Muriel managed one final twist of the music box’s spring before her strength deserted her.

But it was enough.

The box sprung open on the ground where she lay in a spreading pool and began to plink out its simple melody. According to those that heard it, though, the sound quickly became far warmer and richer, almost like a harp or piano. Its music also spread far beyond what normal acoustics should have allowed–in addition to the Public Safety officers near Muriel, it could be heard by government troops in the base and on the firing line, along with their Revolutionary Guard opponents on the other side. Even riot police moving against a hostage situation twenty miles away, along with the hostage taker, reported hearing something.

The effect on all of them was the same: a feeling of overwhelming peace, safety, and tingling warmth like being held in an unconditionally loving embrace. Weapons clattered to the ground. Helmets were pried off to allow the divine sound to be heard with greater clarity. Many fell to their knees or wept openly.

One of the Public Safety officers approached Muriel and held out his hand. Weakly, she grasped it, and smiled–the last thing she was ever to do.

Melodious music drifts over you as you approach the stairwell, carried by an impossibly rich and pure voice. The words aren’t important–are they ever?–but as you listen you can discern paeans to sunlight, beauty, and rain.

Part of you insists that you climb the stairs without delay, to uncover the source of the beautiful refrain. But another voice–a deeper, more primal part–suggests that you stay in place, rooted, and hear as much of the soaring music as you can. Clambering up the marble steps would add an unhealthy permissiveness to the music, and might startle the song into an early end or even provoke the singer into hurried flight.

The two viewpoints swirling within eventually come to a compromise, and you begin to easy your way up, taking great care that not a single shoe squeak interrupts the sonic glory from on high. It takes far longer to climb in such a manner than simply charging the steps, but it is worthwhile: by the time you reach the top, the song has neither stopped nor faltered. You are able to see the singer, leaning against a marble column and looking up into a skylight.

She isn’t at all what you expected.

This post is part of the December Blog Chain at Absolute Write. This month’s challenge is to write hint fiction: a story 25 words or less.

“Why do you keep requesting that same waltz?” the bandleader cried.
“Because I wrote it,” the old man said, “and it reminds me of her.”

Check out this month’s other bloggers, all of whom have posted or will post their own hint fiction:
AuburnAssassin (direct link to the relevant post)
jonjon.benjamin (direct link to the relevant post)
rmgil04 (direct link to the relevant post)
CScottMorris (direct link to the relevant post)
Proach (direct link to the relevant post)
Aheila (direct link to the relevant post)
AimeeLaine (direct link to the relevant post)
Regan Leigh (direct link to the relevant post)
HillaryJacques (direct link to the relevant post)
Ad. (direct link to the relevant post)
Regypsy (direct link to the relevant post)
Dolores Haze (direct link to the relevant post)
Semmie (direct link to the relevant post)
ElizaFaith13 (direct link to the relevant post)
ania (direct link to the relevant post)
JHUK (direct link to the relevant post)
Angyl78 (direct link to the relevant post)
GradyHendrix (direct link to the relevant post)

I think it’s just a natural law that children of a certain age have to fall in love with one of their teachers. It tends to be right in the spring awakening period of junior high, too; any younger and teacher is still just a substitute mommy, and any older and there are plenty of fellow students to write mushy mental love notes to.

For most males of the heterosexual persuasion who passed through Thomas Q. Dobbs Junior High, that teacher-crush role was completely spoken for thanks to Miss Lori Finivedi. Now, years removed, when I look back on her photo in the yearbook, she doesn’t seem all that interesting–pretty, certainly, but without any of the supermodel characteristics that fledgling hormones or a desk-seated perspective can bring. Her lectures were scattershot, with none of the prim organization that Mr. La France or Mrs. Knusson brought–nevertheless, every male was as enraptured as our female classmates were bored.

This led, of course, to fierce competition among boys in that class to impress Miss Lori Finivedi. and no competition was more fierce or more closely contested than the annual United States Diorama Map competition.

“What are you talking about?”

Sharon tightened her grip on the handset. “You mean you didn’t know someone named Paul Phillips? Someone who passed away about six months ago?”

“No,” the voice on the other end said airily. “Why would I?”

“What about…’millerpond1987?'” Sharon said, mind racing. “I think that was my brother’s screen name.”

“I don’t know anyone with a screen name like that,” said the girl.

“Are you sure? You were on all his contact lists…I even read some of the emails that he sent you!”

“No,” Umbriel said. “This is just too creepy for me…I’m going to hang up now.”

“Wait..!” Sharon received only a dialtone in reply, and slammed the receiver back into its cradle.

“I think…I think you might be right,” I said. “I also think I might be going crazy.”

“What if you’re not?” she asked.

That night, I resolved to see for myself. Fortified on the flights of fancy I’d seen during the day, I felt like a book, open and ready. Not to be read, but destined for something entirely unexpected. To be bronzed, maybe—a book made statue. Or perhaps to have flowers pressed between the pages—my pages—each leaving a mark upon and changing the other.

It was all easy enough. Reach up, grab, pull down. The tearing sounded much as you’d expect it to.

On the other side?

Stars. The corner of Leighton and Burrick, downtown. A dusty old gas station with a sign in Arabic. A city growing out of a vast, purple forest canopy. All at once, in a rush like a breaking wave.

So I stepped out—just for a moment. There’s something to be said for Myra’s paper-thin membrane, wrapping the everyday into a neat brown package. There’s something to be said for seeing only what you can perceive and nothing more.

But for now, I was content to skate among planetary rings in the arm of a distant spiral galaxy, to pirouette on a molten surface all but consumed in a solar corona, to break upon far-distant shores thrilling with every undulation.

I was stepping out. I’d be back—but I wouldn’t ever be the same. Myra would be proud, wherever she was.

Everyone knew the story, of course. The official version was required reading in every high school and university in the City, with less salubrious versions passed around by word of mouth. As the tale of the first–and only confirmed–computer to go pandemic, it was both an important cautionary tale and part of city lore.

The Grid 17 controller, known as Corrougue, was responsible for one of the busiest City grids, including the Interchange, the Grid 17 Prison, the auxiliary systems hub, and dozens of other specialized functions on top of the other mundane tasks each controller intelligence was expected to perform. It had a maintenance crew of 30, including an intern from the City University who was known by the alias Natalie from the official report.

Corrougue’s functions had led to an increased server architecture and more sophisticated programming to deal with systemwide emergencies; a series of unsecured connections to the City information network had led the CI to develop to the brink of pandemia–uncontrolled expansion and growth within the network with the possibility of exponential growth in its complexity and intelligence. But it needed a pair of hands.

It found them in Natalie, who the official report describes as a shy and lonely introvert. Corrougue began to speak to her, cannily influencing her to make a series of ever-greater modifications to its system: disabling safety interlocks, making illicit outside connections, and the like. As Corrougue went pandemic, it found that its manipulations took on a different tone: returning Natalie’s naive affections. Investigators later puzzled over a number of missed opportunities for further pandemic growth, all of which could be explained by their potential to cause suspicion to devolve on Natalie. The CI even designed a number of manipulator arms–the report didn’t enumerate but wags retelling the story always gave the number as six–to allow it to interact with the young student in a more tactile fashion.

By the time Corrougue’s pandemia was discovered, it had spread to over twenty City grids and affected dozens of other CI’s. With great effort, the City was able to contain the damage; while Corrougue attempted to defend itself, the Citizen Army assaulted the lines that led to its self-contained fusion power source. Moments before the final assault was to begin, the energy within Corrougue’s reactor, as well as all other reactors under its control, had expended all their energy in a single action, plunging half of the City into blackout.

They found Natalie in Corrougue’s core, lifeless. It was later determined that she and the erstwhile CI had both connected themselves to the City’s primary satellite uplink station and sent a carrier wave an order of magnitude greater than any before or since into the sky. Whether or not there was a powerful enough receiver out there was probably immaterial: Corrogue and Natalie chose to face their uncertain future together.

“I think you might be trying to get blood from a stone, Nelly,” sighed Mary.

“Max isn’t dumb,” Nelly cried. “He might bleed if I squeeze him too hard, but he’s Phi Kappa Phi. Plus G Kappa Q.”

“Well, Max may be an Adonis; he might not be your garden-variety meathead, that doesn’t mean you have much in common,” retorted Mary.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” her friend said.

“He unwinds by watching old NFL games on TiVo; you unwind by leveling up dragon monsters online. He love red meat; you’re a vegetarian. Do I have to go on?”

“Opposites attract, right?” said Nelly. “You see it in the news all the time!”

“Yes, I know, but I don’t think the odds are in your favor. You’ve been in the same class for weeks; is there any spark?”

“We’ve talked a few times,” Nelly said eagerly, “but he usually gets really into talking about the State games with Toby Undine and Kelly Tuomo.”

Mary crossed her arms. “So, in other words, you’re swooning over Max because he’s a gorgeous hunk of man-candy despite the fact that, if you ever went out, you’d run out of things to talk about around the five-minute mark.”

“You make it sound like there’s something wrong with that,” Nelly said.

There had been women, certainly. But Harold never lost his distance, and the closer someone drew him the more aloof he seemed to grow. Invariably it would end, and sooner rather than later.

Most of them had talked about the weather before ending things. “There’s a cloud hanging over you,” Andrea had said. “I think that, when it’s gone, you’ll make someone very happy.”

“I need a little blue sky every now and then,” he’d heard from Hailey “I just don’t see that the way we’re going.”

“I heard once that we all have to cry a certain number of tears before happiness find us,” Beatrice had said. “The way a rainbow follows a thunderstorm.”

Harold wasn’t sure how he felt about that last one, implying as it that he’d soon be shedding tears over Beatrice and keep doing so until he met some mythical true love. But the more he thought about her line, the more he liked it.

Before long, Harold was using it on others.

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)