Novel Idea, Days 29 and 30

Well, I made it!  Here are the last two entries for the month.  Thirty days and thirty ideas.  Some are really good, and some....well, some aren't the greatest.  But the point is to explore those ideas, those styles, and come up with a few things that may be worth exploring further.  I suppose I can tell you about the plan for next year:  I will be taking the four best ideas from this year, and for a week, work on each one to see what I can come up with for expanding on the stories!!  It should be a lot of fun, and I am already looking forward to a couple of them, for certain!!

Today's readings are.....a little interesting.

Theme:  life in the fast lane
Initial ideas: other than an Eagles record playing in my head, this poses a lot of interesting concepts.  Maybe something with racing?  Meh.  I don't really know what it's like to live that life - but maybe that's where we can have some fun....what about rejecting that life.....on purpose????  Hmmmm.....

     There’s that old saying, “life in the fast lane,” and people usually use it to refer to the jet-set crowd – those people who are always on the go, making money, and living the most extraordinary lives.  I used to be one of those people.  I made my millions and rode in private jets, attended the fundraiser dinners at a thousand dollars a plate, and all those wonderful things that people with means are supposed to do because they can.  That was before I understood just how much it didn’t matter.

     It wasn’t easy to get there.  I was born to privilege, and so when it came to understanding what it was really like out here, I really didn’t know.  I’d been sheltered from a lot of the dirty, gritty things that invaded most peoples’ lives, and I didn’t understand them.  I didn’t understand crime, or need.  I didn’t even understand want, but I thought I did.  I thought it meant that you wanted something, so you went out and bought it, or saved your pennies for it.  No, I was moving too fast through life to understand anything at all of what it truly was. 

     So what changed?  How did I come to this realization of who I was and what I’d been missing?  I know what you’re thinking – It must have been some life-altering experience.  In a way, you’d be right, but it’s not like this was some mugging or some other tragic event in my life.  In fact, it hardly involves me at all.  My company, or rather, a few individuals who worked for my company, were the ones involved. 

     I got the call while I was over the pacific in my plane.

     “Hello?”

     “Hello, Mr. Licthon?”

     “Yes, this is he.  Who may ask is calling?”

     “I’m sorry to trouble you, sir.  My name is Lieutenant Barry Colton, I’m with the San Francisco police Department.”

     “What can I do for you, Lieutenant?”

     “Sir, we’ve had a bit of a problem with one of your shipping containers down at the docks.”

     “Is all our paperwork in order?”

     “Well, that depends on what you mean by that, sir.”

     “Why don’t you just tell me what the problem is?”

     “It’s very delicate, sir, but –“

     “Lieutenant, I don’t mean to be a bore, but delicate or not, you can talk about it with me.”

     “Yes, sir.”  He paused.  “We found some strange cargo in one of your containers.  It – it was full of people, sir.”

     “People?”

     “Yes sir.  There’s, ummmm, more, sir.”

     “I’m listening, Lieutenant.”

     “They were dead, sir.”

     Now it was my turn to pause.

     “How many people are we talking about?”

     “Thirty-seven, sir.  All of them were young females.”

     “I’m in the air right now, Lieutenant.  I’ll have the pilot turn us around.  I’ll be there in a few hours.  Check in with my secretary, and please know that you will have the fullest cooperation from me and my company.”

     “Thank you, sir.”

     “It might be easiest if you met me at the airport, Lieutenant.”

     “As you wish, sir.  And thank you very much for your cooperation.”

     I hung up and had the pilot turn around, before I proceeded to start calling around. 

     I should explain myself, here.  I am the President of Licthon Global Enterprises, a major player in the trans-pacific shipping game.  And my company was now in trouble.

Theme:  Write your own eulogy.  

Initial thoughts:  I wanted to do this a couple weeks ago.  I even sat down and tried.  Wow - it's a TON harder than it looks.  So I've been thinking about it of and on.  What it ended with isn't at all how I envisioned it, but I think it's a pretty fair offering, if tough to read (and write).

     I’m sure that I had some words of parting to you all.  What I said, though, probably isn’t very noteworthy.  I imagine it was something like, “I want cottage cheese” or something, and those just happened to be the last words between you and I.  Incidentally, I really liked the cottage cheese. 

     It’s a funny thing, when you think of the measure of a man, what he’s really worth, etc., and the impact of each of us on the various people we’ve met in our lives.  I remember the priest who said the funeral Mass for my grandparents, who said something to the effect of, “When you come into this world, you cry, and everyone rejoices.  If you do it right, when you leave, you’re rejoicing, and everyone else cries.”  I would like to think the streets are full of people crying now, it’s been declared a national day of mourning, and that I am having a really spectacular party in the ethereal plane.  What?  Am I not allowed one delusion of grandeur?

     Very likely, what’s happening is that there are a comfortable number of people listening to this who, in some way, will be affected by my absence.  What does one say to each of you?  How can I convey in a few words, all that is written in my heart to each of you?  At long last, you’ve finally found me, the guy with a ready quip, at a loss for words.  I simply cannot sum up my life in just a few sentences.  There is no poem, song, or prose that can accomplish this.  There is only a list of the basic few rules:

1)      Embrace the cheese.  Life is far too serious, and you need to embrace the cheesy lines, jokes, puns, and other such shenanigans, just to put a smile on someone’s face.  Even if you get punched for it.

2)      Get a pet.  I don’t care what it is, even if it’s a pet rock.  Get one.  Love it endlessly.

3)      Risk everything you are, to your very foundation, in relationships – especially when it comes to love.

4)      Spend time helping other people become more.  Teach something, learn something, build people up.

5)      Never give up.  This thing called life is difficult.  Never give up on it.

Nope, that’s it.  Just five rules.  I know other people have a lot more, and that’s fine.  These are my rules, not their rules.  And they’re not your rules, either.  Maybe one or two of them make sense to you, and maybe they don’t.  It’s the best I’ve got.  Maybe they just explain who I am a little bit more.  They’re the only ones that make sense to me, and I think that if I’ve lived them well, I can rest easy now that I’ve shed the mortal coil.

     I almost forgot.  There’s one other thing I have to say:  Thank you.  For everything.  The smiles, the laughter, the tears, the anger, the frustrations, even the pain.  Thank you for it all.  You have made my life worth living.  It’s made me find the beauty in this world, from the largest mountain to the smallest grain of sand.  Thank you for loving me, thank you for letting me be a part of your life.  Thank you for sharing this earth with me for a time.  I don’t know what lies beyond here, or if and when we might see each other again, but I look forward to whatever it might bring. 

     J. M. Barrie penned that “To die is an awfully big adventure.”  That is nothing compared to the adventure I had while living.

     Oh yes, and thanks for that cottage cheese.  It truly was magnificent!

Thanks for taking this journey with me.  It's really been fun and insightful, and I have thoroughly enjoyed it.  Also - 

Thanks for reading,

Me.

Novel Idea, Days 27 and 28

Almost all caught up!!  today's offerings are a little interesting, and some really fun concepts.

Theme: The Prophet

Initial thoughts: Prophecy is a tough thing to handle.  Mostly, it's been done so much, that attacking it from a new angle is nigh impossible.  We often hear about a prophecy whereby, through a supposed series of random events, a Chosen One exists and saves the world - it's even present in our religions.  The theme is common to us.  But what about the Prophet him/herself?  there's my angle.....

     The cobblestone street was slick in the rain, and going up the steep hill to the dilapidated shack at the top was difficult.  Even with her walking stick, Hana had a difficult time keeping her feet.  The cold rain didn’t help matters any.  She was soaked through, her long cloak having long since become useless at keeping her dry, but she finally made it here.  She only hoped the Prophet would see her.  The he would be here.  That her traveling would not again be in vain.

     This was the fourth city across the great kingdom of Garenia where the Prophet was said to have a home.  She had already been to the other three, and now she was at the last one, the southern city of Baz.  It took every last gold coin she could find, and then some, to be able to take this journey, but she had to know the answer to her birthright.  No one in her little village knew why they were chosen to raise her, but with her strange light-colored hair, she did not belong among them.  When she was old enough, they directed her to find the Prophet.  He would have her answers.

     Now, at last, as she hobbled up the steep hill to the Prophet’s humble home, she was suddenly hit with worry and doubt.  A thousand questions raced through her mind.  She spent so much time and energy getting to this point, and after it, she was not sure what to do.  She plodded on, in spite of her fear.

     “No matter what he says, I shall know, at least, why there, and where I come from.”

     The wind picked up and buffeted her as she continued to climb.  She knew it would be brutal at the top, but she wasn’t about to let that stop her.  The wind whipped at her cloak, slapping her with it more than once, the wet fabric stinging her.  It took the last of her strength to hurl herself at the base of the door to the tiny cottage. 

     It opened slowly.

     Hana looked up into the face of an old man.  He looked down at her with kind eyes that were full of knowing.  He said nothing, but held a hand out to her.  As she grasped his hand and gained her feet again, she felt a strength in her unlike any she’d ever known.

     “I seek the Prophet,” she said.  “Are you he?”

     There was a long pause before he answered. 

     “Come inside, and you will meet the Prophet,” he said simply. 

     He ushered her inside the small cottage.  It was sparse, but comfortable, and though it looked ramshackle from the outside, it was also quite dry and cozy.  The only furniture were a few cushions upon which to sit.  A small stack of books in the single-room abode sat in the corner.

     “Take off your cloak and be warm,” he said.  His voice was calm and soothing, but strong and rich.  “You have come far on your journey, and I have been expecting you.”

     “I need to know –“ she began.

     “Who you are and why you were left in the village,” he finished.

     Her mouth hung open in amazement.

     “It is not magic, dear one.  It is simply the way of things.  I was once where you are, many years ago now, as you will be where I am, someday.”

     “I do not understand,” said Hana.

     “Of course not!” he laughed.  “Nor did I.  I was so much younger then.  I scarcely remember it.  But the time has come at last for change, and when there is change, a new Prophet must arise.  You said you wished to see the Prophet.  You have only to look in the mirror.”

     “I have no gift for prophecy,” she said.  “How can I be a prophet?”

     “I will give you the gift, as it has been given to me.  And then I will live out the rest of my days in peace.  Someday, you will do the same, when another will come to your door, weak and tired as you are now.  You must never seek them out.  Only after they find you will you know, and only then will they be ready.”

     He removed an amulet from his neck and pressed it into her palm.

     “I am not ready,” she said.

Theme:  The Primary Mode of transportation is the bicycle.

Initial thoughts:  near and dear to me.  Why would this be so?  there has to be a logic as to why technology stopped at the bicycle.  Let's give that reasoning a good try.  Hey, what if, in our current zeal for sustainable energy, we found one, and it's pedal-powered???  It's nothing we don't already know about, just the fuel source is different.   Yeah, let's have some fun here....now, what voice????

     The world was ruined.  The water burned our mouths and the air clogged our lungs.  We were forced to move underground. We all thought we were safe from the devastation we caused, but eventually, our fuel began to run low, and we were forced to abandon one technology for another.  Many thought we’d regressed in technology, as we were forced to use the only available fuel source: our own strength.

     This is the world to which I and so many others were born.  I never knew the great engines that drove our society, other than as relics of an age gone by.  The stories or war and manufacturing that polluted the air and water happened before my time, and I never saw the smog.  I was born to a world that saw and understood its mistakes, and embraced an old technology that turned out to be the one that saved us.  We embraced the bicycle.

     There were stories, at first, of how no one thought it could be done.  The turbines for the generators were too large, and no matter how many men were put to the cranks, we could not turn them fast enough to generate the power we needed.  We were forced to go smaller with our generators.  The smaller generators, though, could not produce enough power, and people could not work the cranks for long.  Many people gave up.  Everything they’d known was gone, and they could not imagine another life.  They are looked at now as the Brown Years.  They are a part of our history.

     It was before the genetic work of Jerome Kandil changed us forever.  Eventually, we were able to use fleets of stationary cycles to power our generators, and it created a class of citizen whose job it was to pedal all day, in order to store enough to the grid that we could survive.  Eventually, we went to three shifts a day, and the cranks were constantly turning.  Eventually, we had enough power saved in batteries to fuel our scientific endeavors again, and as we began re-introducing clean air and water back into the atmosphere, the land began to heal.  Kandil then began his experiments on how to turn out the perfect worker for the cranks.  He succeeded. 

     They needed little rest, and very little food, but their stamina was unmatched.  They were known as the Cycle Men.  From birth to death, their single purpose was to man the cranks that powered our world.  They were born to the bicycle.  Their education was neglected, except for the ways in which to better their performance – the proper form in which to sit, the best things to eat, and amount of sleep they should get – it was a life of routine.  There was no variance.  The Cycle Men were looked upon as property, and they were treated as such.  They supplied the power for the rest of us.  It was simply their job, so the rest of us could do other things.  We thought life was good.

     Life is life, though, and no matter what we try and do to control it, life will find a way to survive and continue.  The Cycle Men began to learn more, and as they did, they became aware that there were no Cycle Women.  They began to realize they were slaves.  As it always happens with slaves, they began to rebel.  They wanted their own women.  They wanted better housing.  They eventually wanted to be paid for their labors.  We’d come so far, and we were once again facing war.  The Cycle Men wanted their freedom, and we seemed doomed to repeat the mistakes of our long-distant past.

     But Kandil wasn’t done.  He’d expected this, and knew the day would come when the Cycle Men would revolt.  He’d been working on a new genetic hybrid, a race of automatons with limited brain capacity, almost devoid of feelings.  They were little more than organic machines.  It was in these our future would lie, and they sustained us until at last, we could once again open the sky and live above the ground once again. 

     Now, we use our bicycles to move around, to get from place to place.  We use wind and solar power, primarily, and the underground cities that were our homes are now the museums of our dark past.  We grow only what we need, and re-use as much as possible, in order to avoid our past mistakes. 

     Still, there is a fear that I harbor deep in my heart, that one day, those who come after us will forget our lessons.  They will make the same mistakes.  That is why I, the Chronicler, leave this our history to the future.  Learn from us.  Learn from the Cycle Men, and the Automatons.  Take care of what you’ve been given, for it is precious beyond measure.  May you live long and happily, for generations to come.

Thanks for reading,

Me

Novel Idea, Days 25 and 26

In the closing stretch, and still playing catch-up from the long holiday weekend!  Here are another two - enjoy!!

Theme:  Magic is real

Initial thoughts:  How do I do this and NOT be like Harry Potter???  Difficult.  That relid upon magic users and non magic users to be apart from one another.  What if they weren't apart, but it was a widely accepted thing?  What if it was accepted as being present, but not accepted as being normal or good??  Hmmmm...Yeah, I think we can do something with that!!!

     The morning dawned with a chill in the air.  It was early in the season for it to start getting cold, but Nel Evesham didn’t care.  The change in temperatures ceased to bother him a long time ago.  He simply uttered the sacred words that invoked the magic, and a small amount of air around him would be affected, insulating him from both heat and cold.  It was undetectable to most people, but then, most people didn’t know about the magic, and how it could be used.  All of that was about to change.

     He knew, as almost every other magic user did, that the Empire had been working for years on trying to identify them all.  They presented a real threat to the balance of power, and the emperor, now old, had become very afraid of what might happen to his legacy when he passed on.  Every magic user dealt with it differently.  Some fled the cities to live out their days in seclusion, some became violent, and many others simply tried to keep about their business, unnoticed.  Nel understood their reasons.  It made sense.  They were afraid of what the Empire might do next, and they were right to. 

     Today was the first day users could be tested and registered.  Nel was as frightened as any of them, but he had another mission this morning.  He dressed as normal, putting on the layers that were necessary only to keep up appearances, and left his small house on the edge of town.  He walked quickly, with a purpose.  Today, he would sign the loan papers from the bank, and then go and register.  By then, it would be too late.  There would be turning back, and it would all be legal.  Those in power would be unable to stop him, and the magic would continue on to another generation.  It was the only way to make it safe for those who, like him, still believed the Empire could be saved.  It would be difficult, of course.  He understood that.  But he was committed.

     He arrived just after the bank opened for his appointment.  He walked in, removed his coat and gloves, and set them down in the waiting area.  It wasn’t long before he was ushered into the private office of Karl Worthington and the two sat down.

     “How’s it going, Nel?  Cole enough for you today?”  He offered his hand.

     “It could be worse,” said Nel.  “But today is exciting for me.”

     “I imagine so!  This business venture of yours looks like a great idea.  I’m glad to see it coming to this town, and look forward to partnering with you on it.  I’ve long thought we needed a school for the gifted.”

     He set a folder thick with papers on his desk. 

     “That looks extensive,” said Nel.

     “They make you sign for everything, these days.  Let’s get started, shall we?”

     “Yes, that would be good.”

     Nel spent the next hour signing his name over and over again, signing the assurance forms, the payment plans, and everything else imaginable.  They sent the paperwork by fax to the home office, and it came back with approval.  All was going perfectly.  They shook hands at the end of that hour, this time as partners.

     “When can my boy enroll?” asked Karl.

     “The school will be finished and ready to accept students beginning just after the holidays.  We’re really looking forward to it.”

     “How is that possible?  Have you been building all this time?”

     “The facility is almost done,” said Nel.  “I think you’ll be surprised just how fast and easy it went up.  Unfortunately, I can’t stay.  I do have a little other business to get through this morning.”

     “I think that statement is going to be your life for a while now, my friend.”

     “I believe you’re correct.”

     Nel left the bank with a sense of relief, but it soon turned to nervousness.  The school would definitely consume most of his time and his life.  But it would be worth it.  Karl didn’t know that it was a school for those gifted with magic.  He’d simply called it “gifted,” and let everyone assume what they might.  He couldn’t take the risk that someone would kill the loan.  But that was done, now.  Now was the hard part.  He would register, and then open the doors to his school for magic.  All the world would see.

Theme:  world-ending plague.  Difficulty: only 5,000 can survive.

Initial Thoughts:  A lot of ways this can go, but the first division is before/after the decision on which 5,000 are to be saved.  I think before offers a little better place to start, because there is the potential for more drama, and even though it smacks of "Deep Impact" in a lot of ways, I think it's the decision-making process that reveals our humanity, both for the good we do and the bad.  Let's go with highlighting that process.

“How many?” asked Tomas.

     “Not nearly as many as we hoped,” said Viktor.  “We just couldn’t get enough supplies together to last-“

     “How many?” interrupted Tomas.

     “Only five thousand.”

     The words hurt.  Only five thousand?  Tomas sat back in his chair, exhausted.  He knew the number would be small, but he thought it would at least be approaching a quarter million. 

     “That can’t be right.  Do the numbers again.”

     “I’ve done them six times, and my assistants are still going.  It hit the supply houses, Tomas.”

     “All of them?”

     “All but one that we were able to get cleaned out first.”

     “Everything we’ve done, then.  It was all a waste.”

     “You can still save five thousand.”

     “How do you pick five thousand people out of millions?  Who would you pick, Viktor?  Because it’s not just picking people to survive, but picking people who wouldn’t mind living in a limited world after the rest of us are gone.  Who do you choose?”

     “Well, the leaders of the world-“

     “Are all idiots, myself included.”

     “You would not go in?”

     “Viktor, I’m old.  There’s no point in saving me.  Besides which, I am the commander-in chief, and this happened on my watch.  I have to shoulder the blame.  It’s the only Presidential thing to do.”

     “But, who will run things?”

     “That will be up to them.”

     “What about your staff?”

     “No one from this staff makes it inside that shelter, Viktor.  Not a single one.”

     Viktor swallowed hard, having just heard his death sentence.  “Yes, Mr. President.”

     “We messed it up, Viktor.  We shouldn’t be allowed to live.  It’s our fault.”

     “Shall I get your Science Advisors, Sir?”

     “No.  We have three days until we have to close the mountain.  Get the first five thousand people you can who are not military and seal them inside.  The rest of us will die.”

     “Sir, if I may – wouldn’t our soldiers be a better example of society?”

     “Viktor, consider this:  we have a chance to end war.  If we save military personnel, we will be continuing war.  This plague?  It’s the result of war.  We need to stop thinking this way.  We need to have NO military present.”

     “Respectfully, Sir, I disagree.”

     “Noted.”

     “You’re not interested in my opinion?”

     Tomas reached for the remote and turned on the television.  The news channels were buzzing with the events of the plague.  There was no outrunning it.  It would eventually consume the entire world.  The only hope was to beat it by going into hiding.

     “Unless your opinion can beat that, Viktor, no, I’m not interested.”

     “So you would just pick a random five thousand people?  How is THAT Presidential?”

     “It’s five thousand people, Viktor.  You want me to choose five thousand of the smartest?  The most fit?  The most elite?  Who?  How can you choose only five thousand?  It doesn’t matter who we choose.  Money won’t matter, technology won’t matter, government won’t matter.  Everyone will have to pitch in and get water, cook, anything they have to do in order to just survive.  No.  Five thousand.  No one over thirty.”

Thanks for reading,

Me

Novel Idea Days 23 and 24

Wow - so holidays happen, and lack of internet happens, so, well, we're spending the next few days playing catch-up!  I've been writing, at least, so it's really just posting!!!  I hope you all had a happy and safe Thanksgiving!!!!

Theme:Dinosaurs!

Initial thoughts:  This was harder than I originally thought.  It sort of ended up like a "journey to the center of the earth" sort of deal, but then, we're talking about dinos here, so, yeah....It was fun, anyway!!!

     Adventures never begin in your back yard.  At least, that’s what I was always taught.  It was a safe place, where you might make up fantastical tales and play pretend, but those sorts of thing weren’t real.  Those were the fantasies of small boys, and while entertaining, they were not real adventures.  They don’t prepare you for the real world.  But nothing could have prepared me for that warm August morning when the construction crew that was digging next door began to shout in alarm.

     I was eating my corn flakes on the back porch, watching the hum of the site, when the excavator they were using hit something hard, causing me to look up.  I assumed it was just another rock, like the many they already found.  Usually, they hit it a few times, it cracked open, and they would move it.  That was fairly normal, and they started hitting the rock with the bucket of the big machine.  Then, I felt it.  The ground shook.  It felt like an earthquake only much, much closer.

     There was shouting from the workers, and I looked again at them.  I saw the excavator slowly start to sink into the ground, and then vanish altogether!  The ground opened up, and several of the men began to fall in as well.  I heard their screams as they went in.  The rest of the men scrambled away from the spot, trying to reach safe ground.

     I still don’t know why, but I stood up and ran towards the edge of this pit.  No one stopped me.  No one thought about it.  I probably should not have done, but I was drawn.  I had to know, to see the carnage, to witness this thing.  There was something about it I just had to explore.  This wasn’t one of my inventions or fantasies.  This was real, and it was in my backyard.  I could be the hero I always dreamed I could be.  This was my chance!

     I was only a few feet from where I could look down into the pit when I heard it.  It was awful.  A screeching noise that started low at first, and then went higher until it was painful – too painful.  I clenched my hands over my ears to try and block it out, and lost my balance.  I couldn’t tell if it was angry, hurt, or otherwise, I just knew that the sound alone knocked me to the ground.  Then, the humming began.  I thought it was a hum, anyway.  At first, it was just a low hum.  It got louder and louder.  A plume of black smoke came up from the pit, and I regained my footing. 

     The men around began screaming as they realized it wasn’t smoke, but a swarm of insects that were very big, and very angry.  The men who were still close enough to look into the crater began running away madly, and the swarm began to chase them.  Still, I moved closer. 

     The screeching came again, and this time, it was louder.  I steadied myself, expecting the worst, my hands over my ears once again.  Then I felt a deep, rhythmic thumping that shook the ground.  It wasn’t music.  It was irregular and heavy.  And it was getting closer.  I approached the edge of the chasm, and looked down, expecting to see the ground, and maybe a small pit that used to be the insect home.

     There was no bottom to the pit.  At least, there was none that I could see.  It was bright.  The soil was gone, and in its place, an entire world lay out beneath me.  Trees taller than any I’d ever dreamed, covered in rich leafy vegetation, surrounded by tall grasses, greeted me.  The entire place breathed one word: life.  Then, coming up the ramp of soil and debris that fell into the cavern, I saw the source of the screeching.

     I knew what this was.  I’d spent many an afternoon thinking about the different names of each and every creature, as small children tend to do.  The body was perfect, every muscle and sinew that could be seen was envisioned correctly in my books.  The eyes were perfect, too.  Everything was just as I’d imagined it, but for the skin.  The skin was scaled like my pictures, but the color was wrong.  There was an iridescent color to it, that reflected the sun and changed colors right before your eyes.  It looked more like the skin of a fish from this distance.

     That distance was getting smaller by the second, as the great beast came stomping heavily in my direction.  It saw some of the men, their bodies broken, lying among the rubble and debris.  It ate one of them, and stomped on another.  Then, it looked ahead.  There I was, staring down the pit into the eyes of the first Tyrannosaur I would ever see.  I ran.  I ran hard and fast back to the house. 

     This was not one of my fantasies.  Dinosaurs were real, and my heroism was not.


Theme: Forgiveness

Initial thoughts:  turning this into something fictitious is a challenge.  It depends a lot on how you want to look at forgiveness, and what you think about it, both in terms of giving and receiving.  How do I think about it?  What does it really mean to me?  How does one earn it, and who decides when it has been earned, culturally speaking??  I think I know where I can take this, now.

     Teldarin scowled into the rainy midmorning gloom.  This was the part of his job he hated most.  It wasn’t the rain, it wasn’t the idea of justice, it was the ritual itself.  It didn’t make sense to him.  He was a Priest of the Ninth Order, and he was beginning to grow impatient with his own progress through the ranks.  He felt stuck.  The system was stuck, and he was part of that system.  He wanted to change it.  He couldn’t do that in the Ninth Order, and they had him stuck here for what felt like an eternity.  He’d seen others come and go in the Ninth, some who just couldn’t handle it, and some who moved on to the coveted Tenth Order.  He envied them.

     It was time.  He gave the signal to the guards, and the drumming started.  It was a cadence used more often in hangings than in this ritual, but it was one of the few ways in which he could make at least some changes to the ritual.  He hoped someone would understand what he was doing.  The condemned had so few options, and every year, the Brotherhood offered them the Forgiveness Rite.  It was initiated as a way to cure the overcrowded prisons, and over the years, it became what it was today: a ritual killing of prisoners condemned to death, followed by a festival.  It made Teldarin sick to think of it. 

     He decided long ago that it wasn’t the act of killing itself that made him ill, it was the way in which it was done publicly, and the celebration afterwards.  It was a mercy to end the lives of the condemned, after all, not a forgiveness.  That was the other place Teldarin could make a difference.  He said the ritual words out loud, of course, but always, quietly, he would ask each individual if they would accept his mercy.  Most said yes, in which case, he would look them directly in the eye, pray over them, and end their life quickly and painlessly.  It was the best he could do.  No one knew about it.  No one expected it.  He knew that if word got out of it, he would be sent back to the Eighth Order. 

     The doors to the square opened, and even in the rain, the throng of people waiting for the short parade to the raised dais in the center of the plaza was amazing.  The procession began, with Teldarin leading the way, his twin swords strapped to his back.  One by one, the prisoners were trotted out and made to stand before him. 

     “Thelnick Porvel,” he began, his voice booming over the people.  “You stand convicted of the crime of murder, and you have the choice now, to live out your days as a prisoner, never knowing the light of day, or of accepting Forgiveness.  Choose.”

     The prisoners could barely talk, much less above the din of the crowd and the rain.  Teldarin moved close to the man in order to hear him.

     “Forgive me,” said Porvel, simply.

     “You have chosen to be forgiven!”

     The crowd cheered, its bloodlust now at a fever pitch.

     Teldarin looked at the man intensely, his steely grey eyes piercing, looking deep into Porvel.  “Will you accept my mercy?” he asked quietly.

     The man was shocked.  This was not supposed to be a part of the ritual.  He found himself nodding.

     Teldarin’s gaze softened, and he held his hands out over the kneeling man.  “I send off to eternal slumber, now, my brother.  Know that I forgive you, and your name shall not be forgotten.  Be at peace, Thelnick.”

     Teldarin reached back up over his shoulder.  Finding the handle of his blades, he drew first one, then the other.  He crossed them in front of Porvel’s throat, and whispered, “Go to thy rest, my brother.”  Pulling his arms apart quickly, the blades did their job and Porvel’s head dropped to the ground.

     The crowd cheered.

     Teldarin wanted to vomit.

     The remainder of the condemned went similarly, until the last one.  When asked if he would receive mercy, the man, Jor Gaelen, looked calmly at Teldarin and said, “I do not deserve forgiveness or mercy.”

     Teldarin’s blow was swift, sure, and brutal.  Jor Gaelen received no mercy, and bled out on the dais, choking on his own fluids.  The crowd still cheered, more forcefully than before.

Thanks for reading,

Me

Novel Idea: Days 21 and 22

For those of you playing along at home, we've passed the 2/3 mark, and still going strong!!!  This has been significantly different than the poetry challenge, and I dearly hope you've enjoyed reading thus far!  Still have a day to make up, though, so you're getting TWO today, plus a bonus share author KM again!!!  I know - it's awesome!!

Theme: I'm dead

Initial thoughts:  it's rarely done well, the character writing from the Beyond.  Naturally, I wanted to try this out.  It offers some VERY interesting perspective and ideas for approaching communication - mainly, from the speak to the reader.  A lot of ways to handle this, and while this may or may not work for some folks, I decided on first person point of view.  Normally, I HATE reading first-person, and writing it is difficult at best for me.  so, I thought this might be a great time to have a whack at it.

     I suppose I should begin with the obvious: I’m dead.  It makes me feel rather Dickensian to start this way, but really, it’s just the truth.  How could I write this if I’m passed on?  That’s a strange circumstance, really, and I’m not sure I understand it myself, but I’ll try and do it justice.  You can judge for yourself at the end of whether or not I succeeded, but if you’ll sit here patiently with me a while, I think I might be able to make it worth your time.

     How did I die?  The how isn’t as important as I once thought.  You see, I had this vision: going out with a blaze of glory, having done some great deed, and there would be people mourning over me the way they did Eva Peron, an entire nation mourning the loss of a great person.  Only – I wouldn’t be a politician.  It would be some great tragedy, drawing attention with my last breath to a great wrong in society, and thus, be forever written in the annals of history.  That was my dream, but that never happened.  No, the how was a simple gunshot.  The question of where is easy: a sleazy run-down motel in the middle of nowhere – the kind of place you use only as a last resort because the alternative is sleeping under the stars in a desert filled with snakes, coyotes, and whatever other nocturnal things prowl through the dry and dusty landscape at night.  And then, even when you do stay in this travesty of a lodging, you sleep on top of the blankets.

     Why?  Ahhh, there’s the real question, and it brings me to how and why I’m able to write this in the post-mortem.  I’m sure if you asked the paranormalists out there, I was killed unjustly, and I have unfished business with those responsible for my untimely demise.  Still others might claim that my unfinished things aren’t with my killers, but with the people in my life that I never got around to telling how much I loved them, or needed them, or outright despised in a few circumstances.  In the end it boils down to a single question:  why me?  I asked it a lot in my lifetime, and if I had the answers then that I know now, I probably wouldn’t have asked the question. 

     That’s a strange thing they don’t tell you about the afterlife: you get to see everything from an entirely new perspective, and somehow, it all makes sense.  It’s like being the observer of a chess game, where you see so many opportunities for either side, but if you were sitting down in front of the game, you would see nothing.  But, I digress.

     Oh – I almost forgot the RULES.  I’m not allowed to tell you about the afterlife.  I can’t tell you if there’s a Heaven and a Hell, or if that stuff is real or not.  All I can tell you is that this is not the end:  we keep going on, as is evidenced by my writing to you in the hereafter.  I make no promises of good or bad, torture or pleasure.  None at all.  Hey, they aren’t my rules.  The next rule: I can’t take messages to anyone.  We have a system for that, and I’m not part of that team.  Lastly: no, I can’t tell you why we’re here – they won’t tell me, as I’m still new around here.  Trust me, I asked.  I was told, “You’ll know, one day.”  I have absolutely no idea what that means.

     So there I was, getting shot in a desert motel room.  I’d come a long way that day, driving down a two-lane macadam highway that looked like the last time it saw any service was thirty years ago.  I was tired, and it was dark.  It was even starting to get that chilly cold everyone warns you about but you never think is real.  Yup, that’s real.  Truth be told – and why not? – I was running away from my life.  I up and left the cushy life I’d known, and was headed out into the wild nowhere, to land who knows where and do who knows what.  I had a couple months’ savings on which I planned to live while seeing America the way it was meant to be seen, you know – the wide open road and no schedule.  And most importantly, I would be leaving behind my old life.

     I guess you could say my passion for living was gone.  I wasn’t suicidal or anything, I just wanted to get “it” back.  I needed to rediscover that thing that made my heart beat faster.  Somewhere, I’d lost it, and it was killing me.  My answer was to hit the open road and find that reason for living.  It worked.

Theme 2:  Thankfulness.

Initial Ideas:  It's Thanksgiving week, so of course, this theme had to come up.  It occurred to me that a lot of folks have their holiday traditions, and some of them make sense to us, and some of them don't, but we keep doing them.  I wanted to get in the head of someone who isn't having the best of holidays, and ends up discovering something about himself.

     He dreaded this moment all year.  Here they were, gathered around the dinner table, the feast was prepared, and everyone was to say quickly the thing they were most grateful for, aloud.  It was a simple thing, something the family did every year.  Normal enough, and Paul knew that in countless other homes across the country, families just like his would be carrying on the same tradition.  That didn’t make it better.

     “Family,” said his grandfather, always the first to go.  The old man always said the same thing.

     “Bastard,” he thought to himself.  “Come up with something new for once!”

     It was easy for him to say, of course, and harder to do.  He felt like this every year, and it always came to him as a surprise.  Some years, he would try prepping, but just when he thought he had a good “ultimate thankful thing” someone else would inevitably take it just before he could say it, and he was caught looking like an idiot and uttering something that sounded stupid to him.  Most times, he would up repeating “Family” just because it was convenient.  He wondered if anyone else was feeling the same thing.

     “Health and safety,” said his father. 

     “It figures,” he thought.  “That is so like him.  Always practical, always – wait!” 

     He listened.  One by one, he watched something new happen, something he’d never noticed before.  He stopped focusing on the “what” people were saying, and began listening instead to “who” it was that was saying what. 

     His grandfather, a small tear in his eye, just happy to have his family there surrounding him.  The old man closed his eyes for a moment, and Paul saw him make a motion, the kind a person makes when someone they know comes up behind them and gives them a gentle hug – the kind his grandmother used to bestow before she passed away three years ago. 

     Paul looked at his father, next, and saw the relief in his eyes that all his family, his wife and children, were simply there, and they were healthy and safe, and they were all there, able to enjoy each other’s company.

     His mother was next, and as she beamed at his father, Paul heard her softly say, “Love.” 

     “She means it!  She really means it!”
     His nephew was next, and little James piped up, excitedly, “Transformers!” and he held up his little toy robot.  Everyone laughed.

     “But he’s honest!” thought Paul.

     And so it went around the table.  It hit him as he watched each person rattle off what was most important to them, and in his head he realized that it was more than a simple question.  They were showing each other who they truly were.  He panicked for a moment, and closed his eyes, reflecting on that one question he realized he never asked, let alone answered.

     “Who am I?”  He repeated it over and over until, after what seemed like forever, it was his brother’s turn. He opened his eyes as he listened to his younger brother.

     “Another day to celebrate life with all of you.”

     He knew, now.  He knew who he was, and what he needed to say.  Everyone else looked at him expectantly, and time slowed.

     “Paul?” asked his mother.  “What are you thankful for, dear?”

     He looked around at the faces all watching him, and his voice sounded foreign and familiar at the same time as he uttered only one word.  “Magic.”

     The room was quiet for a moment. 

     “What do you mean?” asked his father.

     “I’m thankful for magic, Dad.  The kind of magic that each of us carries, that lets us change the world for the better.”

     “The kind of magic I can do,” he said to himself.

And now, here's a guest appearance by author KM.  I can't tell you the theme for this one - it will become visible, but it's worth the read!!  Thanks for sharing!!!!!

Waking on the soft ground, I just lay there for a few minutes trying to get my bearings. Then I remember the running, the dodging of the trees and the bright glow from the full moon that was out last night. Turning my head slowly to the side to look to my left all I see is the river burbling by, the sparkle from the sun hitting it is quite brilliant. Turning my head the other way I hear the pine needles crunch under my head and see the wall of the small cliff I must have tumbled down last night. Listening close I don’t hear anything that could signal that they are close by waiting to spring the minute I proved not to be dead. So I move one of my hands, numbs from a night out in the woods, but moving and form the lack of serious pain, not broken either. I test my other limbs the same way. Small movements that would tell my medically trained mind if there was something seriously wrong. So far so good.

                Now for the big test, to sit up and see of back and my skull or ok. Slowly I roll to my side and lift my torso to a sitting position. All good there, hips are ok, spine feels bruised, my head starts to throb with the change of position but that is to be expected after so many hours of non-movement. I reach around to the back of my head and bring it back sticky with dried blood, ok so I must have hit my head on something hard as I rolled down the small cliff, that explains a lot too. But from all signs I am ok, nothing seriously wrong, so why did they just leave me here, an unconscious female would have been prime target for them to attack and finish me off.

                Finally getting to my feet with a help of a large stick I found nearby I try to continue to move slowly, the stick a weapon as well as a steadying tool. Making my way past the last remaining trees I kneel down by the river to drink my fill of the cold, clear water, the sound louder in my ears now and I am hoping that I am truly alone now. Strange to be thinking alone is a good thing, but now that I know they are real, I feel it is better to move slowly and quietly till I get back to town.

                I never thought they were real, and I am not sure how I let Thomas talk me into going into the woods where they supposedly lived. They were supposed to be extinct, but there were rumors of a small colony in the woods right outside of town. No one had ever seen one, they were once very strong and intelligent, with the ability to create machines and computers like us. But then a sickness that never affected us started killing them off, deforming the young and weakening the once healthy. The legend goes that they tried to create cures by experimenting on the animals of the world, trying to figure out what was happening to them. I guess these stories could be true but who knows. These stories go back thousands of years., they always fascinated me and once I got through medical school my imagination I started to wonder if they really could be out there, of course Thomas knew about my curiosity and loved to tease me about it. This time it went too far though. I wonder where he went when they attacked, did they get him, or is he lying out there in the woods still trying to get back to town too.

                When I get back to town I will get the police to come back out with me and see what we can find, I can’t tell them the truth of what I saw, or ran from, they would never believe me, I will just tell them that we got lost and them separated. I am following the river, knowing that it runs on both side of the town so either way I go I will run back into one of the bridges that will take me in. I stop suddenly, I have a distinct feeling I am being watched. I am sure of it, slowly turning around I stumble and fall to the river, getting soaked . My fur is drenched and I can feel the water numbing my tail to the bone as I sit on the gravel bottom. There are dozens of them and they are stranger then even my imagination could have mustered. Wearing nothing at all, the one that I assume is the leader takes a few more steps toward me and leans his hand out to help me get out of the water. Shaking and unsure whether to take the proffered furless hand, my curiosity takes control of my fear and I grasp it. Strong and callused he easily pulls me out of the water and when he releases me he nods his head as if to ask if I am ok. Nodding back he smiles as me and waves his people to retreat.

                Today I learned that the myth that a creature called human did exist, but still does and they are not the brutal monstrous creatures all our childhood stories tell us they are.

Thanks for reading,

Me

Novel Idea: Days 19 and 20

Hey, let's just get WRITE to this....I know, I know - it's a horrible pun, and I probably should have resisted it, but no - that just happened.  Oh well, on to the fun stuff!!

Theme: Pirates!

Initial thoughts:  This one was surprisingly more challenging that I thought it would be, mostly because striving to find something new is difficult when talking about pirates.  It's been done.  Even the approach I decided to go with has been meddled with on some levels.  Even though it's not the first page of recent tales, it IS one of the central ideas, and here I'm playing with it up front, rather than let it be the mystery.  Where might this tale go?  Why might it go there?  These are the kinds of things that need to be looked at, even when writing a first page.

     As Thad awoke that morning, there was a stillness in the air.  It was unusually heavy, and it felt – slower.  The ship barely moved since they lost the wind, but there was something more to it, like a pall that was lowered over the ship.  He’d felt this only once before, the day his father died.  Thad was only a small boy at the time, but he knew.  He’d run to his mother’s skirts, then, sobbing uncontrollably as he told her of the attack on the vessel.  She thought he was just dreaming, but contacted the Harbor Master anyway.  It was late into the evening when the news came back.  Pirates raided the vessel, and took everyone on board.

     Today felt like that day.  Thad was older now, of course, and no longer a boy of five.  At sixteen, he was as tall as his father, with wide shoulders that were used to hard work.  He was working from the time he was seven, doing odd jobs in and around the port of Caidenton until he was old enough to be hired on as a cabin boy on one of the merchant vessels.  Now, six years later, it was rumored that he would be the next First Mate of the Heaven’s Maiden. 

     His boots sounded on the main deck as he made his way from the crew’s cabin underneath and came out into the morning light.  It was bright, as he expected, but the air was thick with fog.  Dangerous at best, but it explained the awful stillness and quiet.  A heavy fog bank would isolate you from the rest of the world.  There was no navigating through it.

     “How did you not see the fog, Mister Leopold?” he asked the navigator.

     “I could not be helped, lad,” said Leopold.  “We’re in the trench, you see.  Shallows on either side of us.  We had to stay on this course, or run aground.”

     “At least we seem to be moving.”

     “Slowly, but yes.  At least we’re safe here.  Nobody can navigate the shallows, let alone through the mists.”

     “It gives me a bad feeling,” said Thad.

     “I wouldn’t get worried about it, lad.  I’m more worried about our cargo if we can’t deliver on time.”

     “The Captain is getting worried, too.  I overheard him talking to Mister Galvey last night.”

     “I expect so,” replied Leopold.  “We’re all a little anxious.”

     “No, this is something different,” said Thad.  “I think there’s something wrong, but I can’t figure out what it is.”

     “Just the sea getting to you, no doubt.”

     “No doubt,” said Thad.  “If you’ll excuse me, Mister Leopold, I feel an urgent need to take a walk.”

     Leopold laughed.  “Of course, Young Mister Thaddeus.  The starboard side is a right nice place for that this morning.”

     Thad smiled.  Some of the crew were already practicing giving him the title of “Mister.”  He left the stern of the ship and made his way forward for his morning constitutional, and almost tripped over a rope.  It was straight and taught, like there was something pulling on it, running across his path and over the side.  He followed it, looking back towards where he’d left Leopold.  The man was not at his post.  He looked over the side.  The other end of the rope was attached to a dinghy, floating silently beside the ship.  It was empty.

     He heard the sound of a boot right behind him, and his hand went instinctively to his side.  “Duck as you turn and draw the knife,” he thought to himself. 

     “I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” said a rough voice behind him.  “I’ve been doing this a lot longer than you have, boy.”

     “Take what you want and leave.”

     “I don’t think you mean that.”

     Thad turned as he spoke.  “Of course I mean –“

     “You’ve grown, lad.  And you’ve become quite the man, from what I hear.”

     “Father?”

Theme: Multiple Personalities

Initial thoughts:  This could be a lot of fun.  As a writer, I hear voices in my head all the time.  An old friend was said something to the effect of, "I don't call them characters, I call them people - because they feel alive to me."  When you create a character - or a person - they do start to feel alive.  If you're lucky, you can visualize them in the world, see how they'd react, and it makes sense.  If you're not so lucky....maybe they just begin to take over.

     It was time to face the truth.  Theo Horton was sick.  For months, he suspected there was something wrong, but he couldn’t place it.  Not until now.  Now, he had the proof.  That was the hard part.  Who would believe him if he just walked into his doctor’s office?  No one.  You can’t just make up something like this.  You needed to have some proof, and the doctors needed to see it as well.  That was the only way to get the help he knew he needed.  It would mean a lengthy hospital stay, he was sure, but he knew it would be worthwhile, in the long run.

     He tried little things at first, hiding his keys, taking pictures of his car’s gauges with his phone.  He would find them deleted, and replaced with other photos.  He had no memory of it.  Then, he started getting mail for someone named Erik Thompson.  The address was correct, but he’d never heard of this person.  He assumed someone simply scammed his address.  He thought nothing of it.  It happened to everyone.  Then, he noticed things in his apartment getting moved about.  That was when he really got suspicious.  Either there was someone else getting into his apartment, or something was very seriously wrong.  Theo was afraid of both.

     Today, though, there was a note.  Theo thought it was hastily scrawled, at first.  The handwriting was atrocious.  It was angled oddly, and it made no sense at first, until he looked at the paper in the mirror.  He wasn’t sure what made him do that, but that was the key.  Suddenly, the words made sense in the mirror, and the message was clear:  Erik Thompson and Theo Horton were the same man.  He looked in the mirror, and the face that looked back at him wasn’t grinning evilly, and didn’t look twisted at all.  He looked, in a word, forgettable.

     “Why are you here?” he asked the mirror.

     “Because you failed to get rid of me, last time.”

     “Last time?”

     “You think this is only the first time this has happened?  My, you have blocked out a lot.”

     “I don’t understand.  Who are you?”

     “Oh, that’s a rich one!  I’m you, of course!” said the mirror.  “Check it out!  We have the same fingerprints, the same walk, we wear the same clothes, even.  Though I must say that I have better taste than you.”

     “But this is impossible!”

     “And yet, here you are, talking to your reflection, and getting a response.  This seems entirely possible to me.”

     “What am I supposed to do now?”

     “Well, you can get us both incarcerated in a hospital, or you can do nothing.  I suggest doing nothing.  There’s so much more freedom there.”

     “How long have you been there?”

     “Oh I’ve always been here.  And frankly, I’m tired of hiding out.  We’re going to make some changes to the way things work around here.  We have to share this body, and that’s fine.  But I want 4 days a week with it.  You can have the other three.  Just to show you I’m a good sport, I’ll take Saturday through Tuesday, and you can have the rest of the week.”

     “That’s not going to work.”

     “I don’t think you understand,” said Erik.  “It wasn’t a question.  You give it to me, or I will make sure we both get put in prison.  Only, I’ll keep you there forever.”

     “You can’t do that before I can get us in a hospital.  I can get rid of you.”

     Erik laughed.  “You can try.  You’ll fail, but you can try.”

Thanks for reading,

Me

Novel Idea, Day 17 and 18

Oops!  Missed another day!  Oh well, you know what that means!!!

Theme: The North Lost the Civil War

Initial thoughts: It's really hard to think about what would have happened.  So much would have changed and been different.  The many problems the South faced afterwards and during reconstruction - what would those have been like for the North?  Difficult, at best.  From what perspective to write from?  I chose a southern gent, writing about 100 years after the war, so to him, it's just the way things have always been.  I didn't write it in the dialect, but was imagining Rhett Butler speaking throughout.  Might be helpful if you did, too?  WARNING:  There are some very uncomfortable things being said here.  They are not opinions - simply an exploration into the way things MAY have gone.  Alternate history can be a pain, that way.

     Things have been different since the war.  We all expected they would be, but I don’t think we were prepared for this.  The first and most obvious was, of course, the move of our great capital city to Richmond.  It doesn’t seem like such a big move, but after so long in one place, moving it just a little bit south took the heart out of the Union supporters. 

     They made a few new rules that not many people liked, but we couldn’t really stop them now, could we?  The first, and most dangerous, depending upon how much of a supporter you were, was that if you were caught giving support to the Union army or the Union Resistance that shot up quickly thereafter, you could be sent to work the fields in some southern climate.  It didn’t bode all that well for those pale cousins to the North of the Mason-Dixon Line, but it was a way of keeping them in line pretty easily.  I only ever met one white slave in my life.

     They also put requirements on those northern states, that said they had to rebuild the entirety of the Victorious South.  It pretty well put them into bankruptcy and made certain it would be a long time off before they could once again think of functioning independently.  That’s what they get for coming after us and our way of life down here.  So much for Northern aggression!

     But it wasn’t long before there were a lot of folks who would come down this way, trying to find work or other such things.  My family and I liked to try and appropriate them into the True Southern customs, and we sometimes succeeded, but most folks down here wouldn’t think of hiring anyone from the North, unless, of course, they had no other choice.

     Many of our boys couldn’t stay here, though.  They were needed to oversee the factories and plants of the North.  Oh, they griped and complained, those Northern folks, but in the end, it was better, run with the military precision the likes of which they’d never before known.  Profits were up, and problems were down.  We traded with other countries, most notably Merry Old England, and life was generally pretty good for everyone that mattered. 

     Of course, that was what the Union Resistance hated most of all.  I can sort of see their point, but then, they were the ones who tried to pass their will onto us, while we just wanted to keep things working the way they’d always been working.  Still, it took a whole bunch of years for them to become quiet about it.  They tried the usual sorts of things: bombings and assassinations, outright refusal to work under us Greys, but we just looked at it as a population control measure, and really, the problem sort of took care of itself.  Of course, I mean they simply died off after a bit of time.  We Southern folk are patient that way.

     Our patience and our pace is what ended up winning it for us, and getting us to all propser, in the end.  Just give it time, and our ways do work, after all.  In fact, we were able to take on the westward expansion in a way those Blue Boys couldn’t even fathom – we just extended the railroads out along the Great State of Texas, and when those Mexicans saw how much work there was, why they came and worked for next to nothing!  We’ve been able to even institute a policy of keeping wages low and under control at all times as a result.

     It has been near a century of the New and Improved United States of America, and I can tell you with solid assurance that we have never been stronger.  We’ve got this man in the Richmond House by the name of David Duke, and I think he could really take us places.  He’s young, vigorous, and a true champion for everything that’s running right in the country.  I voted for him in the last election – and it was a close one between him and that other guy who almost didn’t come back from that Sub-Saharan Occupation thing we took care of.  He was a true war hero, I can tell you.  I had a difficult time making up my mind, but in the end, Mr. Duke just seemed more naturally right, like God Himself came down to Earth and anointed him personally.

     I’m not really sure what’s going to become us, heading forward, but I know I am all excited to find out.  I hear they are doing simply amazing things these days with those computers, and with them starting to look towards more automation of plants, why soon, we might not even need to have slaves any more.  So really, those Northern folk got what they wanted, and everyone was happier by doing it our way!

OK, time for theme number 2

Theme: Phrase: "There was the device"

Initial thoughts:  This one can go anywhere, but it definitely leans towards the sci-fi genre.  I began to think about what kind of machine it could be - large vs small, evil vs good, etc.  I finally settled on a device of some sort that makes zombies, because why not??  So there you have it.  This sort of became a prologue type of thing, a brief scene involving the device, wherein the rest of the story follows....I hope you enjoy!

     The small band of warriors looked around the room at each other.  Hodgkins was missing two fingers, Bellows had his leg tied off in a tourniquet and was already looking pale, Z-bub’s left eye was swollen shut, and Deeks was missing several teeth.  The day turned into hell from the start, and now they were all that was left.

     “We still have to get to the machine,” said Z-bub.

     “There’s at least a hundred of them left,” piped up Hodgkins.  “They’re huddled around it, like bees protecting the queen.”

     “We don’t have a choice,” said Bellows.  “We’re all that’s left.”

     They all nodded in silent agreement.  Of the entire unit sent to infiltrate and destroy the machine, only their squad remained.  The plan was a simple divide and conquer maneuver: fighting on multiple fronts was difficult, so it was decided to send in small forces at several strategic points.  The creatures seemed mindless, unorganized, a mass horde led by mob mentality that swarmed and moved on its own accord.  They were wrong.  Whatever it was that controlled them, the creatures had a plan. 

     Now, instead of having several squads reach the central control room, it was just one.  Four men against a small army of those things, and the machine was at the center.  They had to destroy it, no matter the cost.  They had to succeed. 

     “So how do we want to do this?”  said Deeks.  He spat out some blood.

     “They won’t fall for a diversion,” said Hodgkins.  “We already know that.”

     “We’ll have to go in one at a time,” said Bellows.  “A staggered attack.  We use grenades, and maybe three of us can clear a path for the last one.”

     Z-bub spoke up.  “You’re calling for suicide.”

     “No – just take as much of them out as we can, and maybe we’ll get lucky and take that damned thing out with us.”

     “There’s got to be a better way,” said Deeks.

     “How?  There’s too many of them against just the four of us.”

     “He’s right,” said Hodgkins.  “There’s no better way.”

     “I’ll go first,” said Bellows.  “I can’t move as quickly, so they should swarm me easily.  I can take out more of them.  Next, Deeks will go.  Same idea.  Z-bub, you’re third, and Hodgkins ought to be able to get through to the machine.  Blow it up.  At all costs, destroy that thing.”

     “That’s a lot you’re putting on me,” said Hodgkins.

     “You’re the fastest, so you’ve got the best chance to make the push.  Get that grenade as close as you can.”

     They all nodded their approval.  No words needed to be said. 

     Hodgkins watched as all three of his friends disappeared one by one out the door, and he heard the corresponding explosion of the grenades each time.  The dirt and grime ran down his face as the tears streaked his skin, and he knew he could not let them down.  They would not die in vain.  He plucked the grenade off his belt, and held tightly to the trigger, pulling the pin.  Standing, he took three deep breaths, and then ran out the door to follow his friends.

     Clambering around them, picking his way as he moved, he could see some of the creatures still stirring, some of them blown to pieces, and some of them making off with pieces of his fallen comrades.  At last, he made it past the last pile of bodies, only to see a good twenty more of the creatures in front of him, guarding the machine.  They knew he was there.  They knew what was happening.  They would defend the machine with their lives.  He would destroy it with his.  He charged.

     When the smoke cleared, there was the machine.  It was damaged, but it could be repaired.

Thanks for reading,

Me

Novel Idea, Day 16

It's a new day, and life is pretty good.  Always good to remember that.  A day where you can post some fresh writing?  That's even better.  Let's get to it!!

Theme:  Hospital Stay

Initial thoughts:  Something like this is always tough, because hospitals run the gamut, as do our stays in them.  First to tackle is point of view here:  Me, someone else?  OK, serious or routine?  Something good or something bad?  There are a million possibilities with this one, and the overall mood is what's important.  Of course, there's always a different idea, too:  What kind of hospital??  Ahhh now I am getting somewhere......

     The door opened to the small room, and Anthony Cooper walked in.  It was a small room, fairly devoid of furnishings but for a small table and two chairs, one of which was occupied by none other than Gerald Hopkins.

     “Good day, Mr. Cooper.”

     “Doctor.”

     “And how are we feeling today?  Feel like being honest?”

     “About what should I be honest about that I haven’t already?”

     “Well, you’ve been here for several years now.  Tell me – do you think you are rehabilitated enough that we should consider letting you out?”

     “Hmmm.  This is a difficult question.  What do you think?”

     “Come now, Mr. Cooper.  We’re not here to discuss me and what I think.  We’re here to discuss you and what you think.”

     “In that case,” began Anthony.  “I am supremely confident in my ability to function in society.”

     “And what would you do in society?”

     “You have inspired me,” said Anthony.  “I think I would very much like to go into medicine.”

     Gerald laughed.  “And what makes you think you’re qualified to go into medicine?”

     “After having dealt with it for so many years, and all my studying of events here at the hospital, I think I would make an excellent candidate.”

     “Well, I do think that your time here will cause some great difficulty in getting you admitted to a program of medicine,” said Gerald.  “But, that is not up to me to decide.  I think it would be a good practice of some reality therapy for you.  Have you thought about which school you might apply?”

     “Why not go for the gold in Harvard Medical?”

     “Yes, I see.” 

     “You don’t approve?”

     “Perhaps you should think about some place that is a little less rigorous.”

     “But, you just said that reality therapy would be good for me.  Would this not then be a more truthful course?”

     “A valid point.  I do have to tell you, though, that if they question me, I will have to be honest.”

     “Your honesty is all I ask.”

     “Very well.  But given the difficulty of the coursework, how can we be sure you wouldn’t wind up back here?”

     “I can’t.  In fact, they could let me out of here one day, and I would be back the next, I am sure.  It would not be because I did anything wrong, I assure you.”

     “You assure me?”

     “Yes I do.”

     “This does…not exactly inspire confidence in me.” 

     “I thought you might see it that way.  You see, I feel that if I am spending all that time studying, I simply won’t have time to do anything else.  If they send me back, it will be because I belong here.”

     “I see.”

     “So either way, I have nothing to lose.”

     “I understand.  Well, I have all I need from you today.  The nurse will see you out.”

     “Thank you.  These sessions are most informative.”

     “They are indeed, Mr. Cooper.”

     Anthony walked out of the little room, and the door was once again closed behind him. 

     “And how is the patient today?”

     Anthony let out a deep sigh.  “No change.  He still thinks he’s the doctor in charge, and that I could use a few doses of reality therapy.  I’m tempted to give him some, but I fear he couldn’t take it.”

Fun, silly, a little different....on the whole, I enjoyed writing this one!!  I hope you enjoyed reading it!

Thanks for reading,

Me