Friday Fiction for October 21, 2011

Friday Fiction is hosted this week by Vonnie, over at My Back Door. Be sure to head over there, and don't miss her stop on Lisa's Bus Tour, posted there as well.

I've been back to work on “Precocious by Consent,” hoping to finish it up before the beginning of NaNoWriMo in less than two weeks. This week's submission for Friday Fiction is the latest chapter written, and heads back to Katya's home for a look at the battle raging back there. One of the problems in the church (and I think this has been true since the early church began, because people have always been people), is a reluctance to admit a weakness for fear that others will think less of us (I wish I could say that I had this thoroughly mastered, but I cannot). The trouble with this is that the adversary uses such a mindset to keep us feeling isolated and defeated. While I never managed to make it to one of the Promise Keepers rallies, I did appreciate that they put an emphasis on getting men to seek out other believers to whom they could be both honest and accountable for their weaknesses. This chapter deals with just such an issue.

Chapter 38

Monday night

Gary sat in the spare bedroom, playing the guitar. With only the two of them, the extra room served as a music and computer room, and from time to time he stole a glance at the open laptop sitting on the desk.

Usually, the guitar was a good hedge against temptation, but this was the longest that he and Katya had been apart since they'd wed. Worse was the knowledge that they did not have a definitive date when their separation would end. Katya was committed to this endeavor until either the Facenet Killer fell into the trap, or it was clear that it was not going to work. No one had a realistic estimate as to how long either possibility might take.

It was tempting to use the computer to try and contact her. While Lloyd hadn't told him what name she would be using, he knew approximately where she was living, and enough of the cover story to conduct a reasonable search. The rationale that his contact would simply fit right in with the image she was presenting on Facenet added to the draw, and several times, he started to put the guitar in its stand, before renewing his resistance. That his contact could potentially increase the danger factor for her, or for someone else, helped shore up the resolve.

The other temptation was more insidious, and danced seductively at the corner of his mind. He was aware of it, and found his attention periodically drawn to it, though he maintained a certain distance by simply not acknowledging it in so many words.

He tried keeping his attention on the guitar, and particularly on complicated fingerings that challenged his skill. He then played praise and worship songs, hoping to keep his mind focused on spiritual things, and thereby keep the flesh at bay. He rehearsed Katya's favorite song, imagining her face smiling at him as he teased the notes from the strings.

Yet, the temptation was still there – smooth, appealing, and oh-so-convincing in its arguments. It's not like it's really cheating, and besides, who has to know? You heard Asher – even many pastors are finding an outlet online. How bad could it really be, if so many ministers are doing it?

How many pastors, he wondered, would be looking at what I really want to look at? And Asher didn't tell me that, to say that it was okay, either.

It was almost nine o' clock, and he had to be up early in the morning for work. It was not going to be easy, getting to sleep with the nearly constant urge to find some illicit thrills on the internet. Lord, I just can't do this alone. I can't live the way I know I should live.

As if in response, a memory popped into his mind, and he could hear Asher's voice again. Promise to call me when you’re struggling, no matter what time it is. Give me the chance to encourage you and to pray with you, instead of thinking you have to face this alone.

Okay, Asher – let's see just how much you want to hold me to that promise. He pulled out his phone, and hit the speed-dial for the pastor's home.

Gosia answered, in a voice as cheerful and pleasant as if he had been calling in the early afternoon, and not at night when many in the small community were getting to bed.

“Hi, Gosia,” he said. “It's Gary Duddeck. Is Asher available?”

“Oh, hello, Gary,” she replied. “Let me go see if he can come to the phone. Can I ask what it's about?”

“I – just need to talk to him.” It's difficult enough to tell another man that I'm fighting the urge to go find some nasty porn sites. How do I tell that to someone like you?

“Ah, okay,” she said. “Hold on, and I'll go get him.”

How much did Asher tell her? Surely, she would have been curious, after the exchance between Lloyd and Katya over dinner that Sunday. Does she know the whole story now? Or is she the kind of pastor's wife that graciously accepts the answer that she can't be told what's going on with someone? If she knows, is she really so gracious as to be able to overlook our pasts?

There was a click as a phone was picked up, and Asher's voice came over the line. “Hello, Gary,” he said. “Hold on just a moment, while Gosia hangs up the extension in the living room.” When the sound of the handset being replaced in the cradle came across, Asher continued. “Okay, we should be good now. What's on your mind?”

“Were you really serious when you said I should call you at any time?”

“Completely. Are you having problems tonight?”

He was nodding, despite no one being there to see it, before he spoke his answer. “Yeah; it's really a struggle tonight.”

The voice was gentle, encouraging, and without the least hint of condemnation. “Do you want to talk by phone, or would you rather come over here? I can come over there, too, if you'd prefer.”

“I think phone will be okay for now. It's funny – just admitting it aloud to you seems to have taken a lot of the edge from it.”

Asher chuckled. “Why do you think the enemy wants to keep us convinced that we need to keep our weaknesses a secret? If we're too afraid to admit them, then we're going to be too afraid to seek help when we need it as well. God never intended for His children to walk in isolation, and that's just one of the reasons.”

“Asher?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks for not writing us off when you found out the truth.”

“Well, it was pretty obvious that God hasn't written you off, and if He isn't ready to give up on you, who am I to disagree with Him?”

Friday Fiction for October 7, 2011

We’re now home from Hawai’i, where we had minimal internet access, and where we stayed too busy for me to think about writing anything for Friday Fiction last week. I did, however, get the idea for this story, and thought I’d play with a little short fiction. The remarkable Miss Sara H. is our host this week, over at Fiction Fusion. Don’t miss it!

Hair of the Dog

By Rick Higginson

He sat up, confused. The last thing he remembered was leaving the dog fight, disgusted with how how badly his dog had lost. He vaguely remembered entering a nearby bar, to drown out his disappointment. Where he was, and how he’d ended up there, was lost somewhere in the drunken binge. Blinking his eyes to focus, he recognized the look of the holding cell. Oh, great. I ended up in the drunk tank.

Standing up, he yelled for one of the cops manning the facility. When the door at the far end of the room opened, he quieted down and waited. No point in irritating the guy holding the keys, he reasoned.

A large dog trotted to the door of the cell, and sat down facing him.

“Hey, boy,” he said. “Where’s your handler, huh?” He chuckled. “Not like I can ask you when I can get out of here, after all.”

The dog continued to sit, and he got the uncomfortable feeling he was being sized up by the animal. That’s stupid, though – he’s just a dog. He’s big, and maybe well-trained, but his breed wouldn’t serve for much more than training a real fighting dog. “C’mon, Fido. Surely your master didn’t send you in here alone. Where is he?”

“Turn around,” the dog said.

Huh? Oh, man, I don’t remember what I was drinking last night, but it must not be completely out of my system yet.

“Turn around,” the dog repeated. “Now.” A low growl accompanied the command.

He faced the rear of the cell. “Why do you want me turned this way?” he asked.

“Stretch your arms out,” the dog said, ignoring the question.

“You mean like this?” he asked, extending each arm straight out from the shoulder to the side.

“Now reach up, high as you can.”

He complied. If this is a drunken delusion, or just some stupid prank, might as well just play along.

“Face me,” the dog said. “Show me your teeth.”

Turning back towards the cell door, the dog had been joined by another of the same breed. He drew his lips back to bare his teeth, and waited.

The first dog turned to the other. “Well?”

“Missing a few teeth,” the second dog said. “Can he fight?”

The first dog turned back towards him, and cocked his head as if appraising him. “If not, we give him to ones that can.”

Wait – what? “Hey, I know my rights. I’ve had enough of this game, and if someone doesn’t let me out right now, I’m calling my lawyer.”

The first dog stood on all fours, with his hackles raised. He issued a loud bark, and then spoke in a low, menacing voice. “Mine now,” he said. “You fight if I tell you to fight.”

The second dog seemed amused, and added, “Dog heaven, your hell.”

He collapsed onto the worn bunk, trembling and sweating. My hell? No. I couldn’t have drank that much last night…

* * *

The two dogs trotted back through the door from the holding area, and sat at the woman’s feet.

The deputy in charge of the jail chuckled, shaking his head in amusement. “Them are some dogs,” he told the woman.

“Yes, they are,” she agreed.

“All done,” the first dog said, wagging his curved, bushy tail. “We go now, Lana?”

She scratched the malamute’s ear. “Yeah, Freki. If you and Geri are done messing with the jerk’s head, we can go now. We need to go check on the dog that he left for dead, after all.”

Freki, Geri, and Lana are from the story, “Lana’s Pack,” which has been featured here on Pod Tales before, on January 2, 2009, May 29, 2009, June 19, 2009, and June 25, 2010.

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.