Friday Fiction for April 15, 2011

The ever-imaginative Sara is our hostess for Friday Fiction this week. Visit her Fiction Fusion blog for her story, and to find the Linky tool with the list of other great submissions.

In just a few days, the anniversary of the Lisbon Massacre will occur. There is a custom among some Jewish sects, that on Purim (The Feast of Esther), one should get so drunk as to not be able to differentiate between righteous Mordecai, and wicked Haman. The Rabbis who promote this tradition teach that it is to show us that the potential for good and evil exists in everyone, and that what defines us is the choices we make, not the circumstances of our birth or our heritage. We hear a great deal about violent, radical Muslims, but as the Lisbon Massacre should remind us, we as Christians also possess the potential to descend into horrific violence. When I wrote the novella, “If I Forget Jerusalem” for the Peculiar People Heirloom Chronicles, I set my story during this massacre. While the main characters are fictitious, the events referred to are real. From Sunday, April 19, 1506 through Tuesday, April 21, between two thousand and four thousand were slaughtered by a mob, encouraged by a pair of Dominican monks that wanted the Inquisition to come to Portugal. Since the entire story is short, this will be the last excerpt I post from it, but I wanted something to coincide with the anniversary this week.

Chapter 3

Hayom Asara Yamim – Today is Ten Days (of the Omer)

Sunday, April 19^th, 1506 – late afternoon

“Sh’muel! Open up! Quickly!”

He opened the door to his friend. “Shalom aleichem, Baruch. Have you come to say the blessing for the counting of the Omer with us this evening?”

Baruch entered the house and closed the door behind him. “Keep your voice down; has not the recent arrest of those observing the Pesach taught you anything?"

“They were released unharmed, were they not?”

“That has not helped us. It only made our enemies angrier.” He placed a hand on Sh’muel’s upper arm. “I’ve come to warn you.”

“Warn us? What is happening?” He led the man to a chair and offered him some wine. “You are trembling, my friend. What is wrong?”

“There were a few of us up at St. Dominic’s, and some of the Christians claimed to have seen a miracle on the crucifix in the Jesus Chapel.”

“A miracle? What kind of miracle?”

He waved his hand as if the information was of little consequence. “They say the wound on Jesus’ side was shining with some heavenly light, but Shaul disagreed. He said it was just dry wood and that nothing miraculous was happening.” He gulped his wine and sobbed. “They fell on him, Sh’muel. They dragged him from the church by his hair, ripped him apart, and burned his body.” The tremors in his back returned anew. “Hide your family, Sh’muel. The Dominicans are inciting the people against us, and they are already starting after those who could not get away from the crowd. It will not be long until they are here.”

Hurrying to the door, he opened it just a crack and peeked out. In the direction of the marketplace near the church, columns of smoke were rising and a dull noise penetrated the distance. “What of your family, Baruch?”

“My sons were with me; we ran when we heard the Dominicans calling for the people to avenge the heresy on us. We split up in order to warn as many as we could, with my youngest running as fast as he could to home and warn the women. We are to meet there.” He shook his head. “They were promising that those who killed us would be granted a hundred days of absolution in the world to come.”

“Hurry home; I fear we have little time left before they reach us. Thank you for bringing us this warning.”

Bolting the door after Baruch left, he hurried to find hiding places for each member of the family. Perhaps God would calm the mob before any of the homes were reached; still, it would be prudent to not present any ready targets for their rage if they did come that far.

He paired the children up, hoping the older ones could keep the younger ones from becoming too afraid. His wife took their infant son to one place of seclusion, while he cradled their toddler daughter in his hiding place.

The sounds of people shouting were near enough to discern voices; some angry and others fearful or pleading. Holding the child close to his breast, he whispered calm assurances and hoped she would not get too restless having to stay in one position for too long.

The sound of wood breaking was closer, and he could not stop his imagination from seeing his neighbor’s door being kicked in by a mob. He began to quietly daven; rocking back and forth and muttering prayers for the safety of whoever might be in the home being invaded.

His walls did little to muffle the screams that echoed down their narrow street, and his daughter gave a fearful whimper. He tried to reassure her, hoping he sounded calmer than he felt. “Hine, lo yanum, v’lo ishan, shomer Yisrael,” he quietly canted the Psalm to her. Behold, He does not slumber, and He does not sleep, Who watches Israel. The desperate cries of someone in the distance pleading for mercy, made him realize he was singing as much to reassure himself as the child.

He kissed the top of her head and rubbed one hand gently across her back. If You would send a deliverer, oh Most High, this would be a good time to do so.

* * *

You can read more about the Lisbon Massacre here.

Friday Fiction for April 1, 2011

Welcome to another edition of Friday Fiction, with this week’s charming hostess, Julie at The Surrendered Scribe. Visit Julie’s blog, and enjoy all the great fiction being offered for your weekend reading pleasure.

Considering the auspicious date of this entry, I decided to go with a Challenge Entry from June 4, 2009. The topic that week was “Empty and Full,” and while this entry didn’t place, it did spark my 2009 NaNoWriMo novel, “Empty Threats.” I think this was the last time I entered the Weekly Challenge. I really should get back into it.

Exiled With a Fool

Francesca opened her eyes to artificial lighting, and focused on an unfamiliar ceiling. The air had a processed smell, and a faint hum reached her ears. Coarse fabric covered her body instead of the lightweight, silky clothing she was accustomed to. She sat up and looked around, and saw only a solitary young man seated nearby. “What is this place?” she asked.

“This is Elba Outpost, Mistress Francesca,” he replied.

“Why am I here?”

“You have been exiled by the Revolutionary Council, Mistress. Your parents, in negotiating the surrender of the Adon Keep, secured your safety in exchange for halting the bloodshed of the war.”

“The Rebels won?”

“Yes, Mistress.”

“My parents - ?”

“I’m sorry; they could not save themselves.” He came over and offered his hand to help her up. “Their concern was for you.”

“Are you my jailer, then?”

“No, Mistress. I am your companion. Your parents insisted that you not be alone, so the Council requisitioned me from the Empties to accompany you into exile.”

She took the hand, and allowed him to escort her to the table. “I don’t understand. Requisitioned? Empties?”

“I was an Empty, created and raised in the lab. I was taught only what I needed for communication and basic self-care, and kept isolated from any outside influences. Once I reached maturity, I was placed into stasis until requisitioned, at which time my mind was filled with what is required for my assignment. Specifically, I was given the knowledge and emotions to both care for and about you.”

“So you’re an android?”

“No, Mistress. An android is a mechanical construct resembling a human. An Empty is fully human, awaiting the programmed personality and skills needed for the requisition.”

“But you were programmed to care about me, just like an android would be. Couldn’t they find even one person that cared enough about me to follow me into exile?”

“Perhaps, but the Council wanted no chance that you might have political supporters along to help you. You were allowed to live on the condition that you could never return to rally the loyalists against the new regime. My filling has left me politically neutral; I have no animosity towards you as the daughter of the deposed Adon, nor do I seek the restoration of the old power.”

“So that’s it? I’m stuck with you?”

“If you tire of me, Mistress, you may return me to stasis. I fear, though, you will find it a lonely existence with no one to talk to.”

“If I’m going to be stuck with you, I should at least know your name. What do I call you?”

“I have no name. I was an Empty, and now I am a Full.”

She sighed. “Great; I’m exiled with a fool.” She crossed her arms and regarded him with amusement. “So, am I supposed to just call you ‘Fool’ for the rest of our lives?”

“You may call me what you wish, Mistress. I remember being an Empty, and even a fool is better than that existence.”

The look in his eyes caused the smile to vanish from her lips. “You remember?”

“My filling gave me memories as though we had grown up together, but they cannot eradicate existing memory. Beneath the Full memories, I still remember my life as an Empty.”

She reached an arm across the table, just short of touching his hand. “Was it really that bad?”

“An Empty has no imagination, Mistress. I had neither dreams nor aspirations. I felt no emotions, either good or bad. I did not laugh or play, and only cried if I was hurt. We were kept empty, so that there would be little to conflict with whatever programming our requisitions filled us with. We did not live; we merely were.”

“I’m sorry; I had no idea.”

He smiled. “It doesn’t matter. I am Full now, and whatever you call me, or however you treat me, I would not go back to being Empty.” He bowed his head. “I will be your Fool if that is your wish.”

“It’s funny; now I feel like the Empty,” she said. “All that I’ve ever known is gone, and I don’t know how to live.” She took his hand again. “Will you teach me?”

“Of course, Mistress.”

She thought a moment. “Phil; you should be called Phil.”

“Thank you, Mistress Francesca.”

“Please, just call me Francesca.”

His smile seemed to fill the room, and she felt less empty. “As you wish,” said Phil.

Friday Fiction for March 25, 2011

Catrina is our gracious Friday Fiction Hostess, over at her blog, Speak To The Mountain. The Linky tool is there, along with Part 3 of her story, “The Corpse.”

In “Her Father’s Star,” one of the conflicts the main character deals with, is being torn between her calling as a daughter of a priestess, and her desire to travel to the stars, as her father did. Her first assignment as a priestess is to assist the Priestess B’Tra in the Embassy on Earth. During this service, she follows B’Tra’s daughter to Auckland, when the girl runs away to elope. This scene occurs during that trip. As a reminder, in this series of stories, the people of Epsilon Eridani (Qi'le) are a Matriarchal society, and therefore view God as Mother.

Chapter 10

Tradition

Traditions are the guideposts driven deep in our subconscious minds. The most powerful ones are those we can’t even describe and aren’t even aware of.

~ Ellen Goodman

Se’Ana stood on the balcony, facing the direction of the sunrise. When she had started the prayers, morning had been nothing more than the hint of light on the eastern horizon. As she sang the final prayer, the light was full upon her face and her skin grew warm from it. “God of my mothers,” she sang. “I offer every thought of my mind, and every word of my lips, and every action of my body as a gift to you this day. May my gifts be pleasing to You, and may I serve as a faithful daughter should. God of my mothers, You have ordained me a priestess before You; touch Your people through me.”

Wherever B’Tra was, she would be reciting that same prayer. On the world of Qi’le, every priestess would likewise recite the prayer as the morning light first illuminated their villages. She thought about the scandal of her father reciting that same prayer alongside her mother. It was something few husbands of priestesses would dare request, and even fewer priestesses would agree to. Still, at that moment it seemed to her to be the most natural and beautiful thing she could imagine. The liturgical prayer was said to connect the community of priestesses one with another, and the thought that it also connected her with her father across the void made it all the more special to her.

Reciting her morning prayers in jeans and a t-shirt, however, was only slightly better than reciting them naked. Her robe was scheduled to be returned shortly, and she wondered if she would receive it back from the hotel laundry before B’Tra arrived with the spare robe she’d asked the older priestess to bring her.

She entered the room and closed the door to the balcony. Pulling the sheet back over Elizabeth’s bare leg, she touched her middle and ring fingers to the sleeping woman’s cheek. “Would that we could truly be sisters, you and I,” she sang softly. “Perhaps then you might understand.” It had been a restless night for Liz, judging from the disheveled bed linens. She smiled; were she facing such a meeting with her mother, she would feel a certain nervous restlessness as well.

She settled into the chair with her right leg folded back under her left. While she still wasn’t sure she liked the jeans, she did find the freedom of movement they afforded her a nice change from the flowing priestess robe. She understood why the Terrans preferred that style of dress and why even B’Tra would wear such clothing for certain tasks around the Embassy. Perhaps, she considered, after the day’s events were finally settled she would change back into the jeans and t-shirt and wander the city; it could be interesting to blend in and just be a normal woman rather than a priestess and being treated as a visiting dignitary.

Even as she mulled over the idea, she imagined her mother reminding her that, no matter what she wore, she would still be a priestess. She thought of B’Tra, working in the Embassy gardens wearing dirty jeans and a work shirt, and she knew it was true. It was in the eyes, and in the countenance, and in the bearing of a priestess. The blue robes were merely a symbol, Y’La had once told her and her sisters. What the robes did for the body, God did for the spirit, and that was what truly identified a priestess to any who saw her.

She looked at Elizabeth and knew her mother was right. God’s touch was evident on the woman, but in B’Tra it was far more than a touch; it was an enveloping. It was the same for Y’La, and for Noma, and for Sh’e, and for all the other priestesses she had known. God was wrapped around them, and the evidence of Her influence on their lives was obvious to anyone who looked.

Would others say that about her? she wondered. She stood and went to the mirror, and studied her reflection to see if that same evidence appeared as obvious in her as it did in others. She saw only the face of one who had reluctantly accepted the ordination of God staring back at her, and questioned why God would choose to waste Her embrace on such a one as that.

She flopped down onto her bed and closed her eyes, though she doubted it was acceptable to pray in such a position.

She moved her hand, but rather than bed linens she brushed against the weeds of a meadow. She lay in the shadow of Pisces’ wing, and a hand swept the hair from her forehead.

“My daughter Se’Ana; what are you doing here?”

“I heard you had come home, and I wanted to see you and father.”

“You are in your first year of priestess training; you know you cannot leave the school.”

“I just needed to see you both and hear your voices before you returned to the Temple city.”

“Se’Ana, we would not have left without seeing you. We were waiting until this evening, after the lessons for the day were finished. You should have stayed for your lessons, and now they will have others out looking for you. What could be so important that you could not wait until we came to you tonight?”

“Mother, what if I am not supposed to be a priestess? I do not act like the other students, and I do not think like the other students. They delight in their studies, and yet all I can think about is coming out here and working on Pisces. They dream of service and B’selai, and I dream of traveling to the stars like father did.”

“You are Se’Ana, daughter of Y’La, of the family T’Cha. I knew from the first time I blessed you at my breast that you would be a priestess, and I knew when we gave you your name that you would also go to the stars as your father did.”

“But priestesses do not go to the stars, mother. All the other students say this.”

Her mother laughed. “I think these other students have not spoken to the priestess K’Mi, then, for her daughter B’Tra went to the stars as a priestess. They have not spoken to the priestess Alice, for she both went to the stars as a priestess, and returned to us again as a priestess.”

“But that is only two of all the priestesses of Qi’le.”

“God showed me that you would go to the stars, Se’Ana, and if that is what She intends, then that is what She will bring about. You do not need to trust me on this; trust God and follow Her call for you.”

The t-shirt was gathering under her breasts and making her uncomfortable. “Mother?”

“Yes, honored priestess?”

“I was remembering a conversation we had many years ago, and now I am here as an adult. I cannot be here, though.”

“You are not here, Se’Ana. God is there, and She knows you are doubting Her calling on you.”

“Am I dreaming then?”

“These are the robes of the priestess,” her mother said, ignoring the question. “The robes do not honor us; we honor the robes, for they have been given to us by God as a reminder of all that She has commanded us.” It was what the priestess elder had said when she and the other new priestesses had first donned their robes after their ordination. “A priestess does not rule; a priestess serves, and God has chosen you to serve as Her voice and Her hands to the people. The priestess is honored only when the priestess obeys God’s command on her life, for when you cease to serve, you will cease to be honored.”

They were standing in the Council chambers; Pisces had vanished without warning. Her mother stood in front of her once again, holding the folded blue robe in her arms. “Honored priestess,” she said. “Your robes.”

She stared at the robe. When her mother had presented it to her before, she had accepted it without emotion. Tears filled her eyes as she regarded it again, but she did not reach for it.

“Honored priestess; your robes.”

She wanted to reach out and take it, and to put it on with the kind of reverence she should have felt the first time she wore it; the kind of reverence and respect the other priestesses showed so readily as they accepted their first robes from their mothers. Her arms, however, did not respond to her command.

“Honored priestess; your robes,” Elizabeth repeated again.

Se’Ana sat up with a start. Elizabeth stood before her, wrapped in a bath robe and holding the priestess robe in her arms.

“I don’t know how you managed to sleep through the attendant beating on the door; I can usually sleep through almost anything, and he still woke me up. He brought your robes and undergarments back from the laundry.”

She stood up from the bed and touched the material of the robe with one hand. “These are the robes of a priestess,” she said. “The robes do not honor us; we honor the robes, for they have been given to us by God as a reminder of all that She has commanded us.”

“Yeah, I know; mother has explained the priestess robes to me more times than I care to count.” She lifted the robe a bit higher to accent her impatience. “Wait; are you crying? What’s the matter?”

Without answering, she pulled the t-shirt off and took the sash, wrapping it in the way she had done since she had first started developing breasts. She undid the jeans and stepped out of them, and then removed the ridiculous panties. She slipped into her normal undergarment, heedless of any modesty issues that changing in front of the other woman might present. She paused before taking the robe, remembering the real ordination ceremony and the dream she had just experienced. With tears flowing down her cheeks, she lifted it and wrapped herself in it.

“Se’Ana? Are you all right?”

“I think I am all right for the first time in my life.”

Friday Fiction for March 11, 2011

Friday Fiction is hosted this week by Karlene again, only this week on her Dancin’ In the Rain, Splashin’ in His Love blog. Dance on over and splash right into the Linky, for this week’s reading fun.

Five years ago, my daughter and I were enrolled in a writing course at the local college, for advanced writers working on novel length projects. “Cardan’s Pod” was already a finished story, but I wanted critique feedback on it, and this class was a good place to get that. One week, someone made the comment that she could not imagine why the main character, Josh, had ended up married to a woman that wanted to kill him in the first place.

I thought, ‘Haven’t you ever read the news? People get married to someone who intends to kill them much too often in real life.’ I initially dismissed the question, but before long, thought about it some more and decided there could be a good scene in the answer. This excerpt, from Chapter 13, was the result of that question.

In Love With the Idea

Marta was stretched out on her belly, her left arm bent beneath her head and face turned toward where Josh rested. It was a strange experience to enjoy casual conversation with a normal man, as Dr. Marcel had rarely just talked with them. Most of the time his interaction had been to teach, and there had always been some task pressing on him and cutting their time short.

Though the ladder was just a few feet away, Josh, on the other hand, appeared in no hurry to leave her. She pursued her subject, even though he sounded uneasy with it.

“What I don’t understand is why a person would do that. Why would she leave you to die?”

“The only reason I can think of is that she wants what I have, Marta.”

“I still don’t understand. If she is your wife, doesn’t that make your relationship similar to the Pod; you share what you have for the good of the whole?”

“For some things, yes, but I own a company, and much of what I have is tied up in corporate stock and other such assets.”

“But you both share that, right?”

“Think about the pantry upstairs and all the canned food in it. It’s been here all along, right?”

“I guess so. We didn’t even know about it until you found it and brought some back.”

“But even if you had known about it, it wouldn’t have done you any good; you couldn’t access it. It’s the same with a good portion of my wealth. Cynthia knows about it, but as long as I refuse to sell it, she can’t access it.”

“But why try to kill you if she can’t access it unless you agree to sell it?”

“Because with me dead, she then becomes the one who controls whether the company is sold or not. I won’t sell the company because it’s been the family business since my grandfather founded it. It was important to Granddad that my father took over the business after him, and it was important to my father that I took over when he died. If I ever have children, I want the company to stay in the Cardan family as well.” He grunted as he shifted positions, and his arm brushed her hand.

She responded with a tentative touch. “You want children, then?”

“I’d hoped Cynthia and I would start a family soon, though she’d never expressed much interest in it. I guess now I know why.” Josh gave a grim laugh. “She made sure I knew that’s not going to happen at all.”

“So why did you end up with her?”

“I loved her, and I thought she loved me.”

“But you couldn’t tell?”

“Looking back, it seems so obvious now, but at the time, no, I couldn’t tell. My dad had died shortly before I met her, and I was completely lost in trying to take over the company. I met Cynthia at a trade show, and she was just so smart and so pretty that I couldn’t believe how lucky I was when she invited me to join her for dinner.” He sniffed and then coughed. “Now that I think about it, I wanted so much to be as happy as Diego and Sally that I never looked beyond the surface of what Cynthia was like. I was in love with the idea of being in love, Marta. Does that make any sense?”

“I don’t know,” she said, glad that the darkness hid her face from his view. Whether it made sense or not, she knew what it felt like.