Category Archives: Science Fiction

From the case files of Inspector Khazarian Rovas

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walkinginthedark

Darkness suited ex-Inspector Khazarian Rovas. He liked the quiet it normally brought, a certain breeze that drifted through most nights except for the height of the summer months. Then he was usually drenched, having trouble breathing during the ofttimes stiffing still air. Early spring, now, and the insufferable weather was still to come. Tonight, he could enjoy sitting by his open window, lights off, breathing the coolness in, and allowing his out breath fog up the lowest corner of the window pane. Waiting.

But for the wishes of his wife, Berrak, Rovas would still be on the job. He never thought he would retire, that one way or the other the job would be where he would part this life. Berrak thought differently, and although she never demanded, he saw the clarity of her spoken thoughts. He loved her, she him, and it was that love that carried him to hand in his resignation. Forty-four years, the ups and downs of any job, acknowledgments and failures, all reduced to farewell handshakes, some drinks, rehashing of spectacular cases-solved or unsolved-and the drive home, with the few personal items from his desk in the boot.

It was the rehashing of cases that brought Rovas to his study, to his window, at 4:10 in the morning. Eight days had passed, but those memories of cases that were not, to him, satisfactorily closed, haunted his waking hours. He thought of the cases, twenty six in all, that still niggled at the back of his mind. He owed Berrak time that she was excluded from during his career, and he vowed to himself he would do his best to give her what she needed from him.

But those cases…those cases…

Outside his window Khazarian Rovas noticed a silhouette of a man briskly walking, back to Rovas, down the street, hands in his pockets, head cast down, fading down the street horizon. Ruminating, Rovas had not noticed the man until now. He had no idea where he came from, just observing this figure in darkness fading smaller and further away, until only a haze of an outline was visible. In a blink, the walking man was gone.

Rovas got up from his chair, turning it around to face his desk. Turning on the table lamb, he stared down at the pile of folders on the right side of his desk. Twenty six folders.

Sitting, he took the top file, placed it in front of him, opened it, and began to review this troublesome case file.

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Hi everyone. I’m sure you’ve noticed I have been away for quite awhile on any regular basis. Things happened in my life that took me out of the mood. I’m trying to see what I can do to mend that break within me.

I just rejoined the Blogging from A to Z challenge. Lots of positive things changed for me with the first one I was part of in 2011. Sadly, that did not last the lifetime I had hoped it would be. In either case, I am back.

“The case files of Khazarian Rovas” is my theme for this year. Twenty six case files for the good inspector to delve into, trying to make sense &/or solve from this list of cold cases. My plan is to use a variety of genres within this overarching theme to allow me to play and, of course, challenge myself. Some cases might bleed into another case. Most will be stand alone. We’ll see, won’t we?

As to the Blogging from A to Z challenge, I’ll let the words of Arlee Bird (founder of said challenge) tell you what this is all about:

The brainchild of Arlee Bird, at Tossing it Out, the A to Z Challenge is posting every day in April except Sundays (we get those off for good behavior.) And since there are 26 days, that matches the 26 letters of the alphabet. On April 1, blog about something that begins with the letter “A.” April 2 is “B,” April 4 is “C,” and so on. You can use a theme for the month or go random – just as long as it matches the letter of the alphabet for the day.

The A to Z Challenge is a great way to get into the blogging habit and make new friends.

 So, join me (and the over 1600 other blogs involved) starting on April 1, 2016. Comments and such are always welcome. I hope you enjoy what I’ve got planned.

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Electric Vehicle Charging (SIGNS; A to Z Challenge)

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Electric Vehicle ChargingDoori stood impatiently  in line waiting to recharge. She was going to be late for school again, but she had used up most of the juice last night at Perfect’s party, and it was either be late or fizzle out during Futures. Again.

Finally;  the charging pads. Quicknip, she plugged her feet and hands into the appropriate slots after zipping in the lead to her left temple. Doori closed her eyes as recharge went into overdrive. Tunes played, game control returned, her body whirred.

Creds will be through the roof, and she knew she’d hear about it.

She didn’t care.

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For the April 2014 A to Z Blog Challenge, you will find a story a day (except Sundays) from me. A to Z: Staring with A on Tuesday, April 1st and ending with Z on Wednesday, April 30th.

Signs is my theme for this year’s outing. Road signs, building signs, warning signs…Signs alert us to a multitude of messages. My plan is to use the alphabet through Signage, but not to stick to what the sign was originally intended to convey. So, the genre of story writing, and styles, of the posts will vary as my mood and interpretation sees fit. Possibly a poem or two. We’ll see.

I’m also trying something more of a challenge: each post will be a Drabble. A Drabble is  100 Words Exactly.

Hope you enjoy the stories.

Ashes

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Even after reading about all the possible side effects, Jean wore her mother around her neck daily. Others complimented her on her memorial diamond pendant, with many commenting about it afterwards, not all in a favorable light. Compressed into a stunning jewel, strung and embraced in an array of silver filigree,  the late Mrs. Deidre Ann Cabochon glared from her daughter’s chest.

Cremated only a month previously, the ashes were mixed with snippets of her hair, and all was distilled to the carbon left behind. These were sent into a press, to duplicate the forces of nature. Extreme heat, 1,000,000 p.s.i., and time…and from the passing of the deceased came a new jeweled existence.

Or so Jean thought, even though the price was high on many levels.

Her husband, Paul, disagreed to the cost, both financially and emotionally. He was never fond of Deidre, a woman he found narcissistic and shrewish, and if he had been honest with anyone he would have loudly pronounced how glad he was that his mother-in-law was dead. Paul saw how Jean suffered during her mother’s long lingering illness, how she put “that woman!” on a pedestal, even while being ordered about and verbally demeaned at every turn. Jean just turned the other cheek, said it was the woman who gave her birth and raised her, and that was that.

Paul moved out the day after the jewel was delivered.

When she got the package, Jean cried as she opened it, and cried as she held it out to examine it. Jean asked Paul to attach the clasp for her. He went behind her as she moved her hair aside and did as she asked. There was a soft “snkt” sound; Jean let her hair down and turned around to give Paul a hug. She held him, lowering her head onto his right shoulder, pressing her body against his, tears leaking down, which he felt through his shirt.

Paul also felt the diamond pendant digging into his chest. Uncomfortable as that was, he felt…more. There was something emanating, a negative grasping, and it hurt on a much deeper level then the prick of the necklace pressed against him. Pushing away was hard but Paul moved a few feet backwards, seeing the pain in Jean’s face but he found himself unable to answer her question of what was wrong.

She needed comforting the rest of the day, and each time Paul’s horrible feeling deepened. He felt lethargic, and depressive thoughts flayed him, making deeper cuts as the day progressed. By the time they went to bed-Jean still wearing “her mother”-Paul was ready to slash his wrists. In her sleep Jean rolled over to the edge of the bed, as Paul, awake, did rolled to the opposite side. There was a lessening in his chest, and things felt calmer as he went to the bathroom (down the hallway), and still when he went downstairs to the kitchen for a cold drink.

Sitting at the kitchen table until dawn, Paul went back upstairs. Each step was agony, and when he got to their bedroom door, he knew. Grabbing his clothes, he woke Jean up.

“Get rid of that necklace, Jean. Let her go, or I will…”

“You’ll what?” she said, belligerently, rubbing her eyes, up on one elbow.

“I’ll leave. That thing…something is wrong with it.”

An argument ensued, words were said, many that could not be taken back or apologized for, many that Paul had heard from Deidre’s mouth only months before. Jean came towards him in fury and tears; Paul bolted with his clothes, changing in the car before running away.

Jean grieved doubly now. She started to lose interest in eating, slept poorly, wandered aimlessly, and while all around her said she was in the grips of depression, none would say so to her face. She would talk about her mother in one breath and be scathing in ridicule in the next, tearing apart friends, family, and co-workers alike with a viciousness that was “not like her” (or so they said).

Hollow eyed, sallow skinned, Jean played with the jewel almost constantly. She shortened the chain the one time she removed it, making it a choker, in so many ways. Her belligerence became so brutal that she was told to leave her job, that she was creating an unhealthy work environment. She spat in her bosses coffee when she got up to leave, gave her the finger, and slammed the door on her way out.

Jean sat in the dark, in her living room, gripping the arm rests of the chair she had inherited from her mother. She contemplated many things, but they were about the others, what they had done to her, nothing was her fault, and why were they all crazy? She had bought a 1.4 litre of Irish Creme, Deidre’s favorite, and killed it in one sitting. Feeling queasy, Jean left the house to get some fresh air.

She thought getting in the car for a drive upstate was a good idea, at the time.

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Author’s Note:
There is more to write about Jean. 845 words is not enough, but it’s enough for me, today.
There actually is a business of putting the ashes of the deceased into jewelry. Some of it is done as described in the above story; the rest are hollow receptacles for the cremated ash. I was told about this by my SO, who loves medical and scientific things, and it has been filtering around my noggin…
until a short Associated Press piece caught my attention: “South Korea has seized thousands of smuggled drug capsules filled with powdered flesh from…”
….well, the rest would be telling where I want to take this whole thing. Suffice to say, reality is just as bad as fiction, n’est pas?

Click here to read The Complete AtoZ: Swan Rise Apartment Series

Only available for free until May 31st, 2012

The Annoyance of Time

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Tom was an impatient man, and he had had a time wasting morning. He was fuming inside, letting the seconds and minutes and half hours and hours burn his mind. His fingers tapped, his feet twitched, his eyes searched for an out, but, for Tom, time was not on his side.

It took forever, in Tom’s estimation, to leave the floor of his building. The sole elevator creaked by, stopping at every other floor. He watched the display with every new light passing by, and sighed deeply every time the floor display stopped. Then the elevator passed him by, a head appearing in the small round window of his floors’ door, and Tom cursed the person and the elevator as they went past,  continuing up, stopping two flights away. Time passed as he heard metallic workings of the door sliding open, the heavy “click click click” of heels walking out, and then the “ping ping” of the door getting ready to close again.  Tom heard it engage and the metal box slid down the coils, colliding in a brief bump that added that much more time in friction.

Entering, he immediately pressed the “door close” button, which did anything but. The Otis conveyance stopped two flights down, and two more flights down after that, and neither time no one was there. “Kids!” he muttered, jamming the “door close” button each time, getting the same no result as he had when he first entered.

Leaving the building, he encountered three people in the lobby who nodded to him as he walked by, two who did say “Hello” and one who tried to stop him for a conversation, but was blown off with a quick “Sorry…doctor’s appointment.”  He hit the cold air at a walk-trot, not feeling the cold as much as the wasted time. He got to and in his car, zipped the seat belt, started it up, and out of his spot he went…

…almost hitting Vinnie and his ancient blue Oldsmobile, who, in Tom’s opinion, should have stopped driving years ago. Tom jammed on his brakes, just missing ramming into the two old time wasters. Vinnie didn’t seem to notice as he tooled into the parking lot at-what seemed like to Tom-negative twenty miles an hour.

The rest of Tom’s day was no better. His 9:15 a.m. Doctor appointment turned into being seen at 11:49, with the consultation winding up to be eight minutes to tell him nothing could be done unless the pain in his knee got more serious (which he paid $20.00 in copay and over $4.00 in parking fees). Every driver in front of him drove at 20 mph, except for the one person who kept edging out to the red traffic light and took off just before the light actually changed, and Tom secretly envied for that verve.

Getting on line for lunch was an ordeal, as the two people ahead of him ordered food for their entire office…and then cut in line for things they “forgot.”

On and on, Tom’s day was a manifesto of wasted time, and each second added to the bile roiling inside of him. By the time he went to bed he had consumed enough stomach churning aids for four people. Tossing and turning, his mind racing along, he put his top pillow over his head and screamed into it.

“Are you done?” Muffled by the pillow, Tom thought it was the neighbor’s TV on high again.

“I said, TOM…are you done?”

Picking up the pillow, Tom saw a woman. In his bedroom, sitting in his computer desk chair, legs crossed and leaning back.  She was…white. Hair, face, dress, boots, nails…eyes. White eyes, and she stared at him, with her white lips in a large smile, and her white teeth gleamed. She held a large watch on a chain, which was also all white, and it led from a pocket fold by her hip. Tom noticed there were clocks of various shapes and sizes around her on his computer desk (not registering, at first, that there was no computer there at the moment).

Tom sat up, and was about to ask the obvious questions, but she continued.

“I’m an aspect of Time, Tom, something you hold near and dear to your little heart. You’ve been calling out to us…me…all of this day. Well, for more than this, but…here I am. Your suffering was more than we could take for ourselves…really, it’s been giving a few of us a big headache, and time release pills can only work so well when you can’t release them properly. Quite the conundrum! So…here we are.”

She leaned over and closed Tom’s hanging open mouth. “Really…not very attractive, Tom. I’m here to give you what you want: you do want Time to move faster for things, no waiting, chop chop, rush rush, get to it. No more waiting lines, long traffic lights, interminable “please holds”, blah blah blah…you want things to go quick in Tom land, isn’t that right?”

He nodded his head, liking the sound of a life like that, nothing to be annoyed about, moving things along at the proper speed.

“Are you sure? I’m this aspect of time. You could have things move slower, or go in reverse, or meet Father Time, but, really, he’s no fun at all.” She looked at him, her white eyes staring into his.

Tom said: “If you’re not just a very pleasant dream, then yes…yes, I want Time to speed up as it can, get rid of the waiting, get rid of the dead time I have on my hands…make each moment I live count. Yes. I want this.”

The aspect of Time leaned back, looked at the time piece in her hand and turned the stem, causing the gears to move which caused the watch face hands to rotate, which caused a soft chiming from around her from all the clocks.

“Done.” With that, she was gone, Tom’s computer was back where it had been, and Tom was again sitting open mouthed.

Shaking his head, he got up to get a drink of water. The next thing he knew, he was in the kitchen, finishing off a glass. He no sooner put it down and he found himself in bed, smiling. “Well, I’m going to…” and he was asleep, only to be waking up with the buzzer of his alarm. His entire morning was like this. He didn’t have to wait for the hot water: it was hot when he needed it. No waiting for his breakfast and coffee. That waiting time was gone too. Tom was impressed.

Every annoyance of waiting for Tom was gone. Elevator, drive, drivel talk, getting to and from meetings, waiting for meals. Gone. Instant bliss. His twenty-four hour day was shortened incredibly, and when he finally found himself in bed that night, he thought “This is bliss.”

Then he was up and things moved faster for him. No obstructions. None. Everything moved. Everything was time efficient. Every single day, and he began to realize he had no down time, no time to relax for anything. Everything was to the point, no transitional time, and he went from one meeting to the next with no time to think, no time to process, and all the midpoints and long views were cut out of his life. The days ran into weeks, and weeks-months-years pulled into pockets of rushed up space and he wasn’t annoyed with time being wasted but he was beginning to realize he was being devastated and wasted by time.

Tom aged, pretty fast to him, but it was only the passing of time.  Life’s moments passed him by. A massive heart attack took him, and it happened many years later in real time but in Tom’s world it was only months since the aspect of Time sprang upon him.

Death was one last thing he did not have to wait in line for.

Attack of the Killer Poombies!!!

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The night left with a strangled howl. Everyone had gone to sleep safe and sound that dark October eve. They awoke to the rendering of gnashing and the sounds of yipping. Yipping that ripped into the marrow of one’s bones. The world’s poodles had turned Zombie: Toy, Miniature and Standard alike. The day of the Poombies was upon us, and heaven help us all.

The first we knew about it was when Old Lady Schmidt came screaming down Elm Street, her Daisy ripping at her heels. It’s eyes were a blazing red, and it launched itself at Old Lady Schmidt right in front of our house. Mom had called us out to the porch, scared and trembling, yelling at my dad to do something. By the time he had gotten the rake from the front yard, it was already too late.

Daisy was gnawing away at her once beloved mistress. Blood was all over the place and mangled in her hair; Daisy was attacking Old Lady Schmidt’s head. I assumed it wanted her brains. Aren’t zombies, even poodle zombies, after brains?

Dad whacked Daisy around a few times, but that did nothing but turn the Poombie’s (that’s what the newscasters started calling them, before the airwaves went dead) attention to him. Mom yelled bloody murder for Dad to get back to the house.  “Idiot” and “Moron” were a few of her choice words, seeing how a rake just wasn’t all that good a weapon in the first place. She had run back inside, upstairs, to where they kept the “in case of burglar/rapist” registered revolver, and was aiming it at Daisy’s head as it shambled-ran towards Dad’s retreating back.

The blast staggered Daisy, but she kept on coming. Mom let off another couple of rounds, taking the top of the Poombie head with three well placed shots. Daisy fell over, twitched, and then was still. I started to approach it, to just take a look, but both Mom and Dad pulled me back (Dad physically; Mom with a yell). Good thing too. Daisy’s jaws snapped, and her…its…little Toy legs began to move. We all got back inside very fast and locked the front door. Then the back door, and then the windows.

Molly, my older pain in the wazoo sister, had stayed inside through all of this. She was glued, as usual, to the TV. This time, I couldn’t blame her. Every station, and I mean EVERY station, had news reports on the Poombie attacks. Animal Planet got its best ratings ever (which were reported that night, before all the screens went dead). The four of us sat on the couch, huddled together,  and watched the world go to the dogs.

Well, Poombies. No other dog seemed to be affected. If anything, next to cats, other dogs were prime fodder for Poombie attacks. Once they were all gone, squirrels, rats, and other assorted rodents were decimated. Who knew Poomibes could climb trees and burrow into holes in the ground? The battles in the sewers were reported all over. Forget the septic tanks…it was the first time I was glad we had one, backing up at times or not.

Once the TV stations died out, and then the radio stations, we knew we had to leave. We waited the night out, all of us sort of sleeping in the living room. Daisy was scratching at our front door and would have head butted it, if she still had a head. Howls and yips were sounding all over the neighborhood, and not a few “blood curdling screams.” Dad said they were blood curdling, and since I had no idea how blood could curdle, or what curdling was, I just went “uh huh!”

“Seth, pack up as much clothing and batteries as you can in your backpack. We’re not staying here!” my Mom ordered. I packed as best I could.  Molly did it in Molly fashion-fast-and Mom had all of our canned or packaged food in the car. Which, thankfully, was in our closed garage. Dad helped with what he could, packing up some of his tools that he thought would come in handy as weapons. An Awl is a good thing in a pinch.

We all piled into the car, Dad behind the wheel. Mom had the gun ready (and more ammo then I would have thought one would have for a house gun) and Molly and I got in the back seat. Doors locked and seat belts on (it was the law), Dad opened up the garage door.

OK..if you’ve ever been scared of the ending of Alfred Hitchcock’s “The Birds,” then you know what we experienced. Row upon row of Toy Poombies, Miniature Poombies, and big old hairy Standard Poombies sat, red eyes glazed over and tongue lolling. They were quiet, but each one of their blood splattered heads followed us as we backed out of the garage. Dad gulped loud enough for us to hear in the back, and I’m pretty sure Molly peed herself (I could smell it, and I knew it wasn’t me, then). Mom cocked the gun and just stared around her. She was shaking a bit: I noticed it when I wasn’t staring back at the staring red eyes.

Dad got to the street, and just put the car in drive. Daisy-Poombie leapt onto the hood of our car and tried to butt the windshield. All the Poombies let out an awful yip howl.

“FLOOR IT!” Mom screamed. Dad did.

The Poombie that was Daisy went flying over the car from the force of the acceleration. Molly and I laughed at the idea of the flying dead dog. We laughed until tears came streaming out.I had turned around to look; so did she.

All the Poombies were chasing us.

Attack of the Killer Poombies Read.wma

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The Walking Dead” season two starts tomorrow night, Sunday, October 16th on AMC (check your local listings for time). This is my “I have been waiting a long time for this season to start” TV show. It comes at a good time, now that Dr. Who is off until the Christmas Special (and then for way too long a break). The only shame is that it is on at the same time that Dexter is on, but…no contest.

Why Zombie Poodles (aka Poombies)? Let’s just say my son and I had an experience one night with a Poombie driving a car next to us, and let’s leave it at that. Trust me, you’ll sleep better at night. 🙂

Hope you enjoyed this.

Second Set of Prompts: (#REN3)…and a Renaissance story too.

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So, the first line in the sands of the shared world of Renaissance have been drawn. Characters have been dropped in place, maybe one or two still need to be discovered, secrets are still just that, waiting to be revealed…and we have 65 amazing writers partaking in world building (well, 69 when you count The Rule of Three hosts Damyanti, Lisa, JC and myself into the mix).

I love shared worlds!!

THE NEXT PROMPTS:

Choose ONE OR MORE from the following:
  1. Someone is killed or almost killed. 
  2. One of the characters is revealed to be not who he or she is. 
  3. A relationship becomes complicated. 
  4. A character lies to another on an important matter.

Some Housekeeping Thingys:

  • The second episode of your #REN3 is to be scheduled ANY TIME between (12.01 am) 12 October and 13 October, (11.59pm)-GMT.
  • There is a 600 Word Limit. No exceptions (yes, I edited down my own story to fit).
  • Please include, at the bottom of your post, which prompt(s) you used and the word count. Top is fine; bottom is better.
  • Don’t forget to include #REN3 when you post to Twitter. If you are not on twitter, that has no meaning to you.
  • You can contact/follow us on Twitter: @damyantig @ficflash @JCMartin_author @stustoryteller. Any REN3 writer gets an automatic follow back. See? Perk!!
  • Questions about the Rule of Three & Renaissance can be addressed to us on our emails. Blogger, WordPress, Live Journal & Twitter questions should go to those respective sites. Thanks.

…and now, a very special episode of Blossom…um, I mean, Renaissance:

**AUTHORS NOTE: This is a side story to Renaissance, NOT my second week posting.

REPEAT: this is NOT the second week posting.

I am not posting out of order, just adding a little “taste” for the audience. My  second post will happen when it’s supposed to: on Wednesday October 12th. Just enjoy this extra:

Cough. “Daddy, I’m not tired. I want a story. PLeeeeeaaazzzeeeee,” George wheezed, looking up at his father.

“Shhh little one. You know they are lowering the air volume for the night. It’s late, Georgie, it’s late. Can I tell you one tomorrow?”

Looking as miserable as he felt, George signed “No.”

Pauldyne shook his head and sighed at the insistence of his only son. He looked over at the sleeping/living area where Bethel was already asleep, cradling Sara. Why did we have another child in this horrible world, he thought. Because we love her, as we love George, he answered his own question. As hard as it was to live in Renaissance Dome 7, it was made better by his family. Tolerable.

I’m tired. We’re all so tired, he wanted to say out loud, but, Georgie wouldn’t understand it, and Bethel understood it all too well.

He nodded OK to his son, and using DSL  he signed a tale of the past…

Before the domes, before The Great Devastation, there was the town of Renaissance, and it lived in the open air. Yes,little one, open, clean fresh and, most importantly, free air. There were real trees, grass, fresh flowing water, things that FLEW in the skies…yes, no domes! Sky. My great great grandfather told me about this just before he passed on. He told me he had had a great adventure-well, one among many-shhh..I’m getting to it. Shtill, remain shtill.

There used to be three main roads leading into Renaissance; now we only have the balloon drops from dome to dome. Gid…his name was Gid.  One day, along the Kris trade route, came an entertainment drawn by an engine of steam. It was led by a Doctor and, from what Gid said, the most beautiful, but wicked, woman in the whole world.

Soon after meeting her, this woman (no, I don’t know her name; he would not tell me her name. He said it was like a curse, now) brought Gid to the top of Minor Gauche, which is Dome 3 area now. She taught him some little magics there, and through that night and a day Gid learned, and learned well. Then, she told him why she taught him this. Gid said he was angry, to be used in such a way, but this woman, this beautiful horrible woman…he loved her.

Gid said there was a great fight soon after, with magic sparking off this way and that, causing not a small amount of damage…

“Georgie?” he said, even though he knew his son was  asleep. He had been drifting to begin with, and with the air pressure lowered, it had only been a matter of time.

Pauldyne lay down, between his son, wife and daughter, and closed his eyes. The evening dome lights flickered over his skin like a caressing dance of light. The warmth they gave off felt good, and he slowed his breathing rate for maximum rest, as he had practiced for too long a time.

He sighed, coughed twice, and knew Georgie would want the whole story when he woke in the morning. In the morning, he thought, as he shut down for sleep.

..and i will be free

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Freedom by artist Zenos Frudakis

Freedom, and the taste of it is so sweet.

Elephteria, released, ran out into the quad and raised her arms and head to the heavens. Five years of interment, awake the entire time. The madness that she thought would never end, ended. She was ready to take flight, ask for forgiveness, ask for acceptance.

Xaris, released, tried to warn Laurel, to hold her wild rush. His fear for her was brimming over. He, too, was aware the whole time, and what he heard as people sneered by made him dread this day. There was no forgiveness, in his heart, to ask for. Xaris knew he would never be accepted.

Laurel, released, was hesitant, and despaired in what she witnessed. Five years of hatred for Elephteria, five years of tearing herself apart knowing Xaris was only thinking of her. She was twisting in despair, and she wondered if he would ever forgive her, if she would ever accept herself as she was.

Raffaele, released, refused to be, for he had not forgiven himself in these long five years. He felt the four of them should stay imprisoned, in that immobile state until all who knew them were long gone. There was a need for atonement, for them all, and he hit the button under his palm that encased him again. He did not wish to have to deal with any of them ever again. He accepted that.

News Ding 2049/15/11:  Freedom, and the taste of it is so sweet.

The October Malcontents were realeased  at 0700, back into the land we love. Fiver years ago, the collective tried to break down our beloved system, saying NO to the rules that keep us all safe. Shouting slogans against our beloved establishment, the rousing of ire caused their downfall. Here’s hoping they have learned their lessons.

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Tymothy Longoria of Aspire No More posted this on his blog and the picture went viral around FaceBook (not sure if anywhere else). Here is what Tymothy wrote:

The piece, for me, is stunning and thought provoking to say the very least.

It also inspired me to write something, not so much about it, but along the lines of what is happening here. Fighting for freedom and the feeling one may or may not feel is he succeed/fails.

So, that inspired me further.

And that is this:

Write your piece, under 500 word for short story or a suitable length for poetry 

Title? I’ll keep it simple.

Freedom.

What will you get? The writing experience, the joy of creating, a spot on this blog and permission to gloat on Facebook, The Twitter and anywhere you choose. You may find a new audience.

I did not take the title he gave (Sorry Tymothy), but I did take the challenge, and used Freedom as the first word. I hope you like it.

Video Trailer 2: The Rule of Three Blogfest

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Join Us In The Rule of Three Writers Challenge BlogFest!

Final Day to Sign Up: Monday October 3, 2011

I am co-hosting an exciting creative writing blog challenge, and I hope you will join the over 40 writers participating!

During October 2011, venture into the shared world of Renaissance (information below). You will create three characters set in that world: any genre, any time period. During the course of four weekly postings you will craft your tale where your three characters interact, or not, winding up in one great cumulative story. Each Friday, you will be given a set of prompts to move you along until you reach your climax. There is the chance to discover new writers, see a different side of ones you already admire, and hopefully have tons of fun doing this: you might also win some prizes (listed below as well). Read on!!
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Grab this code for the badge created by the wonderful Portia Burton, Concept by the equally wonderful Lisa Vooght

The Shared World: Renaissance

An outpost town in the middle of nowhere, but many routes (the TARGE, KRIS, and VILLEIN are the largest of routes, but not the only ones) pass through or by the town. The SCHIAVONA  Desert is encroaching on one side (to the West), a once lush forest (the CULDEES) lies to the East and South. A large river, the ESPADON,  runs through the forest of ASSART (to the north) but it is not close by. The ROUNDELI Mountains are also to the North, far, far away, and when you look towards them you don’t know if they are an illusion or not. Closer by are the smaller hill chain, the MAIN GAUCHE and the MINOR GAUCHE, that fed the mining, creating caverns (the KASTANES)  and passages (one particular passage is known as  HERIOT’S PASS) lie underground.

The town has had a number of identities throughout it’s history: A trading post; a mining town; a ghost town until it was rediscovered; a thriving community; the scene of a number of great battles; the scene of one great tragedy (that led to it’s Ghost Town standing); a  town of great joys and celebrations, and so much more.

At this point in time, there is a general population of 333. A mixture of a community. It boasts families that have lived there for generations upon generations, but they are in the minority, and are not in positions of power. There are traders who have come back here, at the end of their many travails, to settle in. The new families and power players have taken this as a last refuge for themselves, hoping to rebuild lives torn apart on the way here.

EVERYONE has a secret!

Welcome to Renaissance.

Enjoy your stay.

For Full Guidelines & List of Prizes: Click Here

Click here to enter your link and view this Linky Tools list…and:

Announcement: The Doll is a horror novelette by J.C. Martin that has only been read by a limited audience so far. It will be FREE for anyone who signs up on the Rule of Three linky list. We will email participants on the linky list with the direct link.

My Teaser Stories Set in Renaissance:

Renaissance: Prissy’s Story

Renaissance: Jewel’s Story


(free) Falling, In Love

Standard

The Imp De-arched at her hips, catching the air in a pocket, as she fell to the Earth. She flattened her torso, elongated her legs and arms, and accelerated up. Gaining altitude, The Imp went into Mantis position and flew in a more aero-dynamic position. Free falling wasn’t the problem right now: getting into position and keeping an attainable speed was.

She was a blur of black (her outfit of Kevlar-decked leather) and white (her hair and skin) against a really blue sky. Just as she began to curse him out, she heard Moonlight’s voice…singing.

Timeeeee, is on my side…yes it is…oh, time time time…is on my side..”

Moonlight flew up underneath her, matched her speed, said “Hi, Imp. Whatcha doin?” with a realllllly big smirk. He created his own air pocket, so sound didn’t trail away. Right now, she wanted to puncture that pocket, and him.

He took her in his arms and slowed down, taking the easy way down to the ground. He circled around like a Flash Gordon serial rocket ship; he just didn’t sputter sparks or make noise when he did so. Moonlight also knew Imp hated spirals.

“I will kill you,” she said, “ONCE you get me safely on the ground!”

“Nuh uh!”

Sighing,  she didn’t have to see his face to know how much he was enjoying this.  “Look, cretin, you don’t always have to save me. I know that’s on your itty-bitty mind. This was a fluke.”

“Uh-huh. Fluke. By my calculations, you’ve had eleven flukes in the last nine months. Wait. Twelve. This makes twelve. One more is a bakers dozen.”

The Imp smacked him in the arm, more for knowing the count  than anything else. They landed-a little harder then she thought he had to-and, upon standing upright,  looked him in the eyes, right index finger pounding on his chest. She wished she had Super Nails at that moment.

“YOU are a Class-A Jerk, with a capital ERK! All the times I’ve used my powers to futz up machinery and traps that would have caused even you a major hard pain in the bu…”

Phil (Moonlight) stopped her with a well timed kiss. Amy (The Imp)kissed him back, then pushed him away.

“That is SO not fair, mister. I have a right to be ticked off at you. YOU took your sweet time in…damn.”

“In…what? Hmmm? In what, did you say?”

She glared at him.

“OK, OK…I am sorry. Really. Look. Cross my heart!” Moonlight smiled, then looked up in the air from where they flew down. “Dr. Pirate…”

“What a STUPID name. Throwing me out of his airship…”

“Dr. Pirate is circling around. Looks like he want’s to prove something to us. Wanna go pay an airship call?”

The Imp fixed her outfit, smoothed down her hair, adjusted her goggles, held our her arms and said “Carry me!”

Up, up and…

The Lumpy Casserole

Standard

The  lumpy casserole moved across the tile floor after the cat. Knocked off the table, by said cat, and tasted, it was spit out and ignored. The amorphous meal wanted revenge. IT was made with tender, delicate love by Katie for Father’s Day. She had mixed into it all she could get her hands on. It was glazed with a riot of colors, sprinkles and all the odds and ends she could thrust into the dish.

The cat, asleep, was suddenly engulfed, consumed, and was not spit out.

“OH NO!” cried Katie, seeing her work on the floor.

It purred.

*****************************

This was a prompt piece, where we were given the five words in bold above. We could write what we wanted, and it had to be 100 words or less. Mine: right on the nose: 100 Words!

The Rule of Three Blogfest

I’ll keep reminding folks about this: I’m co-hosting a creative fiction writing blogfest that will run in October, 2011. I created a shared world (the town of Renaissance) for you to set your story in. YOU need to create THREE characters set in Renaissance. How they interact, or not, is totally up to the writer. Four posts total: each post 500-600 words. Three weeks of character set up, a final week post culminating your tale.

For the full set up of Renaissance and the Guidelines, CLICK HERE.

For the First Prompt, CLICK HERE.

The Teaser Trailer for Renaissance: