Friday Fiction for September 23, 2011

Welcome to Friday Fiction, hosted right here at Pod Tales and Ponderings this week. Look at the end of this post for the Linky Widget, and feel free to post your Fiction Link, and then read the other submissions on this beautiful autumn weekend. Yep. Summer is over, at least by the calendar.

The First Quarter of 2009 was an International Theme on the Faithwriters Weekly Challenge, and I decided to just have a little fun when the topic of Canada came up. I loved the show, “Home Improvement,” and this vignette just seemed to fit the topic. I hope you enjoy reading it, as much as I enjoyed writing it.

Wilson the Metaphor

Topic: Canada

Challenge Entry, week of January 29, 2009

Highly Commended, Masters Level; #9 in Editor’s Choice

Bob was always interesting to watch television with. He always saw allegories and metaphors in the oddest places, and loved sharing them. I suspect he was the kid the English teachers loved, and the rest of us hated. While we were scratching our heads wondering what on Earth the author was trying to say in a book, Bob was spouting off fantastic ideas as though they should have been completely obvious to all of us.

We were sitting in the dayroom, watching old reruns of “Home Improvement” when Bob had one of his epiphanies. “Bravo,” he said at the commercial break. “A brilliant play on international politics!”

“I thought we were watching silly old comedy shows to forget about politics,” I said.

“That’s the beauty of it! This is so masterfully done, most people would never catch on that they’re getting political commentary!”

“Political commentary? Um, the Tool Man just asked his neighbor for advice, misunderstood most of what he was told, and did more grunting than conversing. I didn’t see anything political.”

“Oh, come on; you don’t get it? Seriously? Think about it; Wilson is Canada. It’s so obvious!”

I knew I was going to regret asking. “Wilson, the nut-job neighbor, is Canada? How did you reach that conclusion?”

“You’re kidding, right? Look; throughout the show, Wilson is only perceived as a nut-job. In almost every show, though, he’s up to something that looks completely weird to his neighbor, but that he’s always doing well. He’s smart, competent, wise, a good neighbor, doesn’t cause trouble, and yet, is never really seen in the show. Not once, in all the episodes that they aired, did they show the actor’s full face until the final bow of the finale.”

“That half-hidden face thing was just a running gag in the show.”

“It was genius, I tell you! Just as Tim Taylor never really sees Wilson’s face, so also most Americans never really look at Canada. We know our neighbor is there, but we don’t take the time to see him.”

“So Tim Taylor is America, then?”

“More like the American Government, I’d say. Supremely confident, marginally competent, and just as likely to mess things up as to fix them. If it wasn’t for Al, who is kind of like the average American worker, Tim would never accomplish anything. Wilson, on the other hand, is always there in his back yard, quietly going about his own business, and is only really thought about when he’s needed. You know, like Canada.”

I was glad we weren’t watching “Two and a Half Men”; I didn’t want to even think about what kind of political metaphors Bob would find in the innuendo and scatological humor of that show. Innuendo? Scatological? Yikes; now I’m starting to use college words like Bob does. Maybe I should see if the Three Stooges are on.

“Canada isn’t the star of the show,” Bob continued. “It just borders on our back yard, comporting itself with quiet dignity and staying out of trouble, while we bumble about and think ourselves superior. Yet, no matter what, Canada is always there at the fence, with that friendly greeting of ‘Hi-dee-ho, good neighbor!”

“Well, except for maybe Quebec, which is more likely to say, ‘bonjour mes amis.”

He didn’t miss a beat. “It makes you wonder what Wilson ever got out of the deal.”

“They did have that assurance that, if the Soviet Union ever came across Alaska to North America, we’d have to deal with them first.”

“Hmm…” he said. “I’ll have to watch the show some more and see if any Cold War metaphors show up. You may be on to something.”

I was on to something, all right. I was on to a rerun of Mythbusters on another channel. I’d like to see Bob come up with political metaphors for two guys blowing stuff up just to test urban legends.

Wilson equals Canada, yeah…

…then again, he might just be on to something, too.

Friday Fiction for September 9, 2011

Welcome to Friday Fiction. I’ve been a bit out of the loop the last couple of weeks, between a death in the family, and being swamped at work. This week, however, I’m hosting, so I figured I’d better pick something good to post.

For NaNoWriMo 2010, I wrote “The Erickson Exigency,” which was the “prequel” to the rather light-hearted story “Hogs of the Heavens” (the first part of which posted for Friday Fiction almost exactly 2 years ago). Anyone who read that story would already know the basic ending of “The Erickson Exigency,” so I don’t feel too bad posting the Epilogue here. I need to do a lot of revision work to the story, but the Epilogue isn’t going to change much. I still like how it worked out. When you’re done, please follow the Linky tool to the other terrific submissions this week.

Epilogue

Surrender

The Colony was growing. The fields extended farther than they had a year ago, and new buildings had been constructed a short distance away from the modules. Violet could see it all on the orbital surveillance cameras, and yet, it had been over a standard year since that final communication from Georgia.

The solitude was getting to her. The previous day, she had thought she’d seen Brunfeld in their old duty berth. He’d made one of his typical cutting remarks to her, before she’d blinked and banished the imagined ghost.

“System,” she said, feeling foolish before even making the request. “Status of ‘com link.”

“All attempts to restore ‘com link have failed. It has been three hundred and eighty two standard days since the last active ‘com link.”

“Terminate attempts,” she said, resigning herself to the fact that whatever problems prevented the communication, were not likely to be fixed so long after the fact. “Respond if interrogated, but end all planet-based communication attempts.”

“Confirm instructions: Terminate drop-probe data reception?”

“Confirmed. Data is now redundant and unnecessary.”

“Communications terminated.”

“Continue broadcasting distress message into space for thirty minutes, once every twenty four hours.”

“Duration of instruction?”

“Indefinitely.”

“Confirmed.”

She left the observatory, and went first to the centrifuge. She took the weapons that she had kept close at hand for months, and packed them away in one of the exercise center lockers. She made her bed, and shut down the terminal on her workstation. Back at the transfer shuttle door, she turned and took one last look at the makeshift berth. “System, extinguish main exercise center lighting.”

The centrifuge went mostly dark, with just a few scattered auxiliary lights to keep it from becoming dangerous for crew to navigate through. She boarded the transfer shuttle, and rode it back to weightlessness.

With fluid grace, she floated down corridors and flipped around corners, arriving first on Deck Six. Once there, she moved purposefully towards the SusAn compartment. Chamber six dash kilo forty two was hers, and she’d lost track of the number of times she had made this trip in the past year.

She floated over the chamber, thinking for perhaps the thousandth time how much it looked like a coffin, and how surrendering to the idea was just one step shy of suicide. In her training, her instructors had told her a human could survive for centuries in SusAn, though no one had ever tried to prove it.

If no one ever came, she would sleep in the chamber until her body could no longer sustain itself. She would die in her sleep, never knowing just how long she had waited in vain.

If she continued as she was, madness would eventually take her, and she would likely kill herself by making a stupid mistake during some delusional moment, or kill herself intentionally because she couldn’t take the loneliness any longer.

SusAn beckoned, because the loneliness was already unbearable.

She removed her clothing, and placed it in the storage drawer at the foot end of the chamber. “System, open chamber six dash kilo forty two.”

The cover slid away, and a warm light filled the interior. “Chamber diagnostics normal,” the system reported.

She dropped into the chamber, facing up towards the lid. With a feeling of calm surrender, she folded her arms across her chest. “System, induce SusAn.”

“Wake-up criteria?” the system asked.

“Wake upon external request.”

“Confirmed,” the system said, and the lid slid closed.

She had prayed many prayers in the past year; some eloquent, some ordinary, and some anguished cries. As the light in the chamber changed to pale blue, and the field started to build, she recited one final prayer.

“Now I lay me down to sleep. I pray the Lord my soul to keep. If I should die before I wake, I pray the Lord…”

Before she finished, SusAn held her.

Friday FIction for August 19, 2011

The superbly talented (and one year older this week) Sara is hosting Friday Fiction this week over at Fiction Fusion. Even though we’re back to playing with our own characters, you won’t want to miss the great reading being offered up for your enjoyment.

My Mom has been sick the past couple of weeks, seriously enough to require a hospital stay. Many of the positive aspects of my characters I’ve derived from the good examples I’ve been blessed with in my life, and that includes the wonderful mother that God graciously entrusted me to. While Marta is not based on Mom, she does have attributes tracing back to a number of the wonderful mothers I’ve known in life, including my own. This scene, from early in “Marta’s Pod,” plays a bit with her own image as both a mother, and in a new-found role as a daughter.

A Typical Human Mother

From “Marta’s Pod”

Josh lay on his back, looking upwards towards a ceiling he couldn’t see for the darkness in the room. Marta was beside him, lying on her side with her arm draped across his chest. They were alone in the room, since Marcel had chosen to sleep in the room with his aunts and new-found uncle.

“You’re still awake,” Marta said. Her head rested on his left shoulder and she gently played the fingers of her left hand through the fine hairs on his chest.

“Yep,” he said, rubbing his hand along her back in response.

“So, what do you think?” she asked. “About my parents, I mean.”

“Well, it’s a little early to tell, but I think I certainly could have found worse mother-in-laws out there. Once the initial shock was over, they seemed to warm up to the Pod just fine. How about you? What do you think?”

“It’s almost like a dream that I’m afraid I’ll wake up from,” she replied. “I have a mother and a father, and Marcel has grandparents. I’m scared that I’ll close my eyes, and when I open them again in the morning I’ll find out this really didn’t happen.” She shifted position, extending her arm across to his other side and pulling him closer. “Yet, I feel like I just found out that I belong with a whole different Pod, and that somehow I have to choose between them.”

“Oh? Are you thinking of moving to Texas?”

“No,” she said. “I know that this is our home, and that wherever you and Marcel are is where I’m happiest. It’s just a bit confusing after all this time to consider that what we feel for our son, they might feel for me. Could you bear to leave Marcel behind and live somewhere else?”

“It’s a little different with an adult child. Parents have to understand that their children are going to grow up and live their own lives. Could I bear to leave Marcel behind now? No; he’s not old enough for that. Will I be able to when he’s a young man and ready for a University somewhere? My parents had to be ready to do that for me, and we’ll have to be ready to do that for Marcel someday.”

“No, you’ll have to leave him behind at a University. He’ll have to leave me behind here. I don’t think I’ll get to go along for the ride when he goes. It’s difficult for me to relate to something like that; all of us in the Pod are stuck here. The only time any of us will leave the others behind is when we die.”

He brought his right arm up and held her in a gentle embrace, kissing the top of her head. “Like every mother, you’re going to wonder if he’s going to be all right, and if he’s going to visit often, and if he’s happy, and so on. I don’t know if it really helps that much being able to go along for the ride. I don’t think it helped my Mom that much.”

“Are you saying that I’m being a typical human mother?”

He laughed. “Yes, you’re being a typical human mother.”

She kissed his chest. “Am I a good mother to our son?”

“You’re an incredible mother to our son.” He tightened his embrace for emphasis. “Is it just your parents being here that has you feeling so unsure of yourself, or is something else wrong?”

“How do you feel about more children, Josh?”

“Well, I would think that the fact we haven’t done anything in particular to prevent more children would say something about that. I’d be delighted if we had more kids, but I’m also not going to be bitter and disappointed if we don’t. I’m alive; that’s a miracle. I have you, and you’re a miracle. We have Marcel, and he’s a miracle. It seems to me I’d have to be extremely ungrateful to lament not getting any more miracles in my life than those.” He moved his right hand to caress her cheek, adding softly, “Though anytime you want to try for more, you know I’m more than happy to do my part.”

“You’ve already done your part,” she whispered.

“Does that mean what I think it does?” he asked, excitement threatening to raise his voice above the quiet level they’d been speaking in.

“I need to test to be sure, but I’m fairly certain I’m pregnant again. I feel so much like I did when I was pregnant with Marcel.” She shifted position so she could turn her face towards his, even though they could barely see each other in the darkness. “I’ve wanted another baby for so long, but I’ve been afraid that maybe you wouldn’t be happy with it; you’ve never said much about wanting any more children.”

It was all Josh could do to keep from yelling and disturbing the whole Pod. “Of course I’m happy about it,” he said. “The only reason I never said anything about wanting more children is that the doctor warned us that Marcel may have been that one-in-a-million chance, and we might never have any more. I didn’t want you feeling that you’d disappointed me if we never had any others.”

Over the years, an odd phenomenon had been observed and documented, occurring to many men who learned they were going to be a father. For some reason their desire for the mother of their child, whether wife or girlfriend, increased dramatically upon learning of the pregnancy. Despite wanting to share the good news with the entire Pod, Josh felt an even more immediate desire to let the Pod continue sleeping.

Friday Fiction for August 12, 2011

It’s done! I received Sara in our Character Swap, and decided to play around a bit with her character, The Dark Phoenix. Since her story opens with the character already being well-known for his power, I thought it would work well to create a scene from before the time that Eira meets up with the Dark Phoenix. If you have not read any of Sara’s "Hunt for the Dark Phoenix," visit her Fiction Fusion blog and check it out. It really is a good story. Be sure to also visit the other Character Swap stories this week, for some fun takes on the different characters.

A Healthy Measure of Fear

The tall man entered the inn, pausing at the door only a moment before strutting towards his favorite table. The patrons of the business moved aside, giving the man a wide berth and doing their best to avoid his notice. Before he had even taken his seat, he bellowed for a bottle of the finest wine in the inn. Despite the proprietor hurrying the vintage and a glass to the table, the man loudly berated the time it had taken to receive his order. Once he had thoroughly cowed the harried businessman, he issued his dismissal with a disdainful smirk.

The display continued, as the man singled out different people in the room and made demands of each. Some managed to settle their tab quietly, and slip out the door unnoticed, while others were specifically delayed in their attempts to leave. He finally ordered the door locked, trapping the remaining customers within.

“There should be entertainment,” he said, and gestured as though he were the Head of State throwing a party. His eyes landed on a young woman, pressed into the back corner of a dark booth and draped in a heavy shawl. “Yes, a dancer,” he announced, and with a flick of his hand, the shawl flew from the woman’s shoulders. “Dance for me, trollop, and I might favor you tonight.”

She shook her head, wrapping her arms tightly across her chest to each shoulder.

“Oh, don’t pretend to be shy,” the man said. “Let’s have a look at you.”

She was yanked from the booth, as if by an invisible rope, and threw her hands out to keep from falling face-first to the floor. Her blouse gaped slightly, revealing just a bit of skin between dangling locks of long red hair. The fabric and style of her clothing indicated she was one of the common agricultural workers of the region, rather than any form of professional entertainer or courtesan, but that seemed to only encourage the tall man all the more.

“Now, dance,” he commanded. “Or I’ll give you a reason to really be afraid.”

“What will you do,” a voice asked from the back of the room, “when someone decides to not be afraid any longer?”

The tall man turned. “Are you foolish enough to find out?”

The woman wasted no time in scrambling back into a corner.

“I imagine,” the voice responded, ignoring the question, “you were a bully as a child as well. You were large, and used your bulk to intimidate other children. Then, you discovered you had a little talent with the powers, and used them for nothing more than extending the number of people you could intimidate.”

All trace of amusement vanished from the tall man’s face. “Show yourself! ‘A little talent’? You have no idea what I’m capable of!”

“Neither does anyone else in this town, since all you’ve done since you arrived has been to perform a few kenesis demonstrations and make vague threats. If that was all you showed to a Master, they wouldn’t even consider you for an apprenticeship, let alone take any threats you might make seriously.”

“I am a Master,” he said, stretching himself to his full height. “Only a fool would not take me seriously.”

“You have it backwards – only those who are fooled think they have a reason to take you seriously. Anyone who sees through your act will know you are only bluffing.” The speaker stepped forward from the shadows, shrouded in a long, hooded cloak. “Fear is a good thing, in the right context,” he said. “A healthy measure of fear keeps us from getting bitten by the viper, for we know better than to extend our hand into his hiding place. A healthy fear of fire protects us from getting burned. A healthy measure of fear for the Master protects us from becoming lazy and too dependent on the powers, lest we beg for help just because our child resists toilet training or we wish our fields weeded without having to do the actual work. You, however, neither possess nor encourage a healthy measure of fear.”

“Show me your face,” the tall man ordered, and swept his hand as though slapping the hood away.

The cloak remained in place, until the speaker casually reached up and flipped the hood off his head.

“Rocks and brambles,” an old woman muttered off to one side. “That’s the Dark Phoenix.”

All around the room, people ducked behind tables and benches. The proprietor side-stepped along one wall, and locked himself into the kitchen.

The tall man studied him for a few tense moments, and then released an amused laugh. “Clever,” he said. “Hire some grifter to pose as the Phoenix, in the hopes that I can be scared away. Getting everyone to hide from the supposed duel is a nice touch – I’ll grant you that. Let’s not disappoint them, shall we? Come on, ‘Dark Phoenix,’ we’ll see who ends up with a healthy measure of fear.”

There was no hand motion, nor powerful invocation. There was nothing to indicate that the Dark Phoenix had done anything, save for the sudden shocked expression on the tall man’s face, just before he collapsed like a rag doll onto the floor.

People began to cautiously peek from their hiding places, and when they realized the feared violent confrontation wasn’t going to happen, they ventured towards the unconscious man.

“Summon the local constable,” the Dark Phoenix said. “He’ll have no further trouble subduing this man.”

“Are his powers gone?” the old woman asked.

“No, not gone, but locked away where he cannot use them. If he matures in his attitude some day, and seeks out a wise master to teach him, that master will be able to unlock the powers so that he can access them again. Until then, he will have to learn to live without them.”

“What should we do with him?”

“He is a strong enough man, and I daresay he owes enough people in this town for the goods he has extorted from them. You have fields to work, and it will do him good to put some honest calluses on those hands.” He dropped a few coins on the bar for his meal, and then headed towards the door. “Maybe,” he added, before stepping outside, “he might even learn a little healthy measure of fear for the law.”

Friday Fiction for July 29, 2011

Friday Fiction is hosted right here this week. Visit the Linky list at the end of this post to add your link, and to visit the other great stories posted for your summer reading pleasure.

This week’s story is an excerpt from “Merrowsong,” and features one of the Hyland twins. The location is near the train station in San Diego, on the harbor in Coronado Bay. We’ve been there many times, and I enjoyed setting this story in the real world locations.

Sketching

Rachel sat on a bench overlooking the bay, near a metal sculpture of a mermaid. The Harbor Cruise boats were preparing for the lunch excursions, and soon would be joined by the whale watching vessels when the season picked up in earnest in another week. Sketching the large boats was a new challenge for her, and the partially cloudy skies offered interesting shadows and contrasts for her to duplicate. It helped take her mind off the fact that Leah still hadn’t told her what the whole trip to Catalina had been about. She had suspicions, but neither her sister nor Marcel had been forthcoming with confirmations or confessions.

A homeless woman shuffled by, pushing an old cart loaded with the sum total of her worldly goods, and before she had quite moved out of sight a fast drawing of her occupied another page in the book. In another few minutes, a noisy seagull had been transposed into a vacant corner of the page, and Rachel paused to sharpen her pencil. She needed to track down the art supply store in town; her last 2B pencil was getting short, and she hated using standard department store #2 pencils.

Applying the freshly sharpened stub to a new sheet, she began drawing a young woman who stood waiting nearby. Her gauzy skirt flowed with the mid-day breeze, teasing any onlooker with the chance for a peek at what the woman might – or might not – be wearing beneath it. When the woman didn’t move on right away, Rachel filled in details and worked the sketch towards an actual portrait. The candid moment caught from an unaware model was, to her at least, always the best. Such drawings looked natural because the subject was acting natural, not posing artificially.

A shadow fell over her book, and for a moment she felt a panic that Will stood behind her.

“That’s my wife you’re drawing,” an unfamiliar voice said.

“I’m sorry,” she said, glancing up into the face of a lean young man. He sported a bushy mustache and the kind of pale blue eyes that were popular on leading men in the movies. His build, however, was more of the secondary “geek” character.

“Would you be interested in selling that drawing?”

“Huh?”

“Amy is kind of camera shy, if you know what I mean. I have a very hard time getting any kind of photos of her, and had I suggested she sit for a portrait, she would have gone the other way entirely. I’d love to have your drawing to hang in my office.”

“It’ll need a fixative applied to it so it doesn’t smear,” she said.

“Can I do that, or is it something you need to do and I can pick up the piece later?”

“Any art supply store will have fixative. Just tell them you have a pencil sketch that needs it, and they’ll show you the right stuff. Go easy, though; two or three very light coats is better than one heavy one.”

“How much do you want for it?”

She shrugged. “I was just drawing for the practice of drawing, and she happened to stand still long enough for me to spend a bit more time on. I don’t know what I’d ask for it.”

He pulled out his wallet and extracted a hundred dollar bill. “Is this too little?”

“More like too much,” she stammered.

“Then I take it you would not feel cheated to sell your drawing for that price?”

“I’d feel like I was cheating you.”

He laughed. “It’s hardly cheating if this is what I am willing to open my offer with. I would have gone more if you asked; that’s how difficult it is for me to get something like this of Amy.”

She carefully separated the drawing from the sketch book along the micro-perforation, and then removed two additional clean sheets of paper. With a few pieces of tape, she fashioned a make-shift envelope to protect the drawing. She started to place it between the two clean sheets when he stopped her.

“Aren’t you going to sign it? It would be a shame if someday you’re a famous artist, and I had an original by you and it wasn’t signed. At the very least, it’s always nice to be able to tell people who the artist was when they admire it.”

“Oh; yeah. I almost never sign the stuff in my sketch book, so it slipped my mind.” She put her name and the date in the corner, and then enclosed it.

Handing her the bill, he took the drawing and smiled. “Thank you, Miss - ?”

“Hyland; Rachel Hyland.”

“Thank you, Miss Rachel Hyland. I hope someday to see more of your works in a gallery.”

“Thank you.” She sat in shock, watching the man rejoin his wife with a tender kiss. Amy pointed to the drawing, and he pointed back towards her and then kept it playfully away from her. She didn’t seem as thrilled with having been drawn as he was with the drawing.

The pedicab rolled up next to her. “Hey, Rachel. How’s it going today?”

“I just sold my first piece of artwork,” she said, her voice trailing off absently.

“For real? How much?”

“A hundred.”

“Cool. What say we go celebrate with lunch? I just had a big tipper, so it’s my treat.”

She started packing away her supplies. “I must be a real artist now, Joe.”

“I could have told you that when I looked at your drawings the other night. Why would you only think so now?”

“Well, now I not only have a doofus fan-boy; I’ve also been paid for my drawing.”

“You’ve got a hungry doofus fan-boy. Hop in, and let’s go get a sandwich.”