Hey, everyone, check out my contest-winning story at Every Day Fiction today! It's only 238 words, and long-time readers will be familiar with bad boy Vince, the main character.
There is also a blog interview where we talk about my writing at Flash Fiction Chronicles.
I've cross-posted this at my bunny blog and at my main author site, which I'm going to be transitioning to over the next few months.
Showing posts with label flash fiction. Show all posts
Showing posts with label flash fiction. Show all posts
Friday, April 16, 2010
Thursday, March 11, 2010
New Flash Fiction
New flash on the Steal Tomorrow site: Photograph
Be sure to drop by Three Word Wednesday for more literary goodies!
Be sure to drop by Three Word Wednesday for more literary goodies!
Monday, January 18, 2010
Flash Fiction Extra: These Times
AUTHOR'S NOTE: This story features Vince Mott, a character from Diana's Diary, which is part of my Will and Diana series. You can read more about Vince by following the tag at the bottom of the post.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Vince slammed back the rest of his drink, then put the glass and bottle of purported Canadian Club away. He didn’t bother locking his office as he left, since the members of his gang knew better than to touch his stuff. The last one to do it was living on the streets now, missing a few teeth and fingers, and bearing some interesting scars.
The easiest way to get to the site of tonight’s deal was via the motorcycle he had stolen a few weeks ago, but he didn’t want to call attention to himself, so he walked until he found a bicycle rickshaw driver looking for a fare. Vince gave an address, then sat back and pondered while the rickshaw bounced over the pitted roads of the city. He wished the government would tear up the old asphalt and lay down stones or something. Too many people still clung to the notion that the old days of prosperity would return if only new cheap sources of oil were found and the government would put down all the infighting.
And while they were dreaming, perhaps they’d like an Easter Bunny, too. Vince smiled to himself. Young realists like himself were the future of this town.
The driver dropped him off in front of a taqueria that Vince knew to be a front for a drug operation. He tipped the driver, waited a few minutes, then set off for the address he had committed to memory.
When he got to the bullet-scarred building, he circled it, noting all possible ways in and out, and any obstacles that could trip a guy up or obscure a lookout’s point of view. Then he bought a kebab of questionable meat from a nearby street vendor, sat on a shop step and watched his target for a few minutes. After he had determined the place wasn’t under surveillance, he gave the rest of the meat to a stray dog and found his way into the building, his Glock drawn and ready.
Although most of the windows were boarded up, enough dusty light filtered in that he could see the hulking shapes of old display cabinets, derelict computers and piles of rags. There was nothing here worth stealing, although that wouldn’t be true later tonight. After his eyes adjusted, Vince started making his way around the room, making note of obstacles and pitfalls, just as he had outside.
He was dragging a dead electrical line out of a traffic path when a small sound caught his attention. He pointed his Glock. “Get over here, hands up, motherfucker.”
A hunched shape separated itself from the shadows. “I don’t want no trouble.”
Vince assessed: white hair, wild matted beard, filthy clothes. Even from this distance the man reeked. “You’re going to have to find another place for tonight, grandpa.”
“But this is my shop.”
“The whole city is full of empty shops. Find another.” Vince dug in his pocket for some coins. “It’s for your own good.”
“You don’t understand. My father opened this place when the building was brand new.” The man waved a trembling hand. “The walls were clean and white then, with red trim. The counters held beautiful new things for sale – electronic gadgets I bet you’ve never in your life seen in operation.”
Vince shrugged. “It was all wasteful and ridiculous. Now take this money, buy yourself a meal and find another building to squat in for a few days.”
“No. I took this place over from my father when he died. It was hard to find new things to sell, but I learned how to repair old electronics. I would clean them up and make them work like new.” He pulled up a rickety chair and sat down. “Then I got drafted and sent to fight in the resource wars. I came home to civil war. I couldn’t re-open my business; I got gassed overseas and my hands shook too bad from nerve damage to repair anything. I had no home, and my family had scattered. I had this place, though. It’s still mine, and if you want me out of here, you’ll have to shoot me.”
Vince gazed at the man for a long time before speaking. “The old days,” he finally said, “before the wars and all that…was it really as good as they say?”
“It was a lot cleaner, and a person was mostly safe as long as he minded his own business. We had fancier toys, but life is hard no matter when you live it, son. It’s only in our own heads that some other time or place is better.”
Vince nodded and put his gun away. The coins he had dug out of his pocket were still in his hand and he laid them on a grimy counter. “There’s going to be a little business operation going on tonight. Someone else chose this spot and I can’t change it. Make yourself scarce, don’t interfere, and you’ll make out all right.”
“And what about you?”
“What do you mean?”
“Will you make out all right? You seem like the sort that goes looking for trouble.”
Vince laughed. “No, old man, trouble found me. I’m just trying to make the best of things. Like you say, it’s only in our imagination that there’s anyplace better.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Vince slammed back the rest of his drink, then put the glass and bottle of purported Canadian Club away. He didn’t bother locking his office as he left, since the members of his gang knew better than to touch his stuff. The last one to do it was living on the streets now, missing a few teeth and fingers, and bearing some interesting scars.
The easiest way to get to the site of tonight’s deal was via the motorcycle he had stolen a few weeks ago, but he didn’t want to call attention to himself, so he walked until he found a bicycle rickshaw driver looking for a fare. Vince gave an address, then sat back and pondered while the rickshaw bounced over the pitted roads of the city. He wished the government would tear up the old asphalt and lay down stones or something. Too many people still clung to the notion that the old days of prosperity would return if only new cheap sources of oil were found and the government would put down all the infighting.
And while they were dreaming, perhaps they’d like an Easter Bunny, too. Vince smiled to himself. Young realists like himself were the future of this town.
The driver dropped him off in front of a taqueria that Vince knew to be a front for a drug operation. He tipped the driver, waited a few minutes, then set off for the address he had committed to memory.
When he got to the bullet-scarred building, he circled it, noting all possible ways in and out, and any obstacles that could trip a guy up or obscure a lookout’s point of view. Then he bought a kebab of questionable meat from a nearby street vendor, sat on a shop step and watched his target for a few minutes. After he had determined the place wasn’t under surveillance, he gave the rest of the meat to a stray dog and found his way into the building, his Glock drawn and ready.
Although most of the windows were boarded up, enough dusty light filtered in that he could see the hulking shapes of old display cabinets, derelict computers and piles of rags. There was nothing here worth stealing, although that wouldn’t be true later tonight. After his eyes adjusted, Vince started making his way around the room, making note of obstacles and pitfalls, just as he had outside.
He was dragging a dead electrical line out of a traffic path when a small sound caught his attention. He pointed his Glock. “Get over here, hands up, motherfucker.”
A hunched shape separated itself from the shadows. “I don’t want no trouble.”
Vince assessed: white hair, wild matted beard, filthy clothes. Even from this distance the man reeked. “You’re going to have to find another place for tonight, grandpa.”
“But this is my shop.”
“The whole city is full of empty shops. Find another.” Vince dug in his pocket for some coins. “It’s for your own good.”
“You don’t understand. My father opened this place when the building was brand new.” The man waved a trembling hand. “The walls were clean and white then, with red trim. The counters held beautiful new things for sale – electronic gadgets I bet you’ve never in your life seen in operation.”
Vince shrugged. “It was all wasteful and ridiculous. Now take this money, buy yourself a meal and find another building to squat in for a few days.”
“No. I took this place over from my father when he died. It was hard to find new things to sell, but I learned how to repair old electronics. I would clean them up and make them work like new.” He pulled up a rickety chair and sat down. “Then I got drafted and sent to fight in the resource wars. I came home to civil war. I couldn’t re-open my business; I got gassed overseas and my hands shook too bad from nerve damage to repair anything. I had no home, and my family had scattered. I had this place, though. It’s still mine, and if you want me out of here, you’ll have to shoot me.”
Vince gazed at the man for a long time before speaking. “The old days,” he finally said, “before the wars and all that…was it really as good as they say?”
“It was a lot cleaner, and a person was mostly safe as long as he minded his own business. We had fancier toys, but life is hard no matter when you live it, son. It’s only in our own heads that some other time or place is better.”
Vince nodded and put his gun away. The coins he had dug out of his pocket were still in his hand and he laid them on a grimy counter. “There’s going to be a little business operation going on tonight. Someone else chose this spot and I can’t change it. Make yourself scarce, don’t interfere, and you’ll make out all right.”
“And what about you?”
“What do you mean?”
“Will you make out all right? You seem like the sort that goes looking for trouble.”
Vince laughed. “No, old man, trouble found me. I’m just trying to make the best of things. Like you say, it’s only in our imagination that there’s anyplace better.”
Friday, October 24, 2008
My Story at Every Day Fiction
My quirky romance "End Times" is the story of the day today at Every Day Fiction. Go check it out, and if you like it, be sure to leave a comment!
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
A Date and an Announcement
First, we have a pub date! My quirky romance, "End Times" will be published in Every Day Fiction on October 24. Mark your calendars! In spite of the title, I promise it's not another depressing post-apocalyptic tale. Honest! One of the editors called it, "A sweet and unusual romance." It's a departure from my usual work and I'm excited that it found a home.
And next, it looks like Every Day Fiction is looking for slush pile readers. Here's the post where they're asking for volunteers. It sounds like it could be a good experiene and a way to make new contacts in the online fiction community, so if anyone has the time, get in touch with them and let them know!
Happy reading and writing, everyone!
And next, it looks like Every Day Fiction is looking for slush pile readers. Here's the post where they're asking for volunteers. It sounds like it could be a good experiene and a way to make new contacts in the online fiction community, so if anyone has the time, get in touch with them and let them know!
Happy reading and writing, everyone!
Thursday, September 25, 2008
News!
One of my short stories has been selected for Every Day Fiction! I'll be sure to post the date when I know it and the link when it gets posted. Yay!
Saturday, September 20, 2008
No Invitation Necessary
NOTE: This Steal Tomorrow flash piece is my first flash fiction since Hurricane Ike. I wrote it for this week's Sunday Scribblings prompt. For those who don't know Danny and Danica from Steal Tomorrow, be assured that I'm being intentionally vague about their exact relationship in an effort to avoid spoilers for those reading the novel in serial format. If anyone wants more info, drop me a line at uhamp "at" yahoo "dot" com and I'll be happy to clue you in as time permits. I still have no internet at home, so I'm not online as frequently as usual. Please be patient.
***
Danica squinted at the computer screen. The message asked if it would it be a costume party. What a stupid question. Just because her birthday fell near Halloween didn’t mean...
With a smirk, she typed the non-answer, “I’m sure whatever costume you have on now will be perfect.”
A tap at the window made her glance toward the door of her bedroom. It was locked, thank goodness. Her father would kill her if—
Behind her, Danny parted the curtains and dropped into the room. “You didn’t answer my text.”
Danica stood up. “I wasn’t sure what to say. Besides, I’ve been busy answering stupid questions like whether or not people should wear costumes to my party. Hello, it says right on the invitation, ‘Sweet Sixteen,’ not ‘Halloween.’”
“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.” He threw himself into her vacated computer chair. “Where’s my invitation?”
Danica gazed at him in silence for a moment, not comprehending. “What do you mean where’s your invitation? You don’t need one. It’s a given.”
“If it’s a given, why didn’t you give me one? It’s bad enough you’re doing this lame girly thing on our birthday, but—” he grabbed the box on her desk that contained the unused cards. “The least you could’ve done is invite me.”
“But you’re family.”
“You sent one to Aunt Beth.”
“She lives in Chicago and probably won’t come, anyway.”
“Then why’d you bother?”
“Because it’s what I was supposed to do.”
“Then why didn’t you give one to Mom? It isn’t like she can’t come.”
“That would be stupid. Besides—” she snatched the box from his hand. “You and she promised to help decorate, so you’re already coming. Invitations are for people who don’t know all the details.”
Danny sighed and leaned back in the chair, folding his arms across his chest. “You just don’t want me there. You think you’re too grown up to have your parties with me any more. You want to be all feminine, and next thing I know, you’ll quit going to the range with me, you’ll quit taking aikido classes, and then I’ll have to do all those things alone.” Before she could protest, he added, “Don’t think I don’t know you’re changing. You even bought a dress.”
“Have you been snooping in my closet again?”
“Only when you’re not around.”
“Well, duh. When else are you going to do it?” She tried to catch his eye but he was busy frowning at a piece of lint on the carpet. “I totally expected you to come to my party. I mean, sort of.” When he shot her a look from under his brows, she added, “It’s just I know you’re already laughing at me for doing this, so I thought if I sent you an invitation, you’d tell me I was being stupid. I mean, why go to all that trouble just—”
“Just for me.” Danny got to his feet and began stalking toward the window. “Thanks a lot.”
Danica lunged after him and caught him by the sleeve. “Stop it. You know that’s not what I meant.”
“It’s what you were going to say, though. Isn’t it?” He jerked his arm out of her grasp and launched himself out the window with the noiseless grace of a cat.
Danica made to go after him, but then reconsidered. This wasn’t a mood she could jolly him out of in a matter of minutes. She would have to let it run its course.
She sank back into her computer chair, still holding the box of invitations. Inspired, she picked up a ball point and addressed one of the envelopes in neat block letters. On the invitation itself she crossed out some words, added others, and on the inside where she was supposed to note the date and time, she wrote, “Forever.” Then she slipped the card into the envelope and licked the gummed flap closed. Would he want to see the silly thing stamped and postmarked, too? She would sleep on that and decide in the morning.
In the meantime, another message had popped up in the lower corner of her computer screen. With a sigh, Danica set the invitation aside and began to type. “The costume you’re wearing now will be just fine.”
***
Danica squinted at the computer screen. The message asked if it would it be a costume party. What a stupid question. Just because her birthday fell near Halloween didn’t mean...
With a smirk, she typed the non-answer, “I’m sure whatever costume you have on now will be perfect.”
A tap at the window made her glance toward the door of her bedroom. It was locked, thank goodness. Her father would kill her if—
Behind her, Danny parted the curtains and dropped into the room. “You didn’t answer my text.”
Danica stood up. “I wasn’t sure what to say. Besides, I’ve been busy answering stupid questions like whether or not people should wear costumes to my party. Hello, it says right on the invitation, ‘Sweet Sixteen,’ not ‘Halloween.’”
“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.” He threw himself into her vacated computer chair. “Where’s my invitation?”
Danica gazed at him in silence for a moment, not comprehending. “What do you mean where’s your invitation? You don’t need one. It’s a given.”
“If it’s a given, why didn’t you give me one? It’s bad enough you’re doing this lame girly thing on our birthday, but—” he grabbed the box on her desk that contained the unused cards. “The least you could’ve done is invite me.”
“But you’re family.”
“You sent one to Aunt Beth.”
“She lives in Chicago and probably won’t come, anyway.”
“Then why’d you bother?”
“Because it’s what I was supposed to do.”
“Then why didn’t you give one to Mom? It isn’t like she can’t come.”
“That would be stupid. Besides—” she snatched the box from his hand. “You and she promised to help decorate, so you’re already coming. Invitations are for people who don’t know all the details.”
Danny sighed and leaned back in the chair, folding his arms across his chest. “You just don’t want me there. You think you’re too grown up to have your parties with me any more. You want to be all feminine, and next thing I know, you’ll quit going to the range with me, you’ll quit taking aikido classes, and then I’ll have to do all those things alone.” Before she could protest, he added, “Don’t think I don’t know you’re changing. You even bought a dress.”
“Have you been snooping in my closet again?”
“Only when you’re not around.”
“Well, duh. When else are you going to do it?” She tried to catch his eye but he was busy frowning at a piece of lint on the carpet. “I totally expected you to come to my party. I mean, sort of.” When he shot her a look from under his brows, she added, “It’s just I know you’re already laughing at me for doing this, so I thought if I sent you an invitation, you’d tell me I was being stupid. I mean, why go to all that trouble just—”
“Just for me.” Danny got to his feet and began stalking toward the window. “Thanks a lot.”
Danica lunged after him and caught him by the sleeve. “Stop it. You know that’s not what I meant.”
“It’s what you were going to say, though. Isn’t it?” He jerked his arm out of her grasp and launched himself out the window with the noiseless grace of a cat.
Danica made to go after him, but then reconsidered. This wasn’t a mood she could jolly him out of in a matter of minutes. She would have to let it run its course.
She sank back into her computer chair, still holding the box of invitations. Inspired, she picked up a ball point and addressed one of the envelopes in neat block letters. On the invitation itself she crossed out some words, added others, and on the inside where she was supposed to note the date and time, she wrote, “Forever.” Then she slipped the card into the envelope and licked the gummed flap closed. Would he want to see the silly thing stamped and postmarked, too? She would sleep on that and decide in the morning.
In the meantime, another message had popped up in the lower corner of her computer screen. With a sigh, Danica set the invitation aside and began to type. “The costume you’re wearing now will be just fine.”
Sunday, September 07, 2008
Flash Fiction - Link Only
Since I just posted a new Will and Diana flash below, I'll simply link to this weekend's Steal Tomorrow flash: The Beauty Queen. We're getting deep enough into the story now that future flashes will likely be contemporaneous with the story and not so much backstory. Just trying to avoid spoilers!
Sunday, August 24, 2008
Flash Fiction Interlude: First Do No Harm
AUTHOR'S NOTE: This is cross-posted at Steal Tomorrow.
Johnny wound the last bit of tape around the boy’s finger, securing the splint in place. “You’ll need to make sure this doesn’t get wet,” he said. “Do you have any rubber gloves or something like that?”
“My mom used to wear rubber gloves to wash the dishes.” The boy frowned. “But I don’t live there any more. And I don’t want to go back.”
Johnny recognized the look in the boy’s eyes. He had seen it a lot since the pandemic. Children who lost their families often couldn’t bear the memories associated with home. Sometimes it was more than just memories that sent them into the streets looking for new homes and new friendships. Many people had died where they fell ill, with no one to take them to a hospital or remove the body for burial afterwards.
With a small sigh, Johnny rummaged in a drawer and produced two latex gloves from his dwindling stash. “One for now, one for later if the first one gets torn. But be careful with these. And if you end up not needing the second one, bring it back.”
Johnny pulled a glove over the boy’s hand. The child’s fingers were so small that the latex fit neatly over the splint and Johnny had to secure the glove at the wrist with a rubber band. “You’re all set. How do you want to pay for this?”
“Pay?”
“I’ve got to eat too, you know. Food, water, batteries…what do you have?”
The boy stared with round eyes. “Nothing. I’m hungry, too.”
“Christ.”
This had been happening a lot lately. When Johnny had first set himself up in his mother’s old medical clinic, his young patients had been eager to pay. They had taken it as a given that no doctor would work for free, even one who was just shy of fifteen and working out of what he could read from books and remember from dinner table conversations. But Johnny had been too generous. He couldn’t bear to send an ill or injured child away just because he or she had nothing to offer. That wasn’t how he had been raised.
But things were different now. Supplies were becoming harder to find, more children needed his help, and now there was a violent new tribe on the scene, breaking into clinics and pharmacies, taking drugs for their own use and for barter. The Pharms had harassed Doc twice already and they had tied up supplies of many of the pain-killers and antibiotics he needed to do his work. Even if he could live off air like a Tillandsia plant, he still needed payment in order to barter with the Pharms.
Well, what was he going to do, break the boy’s finger again? “Go on,” he said. “Pay me when you can. But tell your friends I don’t work for free.”
The boy thanked him and hurried out the door, as if afraid Johnny might change his mind.
Johnny began tidying the room for the next patient, putting instruments and supplies back in their proper places, checking supplies, and wiping surfaces with bleach. He was writing in his notebook where he kept track of all his patients, treatments, and supplies, when a shadow in the doorway caught his attention.
The serious young man with the pistol on his hip didn’t look sick. Neither did the two armed boys behind him. Johnny jumped to his feet. “I’m not ready for my next patient, but if you’ll take a seat in the waiting room—”
“I’m not a patient.” The young man moved into the small room as if he owned it and stood assessing with critical eyes.
“Look, if you’re with the Pharms—”
“Nah.” He waved a hand. “My name is Reymundo Guzman Morales, but you can call me Mundo. I’m leader of the Regents and I need a house call. Are you the doctor?”
Johnny hesitated. Weren’t the Regents that group of kids who had taken over the Regency Hotel? He couldn’t recall what he had heard about them, but if it was something bad he surely would’ve remembered it. And they wanted a house call?
“I don’t do house calls. Why can’t you bring your patient here?”
“Too dangerous.” When Johnny gave him a skeptical look over the tops of his glasses, Mundo added, “It’s a pregnant girl, and I don’t want her out on the streets where she might get hurt.”
“I don’t know anything about pregnancy. Sorry.”
Mundo sighed and a note of vulnerability crept into his voice. “Look, Doc, we’ve got goods. We can pay.”
Johnny scanned Mundo’s face as he considered.
“Please?” Mundo ran a hand through his hair and looked at the ground. “Don’t make me have to kidnap you. I want my kid born healthy. Just tell me what you want.”
Now Johnny understood and for a moment he forgot that he didn’t know a thing about babies and had only the sketchiest understanding of female anatomy. This was an opportunity. A tribal leader with goods and armed guards needed him and was willing to let him name his price. “I need supplies,” Johnny said. “And protection from the Pharms. Every time I find a new source of meds, they show up and take them. Give me barter goods and a guard, and I’ll—”
To his surprise, Mundo shook his head. “I haven’t got enough guards to spare. The Regency Hotel is huge, or haven’t you ever been there? I can’t spare anyone to hang around here waiting to shoot a Pharm.”
“I can’t help you, then.”
The guards behind Mundo shuffled their feet, while Mundo sized Johnny up through narrowed eyes. “What are you really after, Doc? If you just want to practice medicine in peace, I can set you up in one of our ballrooms. You’ll have food, supplies from our forage runs, and guard protection twenty-four-seven.” When Johnny hesitated, he added, “You’re not particularly attached to this place, are you?”
Johnny looked around. He knew each wall chart, supply cabinet, and treatment room they were his own. Even the coffee-stained china cups in the break room were as familiar as his own name. He had been brought here as a baby so his mother could show him off to her co-workers. He had come here as a toddler and colored quietly under the receptionist’s watchful eye when his mother couldn’t get day care. He had listened to all the nurse and patient chatter, then quizzed his mother and father at the dinner table, always wanting to know more. How did antibiotics work? Why do you splint broken fingers but not broken toes? Johnny wanted to know it all and he forgot little. Yes, he was attached to this place. But he remembered the boy he had treated a few minutes ago and brought himself back to reality. There was something else his parents taught him about medicine, and it was more important than a mere building.
Johnny lifted his chin. “If you want me for a private physician, forget it. Go on and shoot me, if that’s what you think you need to do. But if you’re offering me a real clinic where I can treat anyone who needs me, I’ll do it.”
A smile broke over Mundo’s face and he stuck out his hand. “It’s a deal.”
They shook on it and discussed the particulars of what Johnny, who Mundo insisted on calling “Doc,” would need. They agreed on a moving date, and then with a clatter of boots on the hard stone floors, Mundo and his guards left.
In the silence that followed, Johnny looked around. Nothing had changed, yet everything had. He picked up his pen and notebook, but didn’t know what to write. He ran his hand across a stack of brochures about diabetes and colitis, but couldn’t think what to do with them. He contemplated a chart of the major muscle groups. That would be useful. He would need to take that with him.
At a small sound in the doorway, Johnny looked up in alarm. A girl with dirty feet and ragged braids stared at him, then coughed again. “Are you—?”
“Yeah,” Johnny said. “I’m the doctor.”
“I can’t—I mean, I don’t have—” she held out her empty hands.
“It’s okay,” Johnny told her. “I’ve got a patron now. No one needs to pay me any more.”
Johnny wound the last bit of tape around the boy’s finger, securing the splint in place. “You’ll need to make sure this doesn’t get wet,” he said. “Do you have any rubber gloves or something like that?”
“My mom used to wear rubber gloves to wash the dishes.” The boy frowned. “But I don’t live there any more. And I don’t want to go back.”
Johnny recognized the look in the boy’s eyes. He had seen it a lot since the pandemic. Children who lost their families often couldn’t bear the memories associated with home. Sometimes it was more than just memories that sent them into the streets looking for new homes and new friendships. Many people had died where they fell ill, with no one to take them to a hospital or remove the body for burial afterwards.
With a small sigh, Johnny rummaged in a drawer and produced two latex gloves from his dwindling stash. “One for now, one for later if the first one gets torn. But be careful with these. And if you end up not needing the second one, bring it back.”
Johnny pulled a glove over the boy’s hand. The child’s fingers were so small that the latex fit neatly over the splint and Johnny had to secure the glove at the wrist with a rubber band. “You’re all set. How do you want to pay for this?”
“Pay?”
“I’ve got to eat too, you know. Food, water, batteries…what do you have?”
The boy stared with round eyes. “Nothing. I’m hungry, too.”
“Christ.”
This had been happening a lot lately. When Johnny had first set himself up in his mother’s old medical clinic, his young patients had been eager to pay. They had taken it as a given that no doctor would work for free, even one who was just shy of fifteen and working out of what he could read from books and remember from dinner table conversations. But Johnny had been too generous. He couldn’t bear to send an ill or injured child away just because he or she had nothing to offer. That wasn’t how he had been raised.
But things were different now. Supplies were becoming harder to find, more children needed his help, and now there was a violent new tribe on the scene, breaking into clinics and pharmacies, taking drugs for their own use and for barter. The Pharms had harassed Doc twice already and they had tied up supplies of many of the pain-killers and antibiotics he needed to do his work. Even if he could live off air like a Tillandsia plant, he still needed payment in order to barter with the Pharms.
Well, what was he going to do, break the boy’s finger again? “Go on,” he said. “Pay me when you can. But tell your friends I don’t work for free.”
The boy thanked him and hurried out the door, as if afraid Johnny might change his mind.
Johnny began tidying the room for the next patient, putting instruments and supplies back in their proper places, checking supplies, and wiping surfaces with bleach. He was writing in his notebook where he kept track of all his patients, treatments, and supplies, when a shadow in the doorway caught his attention.
The serious young man with the pistol on his hip didn’t look sick. Neither did the two armed boys behind him. Johnny jumped to his feet. “I’m not ready for my next patient, but if you’ll take a seat in the waiting room—”
“I’m not a patient.” The young man moved into the small room as if he owned it and stood assessing with critical eyes.
“Look, if you’re with the Pharms—”
“Nah.” He waved a hand. “My name is Reymundo Guzman Morales, but you can call me Mundo. I’m leader of the Regents and I need a house call. Are you the doctor?”
Johnny hesitated. Weren’t the Regents that group of kids who had taken over the Regency Hotel? He couldn’t recall what he had heard about them, but if it was something bad he surely would’ve remembered it. And they wanted a house call?
“I don’t do house calls. Why can’t you bring your patient here?”
“Too dangerous.” When Johnny gave him a skeptical look over the tops of his glasses, Mundo added, “It’s a pregnant girl, and I don’t want her out on the streets where she might get hurt.”
“I don’t know anything about pregnancy. Sorry.”
Mundo sighed and a note of vulnerability crept into his voice. “Look, Doc, we’ve got goods. We can pay.”
Johnny scanned Mundo’s face as he considered.
“Please?” Mundo ran a hand through his hair and looked at the ground. “Don’t make me have to kidnap you. I want my kid born healthy. Just tell me what you want.”
Now Johnny understood and for a moment he forgot that he didn’t know a thing about babies and had only the sketchiest understanding of female anatomy. This was an opportunity. A tribal leader with goods and armed guards needed him and was willing to let him name his price. “I need supplies,” Johnny said. “And protection from the Pharms. Every time I find a new source of meds, they show up and take them. Give me barter goods and a guard, and I’ll—”
To his surprise, Mundo shook his head. “I haven’t got enough guards to spare. The Regency Hotel is huge, or haven’t you ever been there? I can’t spare anyone to hang around here waiting to shoot a Pharm.”
“I can’t help you, then.”
The guards behind Mundo shuffled their feet, while Mundo sized Johnny up through narrowed eyes. “What are you really after, Doc? If you just want to practice medicine in peace, I can set you up in one of our ballrooms. You’ll have food, supplies from our forage runs, and guard protection twenty-four-seven.” When Johnny hesitated, he added, “You’re not particularly attached to this place, are you?”
Johnny looked around. He knew each wall chart, supply cabinet, and treatment room they were his own. Even the coffee-stained china cups in the break room were as familiar as his own name. He had been brought here as a baby so his mother could show him off to her co-workers. He had come here as a toddler and colored quietly under the receptionist’s watchful eye when his mother couldn’t get day care. He had listened to all the nurse and patient chatter, then quizzed his mother and father at the dinner table, always wanting to know more. How did antibiotics work? Why do you splint broken fingers but not broken toes? Johnny wanted to know it all and he forgot little. Yes, he was attached to this place. But he remembered the boy he had treated a few minutes ago and brought himself back to reality. There was something else his parents taught him about medicine, and it was more important than a mere building.
Johnny lifted his chin. “If you want me for a private physician, forget it. Go on and shoot me, if that’s what you think you need to do. But if you’re offering me a real clinic where I can treat anyone who needs me, I’ll do it.”
A smile broke over Mundo’s face and he stuck out his hand. “It’s a deal.”
They shook on it and discussed the particulars of what Johnny, who Mundo insisted on calling “Doc,” would need. They agreed on a moving date, and then with a clatter of boots on the hard stone floors, Mundo and his guards left.
In the silence that followed, Johnny looked around. Nothing had changed, yet everything had. He picked up his pen and notebook, but didn’t know what to write. He ran his hand across a stack of brochures about diabetes and colitis, but couldn’t think what to do with them. He contemplated a chart of the major muscle groups. That would be useful. He would need to take that with him.
At a small sound in the doorway, Johnny looked up in alarm. A girl with dirty feet and ragged braids stared at him, then coughed again. “Are you—?”
“Yeah,” Johnny said. “I’m the doctor.”
“I can’t—I mean, I don’t have—” she held out her empty hands.
“It’s okay,” Johnny told her. “I’ve got a patron now. No one needs to pay me any more.”
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
Flash Fiction Interlude: Ars Gratia Artis
AUTHOR'S NOTE: The action of this story precedes Steal Tomorrow. The story is cross-posted on my Steal Tomorrow blog.
May walked down the city street carrying two empty gallon jugs and trying to reconcile the evidence of her eyes and nose with what her brain still struggled to acknowledge. They were all dead—not just her parents, tutors and professors, but all the adults, from newscasters and bank presidents to hedge-trimmers and street musicians. The ones who died first got graves. Later, the dead were thrown into pits. The last of them still lay in the streets and buildings where they fell, hence the smell that May tried to counter by wearing a perfume-soaked scarf over her face. It helped a little.
She saw a few kids hawking bottles of water on a street corner, but although she was tempted, she continued on. Two blocks ahead was a park. The turf had been dug up for burial pits and a broad open area showed scorch marks from an attempt at mass cremation, but what May was after was the water. She walked the stone path to the canoe launch and stooped to fill her gallon jugs with river water.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”
May looked around, nearly dropping one of her water jugs. The boy looked to be about twelve and although he was dirty, there was nothing about him that suggested danger.
“Everyone who drinks that water gets sick,” the boy went on. “Sometimes they die. It’s because of all the dead people.”
May turned away in annoyance and went back to filling her jugs. “I know what I’m doing.”
“But—”
“Shut up and go away.” May capped the jugs, refusing to look up. Ignorant child. Of course the river water would make a person sick if they didn’t properly treat it. But she was a chemist and the daughter of chemists. She went to college at sixteen and would’ve been in her third semester if not for the pandemic. She knew what to do to keep from getting sick off the water.
It occurred to her that it might be a good thing to share her knowledge with the boy. What would it hurt to explain how to filter the water, then distill or pasteurize it? She got to her feet and looked around, but he was gone. Stupid kid.
As she walked back to the room she was living in over a restaurant, she found herself unable to shake the incident at the river. What was she living for? Sure, she knew how to survive. Science had taught her a lot of useful things. But if she wasn’t going to teach others, what was the purpose of her own life?
She had the skills to put together a cocktail that would kill her quickly and with relatively little pain. Perhaps that was the best thing. It was either that or make herself useful to the other survivors, and she had spent her entire life doing what other people wanted. Child science prodigy May Ellison, credit to her parents and teachers, but really just a friendless freak who never got to do what she wanted to do.
A pack of dogs ran past, chased by children wielding baseball bats. A hunting party. Well, good luck to them. May paused so they could go by but as she resumed walking, something felt wrong. Something smooth was embedded in the sole of her shoe and she muttered a curse and stopped to remove it. The glass shard was bottle-green and caught the afternoon sunlight as she held it in her fingers.
A flicker of memory stirred. Mosaics at the art museum. Stained glass in the church windows. The glitter of fanciful costume jewelry on the necks and arms of the girls at her high school—girls her parents wouldn’t let her be friends with because she was so much younger and needed to study, study, study to win a scholarship to Harvard. She had spent all those hours poring over books and mixing chemicals in the lab when what she really wanted was to surround herself with bright, colorful things that sparkled.
May looked around the filthy streets, ignoring the curious stares of a group of boys sitting on the curb, passing a bottle back and forth. The glass of the bottle was brown and would probably sparkle too, once its contents were drained. She could smash the bottle, scoop up the glass, and…what?
What indeed? Who was there to tell her not to take the ugly, broken shards of civilization at her feet and make something of beauty? The road was littered with clear glass, blue glass, red and amber bits of plastic, and who knew what else? It was hers for the taking, and to hell with her parents’ goal of seeing her in a lab. They were dead, anyway, and so were all their dreams.
May dropped the shard of green glass in her pocket and picked up her water jugs, surprised that they felt lighter now. In fact, her whole body felt made of feathers and her heart fluttered with excitement. There had been a time when she thought she might have to wait half a lifetime to realize her own dreams, but who was to stop her now? She would go home and distill her water, and tomorrow she would begin scavenging art materials on the city streets. Her life would not be long—she was infected with Telo just like everyone else. But at least her life was finally her own.
May walked down the city street carrying two empty gallon jugs and trying to reconcile the evidence of her eyes and nose with what her brain still struggled to acknowledge. They were all dead—not just her parents, tutors and professors, but all the adults, from newscasters and bank presidents to hedge-trimmers and street musicians. The ones who died first got graves. Later, the dead were thrown into pits. The last of them still lay in the streets and buildings where they fell, hence the smell that May tried to counter by wearing a perfume-soaked scarf over her face. It helped a little.
She saw a few kids hawking bottles of water on a street corner, but although she was tempted, she continued on. Two blocks ahead was a park. The turf had been dug up for burial pits and a broad open area showed scorch marks from an attempt at mass cremation, but what May was after was the water. She walked the stone path to the canoe launch and stooped to fill her gallon jugs with river water.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”
May looked around, nearly dropping one of her water jugs. The boy looked to be about twelve and although he was dirty, there was nothing about him that suggested danger.
“Everyone who drinks that water gets sick,” the boy went on. “Sometimes they die. It’s because of all the dead people.”
May turned away in annoyance and went back to filling her jugs. “I know what I’m doing.”
“But—”
“Shut up and go away.” May capped the jugs, refusing to look up. Ignorant child. Of course the river water would make a person sick if they didn’t properly treat it. But she was a chemist and the daughter of chemists. She went to college at sixteen and would’ve been in her third semester if not for the pandemic. She knew what to do to keep from getting sick off the water.
It occurred to her that it might be a good thing to share her knowledge with the boy. What would it hurt to explain how to filter the water, then distill or pasteurize it? She got to her feet and looked around, but he was gone. Stupid kid.
As she walked back to the room she was living in over a restaurant, she found herself unable to shake the incident at the river. What was she living for? Sure, she knew how to survive. Science had taught her a lot of useful things. But if she wasn’t going to teach others, what was the purpose of her own life?
She had the skills to put together a cocktail that would kill her quickly and with relatively little pain. Perhaps that was the best thing. It was either that or make herself useful to the other survivors, and she had spent her entire life doing what other people wanted. Child science prodigy May Ellison, credit to her parents and teachers, but really just a friendless freak who never got to do what she wanted to do.
A pack of dogs ran past, chased by children wielding baseball bats. A hunting party. Well, good luck to them. May paused so they could go by but as she resumed walking, something felt wrong. Something smooth was embedded in the sole of her shoe and she muttered a curse and stopped to remove it. The glass shard was bottle-green and caught the afternoon sunlight as she held it in her fingers.
A flicker of memory stirred. Mosaics at the art museum. Stained glass in the church windows. The glitter of fanciful costume jewelry on the necks and arms of the girls at her high school—girls her parents wouldn’t let her be friends with because she was so much younger and needed to study, study, study to win a scholarship to Harvard. She had spent all those hours poring over books and mixing chemicals in the lab when what she really wanted was to surround herself with bright, colorful things that sparkled.
May looked around the filthy streets, ignoring the curious stares of a group of boys sitting on the curb, passing a bottle back and forth. The glass of the bottle was brown and would probably sparkle too, once its contents were drained. She could smash the bottle, scoop up the glass, and…what?
What indeed? Who was there to tell her not to take the ugly, broken shards of civilization at her feet and make something of beauty? The road was littered with clear glass, blue glass, red and amber bits of plastic, and who knew what else? It was hers for the taking, and to hell with her parents’ goal of seeing her in a lab. They were dead, anyway, and so were all their dreams.
May dropped the shard of green glass in her pocket and picked up her water jugs, surprised that they felt lighter now. In fact, her whole body felt made of feathers and her heart fluttered with excitement. There had been a time when she thought she might have to wait half a lifetime to realize her own dreams, but who was to stop her now? She would go home and distill her water, and tomorrow she would begin scavenging art materials on the city streets. Her life would not be long—she was infected with Telo just like everyone else. But at least her life was finally her own.
Sunday, August 17, 2008
Flash Fiction Interlude: The Principle of the Thing
AUTHOR'S NOTE: This flash fiction extra is from the period before the action in Steal Tomorrow and is cross-posted on the Steal Tomorrow Blog. Thanks for reading, and be sure to check out the new Steal Tomorrow Forums and sign up for some fun discussions!
Cassie slipped from under the blankets and went to the window. She and Leila had hung quilts over the curtain rods the night before, hoping to keep some of the chill at bay, but she wasn’t sure it had done much good. She pulled a corner of the quilt aside and squinted at the pale winter light.
“Wake up,” she told Leila, without moving from the window.
Leila burrowed deeper under the covers. “You go. I’ll stay here where it’s warm.”
“We have to go together,” Cassie reminded her. “Safety in numbers.”
Leila pulled the blankets away from her face but made no move to get up. “Can’t we eat MREs today? Do we always have to go out foraging?”
Cassie folded the window covering back so she would have enough light to dress. Dressing was a relative term. Without gas or electrical service since the die-off, every place was cold and getting dressed to go out meant layering more clothes on top of what one already had on. She picked up a sweater lying across the back of a chair and pulled it on over the one she was wearing. “We agreed to the rules together, remember? Forage every day we can and save our food for the days we can’t.”
Grumbling, Leila got out of bed and reached for her coat. “Sometimes I think the dead people have it easy.”
“Don’t talk like that.” Cassie pulled on a jacket and fleece cap. “We have to keep trying.”
“For what? We’re infected. We’ll be dead in a year or two and in the meantime we go around eating bad food, trying not to get raped or beat up by a gang, and being cold and dirty in the meantime.”
“Maybe you’re dirty, but I’m not.”
“Rub it in, why don’t you?” Leila went to the dresser and fumbled among the clutter for her gloves. “Like hell I’m going to get wet when it’s freezing out.”
“I offered you the no-rinse camp soap.”
“It stinks.”
“It’s lavender. And it smells better than you.”
Leila reached for her hat and tugged it on over her hair. “What’s got into you today?”
“I’m sorry.” Cassie rubbed her face. “I didn’t sleep too good. And I’m hungry.”
“I told you we should eat the MREs.” When Cassie didn’t answer, Leila shoved her hands in her pockets. “Well, I’m ready.”
Cassie grabbed her pepper spray, a few packs of cigarettes for trade, and a ring of keys, ignoring Leila’s sneer as she locked the door on their way out.
“If someone wants in, they’ll just break a window.”
“I know,” Cassie said, dropping the keys in her pocket. “But at least if someone wants to rob us, they’ll have to work for it.”
Leila shrugged and the girls headed down the sidewalk.
“Any ideas for where to forage today?” Cassie asked.
“I thought you had a plan.”
“The townhouses on Wilson Street?”
“They burned down.”
“Not all of them.” When Cassie didn’t get a reply, she said, “Okay, how about Wal-Mart? I know it burned, but those kids in Jason’s gang said it was becoming an open-air market.”
“Like I’d trust anything Jason and his friends would say.”
Cassie looked at her askance. Jason Tibbs had played football for their high school varsity team and had been nice to Leila their junior year, leading her to think he really liked her. “Just because he only wanted to copy off you in calculus doesn’t mean he’s dishonest about everything.”
“Whatever.” Leila scowled and looked away. “Wal-mart is as good as any other idea. Let’s go.”
Getting to the nearest Wal-Mart required leaving the neighborhood and following Ingall Road to the freeway. Ingall had a small strip center with a grocery store, a drug store, a dry cleaner’s, and hair cutting salon. This was where their mothers had shopped when they had no need to drive to the larger, better-stocked stores a few miles away. The girls had been here a few times since the pandemic and had no expectation that anything was different now. Nevertheless, the looked at the ransacked shops, broken windows, and graffiti with dismay.
“Hard to believe—” Cassie began, then cut herself off. Comparing the present to the past only made things worse.
When they got to the freeway feeder road, a dog leaped from behind an abandoned car, snarling. There had been a time not very long ago when the girls would’ve been terrified, but Cassie had her pepper spray ready and got the dog full in the nose. As he limped away, whining, Leila muttered, “This shit with the dogs is getting old.”
“I hear some kids are eating them.”
“That’s disgusting. But I guess if they only eat the dangerous ones—”
“A service to humanity,” Cassie said.
Leila laughed in a mirthless, half-hysterical way. She had done this a lot at the start of the pandemic, but hadn’t done so as often lately, as the winter cold and constant hunger sapped her energy for seeing irony in their situation.
“We’re not far now,” Cassie pointed out needlessly. “Let’s hurry up. I bet they’ll at least have fires so we can warm up.”
When they came within sight of the Wal-Mart, they saw groups of kids of all ages huddled in groups in the parking lot. Some had built small fires of scrap, some had set up tables and were trying to trade merchandise. Cassie and Leila moved cautiously among the sale items but were unimpressed. They already had gloves and winter scarves and had plenty of toilet paper from foraging in their neighborhood. The only kids selling food weren’t interested in Cassie’s money and wanted more packs of cigarettes than she had brought along for trade.
“We were better off staying home,” Leila said.
Cassie was about to reply when she noticed a group of girls huddled around a fire at the edge of the parking lot. They were dressed in short skirts and high heels and their faces were heavily made up. One girl in particular caught her eye. “That isn’t Emily, is it?”
Leila squinted at the pretty former drill team captain touching up her lipstick in the afternoon sunlight. “I think it is.”
They wandered over, startling Emily, who blushed underneath her makeup and returned their greeting warily. As they made idle chatter about the weather and where the best food supplies were to be found, Cassie couldn’t escape the feeling that Emily was rushing them, being purposefully vague in her replies, as if she wanted them to go away. After a few minutes, she saw why.
Three teenage boys with greasy hair and guns sauntered over and began looking the girls over. Finally the one who appeared to be their leader asked, “How much?”
Cassie and Emily exchanged a look.
“You should go,” Emily whispered as one of the other girls started negotiating.
“But you can’t do this. There’s other ways.”
Emily shook her head. “It’s easier than scavenging, and I bet I eat better than you.”
Leila had been listening to the negotiations and gave a small shrug. “We sure don’t ever get to eat Oreos.”
“Oh, come on.” Cassie frowned and tried to grab Emily’s hand. “You don’t want to sell yourself for a package of cookies, do you?”
Emily jerked away. “It’s easy work. And I’ll be dead soon anyway, so who cares?”
“We care. We—” Cassie looked at Leila for confirmation. “Come with us. We found some rice yesterday, and—”
“No way.” Emily shook her head and glanced toward one of the boys who was sizing her up with interest. “These guys have Hershey bars too, or haven’t you been paying attention?” She flashed the boy a smile. As he walked over, she muttered to Cassie out of the corner of her mouth, “Go away. Now.”
Cassie and Leila did as they were told and started back toward their neighborhood. They walked in silence for a long time before finally Cassie said, “You were right. We should’ve stayed home and eaten the MREs. That was depressing.”
“I can kind of see her point, though,” Leila said. “We work awfully hard and don’t have much to show for it.”
“But at least we haven’t compromised.”
“Maybe not, but does it matter?” Leila waved a hand at the trash and burned-out cars littering the deserted street. “Look at this place. We have no future, so why give a damn about the present?”
“I don’t know,” Cassie said, after appearing to think about it. “Sometimes doing right doesn’t make any sense, but you have to do it anyway.”
“So it’s the principle of the thing.”
Cassie took a deep breath and tipped her head back so she could see the startling blue of the clear winter sky instead of the muck of the streets. “Something like that. We may be living like animals, but at least we'll die like humans.”
Cassie slipped from under the blankets and went to the window. She and Leila had hung quilts over the curtain rods the night before, hoping to keep some of the chill at bay, but she wasn’t sure it had done much good. She pulled a corner of the quilt aside and squinted at the pale winter light.
“Wake up,” she told Leila, without moving from the window.
Leila burrowed deeper under the covers. “You go. I’ll stay here where it’s warm.”
“We have to go together,” Cassie reminded her. “Safety in numbers.”
Leila pulled the blankets away from her face but made no move to get up. “Can’t we eat MREs today? Do we always have to go out foraging?”
Cassie folded the window covering back so she would have enough light to dress. Dressing was a relative term. Without gas or electrical service since the die-off, every place was cold and getting dressed to go out meant layering more clothes on top of what one already had on. She picked up a sweater lying across the back of a chair and pulled it on over the one she was wearing. “We agreed to the rules together, remember? Forage every day we can and save our food for the days we can’t.”
Grumbling, Leila got out of bed and reached for her coat. “Sometimes I think the dead people have it easy.”
“Don’t talk like that.” Cassie pulled on a jacket and fleece cap. “We have to keep trying.”
“For what? We’re infected. We’ll be dead in a year or two and in the meantime we go around eating bad food, trying not to get raped or beat up by a gang, and being cold and dirty in the meantime.”
“Maybe you’re dirty, but I’m not.”
“Rub it in, why don’t you?” Leila went to the dresser and fumbled among the clutter for her gloves. “Like hell I’m going to get wet when it’s freezing out.”
“I offered you the no-rinse camp soap.”
“It stinks.”
“It’s lavender. And it smells better than you.”
Leila reached for her hat and tugged it on over her hair. “What’s got into you today?”
“I’m sorry.” Cassie rubbed her face. “I didn’t sleep too good. And I’m hungry.”
“I told you we should eat the MREs.” When Cassie didn’t answer, Leila shoved her hands in her pockets. “Well, I’m ready.”
Cassie grabbed her pepper spray, a few packs of cigarettes for trade, and a ring of keys, ignoring Leila’s sneer as she locked the door on their way out.
“If someone wants in, they’ll just break a window.”
“I know,” Cassie said, dropping the keys in her pocket. “But at least if someone wants to rob us, they’ll have to work for it.”
Leila shrugged and the girls headed down the sidewalk.
“Any ideas for where to forage today?” Cassie asked.
“I thought you had a plan.”
“The townhouses on Wilson Street?”
“They burned down.”
“Not all of them.” When Cassie didn’t get a reply, she said, “Okay, how about Wal-Mart? I know it burned, but those kids in Jason’s gang said it was becoming an open-air market.”
“Like I’d trust anything Jason and his friends would say.”
Cassie looked at her askance. Jason Tibbs had played football for their high school varsity team and had been nice to Leila their junior year, leading her to think he really liked her. “Just because he only wanted to copy off you in calculus doesn’t mean he’s dishonest about everything.”
“Whatever.” Leila scowled and looked away. “Wal-mart is as good as any other idea. Let’s go.”
Getting to the nearest Wal-Mart required leaving the neighborhood and following Ingall Road to the freeway. Ingall had a small strip center with a grocery store, a drug store, a dry cleaner’s, and hair cutting salon. This was where their mothers had shopped when they had no need to drive to the larger, better-stocked stores a few miles away. The girls had been here a few times since the pandemic and had no expectation that anything was different now. Nevertheless, the looked at the ransacked shops, broken windows, and graffiti with dismay.
“Hard to believe—” Cassie began, then cut herself off. Comparing the present to the past only made things worse.
When they got to the freeway feeder road, a dog leaped from behind an abandoned car, snarling. There had been a time not very long ago when the girls would’ve been terrified, but Cassie had her pepper spray ready and got the dog full in the nose. As he limped away, whining, Leila muttered, “This shit with the dogs is getting old.”
“I hear some kids are eating them.”
“That’s disgusting. But I guess if they only eat the dangerous ones—”
“A service to humanity,” Cassie said.
Leila laughed in a mirthless, half-hysterical way. She had done this a lot at the start of the pandemic, but hadn’t done so as often lately, as the winter cold and constant hunger sapped her energy for seeing irony in their situation.
“We’re not far now,” Cassie pointed out needlessly. “Let’s hurry up. I bet they’ll at least have fires so we can warm up.”
When they came within sight of the Wal-Mart, they saw groups of kids of all ages huddled in groups in the parking lot. Some had built small fires of scrap, some had set up tables and were trying to trade merchandise. Cassie and Leila moved cautiously among the sale items but were unimpressed. They already had gloves and winter scarves and had plenty of toilet paper from foraging in their neighborhood. The only kids selling food weren’t interested in Cassie’s money and wanted more packs of cigarettes than she had brought along for trade.
“We were better off staying home,” Leila said.
Cassie was about to reply when she noticed a group of girls huddled around a fire at the edge of the parking lot. They were dressed in short skirts and high heels and their faces were heavily made up. One girl in particular caught her eye. “That isn’t Emily, is it?”
Leila squinted at the pretty former drill team captain touching up her lipstick in the afternoon sunlight. “I think it is.”
They wandered over, startling Emily, who blushed underneath her makeup and returned their greeting warily. As they made idle chatter about the weather and where the best food supplies were to be found, Cassie couldn’t escape the feeling that Emily was rushing them, being purposefully vague in her replies, as if she wanted them to go away. After a few minutes, she saw why.
Three teenage boys with greasy hair and guns sauntered over and began looking the girls over. Finally the one who appeared to be their leader asked, “How much?”
Cassie and Emily exchanged a look.
“You should go,” Emily whispered as one of the other girls started negotiating.
“But you can’t do this. There’s other ways.”
Emily shook her head. “It’s easier than scavenging, and I bet I eat better than you.”
Leila had been listening to the negotiations and gave a small shrug. “We sure don’t ever get to eat Oreos.”
“Oh, come on.” Cassie frowned and tried to grab Emily’s hand. “You don’t want to sell yourself for a package of cookies, do you?”
Emily jerked away. “It’s easy work. And I’ll be dead soon anyway, so who cares?”
“We care. We—” Cassie looked at Leila for confirmation. “Come with us. We found some rice yesterday, and—”
“No way.” Emily shook her head and glanced toward one of the boys who was sizing her up with interest. “These guys have Hershey bars too, or haven’t you been paying attention?” She flashed the boy a smile. As he walked over, she muttered to Cassie out of the corner of her mouth, “Go away. Now.”
Cassie and Leila did as they were told and started back toward their neighborhood. They walked in silence for a long time before finally Cassie said, “You were right. We should’ve stayed home and eaten the MREs. That was depressing.”
“I can kind of see her point, though,” Leila said. “We work awfully hard and don’t have much to show for it.”
“But at least we haven’t compromised.”
“Maybe not, but does it matter?” Leila waved a hand at the trash and burned-out cars littering the deserted street. “Look at this place. We have no future, so why give a damn about the present?”
“I don’t know,” Cassie said, after appearing to think about it. “Sometimes doing right doesn’t make any sense, but you have to do it anyway.”
“So it’s the principle of the thing.”
Cassie took a deep breath and tipped her head back so she could see the startling blue of the clear winter sky instead of the muck of the streets. “Something like that. We may be living like animals, but at least we'll die like humans.”
Saturday, July 26, 2008
Flash Fiction Interlude: Post-Pandemic Hoop Dreams (A Steal Tomorrow Extra)
AUTHOR'S NOTE: This flash fiction piece about Julilla is cross-posted on my Steal Tomorrow blog. It is not part of the novel.
Julilla bounced the ball and looked around. Still too early. That meant she had time for a warm-up. She went through a routine of her own devising, dribbling and dodging imaginary teammates as she moved across the blacktop and back again, then to the free throw line for a few practice shots. The first one bounced off the backboard, but she was unfazed. Her first shot always sucked. She had envied her teammates who never needed those first practice throws, but a lot of those girls were dead now, and so was the coach, while she carried on, muddling through the post-pandemic wreckage.
She threw again and this time the ball slipped through the basket without touching the rim and bounced off the asphalt with a satisfying sound. Julilla leaped to catch it and followed up with a couple of quick lay-ups and a hook shot. As she hit her groove, she forgot she was hungry and alone. She forgot the ever-present reminders of the dead in the empty streets and shops. She even managed to ignore the sickly smell of rot that occasionally wafted from the direction of a nearby parking garage where bodies lay piled up, waiting for transport trucks that would never arrive to take them to the pits.
For a few blessed minutes, Julilla’s world narrowed to just herself, the ball, and the shadows of the dead and missing girls who she dodged and scored off of in her imagination. If she let her fancy take hold, she could almost believe she was playing for the high school all-stars again, rallying her team for the final victory while her coaches, classmates, and dear Aunt Veegee screamed her name and the college recruiters tapped madly into their Blackberrys.
A movement at the edge of the blacktop caught her eye, bringing her back to the present. The children were arriving, but there weren’t enough yet. She continued to practice, adding a few exhibition moves—ball between the legs, catch, over the knee and down again, then a high bounce with a little twirl before catching it and spinning it on one finger.
A few more children wandered up and one clapped.
“I got better moves than this if you’ve got food,” she called.
One boy had a few crackers. For him, Julilla showed off a little of her quick footwork, and shot three hoops over her shoulder in rapid succession.
Another girl had a box of raisins. For her, she performed a new routine she had been working on—a hard bounce, then see how many times she could clap and twirl before catching it. This pleased the girl and her friends so much that they started digging through bags and pockets, and Julilla added some hand jive moves.
The girls were giggling and pooling their food resources into something that might take the edge of Julilla’s hunger when a group of rangy older boys wandered up. The chattering girls and clapping boys fell silent and Julilla paused, bouncing the ball slowly and returning the group leader’s cool look.
“You a real basketball player?” he sneered. “Or just some kind of Harlem Globetrotter showoff?”
Patience. Aunt Veegee, God rest her soul, always said to wait to see what the other guy would do first. That way you’d have time to plan. “I’m here,” she said. “So I guess that makes me as real as anyone.”
The boy reached in his pocket and for a panicked moment she thought he had a gun. A lot of the older boys did these days, and sometimes the young ones, too. But instead of a weapon, he took out a Milky Way bar.
Julilla’s stomach growled and she swallowed hard.
“Eleven points,” he said. “You game?”
“Is that the prize?”
“If you win. Want to know what mine is if you lose?” His eyes moved across her body.
Julilla had seen that look before. It was the same way her mother’s ill-chosen boyfriends had looked at her, including the one who—well, the pandemic had been good for something, at least. A wave of anger swept through her, spurring the killing urge that her coaches had so carefully channeled into a winner’s drive. “I won’t lose,” she snarled, and tossed him the ball. “You can even go first. That way your friends can see you make at least one good move before I wipe the blacktop with your ass.”
“The only move on anyone’s ass is going to be mine on yours, baby.”
The boy made a fast break, dodging Julilla’s blocking moves and going for a lay-up. Julilla leaped to knock the ball out of range, but he crashed into her with his shoulder and she stumbled. The ball swooshed through the basket and he caught it with a laugh while Julilla recovered her footing and the children on the sidelines screamed foul. Julilla thought of calling him on it, but could tell by the way he was breathing hard that earning just one point had cost him. She only needed to hold him off and let him wear himself down. It was just like playing defense for the all-stars.
Over the next twenty minutes, they panted, sweated and cursed each other as the boy twisted and feinted, unable to lose Julilla as she hovered over and around him, sometimes knocking the ball from his hands, sometimes waiting so she could block his shots. She took stomps to her feet and elbows to her ribs, all of which he pretended were accidental, but as she saw him grow winded and she stole the ball again and again, she didn’t bother to call him on his fouls. All she had to do was outlast this bastard, and as she sank her last shot, she beamed at the crowd of cheering kids.
“I think I earned my candy bar,” she told the boy, as he leaned forward, hands on his knees, breathing hard.
With a malevolent glare, he stood up and reached in his pocket. He threw the Milky Way to the ground in disgust and when he raised his foot like he would stomp on it, Julilla lunged toward him. Fouls and bruises were one thing, but that was breakfast!
To her surprise, the boy’s friends grabbed him and pulled him back. “Let it go, man. She won fair.”
As they dragged him off the blacktop, Julilla scooped up the candy bar and ripped open the paper. Dear lord, how long had it been since she had eaten chocolate?
The little girl who had offered her raisins tugged at her shirt and handed up a bottle of water.
Gratefully, Julilla accepted. Putting nasty teenage boys in their place was thirsty work.
The girl still stared at her with big eyes. “M’am?”
Julilla stifled a laugh. She was too young to be m’am to anyone.
“Can you teach me to play?”
Julilla assessed. The girl wasn’t much bigger than the ball. “It doesn’t come easy. You willing to work hard?”
“Everything’s hard since the Telo.”
“It was hard before, too.”
“Yeah, but…”
Julilla nodded and broke off a piece of Milky Way for her. “We gotta make the most of what we’ve got. That’s how we’re going to get through this.”
The girl sucked on her candy and nodded.
Julilla held out her hand. “Come on, girlfriend. I think I can show you a few moves.”
Friday, July 11, 2008
Flash Fiction Interlude: Special Delivery(A Steal Tomorrow Extra)
AUTHOR'S NOTE: This flash fiction piece about the twins is cross-posted at Steal Tomorrow. It is not part of the novel.
With a thwack, the knife embedded itself in the wood paneling. Danny flinched. “That was close, love.”
Danica picked up another knife. “It was supposed to be. You need to hold still.”
“I did. Your aim was off.”
“I’m never off.” Danica took aim but before she could throw, a knock on the door made her jump. “What the—?”
Another knock. This time Danny stepped away from the wall and started across the room. “Why would anyone come here?”
Danica put the knife aside and scampered after her twin. “Maybe someone heard about us and wants us for a job.”
“That would be nice, especially if they can pay in food or water filters.” Danny peered out the murky peephole. “I don’t see anyone.” He reached for the semiautomatic he kept next to the door. “Get ready to cover me, in case it’s trouble.”
Danica grabbed a .38 and waited while Danny fumbled with the bolts and locks. They were the only residents of the building since the pandemic, but that didn’t mean they were safe. In the early months of the die-off, gangs had roamed the area, but recently things had been quiet. So who was at their door?
A small box, apparently.
After checking that no one was waiting to jump him, Danny stood over the package and frowned. It was about half the size of a shoebox and wrapped in neat brown paper.
Danica peered around his shoulder. “UPS?”
“Very funny. It might be dangerous.”
“I’m sure it’s just an ordinary delivery. Some of the kids must be trying to re-establish a post office.”
“That wouldn’t explain why they brought something here. It doesn’t have our names and address on it. Maybe it’s a bomb.”
“Who would want to blow us up?”
“You never know.”
“Well, I think it’s harmless and we should open it.”
A debate ensued, in which the twins discussed possibilities as disturbing as explosives and anthrax to the more horrific notion that the box might contain a fruitcake from their grandmother, dead in the pandemic.
“Sometimes things get lost and don’t get delivered for decades,” Danica pointed out.
“Whatever it is, I don’t like it. I’m going to move it out of our doorway.”
“Why? It’s not in our way, since we always go in and out the window.” Nevertheless, she went into the kitchen and returned with a mop.
Danny pushed the suspicious package to the end of the hall and left it by the stairwell. He returned with a satisfied air.
As he locked the door and set the bolts, Danica asked, “If it really is a bomb, what if it blows up the stairs?”
“Then we won’t have to worry about any more deliveries.”
Danica threw herself onto the sofa with a giggle. “That would be nice. Maybe no one would bother us again, ever.” She stretched with the sensual moves of a cat. “I didn’t expect this much excitement on a non-foraging day.”
Danny stalked toward her with a grin. “The day’s not over yet.”
“What more could happen?”
Danny leaned over her and ran a hand up her thigh. “Do you need some ideas?”
She drew him to her with a satisfied sigh. “We do this every day, though.”
“Does that make it any less exciting?”
Before Danica could answer, there was another rap at the door, more urgent than before.
“Let them knock,” Danny said. He fumbled with the buttons of his fly.
Danica helped. “Right. We’re busy.”
The knocking continued.
Danica paused. “Maybe it’s important.”
“Nothing’s more important than you, babe.”
“Then we should find who’s doing it and shoot them.”
“Too much trouble.” He gave a little tug at her pants. “You going to leave these on, or what?”
Danica cast a glance toward the door. “I just wonder if—”
“Don’t wonder.” He pressed her shoulders into the cushions and kissed her until all urge toward curiosity was gone. By the time Danica squirmed out of her clothes so he could make love to her, the knocking had become a distant background noise, easily ignored.
An hour later when Danica wrapped herself in a robe and peeked out the door, she saw nothing on the empty stoop or in the vacant hallway. Even the original package was gone. "That's odd," she said.
"Everything's odd since the die-off."
Danica shut the door and leaned against it, frowning. "Yes, I guess that's the apocalypse for you. You never know what to expect."
"It's all about us now."
"So can I throw knives at you again?"
"Of course, love. Nothing matters but you."
Thursday, July 03, 2008
Flash Fiction Interlude: In Dependence Day (A Steal Tomorrow Extra)
AUTHOR'S NOTE: This holiday flash fiction piece accompanies my YA novel Steal Tomorrow and is cross-posted on the novel's blog
“So what’s this leadership meeting supposed to be about?” Cassie asked Julilla as they climbed the stairs.
“Fourth of July.”
Cassie hadn’t realized it was almost Independence Day. Who could keep up with dates any more? Since the pandemic, each day was like every other. She had even overlooked her birthday. Not that it mattered. Getting older was nothing to celebrate when you were infected with a retrovirus that would kill you before you were out of your teens. “We don’t celebrate our own birthdays,” she said. “Why should we celebrate the nation’s? Do we even have a nation any more? If there’s no more government, there’s no more country, right?”
“Beats the hell out of me.” Julilla pulled open the door to the patio and kicked the doorstop into place, muttering about “irresponsible brats” who let the doors fall shut, trapping the hot summer air inside.
Their leader Mundo and his girlfriend Kayleen were waiting on the shaded deck, along with the guard commander Alex and lead forager, David. Cassie sat as far as she could from David, ignoring the way he leered at her.
“You’re late,” he said.
“We were rewinding our sundials,” she snapped.
Kayleen blinked, not understanding the complex joke. She asked no questions, though, and reached for a bottle of sunscreen.
“You’ve got enough of that,” Mundo told her. “We’re not going to live long enough for you to get melanoma. Did you bring a pen? I need you to take notes.”
With a sigh of annoyance, Kayleen set the Coppertone aside and picked up a purple felt tip.
“What we need to decide,” Mundo said, “Is whether to celebrate the Fourth, and if so, how.”
“When is it, exactly?” Cassie asked.
“Don’t you ever look at a calendar?” David sneered.
“I’ve never seen one around here. Have you?”
Mundo waved a hand for silence. “It’s the day after tomorrow. The Thespians have invited us over for a production they’re putting on in conjunction with the Operatics. I think it’s going to be a musical.”
Cassie cringed. The last thing she wanted to deal with was another crazy performance by the tribe of kids living at the theater. Didn’t they have better things to do than go around declaiming and pantomiming? The whole world lay in ruins, and their answer was to write scripts and songs about it.
David saved Cassie the trouble of being the first to decline the invitation. “I don’t want to watch those freaks prance around in wigs.”
“And what are they going to do, exactly?” Julilla asked. “Set the Declaration of Independence to music and reenact the Battle of Bunker Hill? No, thanks.”
“The little ones might like some kind of celebration, though,” Cassie offered. “I think it’s good for them to celebrate holidays. It gives them a sense of normalcy.”
“There’s nothing normal about the Thespians,” Julilla said.
“I meant maybe we could forage some fireworks or something.”
Everyone looked at David.
“What? I haven’t seen so much as a sparkler since the pandemic. I could set something on fire for them, though, if you think that’ll make them happy.”
Mundo rubbed his face in frustration. “So it looks like we don’t have any good ideas for how to celebrate.”
“I don’t see why we should bother,” Julilla said. “Two hundred and forty years ago, a bunch of rich white guys told their government to stuff it. Big deal.”
“It’s more than that,” Alex said in his best ex-ROTC manner. “It’s about celebrating our freedom to choose our way of governance. It’s about honoring the sacrifices of those who died so we could be free.”
The little group lapsed into silence, thinking not of men in powdered wigs fighting for a free and independent nation, but of their parents, teachers and leaders. The death of the adults had left them struggling to understand their freedom and bewildered about how to make order from the wreckage.
“Creating a government is hard work,” Mundo admitted.
“So is keeping it safe,” Alex pointed out.
“Freedom isn’t all it’s cracked up to be,” Cassie said. “It’s a lot of responsibility.”
David frowned and looked away. “It’s harder than I thought, I'll grant you that.”
Kayleen had been taking notes and now Mundo looked over her shoulder. “What are you writing, babe?”
“That freedom is hard. And that we should be glad we’ve made it this far.”
“So you think we should celebrate our own independence?”
Kayleen shrugged. “David’s right. It’s a lot of hard work.”
“Besides,” Cassie said. “We’re not really independent. We’re all in this together. What we should celebrate is Dependence Day—learning to get along when we’re all so different.”
Julilla agreed. “I can roll with that.”
Heads nodded, Kayleen made a few notes, and Mundo said he’d put the matter to a vote after dinner.
“But what are we going to do to celebrate this so-called Dependence Day?” David wanted to know.
They all fell silent again.
“Well,” Julilla finally said, “I guess it doesn’t matter, as long as it doesn’t involve Thespians.”
“Too bad the potatoes aren’t ready to harvest,” Cassie said. “Potato salad would be perfect.”
“I still think we should set something on fire,” David said.
“I’ll take ideas from the floor after dinner.” Mundo glanced around the group for confirmation. “We’ll do this thing democratically.”
“Democracy is what we’re all about,” Alex agreed.
“It's almost as hard as freedom,” Cassie pointed out.
“Got any better ideas?”
She shook her head. “Beats the alternatives.”
“Then we’ll take suggestions from everyone and put the best ideas to a vote,” Mundo concluded. “God bless America.”
“God bless us,” Kayleen corrected him.
“God bless someone,” Julilla said, standing and stretching. “We could all sure use it.”
Friday, May 30, 2008
Love and War(A Will and Diana Adventure)
Will shifted in his saddle and frowned at the horizon. “Seems like we should’ve been there already.”
“It can’t be much farther,” Diana said. “We’re almost to Don Reymundo’s lands.”
“That’s what worries me.”
Diana fumbled in her saddlebag and pulled out a compass, squinting at the markings in the bright glare of the sun.
“We don’t need that,” Will told her. “The river has been to our left the whole time, so we can’t have passed it.”
They continued in silence for another mile, intent on their mission to deliver a message to the unit monitoring Don Reymundo’s growing fiefdom. As if Don Reymundo’s land-grabbing wasn’t enough, there were rumors he had allied with at least one of the northern states of Mexico, and this could not be allowed.
Will and Diana smelled the burn before they saw it—a heavy, sickly odor of more than just wood. Mingled into the charcoal smell of burnt cottonwoods was the choking scent of scorched plastic, trash, and flesh.
He and Diana kicked their horses into a trot. Ahead, they could make out the charred trunks of trees, the blackened walls of a small adobe dwelling, and the remains of a corral.
“Was this it, do you think?” Diana asked as she walked her horse through the ashes, skirting the grisly remains of humans and animals.
Will rested a hand on his gun, looking around as if there might be arsonists among the remains. Diana was about to tease him for his caution when a sound by the river caught her attention. She drew her gun and edged her horse closer to Will’s as a dirty figure dragged himself out of the brush by the water.
“Stay where you are,” Will shouted. “Who are you?”
The man looked at them with the pained expression of a wounded animal. He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out. He dragged himself a few more feet and collapsed with a whimper.
While Will kept his gun trained on the stranger, Diana jumped to the ground and approached him. She squatted by his side but made no move to touch him because what had looked from a distance like mud and soot was something else entirely.
“He’s burnt pretty bad,” she said. “He needs help.”
Will dismounted and fumbled in his saddlebag for his canteen. He gave it to Diana, eyeing the man skeptically while she tried to get him to drink. “I don’t think there’s much we can do.”
Diana sat back on her heels with a sigh. “I know. It’s just—”
“See if he can tell us his name and what happened.”
Diana wet her bandanna and moistened the man’s lips, leaning in close so she could hear his whispered words. She murmured encouragement as he answered her questions and when he had nothing more to say, she asked if he had any message for his next of kin.
The man mumbled something, but she couldn’t make it out, so she asked him to repeat himself. Instead, he shook his head and fell silent.
“Do you want to do it, or should I?” Will asked.
Diana got to her feet and walked away. She had gone only a little way when she heard the shot and stopped. When Will joined her, he found her staring at the river. Her eyes were wet and when she turned to look at him, she swiped at her nose.
“What did he say?” Will asked.
“That Don Reymundo’s people did this. They took some of our people away as prisoners.”
“That's just what we need. A rescue mission.”
“His name was Jacinto Torres. He had a daughter.”
“What’s her name? Where is she? Did he have a message for her?”
Diana shook her head. “She was with Don Reymundo’s people.”
“So was this guy one of ours or not?”
“He was ours.”
Will fell silent, pondering the implications. Finally he said, “Well, I guess the message we were supposed to deliver is pretty useless now.”
“I guess so.”
“We’ll bury him, then go back and tell central command what happened.”
Diana nodded and looked around at the blackened landscape. “Hard to believe people who are supposed to love each other could do something like this.”
“Mother always says war is hell.”
“But why—”
“Don’t ask. You’ll make yourself crazy trying to understand other people.” Will tugged at his hat, then reached for her hand. “Come on. We’ve got a job to do.”
“It can’t be much farther,” Diana said. “We’re almost to Don Reymundo’s lands.”
“That’s what worries me.”
Diana fumbled in her saddlebag and pulled out a compass, squinting at the markings in the bright glare of the sun.
“We don’t need that,” Will told her. “The river has been to our left the whole time, so we can’t have passed it.”
They continued in silence for another mile, intent on their mission to deliver a message to the unit monitoring Don Reymundo’s growing fiefdom. As if Don Reymundo’s land-grabbing wasn’t enough, there were rumors he had allied with at least one of the northern states of Mexico, and this could not be allowed.
Will and Diana smelled the burn before they saw it—a heavy, sickly odor of more than just wood. Mingled into the charcoal smell of burnt cottonwoods was the choking scent of scorched plastic, trash, and flesh.
He and Diana kicked their horses into a trot. Ahead, they could make out the charred trunks of trees, the blackened walls of a small adobe dwelling, and the remains of a corral.
“Was this it, do you think?” Diana asked as she walked her horse through the ashes, skirting the grisly remains of humans and animals.
Will rested a hand on his gun, looking around as if there might be arsonists among the remains. Diana was about to tease him for his caution when a sound by the river caught her attention. She drew her gun and edged her horse closer to Will’s as a dirty figure dragged himself out of the brush by the water.
“Stay where you are,” Will shouted. “Who are you?”
The man looked at them with the pained expression of a wounded animal. He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out. He dragged himself a few more feet and collapsed with a whimper.
While Will kept his gun trained on the stranger, Diana jumped to the ground and approached him. She squatted by his side but made no move to touch him because what had looked from a distance like mud and soot was something else entirely.
“He’s burnt pretty bad,” she said. “He needs help.”
Will dismounted and fumbled in his saddlebag for his canteen. He gave it to Diana, eyeing the man skeptically while she tried to get him to drink. “I don’t think there’s much we can do.”
Diana sat back on her heels with a sigh. “I know. It’s just—”
“See if he can tell us his name and what happened.”
Diana wet her bandanna and moistened the man’s lips, leaning in close so she could hear his whispered words. She murmured encouragement as he answered her questions and when he had nothing more to say, she asked if he had any message for his next of kin.
The man mumbled something, but she couldn’t make it out, so she asked him to repeat himself. Instead, he shook his head and fell silent.
“Do you want to do it, or should I?” Will asked.
Diana got to her feet and walked away. She had gone only a little way when she heard the shot and stopped. When Will joined her, he found her staring at the river. Her eyes were wet and when she turned to look at him, she swiped at her nose.
“What did he say?” Will asked.
“That Don Reymundo’s people did this. They took some of our people away as prisoners.”
“That's just what we need. A rescue mission.”
“His name was Jacinto Torres. He had a daughter.”
“What’s her name? Where is she? Did he have a message for her?”
Diana shook her head. “She was with Don Reymundo’s people.”
“So was this guy one of ours or not?”
“He was ours.”
Will fell silent, pondering the implications. Finally he said, “Well, I guess the message we were supposed to deliver is pretty useless now.”
“I guess so.”
“We’ll bury him, then go back and tell central command what happened.”
Diana nodded and looked around at the blackened landscape. “Hard to believe people who are supposed to love each other could do something like this.”
“Mother always says war is hell.”
“But why—”
“Don’t ask. You’ll make yourself crazy trying to understand other people.” Will tugged at his hat, then reached for her hand. “Come on. We’ve got a job to do.”
Sunday, April 27, 2008
New Story, New Word Count
My story in Word Catalyst is up! A few of you will recognize it as one I submitted to a contest earlier in the year. It wasn’t what they were looking for, but it’s a decent little story and I knew I could find it a home without much trouble.
I passed the 75K mark on my WIP last night. At this rate I might just make my goal of finishing before I leave for vacation in a few weeks. I really would like to have the draft complete because vacations having a way of rebooting my brain and I’ll be able to tackle the revisions with fresh eyes immediately upon my return.
I think I might end up with something worth pitching. I’m at least not having much trouble coming up with a query letter in my head, which is something I can’t usually say about my stories. So depending on how this turns out, I may shop it around a bit and see what kind of response I get. If it turns into more hassle than my time is worth, though, I’ve got a lot of fun ideas for how to put this out on the web.
I'm sometimes tempted to post excerpts or character sketches, but I'm holding back for now because I think I may end up changing some names and making the story more dark and gritty overall (as if it isn't already). But I'm at that stage where the characters are pestering me all the time and sometimes it's hard to shut them up. The only way to silence them is by letting them out, so we'll see how much longer I can keep them bottled up like this.
Does anyone else have this problem with their characters, or am I just crazy?
I passed the 75K mark on my WIP last night. At this rate I might just make my goal of finishing before I leave for vacation in a few weeks. I really would like to have the draft complete because vacations having a way of rebooting my brain and I’ll be able to tackle the revisions with fresh eyes immediately upon my return.
I think I might end up with something worth pitching. I’m at least not having much trouble coming up with a query letter in my head, which is something I can’t usually say about my stories. So depending on how this turns out, I may shop it around a bit and see what kind of response I get. If it turns into more hassle than my time is worth, though, I’ve got a lot of fun ideas for how to put this out on the web.
I'm sometimes tempted to post excerpts or character sketches, but I'm holding back for now because I think I may end up changing some names and making the story more dark and gritty overall (as if it isn't already). But I'm at that stage where the characters are pestering me all the time and sometimes it's hard to shut them up. The only way to silence them is by letting them out, so we'll see how much longer I can keep them bottled up like this.
Does anyone else have this problem with their characters, or am I just crazy?
Monday, April 14, 2008
Flash Fiction Interlude: In a Dry Land(A Will and Diana Adventure)
NOTE: This previously-unposted flash appears in my Will and Diana Adventures book of stories. Readers unfamiliar with these stories may want to read up on Will and Diana's world before proceeding.
The donkey cart bounced along the road, its patched rubber tires churning up clouds of dust. Macy clutched the seat as the cart lurched into a pothole. “Watch where you’re going.”
Cascabel flicked the reins across the donkey’s back. “Maybe you should drive if you think you’d be so good at it.”
“Maybe we should camp closer to water.” Macy cast a glance toward the bed of the cart to make sure none of their containers had fallen over.
Sachi moved her horse closer. “There’s things I’d rather do than guard the water run, so I hope we find another well soon.”
“At least we get extra this way.” Diana said from where she walked her horse on the other side. “Direct from the source, where it tastes good.”
The other girls nodded. Water that tasted like plastic containers was only slightly better than no water at all.
They came down a hill and started the next rise.
“Hold up,” Diana said. “I think Balto’s got a stone.”
Cascabel stopped the cart and set the brake. Diana dismounted to check the donkey’s feet, but there was no stone.
“Unhitch him,” Sachi suggested.
Diana unhitched the donkey and sure enough, he was limping. The girls huddled to discuss their options, but their instructions for these types of situations had been clear. Sachi would ride back to camp for assistance while Diana would hitch her horse to the cart and try to maintain their progress at the annoying pace of the injured donkey.
The girls had gone half a mile in sullen silence when they saw a cluster of riders in the distance.
“That was fast,” Macy said.
Diana squinted at the horizon. “Too fast. And where’s our fresh donkey?”
Cursing, the girls scrambled for their weapons, but Diana knew with a sick feeling in her stomach that unless Sachi showed up with reinforcements, it was she who would have to defend the three of them. The other girls were only camp supporters.
The riders came nearer and it was clear they weren’t from an enemy unit, nor were they locals going about their business. These were young men dressed in flashy finery, desert pirates moving from one raiding opportunity to another.
If they had been a pack of starving wolves, Diana would’ve been less terrified. Unaffiliateds were unpredictable. They might trot past without a second glance or they might do something horrible, like—
“Maybe one of us would be enough,” Macy said. “I could—”
Diana glanced at her. Macy sat pale and wide-eyed, holding her pistol in a trembling grip. She had worked in a brothel and wasn’t above using her old tricks to distract an enemy guard, but this was different. “No.” Diana turned toward the men who were closing on them rapidly. “Make them fight for us.”
There was no time to unhitch her horse, so she walked to meet them, carrying her M16 in a way she hoped made it clear she knew how to use it. The men kicked their horses and swooped upon her, circling in a manner that called to mind the tales Apaches told of how their ancestors isolated enemies before a kill.
“What’s with the big gun, little girl?”
“Need a boyfriend? I’ve got a big gun, too.”
Diana tried to think, but the circling riders were making her dizzy. She could take out any one of them, but then the others would have her for sure, and Macy and Cascabel would be left unprotected.
“Are your friends as pretty as you? We can show you a good time.”
Dammit, where were Sachi and the reinforcements?
“What’s in the wagon, cutie?”
“Water!” she said in exasperation. “And will you stop and talk to me like normal people?”
To her surprise, they did stop. A man with pale eyes and a spattering of tattoos across his face edged his skittish horse toward her. He made no move to draw his weapon and instead twitched his shoulders beneath his velvet shirt. “You say you got water?”
“Yes. No jewelry, no batteries, no—”
He cut her off with a wave of his hand. “Where you going?”
Diana had started to relax but now she moved the M16 back into position. “None of your business.”
Instead of taking offense, he looked away. When he met Diana’s eyes again, it was with a note of vulnerability. “I’ve got a guy laid up not far from here. None of us has had water since yesterday morning—”
“There’s a spring five miles back on this road.”
“And we’re less than a mile from a guy who’s dying.” He rubbed his face. “We won’t molest you. Just share, okay?”
Sensing she had no better options, Diana started walking toward the cart, indicating with a jerk of her head that the raiders should follow. As she drew near, she motioned for Macy and Cascabel to put down their weapons. “They say all they want is water. Let them take what they want.”
Macy and Cascabel stepped away from the cart and watched in fascination as the men grabbed the containers and raised them to their lips, gulping noisily and spilling water on themselves. One barrel was big enough for their horses and they took turns letting the animals drink. When they were satisfied, the man with the pale eyes approached Diana again. “We’re going to take some of this water to our friend.”
By now the others had mounted their horses, each carrying one of the smaller containers in his lap. They hadn’t gone far when the pale-eyed one jerked on the reins and cantered back. Macy and Cascabel scurried under the cart in a panic, but Diana held her ground. The man wheeled his horse in front of her and tossed something at her feet. “Thanks, pretty lady.” He kicked his horse again and chased after his companions.
In the silence that followed their fading hoof beats, Diana bent to retrieve the gold piece. It was a large one, heavy and valuable. She was polishing it with the tail of her shirt, her hands still shaking and her mind reeling, when a new movement on the horizon caught her attention.
It was Sachi.
With relief, Diana dropped the coin in a pocket. “Well, it’s about fucking time.”
The donkey cart bounced along the road, its patched rubber tires churning up clouds of dust. Macy clutched the seat as the cart lurched into a pothole. “Watch where you’re going.”
Cascabel flicked the reins across the donkey’s back. “Maybe you should drive if you think you’d be so good at it.”
“Maybe we should camp closer to water.” Macy cast a glance toward the bed of the cart to make sure none of their containers had fallen over.
Sachi moved her horse closer. “There’s things I’d rather do than guard the water run, so I hope we find another well soon.”
“At least we get extra this way.” Diana said from where she walked her horse on the other side. “Direct from the source, where it tastes good.”
The other girls nodded. Water that tasted like plastic containers was only slightly better than no water at all.
They came down a hill and started the next rise.
“Hold up,” Diana said. “I think Balto’s got a stone.”
Cascabel stopped the cart and set the brake. Diana dismounted to check the donkey’s feet, but there was no stone.
“Unhitch him,” Sachi suggested.
Diana unhitched the donkey and sure enough, he was limping. The girls huddled to discuss their options, but their instructions for these types of situations had been clear. Sachi would ride back to camp for assistance while Diana would hitch her horse to the cart and try to maintain their progress at the annoying pace of the injured donkey.
The girls had gone half a mile in sullen silence when they saw a cluster of riders in the distance.
“That was fast,” Macy said.
Diana squinted at the horizon. “Too fast. And where’s our fresh donkey?”
Cursing, the girls scrambled for their weapons, but Diana knew with a sick feeling in her stomach that unless Sachi showed up with reinforcements, it was she who would have to defend the three of them. The other girls were only camp supporters.
The riders came nearer and it was clear they weren’t from an enemy unit, nor were they locals going about their business. These were young men dressed in flashy finery, desert pirates moving from one raiding opportunity to another.
If they had been a pack of starving wolves, Diana would’ve been less terrified. Unaffiliateds were unpredictable. They might trot past without a second glance or they might do something horrible, like—
“Maybe one of us would be enough,” Macy said. “I could—”
Diana glanced at her. Macy sat pale and wide-eyed, holding her pistol in a trembling grip. She had worked in a brothel and wasn’t above using her old tricks to distract an enemy guard, but this was different. “No.” Diana turned toward the men who were closing on them rapidly. “Make them fight for us.”
There was no time to unhitch her horse, so she walked to meet them, carrying her M16 in a way she hoped made it clear she knew how to use it. The men kicked their horses and swooped upon her, circling in a manner that called to mind the tales Apaches told of how their ancestors isolated enemies before a kill.
“What’s with the big gun, little girl?”
“Need a boyfriend? I’ve got a big gun, too.”
Diana tried to think, but the circling riders were making her dizzy. She could take out any one of them, but then the others would have her for sure, and Macy and Cascabel would be left unprotected.
“Are your friends as pretty as you? We can show you a good time.”
Dammit, where were Sachi and the reinforcements?
“What’s in the wagon, cutie?”
“Water!” she said in exasperation. “And will you stop and talk to me like normal people?”
To her surprise, they did stop. A man with pale eyes and a spattering of tattoos across his face edged his skittish horse toward her. He made no move to draw his weapon and instead twitched his shoulders beneath his velvet shirt. “You say you got water?”
“Yes. No jewelry, no batteries, no—”
He cut her off with a wave of his hand. “Where you going?”
Diana had started to relax but now she moved the M16 back into position. “None of your business.”
Instead of taking offense, he looked away. When he met Diana’s eyes again, it was with a note of vulnerability. “I’ve got a guy laid up not far from here. None of us has had water since yesterday morning—”
“There’s a spring five miles back on this road.”
“And we’re less than a mile from a guy who’s dying.” He rubbed his face. “We won’t molest you. Just share, okay?”
Sensing she had no better options, Diana started walking toward the cart, indicating with a jerk of her head that the raiders should follow. As she drew near, she motioned for Macy and Cascabel to put down their weapons. “They say all they want is water. Let them take what they want.”
Macy and Cascabel stepped away from the cart and watched in fascination as the men grabbed the containers and raised them to their lips, gulping noisily and spilling water on themselves. One barrel was big enough for their horses and they took turns letting the animals drink. When they were satisfied, the man with the pale eyes approached Diana again. “We’re going to take some of this water to our friend.”
By now the others had mounted their horses, each carrying one of the smaller containers in his lap. They hadn’t gone far when the pale-eyed one jerked on the reins and cantered back. Macy and Cascabel scurried under the cart in a panic, but Diana held her ground. The man wheeled his horse in front of her and tossed something at her feet. “Thanks, pretty lady.” He kicked his horse again and chased after his companions.
In the silence that followed their fading hoof beats, Diana bent to retrieve the gold piece. It was a large one, heavy and valuable. She was polishing it with the tail of her shirt, her hands still shaking and her mind reeling, when a new movement on the horizon caught her attention.
It was Sachi.
With relief, Diana dropped the coin in a pocket. “Well, it’s about fucking time.”
Sunday, March 23, 2008
New Pub Cred!
I just got another flash fiction accepted-- this time to Word Catalyst Magazine. It's a nifty little e-zine that also publishes poetry and art, so check it out!
My story will be in the May issue, so I'll give more info as we get closer to the publication date.
My story will be in the May issue, so I'll give more info as we get closer to the publication date.
Thursday, February 28, 2008
Flash Fiction Interlude: The Written Word
AUTHOR'S NOTE: This story about the aftermath of Will's first meeting with Diana is concurrent with Tin Soldier, the first book in my series.
Amalia walked into the kitchen, startling Will as he sat at the table, poring over a book and piece of paper. “What on earth are you doing?”
Will slammed the dictionary shut and shoved the paper under it. “Nothing.”
Amalia had been trying for months to teach Will to read but the eleven year-old runaway saw no value in it, having fended for himself since he was eight without the benefit of letters or numbers. For him to willingly open a dictionary was startling, but it was the defiance in his eyes and his faint flush of embarrassment that brought Amalia up short. “I thought you were going to help me with the wagon. There isn’t much time before it gets dark.” She paused, then added, “You sure took your time getting back here with that horse.”
Will looked away, his cheeks bright red. “That girl talks a lot.”
“What girl? Diana?”
“I guess that’s her name.” He rubbed the frayed edge of the dictionary spine. “She wouldn’t shut up.”
“We don’t get a lot of new people in this valley. I’m sure she was just curious who you are and where you came from.”
“She asked a lot of questions.”
“I hope you were nice to her. The Petersons are good neighbors and it was generous of them to lend us their horse.” At Will’s curt nod of agreement, Amalia said, “Let’s go hitch that wagon. We should be able to get one cartload before sundown, and we’ll do the rest in the morning.”
Will stood up, hesitated, then pulled the paper from under the dictionary and shoved it in a pocket. “You going to want me to take the horse back tomorrow?”
“I think it would be best, since we won’t need it any more. Don’t you agree?”
“I guess. It’s just—”
“What?”
Will drew the crumpled paper out of his pocket and handed it to her in frustration. “She gave me this, and I don’t know what to do with it.”
Amalia scanned the brief note, her lips twitching with the effort to keep from laughing. “I don’t think you have to do anything with it, Will. It just says—”
“No!” He grabbed it out of her hand. “Don’t tell me. Just show me where the words are in the dictionary so I can figure it out for myself.”
Amalia considered. The note was only a few sentences and the longest word was “horse.” If such simplicity was beyond his ability, it was going to take more than a dictionary to help him puzzle it out. “I suppose you think you should have an answer when you go back?”
“That’s how you do it, right?” He folded the paper neatly this time, caressing the creases like a treasure. “No one’s ever wrote me a letter before.” He gazed up at Amalia, his gray eyes suddenly vulnerable. “You’ll help me write a letter back, won’t you? She acted like I was smart and if she finds out…”
“She won’t think you’re stupid. But if this is what it’ll take to get you to read—”
“Just this kind of stuff.” He dropped the note back in his pocket. “I don’t want to read those big books like what you read.”
“Okay.” She started for the door, motioning for him to follow. “What kinds of words do you want to learn first?" she asked as they walked the path to the barn. "Should I teach you to spell ‘pretty?’”
“No.”
She gave him a sly smile. “How about ‘girlfriend?’”
“No!”
“So what do you want to say?”
“Just ‘thanks for the horse.’”
“Hm.” Amalia nodded wisely.
“And maybe ‘nice.’ That’s an easy word, right?”
They were at the barn now and went inside. Will headed toward the tack room with an air of quiet authority. “You’ll let me do the writing part myself, though. And you won’t tell her I needed help.”
“Of course not.”
“No one’s ever acted like I was smart before.”
“I think you’re smart.”
“It’s not the same.”
“You're right.” Amalia watched him take the harness off the peg, marveling that three sentences from a ten year-old girl had achieved what months of badgering had failed to accomplish. To Diana, it was probably just a few careless words on paper— a fun way to practice between lessons. But for Will, who might finally learn to read more than his name, the note was transformative.
Amalia smiled in the dusty gloom of the barn, resolving to never again doubt the power of letters on paper.
Thursday, February 14, 2008
Happy Valentine's Day!
Lots of fun stories for the occasion at the Valentine's Day Flash Fiction Carnival!
Check it out and have a great day!
Check it out and have a great day!
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