Friday Fiction for November 25, 2011

Friday Fiction is hosted this week by Karlene, over at Dancin’ In the Rain. Take a break from all the busy-ness of this Holiday Weekend, and enjoy some great fiction reading from the wonderful folks participating this week!

Clockwork Deacon is finished for the first draft. It’s a bit shorter than I normally like for a novel-length project, tallying in about 50,400 words (NaNoWriMo Official Tally amount, which differed slightly from MS Word’s count), but I suspect the length will change when I go back and begin the revision process in the near future. Still, it takes its place as my sixth straight NaNoWriMo win, and my twelfth novel finished. Now, I can get back to work and FINALLY finish “Precocious by Consent.” For this week, though, please enjoy the next portion of Chapter 6.

Clockwork Deacon
Chapter 6 – A Clockwork Christmas, part 2

The service opened with a joyful carol, followed by the more pensive God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen. Their father welcomed everyone, and extended holiday wishes, before declaring the good news that Christ was born. He gestured towards the back of the sanctuary, and added, “Even Deacon is filled with the spirit of the season! Good tidings of great joy, indeed, which shall be to all people, and – apparently – to machines like Deacon as well.”

If Deacon had any reaction to the statements, he did not show it. He simply stood quietly at the back, as he always did for services. With no voice, he could not sing the hymns along with the congregation, but he also never showed any outward signs of participation in the worship in other ways. He was no more animated than the podium itself during the service, and for Christmas Eve, he was no different beyond the costuming the boys had attached to him. His face stared straight forward, and his arms remain folded at his side.

The congregation sang a few more Christmas carols, and then came the Christmas message. Isaac and Jacob had heard such messages every Christmas of their young lives, and their attention drifted elsewhere as their father preached.

The two boys would rather have been at the back of the church, next to Deacon. It would have been a challenge to see what else they could do in decorating the Automaton, without anyone in the church noticing that they were doing it. Holiday service, or just the regular service, though, their mother had a firm rule that they were to sit up front as a family. It was important, she often told them, for them to set an example for the other children in the church. They had to remember, she always added, that their behavior reflected on their father, and if they did not respect his authority, how would anyone else in the congregation respect him?

Unfortunately, such logic failed to make the sermons interesting to the boys. By the time their father concluded the message, and the final song was sung, they were practically ready to explode from the pew. The church members came forward to decorate the tree after the service, but Isaac and Jacob ran to the back to find Deacon.

Except Deacon wasn’t there. “Where’d he go?” Jacob asked.

“I dunno,” Isaac answered. “Maybe the tool shed? Seems he’s been out there a lot lately.”

“Let’s go see.” Jacob ran for the door, and Isaac followed after him. They hurried through the darkness, around to the back of the church, and the fairly new tool shed that Deacon had built a couple of months before. Isaac, being the older and larger boy, had reached the shed first, and slowly pulled the door open.

Deacon stood inside at a bench, and gave no attention to the arrival of an audience. His gaze, and his hands, were turned towards something unseen in front of him.

“What’s he doin?” Jacob asked. “I can’t see.”

“I don’t know. Why’n’t you go ask him?”

“I ain’t gonna ask him. You ask him.”

“All right, I will. I ain’t chicken.” Isaac entered the shed, boldly at first, but the closer he got to Deacon, the more timid he acted. “Um, Deacon? What’cha doin?”

Deacon turned to look at him. The Santa hat and beard were still on his head, but the bag was now resting on the floor beside him. He rolled backwards just a bit, and gestured with his right hand towards the bench.

Several rows of little copper automatons stood on the bench, of various different configurations. A few were similar to Deacon’s design, while others were more similar to other designs the boys remembered from Schenectady.

“Where’d you get these?” Isaac asked.

“We made ‘em,” a voice answered from the door.

Isaac spun around, and Jacob ran across the floor to hide behind his brother. Standing in the door, leaning on a cane, was the miner that Deacon had rescued. He walked towards them, an obvious limp with each step of the wooden leg.

“Well, let me correct that,” the man said. “Deacon built ‘em, and I collected the metal he used.” He placed the cane atop the bench, and picked up one. There was a key on the back, and he turned it a few times. When he set it back on the bench, the miniature Deacon rolled across the bench, with his arms going back and forth. “No one was s’posed to know about ‘em yet, though.”

“Why?” Jacob asked, peeking out from behind Isaac.

“I ain’t got much, but I wanted to make sure every kid in Loma Roja got a toy for Christmas. Deacon was helpin’ me to learn to walk again, an’ I joked that every kid learnin’ to walk needed a Deacon to help ‘em, and then I started thinkin’, mebbe there was a way that every kid could have somethin’ like Deacon.” He picked up one of the other toys, and held it out to Jacob. “Since I can’t surprise you with ‘im now, here’s one for you. Just got to promise to not show him to any other kids until tomorrow, when all the kids find theirs.”

Jacob took the toy, still a bit cautious, but unable to resist the shiny metal miniature.

“I don’t know what kind that one is. Deacon jus’ made them all, and the only kind I recognize are the ones like him,” the man said.

Isaac looked at it. “That looks like one of the Automaton Porters that works at the big train station in New York.”

“Kinda thought it might be somethin’ like that, with the way it looks like it was made to carry lots of stuff.” He handed a different one to Isaac. “How ‘bout this one?”

Isaac took it, and turned it over and over in his hands. “This is the kind that works on the big engines that make the airships go.”

“You’ve seen the airships?”

“Yeah. They fly all over New York.”

“Are they as big as folks say?”

“Huge,” Jacob said.

“Bigger’n a house,” Isaac added. “They’re like big silver clouds, flyin’ along, with hotels stuck beneath ‘em.”

“An airship,” the man laughed. “Now, that’d be the way to deliver toys to kids on Christmas, huh?”

“So, how’re you gonna deliver ‘em?” Isaac asked.

“Deacon’s gonna deliver ‘em, late tonight. I’m gonna wrap ‘em up, and put each kid’s name on ‘em. I got this map that shows where each kid lives, and Deacon’ll leave the presents on the door of each house.”

Jacob’s eyes lit up. “Deacon is gonna really play Santa Claus?”

“Yup.”

“Can we help? Please? We been makin’ Deacon up to be Santa all day, and this would be the best Christmas ever, if we could help really make him like Santa.”

“Well,” the man said. “I got all these little boxes here, that I need to put together so’s I can put the toys in ‘em. If you boys wanna help put the boxes together, that’ll make my job go a lot faster.” He held out his hand. “Name’s Syl, by the way.”

“This here’s Jacob,” Isaac said, shaking the hand. “An’ I’m Isaac.”

“You’re the Rev’rend’s boys, ain’t’cha?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I thought I’d seen ya before. Your folks ain’t gonna get worried ‘bout you?”

“Naw,” Isaac said. “It’ll be a while yet, before they’re done with the Christmas tree in the church, and then with the socializin’ that always goes on after, we got a while before they’ll come lookin’ for us.”

“Well, then,” Syl said. “We best get to work, before they do.”

To be continued…

Friday Fiction for November 18, 2011

Friday Fiction is hosted this week by Joanne, over at An Open Book. More NaNoWriMo excerpts to enjoy! Huzzah!

Speaking of which, with the Holiday season rushing towards us, I thought this excerpt from my NaNoWriMo project, Clockwork Deacon, would be fun. I hope you enjoy it as much as I have been!

Chapter 6
A Clockwork Christmas

Loma Roja grew cold in the winter, but snow was just an occasional occurrence, and when it did fall, it rarely stayed on the ground for more than a day or so. A day or so before Christmas, a few of the men of the town would take a couple of wagons to the higher elevations of the Chiracahua mountains, and bring back enough trees for each family that wanted one, to have a Christmas tree.

A particularly tall tree stood at the front of the church sanctuary, ready to be decorated by the congregation on Christmas Eve. As was the custom in the town, the church would be open on Christmas Day, and dinner would be served to anyone who wished to come by for the Holiday.

Deacon went about his normal chores around the church, looking a bit silly with the red and white Santa Claus hat that someone had slipped atop his smooth metal head. An hour later, and someone else had tied a fake white beard around the bottom of his face, keeping it from slipping with some sticky wax.

Isaac nudged his brother, and tried to cover his laughter as he watched the reactions of the various folks that came by the church, bringing preparations for the Christmas Eve service, and food for the cooking of Christmas Dinner.

“The coat,” Jacob said. “We gotta get the coat on him.”

“I don’t think it’ll go over his boiler,” Isaac said.

“I bet we could tie the bag over his shoulder, though.”

They’d found the old Santa suit in one of the storage closets of the church, and Abe Kelly had said that the old pastor used to dress as Santa and give presents to the poor children in town every Christmas.

When the boys had broached the idea with their father, the Reverend had smiled at the suggestion, but said he didn’t look like Santa any more than Deacon did. That was all it had taken to plant the thought in their heads, and it became their mission to covertly transform the Automaton into Father Christmas himself.

The next time Deacon came into the anteroom, the boys finagled a way to tie the gift sack over Deacon’s shoulder, having first dropped just enough empty boxes into it to give it the appearance of substance.

As he went about sweeping the church floor, hat and beard on his head, and sack over his back, the boys went through fits of laughter.

Their mother entered the sanctuary. She took one look at Deacon, and also laughed. “I declare, Deacon,” she said. “If you don’t look more festive than I’ve ever seen you look.” She hung a freshly woven wreath on the front of the podium, and went back to the house.

“Too bad he can’t wear the boots,” Isaac said.

Jacob lifted a wide-buckled, black leather belt. “I’ll bet he can wear the belt, though. Hey, Deacon!”

He stopped sweeping, and turned to face them.

They ran out while the sanctuary was deserted, and quickly fastened the belt around the metal torso. It took a little work to feed it under the lower part of the boiler on his back, but in the end, that worked out for the best, anyway. There were a pair of bolts fastening the boiler to the back at the bottom of the gap, and these served well to keep the belt from slipping down the smooth metal to the legs.

There was little more of the suit that they could fit onto Deacon, but through the rest of the day, they tried different things to further the festive appearance of the Automaton.

They were certain that either their father or mother would insist on all of it being removed before the Christmas Eve service, but when the boys returned to the sanctuary that evening, wearing their Sunday Best clothes, Deacon stood in his customary place at the back of the church, looking like a mechanical Santa.

Folks showed up for the service, and without fail, the costumed appearance of the copper man made them smile. More than a few actually wished Deacon a merry Christmas.

To be continued...

Friday Fiction for November 11, 2011

Happy Friday! Friday Fiction is hosted right here this week, so please add your link to the Linky Tool at the bottom of this post. It just so happens to also be the second week of NaNoWriMo. My project this year is a Steampunk story titled, “Clockwork Deacon.” In this story, the new pastor arrives in the small town of Loma Roja, Arizona Territory, in 1902. With him and his family, he brings Deacon, a Clockwork Automaton domestic servant. The townsfolk are all hesitant of accepting Deacon, and the book recounts different stories of his interactions with different folks. In this chapter, Sam Taylor is rebuilding a home that has burned down, and is encouraged to recruit Deacon to help with the construction.

Clockwork Deacon

Chapter 4 – Deacon the Builder

Sam stood there, awestruck, watching the Automaton selecting and cutting the wood. The clockwork arm drew the saw back and forth in a rapid rhythm that would have worn out most men, while the other arm clamped the wood in a grip that allowed no slippage.

“So, how’s he workin’ out?” Ulysses Kelly asked, walking up the street.

“He makes me feel like a kid what don’t know what I’m doin’,” Sam replied. “He made the cabinet frame as clean an’ square as any I’ve ever seen, and he got the wood for this wall cut and nailed so fast, we got a good chance of getting’ the other wall done today.”

Ulysses laughed. “Tol’ja he’d surprise you.”

“He kinda scares me, though.”

“How so?”

“I look at how he works, an’ all I can think is, what’s a man got to offer to a boss? They keep makin’ those things better ‘n’ better, an’ it won’t be long before folks won’t be needed at all.”

“You might have a point, but I don’t think they’ll listen to the likes of us ‘bout that.”

“A man’s got to have a job an’ a purpose, or he ain’t really a man at all.”

Deacon brought the first armload of wood, and configured the pieces on the ground. Without giving any attention to either of the two men talking, he spun around, and returned to cutting more wood.

Ulysses rubbed his chin. “Makes you wonder if the day’s gonna come, when folks from the big cities will be comin’ to places like this, just to find someplace where a man can find an honest day’s work to do.”

“You know that it’ll be like when the Rev’rend came here, though. When the folks come, they’ll bring their own Deacons with ‘em, and before long, Loma Roja is gonna be just like them cities back east. Most likely, by the time you got a grandson as old as Abe is now, folks’ll wonder what we ever did without things like Deacon to do our work for us.”

“We took longer to build a house, that’s for sure.”

Between the two men and Deacon, the left side wall went together even faster than the right, and they called it a night well before the sun started dipping below the hill.

Deacon parked by the lumber, and soon a column of smoke rose from his back, as puffs of steam blew out to either side in time to the sound of the engine on his back. His head angled forward in an approximation of sleep, and his arms folded motionless against his sides. The elbows were straight below the shoulders, down by the waist, and the hands were turned to curve over the shoulders. He did not react to the departure of the two men, and they expected to find him in that same position in the morning.

Instead, when Sam arrived at the Woodson House the next day, he found Deacon already moving about with loads of wood in his arms. At the back, the framework for the rear wall was mostly finished, and Sam just stared with jaw agape.

The wall, as near as he could tell without measuring, was an exact duplicate of the wall that had stood at the back of the house before the fire. If he had shown Deacon some plans, or given him some instructions the night before, he could have understood it.

The rear door frame looked to align perfectly with the path to the outhouse, and the window for Miss Woodson’s bedroom was the right size and location to match the old one.

The window that Deacon had opened, and lifted Miss Woodson through on the night of the fire.

When Deacon carried a load of wood over, Sam stopped him.

“Deacon, did you ever see this wall before the night the house burned down?”

The head pivoted side to side.

“You remember this wall from seein’ it just that one night?”

Deacon nodded.

“How? I’ve lived here for years, an’ seen this wall every day of that time. I’ve done work on this wall myself, and I couldn’t have made it this exact. How do you do it?”

Deacon held his inscrutable gaze on Sam for a few moments, and then, as if in answer, just went back to work.

Sam, you fool, what did you expect? He can’t talk, so why did you ask him a question that needed more’n a nod or shake of the head to answer?

He followed Deacon over to the lumber pile. “You’re gonna have the last wall done here shortly, so I need to go round up some men to help lift the walls into place, so’s I can nail ‘em to the foundation and to each other.”

Deacon paused, and then put the piece of wood he was holding down onto a pair of saw horses. He spun around, and went to the front wall. Spreading the ‘V’ legs on each side, he brought his torso low to the ground, and grasped the top of the wall. He tilted the wall up, and moved forward until the wall stood straight. He then picked the entire wall up, and aligned it on the foundation frame. He turned his head to look at Sam, and just waited.

Sam rushed to grab the hammer and nails, along with a couple of pieces of long boards. He first drove a single nail into the near corner, and then followed suit on the far corner, making sure the wall was straight and square on the foundation. He added two more nails at each corner, and then nailed the two long boards to one of the middle studs, angled down to brace the wall against the ground and keep it upright.

Once it was secure, Deacon went and repeated the lift on the right side wall. Before long, the three finished walls were up and secured on the foundation, and to each other.

Sam looked at him, and shook his head. “Every time I think I got you figured out, you go and do somethin’ beyond what I expect. It’s like I ain’t even really needed any more to finish this house, am I?”

Deacon had been rolling back towards the lumber pile, but stopped. He spun around, and rolled up to Sam. With a gentle grip, he lifted the man’s hands and turned them over for a moment, palms up. Then, he placed them folded over Sam’s heart. With his left hand holding Sam’s in place, he brought his right hand back, and tapped his own chest. The metal gave a solid thump; hard, and with no ability to even ring like a bell.

Sam felt his heart beating beneath his hands, and then Deacon brought one of them to his chest, placing it flat where a heart would have been, if he’d been human. The metal was cold and unyielding, and instead of the beating of a heart, there was the vibration of countless clockwork parts ratcheting and turning inside of him.

The man swallowed, and felt his eyes growing damp. “I wish you could talk, Deacon. I’d sure like to know how something with no heart, could know what it means to have one.”

The Automaton released his hands, and then turned back towards the lumber pile.

We got us a deal, then, Deacon. You give this house strength, and I’ll give it heart.

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.