Persephone beckons

I walk the eastern shore at dawn, watch the sun rise above the waves, and the sky turn pink. The sand clings, cold and damp between my toes, and I clutch more tightly at my coat.

They say you never forget your first, be it sweetheart or kiss. Perhaps had the world swung differently in orbit about the sun, it would not be a matter of forgetting at all. Had I not met Meghan, I would not have raced to reach the stars. Had she not met me, she would still be out there, traversing the black emptiness on her way to Persephone.

In the summer, the beach is full of tourists, flocking to the golden sands like ants in a nest. The air smells of oil and lotion and sweat underlain with salt. A walk on the beach then more resembles an obstacle course, dodging children and kites and stepping over bodies burned brown by the sun.

The world is too full in summer. 

In winter, the beach cloaks herself in grey cloud and mist, and the gold of the sand looks tarnished and worn. You can stand for hours, and watch the waves come and go, hearing only the gulls as they cry out to the wind. Darkness and light become meaningless, days cycle to nights and back again, and there is nobody about to pay any mind.

Meghan left with the tourists. I woke one morning to a note on the bedside table. Persephone beckons, it said, and ended with a crudely drawn heart split in two. I ran to the spaceport, but Meghan’s ship had already left. It was days before I learned she’d not been aboard.

In the autumn, the brilliant green of the leaves fades to dull brown, and they fall to the ground. Dessicated, decayed, they crunch underfoot like old bones, and skitter across the sand to collect up against the grey shales at the end of the beach. 

It was weeks before I noticed the missing boat, and weeks more before I discovered the why and the how of it. 

Persephone beckons.

It is a call few can ignore.

Cowboy Blues (Or, Yet Another Ficlet Fragment)

   The Immortal slid down from his iron horse, his heavy boots sending up a cloud of reddish dust as he landed, knees bent and feet apart. He straightened slowly, teeth clamped tightly around the base of his cigar, and looked about him.

   The town seemed deserted: blinds drawn, shutters fastened, doors locked. Like folks had closed up shop before an approaching storm, and never returned. The Immortal stood for a moment, considering his options. A chance encounter with a passing ancestor may have sent him this way, but the Immortal was under no obligation to stick around to investigate.

   A ball of tumbleweed caught his eye as it rolled into the dirt road and stuttered to a halt in front of the saloon. The Immortal grinned. This was surely a sign that he should quench his thirst before making any decisions about whether or not to solve the mystery of the missing townsfolk.

   The doors to the saloon were made of solid oak. It took three good kicks before the Immortal was able to push his way past the splinters, and into the shadowy room beyond. Inside, dust motes drifted lazily on the few weak sunbeams that managed to limp through the broken doorway. The gloomy light was just bright enough that he could see the chairs in the saloon had been stacked neatly on top of the scattered card tables, and that the bar, which looked like it was made of the same solid oak as the front doors, had recently been wiped clean.

   He held still for a moment, closed his eyes and tilted his head slightly, listening for any sounds of life. But he heard only the sound of the wind as it plucked sadly at the freshly shattered door to the saloon, and the occasional snort and clank of his iron horse outside.

   The Immortal opened his eyes, and moved so that he stood behind the bar. Frowned as he reached up for a bottle of whiskey and a glass, and mechanically poured himself a double shot. The bottle thudded dully against the wooden bar as he set it down, and picked up the glass. 

   Strange. Whatever had happened here had happened quickly, but not without warning. The townspeople had not had time to send notice of their departure to Twin Rivers, though that town was only two days by horse. But they had had enough time to set things in order before they left. That they’d cleaned up, locked their doors, and closed the shutters suggested the townsfolk had had every intention of returning…so what had happened to alter their plans?

   The Immortal lifted the glass to his lips, and tipped his head back as he drained the amber liquid therein with one gulp. The alcohol left in its wake a welcome trail of heat as it went down, and he quickly reached to pour himself another.

   What exactly was it the ancestor had said?

AUTHORIAL INTRUSION: Oh, I don’t know? How about, “Don’t drink and detect.” Or possibly, “Now, son, don’t stay in that there town past sunset, because that’s when the zombie townsfolk return. And they sure ain’t gonna be happy when they see what a mess you’ve made of their nice clean saloon!” (Insert loud THUD as author’s head impacts against the desk)

   “Who said that!?”

Goldfish philosophy

Goldfish Sam was bored. Sure, he had water in which to swim, and occasionally giant nibbles dropped out of the sky, so he had food to eat. For the most part, though, Sam spent his life swimming around the same concrete pond, darting amongst and around the same rocks and black plastic pond plant holders as he always had, or chatting with Pete and Minnow, passing the hours with the same mundane observations about nothing at all.

Teasing the neighbourhood cats had been a neat diversion for a couple of weeks.

“Here, Kitty-kitty, catch me if you dare.”

The cats had fallen for it every time. They’d stalk over to sit on a sun-warmed rock by the edge of the pond, and peer over the water to see who was talking. And Sam would leap up out of the pond, expertly flicking his tail so that a spray of water droplets shot into wide unsuspecting eyes, and quickly plunge back into the shadowy depths before the cat had gotten much beyond a plaintive, “But, but, water! Ugh!”

Problem was, the trick worked once, twice at the most, on each cat. And the cats had obviously been talking amongst themselves, for the neighbourhood was now suspiciously feline-free.

Sam had tried the same trick on the blackbirds, but the birds just arched into the spray of water, and chirped with glee. As bored as he was, Sam wasn’t quite ready to call it a day and turn himself into a bird shower.

So, here he was, Sam of the yellow-gold scales, son of the house of three black dots, leaper of ponds, bored out of his tiny goldfish skull.

Old Jake swam by, lazily fluffing his orange fins. “Young Sam,” he said, and closed his mouth for a second or two.

Oh great, thought Sam, here we go.

Old Jake had a habit of speaking a word or two at a time, and then pondering for minutes on what he wanted to say next. Simple conversations could take hours.

Sam reluctantly fluttered a dorsal fin in greeting, and racked his brain for an excuse which would allow him to escape before Old Jake remembered what it was he’d wanted to say.

“The world,” said Old Jake.

Too late. Sam sighed, and resigned himself to a long, long afternoon.

“…is a big place.” Old Jake opened his mouth and sucked in some water, as though pondering his comment. A slow blink, and then his mouth closed.

Sam waited.

“Exciting,” continued Old Jake, and mouthed the water a few more times. “But not,” he paused, and blinked again. Silence descended.

Sam flicked his tail a little impatiently, the water offering a welcome resistance. “Yes?”

“…always safe.” Old Jake turned in the water, so that he could look more directly at Sam.

Sam gulped a mouthful of water to give himself time to think. Old Jake’s statement seemed all too obvious. “Uh, okay?”

Old Jake seemed to sigh. “Is it better,” he asked, “to die in a blaze of glory, or live a life of subdued contentment?”

The old goldfish did not seem to require an answer. He blinked once, slowly, at Sam, and then flicked his tail and his fins, swimming off majestically into the shadows. 

Simba and the sheep

“Oh, I say, hello there,” said a voice from behind Simba, and he turned to confront the oddest sight yet: a shaggy bush with two bright tawny eyes.

“Hello,” said Simba, and took a cautious step back. “Wha–who are you?”

“They call me Richard,” said the bush, and grinned. Simba couldn’t help noticing that it had very white teeth. Very long and pointy white teeth. “And you, young Sir? What should I call you?”

“I’m Simba,” said Simba. “I’m a lion.”

“Yes, so I see.” Richard grinned more widely, and Simba’s tail began to twitch. “From Africa, I would say, if that accent is anything to go by.”

Simba nodded. “A-a-and you?”

“Why, Simba, I too am a lion, of course. A lion of England’s fair green pastures and pleasant meadows. Can you not tell from my mane, and my sharp claws, and my roar?” Richard was no longer smiling.

Simba’s mother had always told him that good manners were the height of civility, and in his uncertainty, he took refuge in her teachings. “Forgive me, I had not heard your roar, Sir Lion.”

“That’s quite all right, lad,” Richard said kindly. “Not many have. But I assure you it is a quite fearsome roar, and one which you would no doubt instantly recognize — I am told the roar of the Lionheart is famous the world over.” 

Simba smiled nervously. “Oh, the Lionheart,” he said, “of course.”

There followed a moment’s silence, and Simba’s tail twitched as he tried to think of something to add. “What lovely weather!” seemed a little bland, and “Where are all the kudu?” was a little too forward. Food was a subject to be broached carefully, after a long sun-soaked nap together on a rock, or as the sun set behind distant hills and the sky turned salmon-pink. 

“So, what brings you all this way?” Richard asked, eventually.

Simba rushed to fill the silence, delighted he didn’t have to come up with a question after all. “Just expanding my horizons,” he said. “The Keepers told me I would do well to get out into the world while I was still young and fancy-free.”

Richard nodded. “They are quite right. Nothing like a trip abroad to make one appreciate the comforts of home, eh, lad?”

“I guess not.” Simba smiled, then winced as his stomach growled. Well, he thought, they’d been introduced. Maybe it wasn’t too soon to mention food? “Your kudu, for example, seem to be far better at camouflage than our own. I haven’t seen a single one all day!”

“Ku–? Oh, we have none of those. But if you continue into yonder field, you shall find more than enough rabbits to eat! Mm, bunny-chops!” Richard’s eyes began to glow, and he licked his lips. 

Simba took a prudent step back. “Thank you for your help, Sir Lionheart. I shall go and look at that field directly,” he said, and fled.

_____________________________________________________________________________________

The field did not at first look promising. There was an enormous tree in the centre of it, and it was surrounded by green hedges. Simba could see lots of yellow and white flowers nestled in the grass, but no sign of bunny-chops, whatever they were.

He sighed. Perhaps if he got into hunting mode he might have more luck? Simba nestled down, trying to hide in the short green grass.

Overhead, a large black bird cawed with laughter, and Simba shot it an annoyed glance. The tip of his tail thrashed furiously. If that bird kept this up, Simba would never get any food!

A flash of white flickered to his left, and Simba whipped his head around. What strange creatures these English are, he thought, and marvelled as a fluffy white body with too-long legs gambolled in his direction.

The creature stopped about twenty feet away from Simba, and tilted its head to one side. “Baaa?” it said, plaintively.

Simba squinted back. “Um, hello?”

The creature bounded a little closer, and Simba began to wonder if this was the bunny-chops the Lionheart had been talking about. Bereft of its white coat, Simba suspected the bunny-chops would make a tasty snack, and his mouth began to water at the thought.

“Baaa?” it repeated.

“Ah, I’m not sure I understand.” Simba said, and he crawled a little closer to the bunny-chops.

“Baaa!” said the bunny-chops, and took three or four bouncy steps towards him.

“My,” said Simba, “what big eyes you have!” It never hurt to be polite, after all.

The bunny-chops danced a little closer. It was now only two feet from Simba, and he could feel the drool collecting at the corner of his lips. “Baa!” It said, as if agreeing with Simba’s assessment, and grinned.

“My,” said Simba, “what big teeth you ha–”

And the bunny-chops pounced.

“Blaah-dy foreigners,” said a passing sheep. 

THE END

Moral of the story: Never trust a lamb. They have an agenda, too.

Cry me an ocean of stars

“We could try the orbitals?” James suggested, voice uneven, and broken by panicked breaths.

I hesitated. The orbital engines could, in theory, get us home. If we knew where we were, and how to set the navcom back on track. But the reset after the asteroid avalanche had killed the navcom’s memory, and left us stranded in deep space.

We were lost. Looking out at a river of stars banked by an empty void that stretched to infinity. James had the chair, and I had the wheel, and we neither of us knew what we were supposed to do next.

“If we use the orbitals without the navcom,” I said, “we could end up anywhere. Or nowhere. We should wait. Mitchell will get the system back up.”

But I was lying, and we both knew it. Mitchell’s AI chip was reset when the navcom went down.

For once, James didn’t argue. He wanted to believe that we’d be fine just as much as I did; that miracles could happen, even out here on the edge of the known universe. 

I ran my hands over the stained cherry wood of the wheel. When the Captain had first had it installed, the shipping world had scoffed. Crazy Captain Pete and his bunch of ragtag hangers on, lost in a time so out of step with the rest of the United Federation that we might as well have been outcasts. Throwbacks to a history that nobody else wanted to acknowledge.

I confess, at first I’d agreed with the scoffers. Whoever’d heard of a wheelhouse in a spaceship? What need had spacecraft of sails of spun silver to propel them between the stars when orbitals allowed ships to surf wormholes between galaxies?

And yet, and yet. The Titania was the largest spacecraft ever designed for intergalactic cruises. And Captain Pete was smart enough to realize that a wheelhouse and sails were anachronisms that would draw wealthy voyagers from far and wide. Why travel by cryotank and orbitals like the common riffraff when one could travel in style aboard the Titania, enjoying endless starlit nights beneath solar sails?

The wheel was smooth and cold beneath my fingers. Habit had me hold it steady, even though I knew the sails and rudder were gone. The avalanche had seen to that.

“Do you think–” James stopped, his mouth still moving but no words coming out. 

I shook my head. I knew what he was trying to ask, and I didn’t want to have to answer. Were there any other survivors? Could the passengers have lived through the avalanche? Was Captain Pete still alive, lost amongst the shredded remnants of silver that drifted about the breached hull — driftwood caught in seaweed in a vast black ocean? 

The sad truth was that it didn’t matter. The wheelhouse was cut off from the rest of the ship. We couldn’t help the passengers, and we couldn’t help Captain Pete.

We couldn’t even help ourselves.

***

  

Breaking Bread

Every Thursday and Sunday, I broke bread with my father. It was a tradition that my father had shared with his father, who’d shared it with his before him, and so on, back through the years.

This Thursday’s eve was no different. I walked alone to my father’s house on the edge of the village, shrouded in mist and darkness and the scent of damp wool. The soles of my boots slapped softly against the rounded cobbles of the narrow street, and I cursed again the thinness of the leather, and the cobbler who’d shut up shop earlier in the year. The market would not come again until the springtime, when the snow in Rook’s Pass melted again. Until then, my feet would remain sore and cold.

The door to my father’s house was made of a single piece of wood, salvaged from the trunk of an enormous oak that had died after being struck by lightning in the light-storms some fifty years before. My father had told me how he’d followed his father to the meadow, and watched as his father had chopped for near three days to hew the trunk of the giant oak into manageable pieces. These he sold in the village for a silver apiece. It had been a good winter, my father said. There’d been wood enough to burn, and most of the villagers had built themselves new furniture and doors as well.

The base of the giant oak still stood, out in the old meadow, hidden in the long grass. As a child, in the summers, I’d perched atop the low wooden base, and pretended I was stranded in a golden sea aboard an enormous raft — like the one that belonged to Joseph Brown, but twenty times the size. As an adult, it made for a good place to get lost, where none in the village would think to look — not even my father, for all that he had showed it to me first.

My father’s door was painted blue. “Blue as a summer’s sky after the rain,” my mother had said, when the paint had dried and she saw it for the first time. “Blue as the ocean in your eyes,” my father had replied, and smiled. After my mother’s death, my father had allowed the paint to crack and fade, and it now more resembled the washed-out pale sky of a winter’s morn. I’d offered to paint the door afresh, but my father had refused. “It’s all I have left now,” he said, “my memories.”

I knocked, and the door swung open. My father nodded, once, and stepped back. I ducked my head forward and entered. The smell of freshly baked bread filled the air, and I breathed deeply. The kitchen was bathed in shadows that danced to the rhythm of the flames in the fireplace.

I took off my cloak, and, still wordless, hung it by the front door. My father gestured to a seat, and I sank down. He sat at the other end of the table. Between us, in the middle of the table, was the bread and the salt.

We were ready.

____________________________________________________________

Am I ever going to be able to finish one of these stupid ficlets?!

A terminal tale

“Hello, yes, I’m delighted to meet you!” Zann held out her right hand. The skin dye had worked, turning infectious red pimples to the more usual purple hue.

Hank sidled up beside her. “Did you see him? Is he here?”

The small group around her turned away politely, and Zann frowned. Good grief! Had the man never learned volume control? She shook her head, then pointed towards the corner where they could talk without being overheard.

The ballroom was pretty, ceiling dripping with crystalline lights. Underfoot, the softi-tile flooring had been programmed with a fake mable finish, and this, together with the faux gold panelling on the walls, added a luxurious touch. Waiters dressed as penguins ducked and dived amongst the guests.

When they reached the corner, still mercifully free of guests, Zann leaned close to Hank, and dragged down his red head. “Listen carefully, you oaf,” she whisper-yelled, “Next time you feel the urge to speak, bite your damn tongue! This plan relies on discretion. That means not drawing attention to ourselves. Now, stop hopping about like a bunny on crack, and get back to your station.”

“Sorry,” he said, downcast. “It’s just, well, it’s been hours! He should have been here by now.”

Zann sighed. She’d tried to tell Claude that including Hank was a mistake. He had the attention span of a hyperactive gnat. “Look, he’ll be here. He’s coming. But we’ll never know if we’re standing here, arguing the point. Now, go. And in the name of all that is merciful, keep your mouth shut!”

Hank went.

And then the author died of boredom.

The End.

Planetia

Planetia, being the last stop before the Great Void, was a constant hive of activity. Billboards across the tiny planetoid glaringly proclaimed in neon reds and greens and pinks: “Spend a few days in Planetia, and you’ll never leave!” Sadly, this was a fact to which most of the locals could attest.

Bernie had been a local for 93 years. Like so many other travellers who passed through Planetia, Bernie and his wife, Marnie, had wanted to explore the universe, and also to get as far from Marnie’s father’s shotgun as was physically possible. Sadly, as was often the case on intergalactic adventures, things had not gone according to plan.

Space travel through the Great Void was hazardous in more ways than one. When they’d reached Planetia, Bernie learned the cost of the trip had quadrupled; “New inter-galactic tax, I’m sure you understand.” The ship had undocked three days later, but Bernie had been left behind.

Bernie was a survivor. A year of washing dishes, and some good luck at the card tables, and he’d remade himself into a businessman. Regulars knew to avoid the Pressed Beds Motel and Whistlestop Cafe; the coffee tasted like boiled gum shoes, and the bedding was only as clean as the last traveller who’d spent the night. But there were enough first-time travellers – mostly young explorers or newly-weds – that the two did a roaring trade.

Shallow thoughts

1) Ruminations are over-rated. It is possible to think too deeply and too critically about mundane trivialities — often precluding the realization that life is passing you by.

2) Despite what The Matrix would have us believe, sometimes a spoon is just a spoon.

3) A tale of two chickens

Two chickens were standing by the side of the road. Chicken A looked at the vast expanse of tarmac before them, then reached into his backpack, and pulled out his brand new laptop.

Chicken B watched curiously for a moment. “So, what are you doing?”

Chicken A, typing furiously, didn’t look up. “I’m writing a quick script that will tell me how long it’s going to take me to cross that road.”

Chicken B glanced at the road, and then looked back at Chicken A. “Why don’t you just run across it, and time yourself?”

“Because if I do it this way, I can find a way to do it with optimal efficiency,” said Chicken A, then added derisively, “But, hey, if you want to run it, don’t let me stop you. Go, knock youself out.”

Chicken B stiffened, and took a step back. “Fine,” he said, and reached into his backpack to pull out a stopwatch. “I’ll do just that.” He shook out his legs and flapped his wings, kicking up some dust.

“Watch it!” Chicken A squawked, “You’re getting dust all over my brand new machine! What are you doing, anyway?”

“Warming up.” Chicken B was unperturbed. “If I’m going to take my best shot at this, I need to be physically prepared.” He flapped his wings one last time, then leaned forward, left wing over knee.

A shadow racing towards them caught Chicken A’s eye. “Uh–”  

“Ready?” Chicken B clicked the stopwatch, “Here I go!” And he launched himself onto the road.

“No, wa–!” cried out Chicken A, but it was too late. Chicken B had already been squashed by the car.

Chicken A looked for a moment at the forlorn pile of feathers that had once been his friend, and then turned back to his laptop. “Always too eager,” he clucked sadly, and got back to his code.

After an hour of experimentation, and a dozen plots, Chicken A was sure he’d found the optimal speed with which to cross the road. He sighed, clambered to his feet, and packed his laptop away.

“Okay, let’s do this.” Beak raised determinedly, he walked to the edge of the tarmac. He checked, then checked again, that there were no cars. And then, with a whistle, he jogged onto the road.

“I’m doing it! It’s working!” His beak widened in an excited grin, as the sand on the other side of the road drew ever closer. “I’m nearly there!”

And then, with one final step, he was on the other side the road. “Yes! I did it,” he crowed, dancing cockily about. “I crossed the road!”

Unfortunately, Chicken A was so excited by his great achievement,  that he didn’t notice the eighteen-wheeler pulling off the road for a rest break until it was far too late.

Moral of the story: Fools rush in where chickens fear to tread Look both ways before you cross the road Coding only gets you so far Crowing gets you killed Chickens and roads don’t mix.

Woden’s woes

Being the man in charge, Woden decided, as he blew hot air on his frozen fingers, was great in theory, but not as good in practice. The promotion had seemed like a great opportunity; better pay, more perks, and the chance to make the rules instead of following them — what more could he want? What the higher-ups didn’t tell you, when you were offered the promotion to Prison Overlord, was that when things went wrong, it would be all your fault.

And during the first months of his tenure, things had very definitely gone wrong.

Woden leaned against the window, looking out over the empty prison yard, and sighed. Yes, the therm prison break had happened while he was in office —

(an explosion of light and black foul-smelling smoke)

— but the signs had been there for all to see. From the widening cracks in the wall (where industrious prisoners had chiselled away at the aging plaster), to the rackety old machinery that clanged and chortled and occasionally farted, the prison had never been in the best of condition. Years of neglect on the part of many of his predecessors had led to a prison that leaked more than it held. And yet, despite this, it was Woden the world held accountable.

He shivered, wrapped his arms around himself. If only he’d said no, walked away when he had the chance. Held out for something bigger and better, with less stress involv–

Bring-bring. Behind him, the phone cut into his thoughts.

“Woden.” Clipped, sharp, and short.

“It’s Officer Down *, Sir. I’m in the pump room, where the therms got out.”

“And? Do we know where they went?”

A pause, hesitation. “They blew up the vent, and clambered outside. Looks like most took to running, and trying to hide. Unsuccessfully, I think, we’ll pick them up soon. But there was a van parked at the corner of Holland and Mulhoon.”

“And crime scene? What do they say?”

“That we should know more at the end of the day.”

Woden grimaced. Down’s word games were making him frown. How could an officer of the law spend all his time coming up with reports that tended to rhyme. And now that madness had infected Woden too. Why, oh why, could it not have been just the fl–

“Keep me posted, ” Woden growled, and hung up.

——————————————————————————

* Semi-unrelated aside: The first time I saw the title of the Batman: Officer Down trade, I thought it was going to be a story about a character called Officer Down. It was only once I’d finished the book, utterly disgusted at the lack of an Officer Down, that I realized that the title was supposed to be read in the sense of, “Send help! We have an officer down!” D’oh!