

We keep hearing rumors of looting going on in the neighboring towns. One thing I do have to say has been a great thing about this electricity outage is that we have started talking to our neighbors. I mean, until now I haven’t known my neighbors’ names, their personalities, or what they do! I think I like most of them. I’m still not crazy about the rat dog across the street.

The postman came by today with a newsletter from the White House. Apparently this is how they are getting out “essential” information these days. I read it, but it’s just a lot of nonsense, really, about how we shouldn’t panic and that everything will be back to normal soon. I’m not sure how much I believe it.

Day 8

It was a sleepless night last night. It was really hot, and of course the air conditioner doesn’t work. We can’t even use the ceiling fans. All the windows were open and the covers were off, but it didn’t make a difference. I was also beginning to worry about that newsletter we got from the government. Is there a reason we should panic?

Day 9

We decided to try to go to the bank yesterday. They turned us away. The looters had gotten there before us, and all the money was gone.

I also realized that our pantry was starting to get a little empty. Even though it’s the beginning of summer, I think there’s plenty of time and opportunity to start growing things. I went through my old seed packets to see what I should start with.

Day 14

My husband has been busy. Since we have no money on hand, we’re trying to figure out ways for us to either barter services or make cash on our own. The trouble is, everyone else is in the same boat. The kids across the street have started making muffins to sell every morning, and the smells that come out of that house are spectacular.

My husband, on the other hand, has been using his knowledge of electronic circuitry to good use. “We may not have access to the grid anymore,” he said, “but that doesn’t mean the laws of physics have suddenly disappeared.” He has now modified our exercise bike so that it will power one of his pinball games.

Day 16

Yesterday, the kids across the street came over to try out our new self-propelled pinball games. One of the kids got on the bike to power it, while the other one played the game, and they took turns. They loved it, and they absolutely wanted more.

We charged them $2 or 2 muffins to play for one hour.

My husband has four working pinball machines and two that need some repair, but I think the idea is that we may be able to create a little arcade here in the house, just to make some money.

Day 30

We got a letter from some friends at the Renaissance Faire today. Letters have become so precious nowadays; it’s our only connection with the outside world. The postman is the most popular man in town, especially since he’s the only guy left allowed to have gas in his car. (Don’t tell anyone, but we siphoned the gas from our cars a while ago and we’re keeping it in jugs in the garage. You never know when you might need it).

Anyway, our friends have invited us to come live with them on the fairgrounds. They want to form a community of people who all know and trust each other. Apparently there have been many incidents of rape and looting in Philadelphia, and many of our friends have already begun making the pilgrimage out to Lancaster County, where the Amish have lived without electricity for centuries.

Day 45

Things certainly have changed. Our arcade is the hit of the neighborhood, but our notoriety has also gotten us some unwanted attention from thieves. My husband has been talking about fortifying the house, whatever that means.

I harvested quite a few vegetables this week, so we’ll have more bartering leverage, at least for a while. I also think it’s time to start pickling and canning the extra food. Winter is going to be really difficult.

Day 50

Photo by Benny Hill

Last night, we got hit. The looters took everything. We were sleeping upstairs when they broke in the windows and took as much as they could carry: food and anything wooden or metal, which included many of the components of the pinball setup. We knew they were there; we awoke while they were still in the house. But neither of us had a firearm and we knew that these guys were packing. We stayed in the bedroom, holding each other.

There’s almost nothing left. We talked it over this morning, and we decided that it was time for us to move on. Our gas, hidden in jugs in the garage, is still here, but every last scrap of food is gone. I still have two spinning wheels, and although both of them are wooden, the looters seem to have overlooked them in their zeal to pick apart the pinball machines.

We have decided it’s time to take our friends up on their offer and make the long trip to the Renaissance Faire. I know they have livestock there; that will be helpful. I can definitely spin wool and knit what I spin. That’ll be useful out there too.

We’re going to leave tonight, so I need to harvest the rest of the plants in the garden, whether or not they are ripe, because we don’t know when our next meal might be.

This week’s Indie Ink Writing Challenge came from Dafeenah, who gave me this prompt:

You wake up and the entire electrical system has collapsed beyond repair. Describe how the world changes. How it changes you and how you adjust in the new society with no electricity.

I challenged Seeking Elevation, who will answer it here before the end of the week.

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Yin/Yang

Artwork by Pawat Kongkoonchat

You think you know me, but you really don’t.

My name is Ed Yin. I was born right here, in Oklahoma City. I was raised by strict parents who expected a lot from me. I was one of the only Asian kids in my class, and I got ridiculed for the way I looked all through grade school. It was a tough way to grow up, but it made me a better person, a stronger person. And before you ask: no, I don’t speak Chinese. I’m an American. I speak English.

The reason I’m here, in front of this abortion clinic—this house of death—is to tell all of you that I will fight with every fiber of my being any law that allows women to murder their unborn children. I see those folks on the other side of the street waving their “pro-choice” signs, and I say to you: this is not a question of choice. If I choose to do so, I could kill any one of you. I’m a trained EMT. I have plenty of empty syringes in my truck. But I don’t do it, because it would be morally wrong, and nobody, not even those testosterone-riddled she-male freaks over there, would argue with me.

Do you hear them now? They are chanting about rape and incest. Well, I’ll tell you what: there are lots of things that we all have to do, things we have to hide about ourselves, just so that we can peacefully coexist in this society. If a girl was raped by her father, that is certainly a tragedy, no question. But it’s not the fault of that poor baby. That girl can get through it. I think we coddle our citizens too much these days. All of a sudden, everyone has neuroses, and more often than not, these “conditions” are just hypochondriac fantasies created by psychologists to keep themselves in business. We never had problems like this 60 years ago. Back then, if a tragedy like that happened to a girl, she would get through it. She would get stronger. And she would bear that child to term and give it to a loving family if she didn’t want to raise it herself.

You want to talk about ridiculous neuroses that these people are trying to legitimize? Look at homosexuality. I mean, sure, every guy fantasizes about having sex with other men. You just bury that urge, though, way down deep, because it’s not natural. Sex is for procreation, and if you are going to do it, you should do it with someone of the opposite sex, in order to create life. Not to MURDER BABIES LIKE THAT BITCH WALKING TO THE CLINIC RIGHT NOW!

Sorry, where was I?

Ah. I see you guys are ready for me to step down and let someone else speak. Okay. Before I go, I just want to say one more thing.

You may look at me and see a Chinese-American guy in a suit and assume I’m some sort of banker or accountant. I’m not. Here I am at this pro-life rally, so you might assume I came here with my church group. I don’t even have a church. I just know there is a higher power, and that He put me on this earth to save lives. I do that every day at my job, and I’m trying to do the same with those babies right here, right now.

And you may look at those women across the road and think they don’t care about babies at all, and all they care about is their “rights” as women. But maybe they aren’t what they seem, either. Maybe some of them have come to be educated about the abominable acts that this clinic commits. I came here to reach those people. I came here to save lives.

You may think you know me, but you really don’t.

This week’s Indie Ink Writing Challenge came from Peter, who wrote:

Write something that your exact opposite would write.

I had so much fun with this challenge, because I had to figure out what the exact opposite of me was! I mean, I have so many traits that don’t have exact opposites (what, exactly is the opposite of an opera singer?). I ended up putting together a grid (see below) that would help me figure out what kind of character my exact opposite would be.

Once I had in mind this guy’s likes and dislikes, and the things that made him tick, I had to let it simmer in the back of my mind overnight. And, boy, did I have some crazy dreams last night! But once my mind had really developed Ed’s character (and his name! I did actually dream his name), I was able to write the piece itself pretty quickly.

Trait ME MY SHADOW
Gender Female Male
Ethnicity 3/4 Caucasian; 1/4 Asian 3/4 Asian; 1/4 Caucasian
Marital Status Married Divorced
Sexual Orientation Heterosexual Homosexual
Religion Agnostic (with a side of Wiccan) Gnostic (with a side of Mormon)
Politics Liberal Democrat Conservative Republican
Sports Zzzz… Gets scores of every game automatically via text message
Entertainment Geeky/nerdy stuff like Star Wars, Princess Bride, Dr. Who, and anything related to Joss Whedon Bill O’Reilly, anything on Fox News, anything written by John Grisham
Myers-Briggs Personality Type INFJ ESTP
Profession freelance opera singer full-time EMT

My challenge went out to Catherine, who will answer it by the end of the week here.

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Pick-Up Artist

“Pardon me, miss?”

“Yes?”

“Your legs…”

“What about my legs?”

“Well, I was just thinking they must be tired.”

“What do you mean?”

“Because they’ve been running through my mind all night long.”

“Are you kidding? Did you really just say that?”

“What?”

“Did you actually just try to pick me up with that cheesy line?”

“Is there something wrong with trying to make conversation with a beautiful woman?”

“No…I guess not, but—”

“I mean, I’ve got to say something to break the ice, don’t I?”

“But did you have to say that?”

“What’s wrong with what I said?”

“Well…it’s just not exactly appropriate.”

“Why not?”

“Look around you. We’re not in a bar.”

“Oh, so I have to be in a bar in order to talk to you?”

“No, but—”

Photo by Felix Davis

“I don’t get it. Why do you make it so hard for us?”

“Me?”

“You women. All of you. If a man approaches a woman at a bar, he looks like a jerk. If he tries to make conversation on line at a coffee shop, he looks like a creep. If he hangs back and waits for her to make the first move, he looks like a wuss. What am I supposed to do?”

“I still don’t think—”

“I’m just tired of trying to put myself out there and continually getting shot down by uppity cheerleader bimbos who think they’re better than me.”

“Are you calling me a bimbo?”

“No, no, not you! I’m sorry. I know I’ve messed this whole thing up royally by now. Maybe I just don’t have anything to lose anymore.”

“It’s okay. I’m actually a little flattered, to be honest. I just…well, I think you might need to do a little reconnaissance first.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, first of all, you might want to think of saying something a little more appropriate to your location.”

“I already told you, I really don’t think I have to only go to bars to pick up women.”

“No, no…it’s just…well, take a look around you. Where are we?”

“A hospital.”

“That’s right. Not exactly the most conducive place to romance.”

“I thought this would for sure be a place to find desperate…er…women who might need a little cheering up.”

“Well…um, okay. But there is one more thing you missed before you came over to speak to me.”

“What’s that?”

“Think about it. You mentioned my legs?”

“Yeah. What’s wrong with that?”

“I’m in a wheelchair.”

“So?”

“Take a closer look. I don’t have legs.”

This week’s Indie Ink Writing Challenge came from The Onion, who gave me this prompt:

write about whatever you like, ONLY using dialogue.

My challenge went out to Andrea, who will answer it by the end of the week here.

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The End of the World As We Know It

It’s Indie Ink Writing Challenge Time! This week’s challenge comes from Cope, who writes:

Society is crumbling, and the people have taken to the streets. That is except for you, who have been watching the action on your roof, sitting in a lawn chair and drinking a beer.

Almost immediately, an idea came to me. So, thanks, Cope, for giving me an opportunity to write a little post-apocalyptic fiction.

Nobody knows exactly when the outbreak started. Some people think that Glenn Beck was Patient Zero, but that is only because he was the first documented human to enter Stage IV of ZVS (Zombie-Virus Syndrome) when he ate his cameraman’s brain during a live taping of his show. Now that they know more about the disease, scientists agree that he must have been in Stage III for quite some time, even as far back as 2008, when he joined Fox News.

Others believe that the virus was unleashed with the drilling of oil in deeper and deeper water. There are those that say the workers on Deepwater Horizon had already exhibited signs of Stage I and Stage II ZVS, and their lack of attention and drooling had led to the tragedy we know as the 2010 Gulf Spill.

However and whenever it began, the virus is here to stay, and scientists around the world have been working tirelessly to learn more about the virus. They discovered that many people are immune to the disease; only about 30% of all humans are susceptible to infection. Members of this susceptible population happen to also be those who have a tendency towards fanatic thinking, be it political or religious.

It was no surprise when reports came in of massive infections during Tea Party protests. Many fundamentalist churches proclaimed this the end of days, and deliberately infected their parishioners so that they could become the dead come to life as prophesied.

What did come as a surprise, however, was the fact that humans at all stages of ZVS exhibited acute fear of homosexuals. When presented with a heterosexual individual as bait, a ZVS patient would invariably attempt to gnaw on flesh or eat brains; however, that same patient would run, cower, or begin gnawing on his own flesh when presented with a homosexual individual as bait (I’ve heard it hypothesized that the recent anti-gay rhetoric was a symptom of the ZVS, but I don’t think one can blame one’s pre-infection thoughts and actions on a virus).

And so, the people who have stepped up in the fight to save the world have been the queers, the gamers, and the geeks. Just because we can’t catch the virus doesn’t mean we can’t become a meal, so we have been on the front lines every day, creating and distributing survival kits, strategizing, and generally scaring the bejeezus out of the zombies when we run out of ammo.

My husband and I are in charge of Sector G49 East in our city. For years before the outbreak, he had been preparing for this eventuality, and I thank my lucky stars I didn’t try to stop his efforts. The apartment building we own has turned into a fortress, thanks to his hard work, and the secret tunnels below have provided useful escape routes for our army. We haven’t yet had to use it (knock on wood), but from what I understand, there is a cruise ship waiting for us five miles off the coast in case we can no longer hold this position. Good thing we bought that helicopter.

It is beginning to get dark, and as I exit the stairwell onto the roof of the building, I can hear the moans of the undead drift up from the street. Gunshots ring out at fairly regular intervals, but I know my boys are being judicious with their ammo.

I wander around the rooftop garden, checking for pests, making sure everything is watered. This is our food source, the reason why we have lasted this long against the zombies. Once I’m satisfied that the plants are safe and healthy, I head over to my favorite spot at the edge of the roof. A bucket of ice sits between two lawn chairs, with two bottles resting in the ice.

I sit down in my lawn chair and open my bottle. My husband, who had been futzing with the solar panels on the other side of the roof, arrives and sits down. I hand him his beer, and we begin our nightly ritual.

We look out at the city.

The screams and moans from the streets below become louder, as they do every night around this time.

The sun’s brilliant rays cast an orange glow on everything. Even from the roof, I can clearly see an older man try to approach a Stage III, only to have his arm ripped off. His screams echo on the walls of the building.

My husband reaches out his hand. I take it.

We don’t need to speak. We just gaze at each other. And drink our beer.

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Venetian Vixen – Epilogue (NSFW)

And now for the grand finale of Venetian Vixen. Because this entire “novel” has been written backstage during the run of Opera Company of Philadelphia’s 2010 production of Otello, and because this was written during the final performance, I realized I would never get around to finishing the story of Benedetta and Guillermo. So I have skipped to the end. Our two lovers, after having escaped — not without much tribulation, vexation, and misunderstanding on both their parts — the mortally dangerous political intrigue of post-Otello Cypress, have finally married and moved back to Venice. This scene takes place six months after the dénouement of the “plot” (of course, I use that word loosely when referring to this storyline).

Also, as I said before, don’t read this post in your cubicle or while operating heavy machinery. And under no circumstances should you read this aloud to small children or individuals with heart problems.

If you haven’t already read the beginning of the story, start here:
Chapters 1 & 2
Chapters 3 & 4

EPILOGUE

“I think I could stay like this forever.”

Benedetta sighed and gazed lovingly at her husband, his naked body covered with a thin sheen of sweat from their exertions on the bed. The full moon bathed their room with a peaceful light, and the soft croon of a gondolier wafted its way to their ears from the canal below.

“We won’t be able to stay like this for too long,” responded Guillermo, “for my son will soon want to join us in the world.” He slid his hand over the bulge in her belly. The baby within her kicked as if in agreement.

She looked at him with one eyebrow raised.”How do you know the babe is not a girl?”

“Because of the way he kicks, amor,” he moved closer and nuzzled her neck.

She allowed him to distract her for a few moments with his attentions, but then, struck with a sudden hunger, arose from the bed and made her way to the fruit-laden bowl on the table in the middle of the room.

He lounged in the bed as he observed her perfectly rounded figure crossing the room. Popping a grape in her mouth, she turned to face him. “So if this child is a boy, what will be his name?”

“Bassanio. I have always wanted to have a child named Bassanio,” he said with authority.

She cocked her head to the side as she considered the name.”Bassanio,” she said slowly. “I always preferred the name Nerissa, myself, for a girl.”

“Well, it will not be a girl,” he insisted again as he rose from the bed to join her at the table.

He picked at the grapes while she chose a more exotic fruit, a banana newly delivered all the way from the New World. She peeled and ate it slowly, gazing at him with heat in her eyes.

“When this babe is born,” vowed Guillermo as he pulled her close, “we shall have to move into some larger apartments. Perhaps the purchase of a palazzo is in order.”

“Have you finally made amends with my family, then, that you will be able to afford a palazzo?” she asked archly.

“Perhaps,” he murmured as he bestowed gentle kisses upon her face. “Or perhaps I have found a new investment partner.”

“Oh?” she asked breathlessly. She was barely paying attention to his words.

“Indeed.” His kisses made their way down her neck to her breasts and even lower as he knelt down before her. “I’ve met a most promising young moneylender named Shylock.”

They conversed no more, as his mouth was otherwise occupied, and her mind was transported to a place beyond words.

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Venetian Vixen – Chapters 3 & 4 (NSFW)

And now for the continuation of Venetian Vixen. As I said before, don’t read this post in your cubicle or while operating heavy machinery. And under no circumstances should you read this aloud to small children or individuals with heart problems.

If you haven’t already read the beginning of the story, start here: Chapters 1 & 2

CHAPTER 3

Benedetta awoke the next morning with a start. Dawn’s rosy fingers had not yet crept through the crack between her bedroom drapes, but she could hear a lone cock crowing in the courtyard.

She was not the only one awake so early; agitated murmurs and quiet weeping drifted to her ears from the hallway, but she could only make out the words “Moor,” “strangled,” and “jealousy.”

Curious to know more, Benedetta got out of bed and hurried to the door to put her ear up against it. She could make out the light tones of her chambermaid, but a deeper voice joined the conversation soon after she began to listen.

“…Iago had said Cassio was the object of her affections,” said the chambermaid.

“That deceitful snake?” scoffed the male voice. “I went to university with him. He is never to be trusted. If only I had arrived a few days earlier! I could have warned Otello of his nature.”

“They say that Iago has not yet been found. The soldiers are searching the town, and…” the maid’s voice got louder as she got closer to the door. Benedetta backed away, but not quickly enough, for the door opened to reveal her standing in the middle of the room, wearing nothing but her gauzy summer chemise and a slightly shocked expression.

The occupants of the hallway were likewise surprised, standing frozen for several seconds. The chambermaid reacted first, exclaiming, “Oh, your ladyship! I did not think you would be awake,” and hastening into the room.

The man standing in the hallway, however, just stood there, staring unabashedly at her with a grin on his face. Benedetta realized that he was the mysterious man from the day before. “I didn’t realize people could blush there,” she heard the man chuckle as her maid closed the door.

******
CHAPTER 4

The door slammed shut in Guilliermo’s face. Still grinning, he turned and walked down the hall toward his own chambers.

He had spent half the night trying to discover the identity of the woman who had so bewitched him. After bribing almost all the footmen in the palace, he was informed that the lady in question was staying not 20 yards from his own apartments. His intent had certainly not been to spy upon her maidenly charms…but now that he had spied them, he could not get the alluring vision out of his head.

That long, flowing hair, those taut rosebuds peeking from behind the veil of that incandescent gauze! The mere memory was enough to make his nethers begin to stir. He shifted uncomfortably, nodded to the guard standing in the hall, and entered his chamber.

His manservant, Ferrando, had been nodding off, waiting for Guillermo’s return. Upon hearing the door open, he leapt to his feet and knocked over the platter of meats that he had carefully laid out for his master some six hours prior.

Guillermo looked at Ferrando with one eyebrow raised.

“Any news, signor?” Ferrando squeaked as he hastily picked up the mess from the floor.

“As a matter of fact, yes,” Guillermo crowed, and he recounted his encounter with Benedetta in the hallway. Ferrando, having put the platter to rights, proceeded to fill Guillermo’s bathtub with warm water, making noises of consternation or appreciation at the appropriate time during his recitation.

“I also discovered,” Guillermo added as he picked up a sausage from the platter and slid it into his mouth, “that she is a Medici.”

Ferrando nearly dropped the bucket he was holding. “A Medici? Signor, are you sure you want to dabble in the affairs of that family?”

Guillermo grinned again as he remembered Benedetta’s gauze-clad figure. He removed his trousers and stepped into the tub, his appreciation for Benedetta fully evident on his own naked form. “Oh yes, I am certain I want to dabble in her affairs.”

(to be continued…)

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Dark Highway

Well, the Indie Ink Challenge is here again, folks. I have to say, I’m having a great time reading all of the responses to the challenge, and these new ideas are doing a great job pushing me out of the rut I’ve been in.

This time, my challenger was Jason Avant. His challenge to me was:

You’re driving alone, on a dark highway, in the middle of nowhere. Music? Or silence? And why?

It took me a little while to get my mind wrapped around this question. I tend to take things very literally in real life, so my first thought was to tell a story about me driving home from a gig in the middle of the night. But then I reread the challenge and realized that I’m in the middle of nowhere. Nowhere. Nowhere? I think this challenge just got harder.

I hate driving at night.

I’m a morning person. I’d rather take a nap until 3 AM and drive in the wee hours of the morning than stay up all night driving. There’s not enough coffee in the world that can keep me up that late, even when I’m wired from a gig or angry from an argument or excited about something new. Nighttime is not my friend.

I sigh and examine at the inky expanse in front of me. A two-lane highway, stretching off into the dark, with nothing on either side to stimulate my mind. Well, nothing except grass. And cows. Okay, I can’t see the cows, but I can smell them. I know they’re there, lurking.

Do cows lurk?

I check the speedometer. 70 mph: a little bit over the speed limit, but not quite enough that I’ll get pulled over. I could probably go 95 or 100 on this road; there is nobody in front of me, nothing in my way. But if I do go that fast, Murphy’s Law will inevitably be invoked, and the next thing I’ll see will be flashing lights in my rear view mirror. No, best to stay at 70. I set my cruise control and shift a little bit in my seat.

I yawn.

Oh crap, that’s the first sign of sleepiness. I reach for the coffee in my cupholder and start to drink. It’s warm and sweet and tastes like morning. I love mornings. Morning is the point in time where yesterday meets tomorrow, where all the plans for today are laid out, and everything is fresh with no mistakes in it yet.

Not like nighttime. In the night, the darkness confuses things. The day is done, all your mistakes have been made, and all you have left to do is fall asleep and dream of how to fix those mistakes and build things anew. Falling asleep and dreaming of a cow standing in the middle of the road.

A COW IN THE MIDDLE OF THE ROAD????!!!

I slam on the brakes. Before I come to a halt, I realize that there is no cow, only road, and I’m still driving.

Goddammit.

I get my speed back up to 70, set the cruise control again, and open the window. The sound of the wind rushing through the window is a bit like white noise, and although I know cold air is supposed to keep you awake, all it’s doing is making me shiver. So now I’m sleepy and cold.

The smell of cows is fading, but it’s now been replaced with the much more pungent smell of skunk. I quickly roll up the windows.

Nothing, there is nothing on this road. And it’s so straight! Not even a curve to keep me on my toes. I turn on the radio. Nothing but static. I search through the stations, but this late at night all I’m getting is country music and smooth jazz, neither of which are to my liking. I sing along to the tail end of “Dude Looks Like A Lady” on a hard rock station, but I then drive out of range. I can get snippets of BBC World News, but the signal is messed up, and from what little I can hear, the world is going to hell in a handbasket. Ugh, how depressing. I can handle depressing news in the morning, but not at night. Not when it feels like the darkness is closing in on you and you’re the only one alive and aware in the world. Not when you’re not sure you’re going to make it until morning.

My phone buzzes in my purse. My phone! Oh thank goodness, I can talk to someone, anyone, so that I can get through this ride, get through the night.

I search through and pull it out. Glancing at it, I see someone has left me a message. I plug in my earbud and listen to the voicemail: “Hey, it’s me. I thought I’d try to catch you because I’m driving home and I need someone to talk to. Give me a call when you get a chance.”

I quickly redial the number, but I go straight to voicemail. “It’s me. I just got your message. I’m driving too, so give me a call.”

After I hang up, I wait for a few minutes, excited and waiting for the phone to ring.

More minutes pass. I dial a few more numbers, leave a few more messages. I wait.

Nobody is going to call back, are they?

Fog starts closing in, making it difficult to drive so quickly. I slow down to about 45, but the fog is getting even thicker. The light from my high beams is bouncing brightly off the particles of water, and I have to switch to the low beams. I can see only about 20 feet in front of me now. The road is beginning to curve now, and I am regretting wishing for something other than straight road, because it is so difficult to concentrate when my mind is this fatigued. I am trying not to hallucinate, trying not to see those mystical forms taking shape in the fog. Slow down into a curve, I remind myself. Accelerate out of a curve. And whatever happens, don’t fall asleep.

Don’t fall.

Asleep.