September 7, 2010

From “Callisto Rising” by Clynick Rogers

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They keep to themselves, the Callistans, and not without reason. The kind of work they’re hired to do is rarely pleasant; at the very least, the person they imitate or the place of business they infiltrate is in for a cash loss, if not a rapidly spreading rusty stain on the carpet. No one’s ever come forward to claim responsibility for engineering them; the Callistans themselves hold that they’re self-created and bred into existence over generations, or so they say to the sociologists who have managed to interview them.

But it’s obvious to everybody else that they’re engineered. Back in the day, before the bleeding hearts got all righteous about it, a number of Callistans that were iced during jobs were analyzed. Over 10,000 genes from outside what you’d traditionally think of as the human genome were floating around in there, including two kinds of chromatophores for natural camouflage (from the mimic octopus and chameleon respectively), jellyfish (to combat aging and free radical accumulation), salamanders (regeneration of injured parts), and many others.

All that means they have exceptional resilience and longevity, of course, but also no natural skin tone. Those same sociologists say the Callistans assume unnatural (for humans) colors to identify themselves to one another, with each lineage having its own distinct “normal” color and pattern. No hair of any kind, either–the better to blend in using creative wigs, since hair color can’t be changed on the fly. All that’s well and good, but what people reportedly find really repulsive about them is their lack of external ears and a nose; just slits there like you’d see on a burn victim (along with a lack of fingerprints). They substitute a variety of prostheses instead, the most elaborate of which can supposedly mimic the flesh tone around them.

In other words, somebody put an awful lot of loving care into engineering the Callistans for disguise and infiltration. That they don’t take credit for their work is probably a testament to the fact that their creations have long since surpassed and destroyed them.

 

September 5, 2010

From “Speaking with Dead Leaves” by Van Bullock

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This post is part of the September Blog Chain at Absolute Write. This month’s theme is seasons as a metaphor for an aspect of one’s writing.

A little late-season drizzle trickled onto Peter’s car as it crawled through the morass of city traffic during rush hour, just enough to get the wipers moving.

“Another lovely fall day,” said Sedena from the passenger seat. “I do wish Littleton & Associates would find somewhere tropical to send me during this time of year.”

“Sure it’s a little rainy now,” Peter said. “But in a day or two it’ll be all blue and crisp out, and all the park trees will be lit up like Chinese New Year. People sometimes drive up north to get a good gander at fall, but we’ve got all the fall you could want right here. I love it.”

Sedena sighed. “I can’t stand autumn,” she said. “I don’t want to seem needlessly contrary, but I hate it and spring. They tear at me, cloud things, make them difficult.”

A car ahead tried to exploit a gap in the traffic; rather then ruthlessly cut them off, Peter waved them ahead. “What’s to hate? Fall is about beautiful colors, mild temperatures, and that hearty bite to the air before things get too cold. And spring’s a marvelous season of flowers and rebirth after a long winter. I don’t want to seem needlessly contrary either, but I don’t see how anyone couldn’t appreciate that.”

“Not appreciate the highly variable weather patterns that make them a nightmare for people in my line of work?” Sedena said. The driver ahead repaid Peter’s kindness with an obscene gesture, which Sedena returned with gusto. “Autumn is all about death, everything growing gray and cold and the streets choked with photosynthetic corpses. I don’t like to be reminded of that. And spring…granted, there’s new life, but you also get to see the world at its most dead uncovered by snow. Spring for me is soot-choked piles of lingering snow and barren branches with nothing to beautify them.”

Peter’s knuckles whitened around the wheel. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to stir up any bad memories.”

Sedena shrugged. “Forget about it. More than a little of that is my father talking, anyway. The part of me that’d criticize an artist into giving up his craft and then berate him for quitting.”

Check out this month’s other bloggers, all of whom have posted or will post an entry of their own about a seasons as metaphors for aspects of writing:

Ralph_Pines (direct link to the relevant post)
Aheïla (direct link to the relevant post)
DavidZahir (direct link to the relevant post)
LadyMage (direct link to the relevant post)
semmie (direct link to the relevant post)
llalah (direct link to the relevant post)
hillaryjacques (direct link to the relevant post)
AuburnAssassin (direct link to the relevant post)
laffarsmith (direct link to the relevant post)
sbclark (direct link to the relevant post)
FreshHell (direct link to the relevant post)
PASeasholtz (direct link to the relevant post)
IrishAnnie (direct link to the relevant post)
SF4-EVER (direct link to the relevant post)
T.N. Tobias (direct link to the relevant post)
Proach (direct link to the relevant post)
Regypsy (direct link to the relevant post)
WildScribe (direct link to the relevant post)

 

September 1, 2010

From “Gazebo Memories” by Peter K. Leiding

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It wasn’t the safest place, or the warmest, or the one that stirred the most memories. Those were all spoken for.

But, nonetheless, it was my place.

I sat in the gazebo swing, watching tiny clouds of rust thrown up as the long-still chains moved–as silently as when they were new and freshly oiled. The early autumn sun came in streamers through the trees above and the gaps in the old wooden roof, illuminating a ballet of dust motes that swirled around me.

As a youngster, I’d never been able to understand Dad’s fascination with the gazebo–the long summer afternoons he spent building it, painting it, lovingly planting the trees that now dwarfed it. It had been many things for me growing up: a rocket ship, a fortress, a pirate schooner. But never just a gazebo in the furthest corner of our yard.

It wasn’t until he was gone that I got a better sense of the place. When the time came to clean out his things, Mom had let me do it–too many memories, she said–and I’d found a picture of Dad with his parents. He couldn’t have been more than four or five, and they were posing together on an old gazebo, the very twin of the one I now sat in.

They’d had to sell that house when things had gotten rough after the war, but Dad had seen to it that I had the chance for the same lazy summer memories that he did.

 

August 31, 2010

From “The Dragons of Madness” by Thomas N. Kravinsky

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Preston’s writing grew more elaborate as the pages wore on, even as his handwriting declined in quality.

I have finally begun to approach this with the correct conceptual framework. Dragons are merely the visible part of a greater–one might say inconceivable–organism. Like an anglerfish’s lure, they represent the barest part of a whole, but the only one we can comprehend. As for the larger organism…words like ‘magic’ and ‘pandimensional’ scarcely do the concept justice. My head aches as I think about it.

A variety of diagrams followed with intersecting parabolas and terms I couldn’t pretend to understand–then again, it’s possible that Preston, in his madness, had made them up. He reverted to prose some pages later:

As projections they have no inherent form. They’re no more giant lizards than I am. But you can see how such a monstrous visage would have proven useful, give the revulsion that people greet reptiles with even today. Primitive man could easily be frightened by such, or coerced into obedience, but the rise of nations and creeds that could seek to shun or slay such ‘monsters’ explains why such forms are rarely encountered.

It also explains why they’ve never been found. If a diver could see only an anglerfish’s lure through a cloudy sea, they’d perceive only a worm and go mad trying to locate it on the ocean floor. But if the lure could be anything it wanted to be, unbound by the laws of physics…the implications stagger me.

 

August 28, 2010

From “Reed Dolls of the Soul” by Nokin Kobayashi, translated and adapted by Irene York

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It so happened that the farm of Yuan Wei Tao grew prosperous in a fertile river valley. This prosperity gave Wei Tao the opportunity to indulge in his passions of basketry, pottery, and calligraphy. He was particularly adept at creating dolls out of reeds, which he would give small clay faces and wrap in a poem. Sold at the market in the nearby city, Wei Tao’s dolls were regarded as good luck charms and made particularly favored gifts for teachers, scholars, and firstborn sons. Despite success with his art, Wei Tao always considered himself a farmer first, and always worked his time in the fields before he would allow himself to indulge his fancies.

Wei Tao had a young wife named Xue Ying, and it was for her that the greatest and most intricate of the farmer’s creations were reserved. Though childless, they shared a great and noble love and could often be seen working the fields together alongside laborers and cousins. Xue Ying’s beauty was renowned throughout the river valley, as was the overwhelming devotion she showed for her husband and neighbors. But one day it came to pass that an ox broke free of its plow and trampled Xue Ying beneath his hooves, killing her instantly.

Distraught, Wei Tao withdrew himself from the world. He concealed Xue Ying’s death, convincing others that she was merely badly injured and under his care. In his despair, Wei Tao crafted the finest doll he had ever created and offered it to the Heavenly Grandfather with a poem begging to be honorably reunited with his beloved. His devotion moved the heavens, and a celestial doll appeared on Wei Tao’s doorstep wrapped in instructions.

Wei Tao created a reed doll in the shape and form of Xue Ying, and filled it with poems of the highest quality describing her life and nature. Then, using a process revealed to him by the Heavenly Grandfather, Wei Tao covered the doll in living clay. This new Xue Ying awoke, was to the eyes of Wei Tao as she had ever been. But the celestial doll had borne a warning: though possessing her form and imbued with her spirit, the new Xue Ying was still but straw and clay.

Wei Tao and Xue Ying lived their lives as they had before, but Wei Tao did not heed the Heavenly Grandfather’s caution and once again worked the fields with his beloved. As she carried heavy burdens, the living clay on Xue Ying’s back gradually thinned until a laborer noticed the bare reeds poking out from beneath her clothing. Thus was the doll’s nature revealed to the valley and also to Xue Ying herself.

 

August 26, 2010

From “Coffin Nails at Bearbranch High” by Sally O. Bernstein

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A cigarette flared to life between her fingers. Technically smoking wasn’t allowed anywhere on school grounds, not even on the loading dock. Then again, the rock keeping the battered door to the teachers’ lounge open wasn’t technically kosher either, and it had been placed there by the principal.

Gene lit his own coffin nail after Weatherby proffered her lighter. “Not exactly being a role model for all the kids, are we?” he said.

“You know damn well they’d smoke whether we did or not. It’s all they have to tide them over before dope and meth, after all,” Weatherby sighed.

“I can see that the beginning of a new school year has you nice and uplifted,” Gene countered.

“Seeing the new wave of children come in…all so young, all so beautiful,” said Weatherby. She coughed. “And then looking at myself–never beautiful, no longer young–frankly, I can’t think of anything so depressing. You’ll have to forgive me if I’m a little grumpy, Mr. Ulrich.”

Gene fiddled with his cigarette, unsure of how to respond. He’d been warned about Weatherby, but he also had to get along with her if he intended to continue smoking out back. “There’s always what you teach,” he said. “Advancing the state of knowledge ought to count for something.”

“You’re an art teacher, Mr. Ulrich,” said Weatherby. “You get to talk to the children about finding their inner voice, expressing themselves, following their dreams. I teach mathematics. I doubt even a Harvard statistician had youthful dreams of solving equations all day.”

“The kids still make mistakes, even in my class,” said Gene. He flicked his ashes into the football helmet-cum-ashtray provided by Hanretty in Phys Ed.

“When your children make mistakes, it’s cute. It may even be modern art. But when my children make mistakes, they’re just mistakes. I get to mark with red ink because no new school of mathematics was ever founded by someone who thought two plus two equals twenty-two.”

 

August 25, 2010

From “The Storm Cell Inside” by William Thompson Gills

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All night I’d felt the beginnings of a panic attack…that lightness of head and tightness of chest, that feeling of being closed in no matter how wide-open the space, that sudden spasm of dread for things that shouldn’t be fearful.

Television didn’t help. I trembled too much to write. Pacing only made things worse. On the theory that fresh air might do the trick, I strolled all of five feet outside my front door to watch the cooling remnants of the sunset and watch Venus rise. It didn’t have the intended effect, especially not when one of the neighbors brought their unleashed rat-dog by. Having tiny, ceaselessly aggressive creatures about one’s ankles is only slightly less relaxing than the stoned twentysomething behind it who insists the squealing monster is friendly.

It wasn’t always like that. The last panic attack I could remember was at summer camp when I was fourteen; a violent tornadic storm blew in and I was convinced we were all going to die. We well might have too–a nearby housing development was ravaged by the twister that only brushed us. Compared to that, my house in the PM was a picture of safety and stability.

Maybe that’s what the rising bile in my throat was trying to tell me. It may be that, for the first time in my comfortable life, I felt suffocated by the very atmosphere I’d long sought to cultivate.

 

August 24, 2010

From “High-Caliber Children” by Van Bullock

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“It’s nice to have a drink like this and talk shop,” Sedena said. “Even at Littleton & Associates, with all the paperwork, there isn’t much time for watercooler talk.”

“Our business is built on the mantra of ‘nothing personal, just business’ after all,” replied Katalya. “Why not kick a few back? It’s ‘nothing personal’ not ‘nothing personable.’ So go on. Tell me about the rig you use.”

“Well…”

“Most ladies our age would be showing pictures of their children or talking about them,” Katalya said. “Is this so different?”

Sedena nodded. “One might say my child is active in a variety of extracirricular activities, from track to wrestling. I prefer an M21 SWS with a pistol grip and fiberglass stock. Leatherwood 3–9x adjustable ranging telescopic sight, National Match glass bedded barrel, and the selector switch from a stock M14. Very versatile; I can group shots within an inch from two city blocks away and resort to full automatic fire if trapped.”

“At the cost of destroying the finer parts of the system,” Katalya scoffed. “I can see how a rookie might want an all-in-one system, but the M21 is a jack of all trades and master of none.”

“I’ve enough completed contract forms to settle exactly what kind of jack my baby is,” said Sedena, sipping her brandy. “I suppose you think you have something better?”

“My child’s an honor student: Norinco SKS-M with McMillan composite stock, a Bausch & Lomb 10x tactical scope, and a quick-change release so I can swap out chromed and unchromed barrels on the fly. It’s rugged, can be disassembled without tools, and accepts factory AKM magazines for when I need to scrounge–try finding 7.62mm NATO rounds on the fly! And for close encounters, a Glock 18 in 9x19mm parabellum.”

 

August 23, 2010

From “The Harlequin Code” by S. Telly Younge

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“It’s all about possibilities,” Gerald said. “Most people can’t see the possibilities in their daily lives. They’re acted upon instead of acting.”

“Sure, yeah,” Mindy said. “People who are acted on, they’re the real villains.” She wasn’t about to argue with the man who had a loaded gun.

“Take this book,” Gerald continued, sweeping a battered Harlequin off the table. “Dime a dozen at any garage sale. Hundreds come out every month. But think about it for a second.”

It was very pink–that’s all Mindy’s fear-addled mind could perceive. The pink of freshly-shed blood sinking into an immaculate white carpet…

“Imagine all the steps that they had to go through to get this terrible thing published. Someone had to write it. Someone had to proofread it. Someone had to sell if. Someone had to bind it. Almost anyone off the street could do the same, and better. But they don’t. ‘Priss McClachty’ is the one with the fat royalty check in her bank account. Why is that?”

“Because she acts,” Mindy whispered. “And isn’t acted upon.” Someone should have been there by now. Did they not get the message? Had her code been too subtle?

“Now you’re on the trolley,” Gerald said. “Let’s see what’s at the end of the track.”

 

August 21, 2010

From “Crossmen Rising” by Newton Yeager III

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Harry would have found something sinister or otherwise remarkable in what he saw; then again, Harry was the sort of man for whom a tattered Bazooka Joe comic could and often did hold a mystical status as a stegotext for a nationwide conspiracy.

From what I could see, the reality was almost painfully mundane. For all its fearsome reputation among conspiracy theorists, the Chalice and Cross society seemed little more than a secretive country club. They’d kept meticulous records, thoroughly indexed, of initiations, events, members, and dues. Three men who later became President of the United States were on the rolls, as the crazies were so quick to note, but two appeared to have dropped out shortly after initiation. A smattering of other luminaries filled the membership rolls, but most were not even members in good standing at the time of graduation–and I, for one, had grave doubts that an organization would orchestrate the appointment of a Supreme Court justice when he owed the Crossmen $250 in back membership dues!

In fact, the only thing of note was a ledger that appeared to be written in some kind of cipher. It was too brief to contain any of the things the one-world-government crazies like Harry would have expected; in fact, I was able to take a high resolution digital photograph of each page using the rig the university archivist had set up for me. Most ciphers rely on the reader not being able to decode them at their leisure; I was about to do just that.

I’d just finished taking the final shot when I heard footsteps. Not an archivist, either, but someone very keen on remaining unnoticed as they approached.

 

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