by G. Deyke
One of the creatures took up a tool, grown or carved from metal into a hard sharp edge, and cut her pod open.
She was not yet fully awake, and she could make no sense of this alien world that surrounded her. The native creatures were huge and heavy and salty, and spoke with both gestures and sounds. Her pod's translator was undamaged by the cut, and it sang their meanings into her mind, though she could make little sense of them:
"Look at this thing. Just look at it. You ever seen anything like this?"
"Negative."
She struggled to stand erect and to greet them in the manner that visitors ought, but her body and her mind were still clumsy with sleep, and she could do no more than wriggle awkwardly out of her pod.
"Look at that - it's moving. It's moving, Jim. You see that?"
"You think it's alive?"
Another metal tool, tipped with sharp prongs, slid into her skin. Pain washed over her like fire. She screamed.
"It's life, Jim, but not as we know it." Her translator registered an expression of pleasure. "I think I smell a research grant."
After the War
I left the war behind me years ago, but the war has never left me.
It's not just the scar on my arm - usually hidden by long-sleeved shirts, but huge and ugly, a reminder of the moment when it all ended (I lay sprawled on my back, bleeding heavily, looking up at the enemy standing triumphant over me and knowing there was nothing I could do to save myself)...
It's not just the old war-habits that die hard: start and end every day with stretches, work out every day, practice agility and swordplay; always keep a wall to my back, or better yet a corner; always watch entrances; always watch for sudden movements, for anything that looks out of place; never sleep without a weapon at my bedside...
It's not just the fact that I treat every obstacle as a battle to be fought, that everything is strategy and sacrifices and optimization. It's not just that I step naturally into a leader's role, that I must sometimes remember that my friends are that - friends - that they are not soldiers, that I am equal to them and cannot - must not - order them to obey. It's not just that I find it difficult, sometimes, to place my relationships without rank, without knowing that I am either commanding or being commanded.
It's not just that the first thing I do with new people or new ground is to assess their strengths and weaknesses, its advantages and disadvantages. It's not just the days when I am surprised to wake in a bed, with solid walls all around me.
It's not just the memories, the faces of those who mocked or admired me, the faces of those whose lives I saved, the faces of those whose lives I doomed. Sometimes a strategy requires sacrifice. And there are rules about how to choose the ones who die - the ones who are least useful, the ones who will die soon enough on their own, who cannot keep themselves alive - but that does not make it easier, sending them to their deaths.
It's not just the training that makes me feel easier with a sword in my hand than without it, the discomfort of sitting still for more than an hour, the constant need to be moving. It's not just the ease with which I will throw myself into harm's way, will sacrifice myself if that gives my friends or my cause or my soldiers some hope.
It's not just the ease with which I will kill someone, if I think it must be done.
It is all of these things together.
The Isle of the Dead
Our bodies are given to the marshes when we die, and our souls burn out like flames. But our spirits live on. Attan comes for them, when we die; Attan guides them on, to the isle of the dead.
There are those who remain, those who take on some other form or who haunt the marshes as ghosts. There are those who flee Attan or deny him. There are those whom Attan cannot find: they are cursed to wander, and cannot find the isle of the dead, alone.
But we living, we can find it. I have journeyed to the isle of the dead myself, as befits a training sh'atha. I can tell you of its shores.
It is an isle shrouded always in mist, and its shores and its shoals are rockier than ours; thus it is difficult rowing, and deadly sailing, best done in the neaps if it is done at all. Many are the curious who have dashed their boats apart seeking it, and have joined the dead there both in spirit and in flesh. Many are the bones that can be found in those shoals.
The mist hangs thick in the air, lit only by moonlight and fireflies, and it writhes and wreathes as though it were alive. And there is life in it: the spirits of the dead mingle with the spirits of the mist, for those who have the eye to see them. It teems with life and with unlife. The fireflies show the dead spirits their way and give them something to cling to; the mist gives them shelter.
For those who have the eye, all those to whom Attan has come can be found there. For those who have the voice, they can be spoken to. And if one is respectful to the dead, and if one gives them leave to speak - as a sh'atha does to all those she meets, living or dead or spirit - they will answer.
I have spoken with the dead, as befits a training sh'atha. They have given me their secrets and their stories. They have told me of the ways of the dead.
These are things for a sh'atha to know. You will find them in your own time: you will learn of them when Attan guides your spirit through the mists, and you find your place there on the isle of the dead.
Here, There, and Everywhere
Challenge #10: write a collaborative story containing no adverbs; it must feature a non-standard mode of transport between places that you and your collaborative partner(s) either live now or have once lived.
(I wrote this story in collaboration with Damon L. Wakes, who wrote from "The tour was neither..." to "...Dig in!", and SCFrankles, who wrote the ending from there. I was responsible for the beginning.)
"I've had it." Paul grabbed his guitar and strode out the door.
"You can't-" Ringo ran after him. "Hey, you can't leave!"
Paul spun to face him. "You know what? We aren't-weren't-even that good. Losing a member can't make it worse."
The audience glared.
Ringo glared back. A handful of people from a handful of villages-there were fewer people in the tent than there were cigarette stubs. As they continued to play, he saw several groups come in, look at the three-Beatle stage, listen to a few bars of a three-Beatle song, and leave. He suspected that their potential fans living in Kottspiel-who could hear the music from outside the tent-weren't bothering to come in at all. It was obvious what was wrong.
"There are meant to be four Beatles," said John. "We'll need another Paul."
"Paul. Ha!" Ringo jutted his chin at the audience. "They're?the problem. No appreciation. It's like they don't know what they're listening to."
"Beatles covers short one member?"
"We don't need a Paul. Paul is dead."
"Er... right." John wasn't sure how many people would get it.
"You know what? We should go to Reading. Play at the Festival. Maybe we'd get to play for people with some?culture."
John and George stared at him. They both appeared to have been struck speechless.
"Come on, guys. It'll be a Magical Mystery Tour!"
They surrendered in the face of the glint in his eye. "Fine."
The tour was neither as magical nor as mystical as Ringo had suggested. In fact, it was less a tour and more a mundane plane journey with a budget airline. John's complimentary pillow smelled like sick and George's seat wouldn't stay in any position except tilted all the way back. The train into Reading itself wasn't much better, and when they got off they spotted someone getting mugged just outside the station, which John hoped wasn't typical for Reading but suspected was. The...atmosphere sure was different from the more low-key, rural gigs they were used to playing.
At the festival itself, however, things started to look up.
"Hey," said George, "there's a lot of musicians here. Maybe we'll even be able to find ourselves another Paul before we go on stage!"
They didn't. Ringo had been right about one thing
: the Reading Festival did draw people with culture. Enough culture that a three-man Beatles tribute act didn't cut it. They weren't so much booed off the stage as beered off. Squeezing Carling out of his '70s fringe, John joined the others backstage.
"Hey, maaan." A man with a long grey ponytail and a faded tie-dye T-shirt approached Ringo. "I dug your three-man groove. Because, like, Paul is dead, right?"
"Yeah!" Ringo grinned. "See, I told you!" He looked around at the others. "This guy gets it!"
John and George looked at one another. The hippy seemed to be a few eggmen short of a walrus. Still, it was nice to have a fan.
"Here." The ageing hippy handed Ringo a large square cake. "Those guys may not appreciate what you guys are doing, but I do. I want you to have this."
"Wow!" said Ringo. "Thanks!"
"Are you, uhh..." George leaned over. "Are you sure that's okay to eat?"
"Oh, come on, guys! It's homemade for sure-that guy must have put a lot of effort into it. Dig in!"
They started to eat.
"Unusual flavour," said George.
"Nothing wrong with mine," Ringo said.
The turquoise words floated out of his mouth and hung over his head.
"Er..." said George.
"What?" The four letters floated up, rearranged themselves to "thaw" and dripped on Ringo's hair.
John was staring into the sky. "The birds are singing," he whispered.
"So?" Ringo turned to the giant pig at his side. "I'll be with you in a moment, madam."
"They're singing selections from Elton John's greatest hits..."
But Ringo was deep in conversation.
"So, you're Lucy," he said.
"Yes-Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds! I know you're looking for a Paul and I can help you."
She turned round and showed him a rocket strapped to her back.
Ringo gasped.
Lucy faced him again. "I will transport you all to the magical city of Liverpool-there to find your new fourth member!"
"Will it take long, O Rocket Pig?" said Ringo.
"Nah," said Lucy. "About four hours if you follow the M6."
She ascended and indicated the basket that was now hanging from her chest.
"Climb aboard!"
"Come on," yelled Ringo. "This rocket pig is taking us to Liverpool to find a Paul."
George and John looked over and both squinted at where Ringo was pointing.
Then John grinned. "You're right. It is a rocket pig. Thought for a moment you were seeing things."
"What is this rocket-piggery..?" muttered George but he clambered in with his fellow band members.
Lucy rose into the sky and before they knew it they had touched down in Liverpool, next to the Beatles Museum.
"Go inside," said Lucy. "You will find whom you seek."
So they did and they saw...
"It's Paul," said Ringo. "The?Paul-Paul McCartney!"
They approached in adoration.
Looking up, Paul smiled.
"Please," said Ringo. "Would you consider joining our band? We have need of a fourth member."
Paul shrugged. "Why not? Sounds like fun."
"Our quest is at an end," said Ringo. "And now I'm going to have a little sleep."
Ringo, George and John lapsed into unconsciousness.
When Ringo came round, a normal-sized pig was chewing on his hair. Raising his head, Ringo blinked. "So it was all a dream..."
"Er," said George, who had got to his feet. "Paul McCartney isn't Paul McCartney."
John gulped. "It's Ringo Starr."
"Hello." Mr. Starr gave a little wave. "I still want to be in the group."
Ringo eased himself up and stood with mouth gaping, staring at the former Beatle.
Then he frowned.
"Well, that's no good. What are we going to do with two Ringos?"
An Absence of Aliens
Andrew Jenkins drew himself up, crossing his arms across his chest. "I saw no alien," he professed for the tenth time that night.
The policewoman regarded him with much the same careful expression a person might wear when inspecting a carton of milk for signs of spoilage. She opened her mouth, closed it again, and sighed.
"Mr. Jenkins -" she began.
"This is ridiculous," said Mr. Jenkins, barely concealing an impatient glance at his wrist. "Listen, I'm running very late, and the people waiting for me are far more important than you are. I see no reason to listen to this hogwash any longer."
"Mr. Jenkins! I must ask -" The policewoman's voice started out sharp, but suddenly trailed off into uncertainty as she, too, glanced at her witness' wrist. "Er," she said. "I don't suppose you can explain that?"
"Explain what?"
"That... thing on your wrist."
It was a fluorescent shade of green, visibly slimy, and moving.
"Haven't you seen a wristwatch before, woman?"
"I'll thank you not to take that tone with me, Mr. Jenkins. Please remember you are in the presence of the law."
Mr. Jenkins snorted.
"Now, then, Mr. Jenkins -" She gave up on getting an explanation for the thing around his wrist; for all she knew it really was just a watch with a surprisingly high-tech novelty wristband. "About the alien you saw."
"For the last time, I saw no alien!"
"Really?" She grinned craftily. "That was the last time, was it? I'm glad to hear you're finally willing to cooperate. So - about that alien."
Mr. Jenkins clamped his mouth shut and scowled at her.
Well, it had been worth a try.
The policewoman took a deep breath, steeling herself for one final attempt. "All right, then. So - you saw no alien. The - around your wrist -" (it had grown eyestalks; there was no denying it, but she felt certain he would do so all the same, and on those grounds refrained from mentioning it) "- that's an ordinary wristwatch. The flying saucer in your yard is - have I got this right? - a refrigerator. The conspicuous puddles of glowing green slime all around were left there by the neighbor's children as a prank. What about the call, Mr. Jenkins?"
"What call?"
"You called us, Mr. Jenkins. You reported seeing an alien craft land in your yard. You said on the phone, and I quote, 'Oh please God help it's going to eat me, yah, argh, ow.' That's why I'm here."
"I did no such thing!"
"The police force does not look kindly on prank calls, Mr. Jenkins."
"Perhaps you should be interrogating the fellow who answers the phones. He seems to have quite the imagination."
"I'm warning you, Mr. Jenkins..." Yes, there were definitely eyestalks growing out of his wrist. The green slime had engulfed his hand entirely and was spreading up his arm.
"Can you hurry this up?" he asked with another glance at the arm in question.
"Not until you cooperate. Where are you off to in such a hurry, anyway?"
"Oh, er... my... my daughter's wedding."
The policewoman raised her eyebrows, unimpressed.
"She'll never let me hear the end of it if I'm late." He looked at her with real desperation in his eyes. "Please."
"I still need an explanation, Mr. Jenkins."
"It must have been the children. They left the slime everywhere - why wouldn't they call in under my name? Now please let me go - the groom's mother is a nightmare -"
She sighed, weighed the odds against further interrogation being a complete waste of her time, and gave a curt nod. "All right, you can go ahead and leave."
Mr. Jenkins turned and sprinted towards the refrigerator in his yard, paying no mind to the glowing green fluids that splashed up onto the legs of his suit. The policewoman watched with a frown. What sort of wedding took place in a refrigerator?
No. No. Nothing could be worth the headaches that speculation - not to speak of involvement - would bring, as her conversation thus far had proven. Better to just walk away.
Shortly there emanated a cacophony of tortured screams from somewhere behind her. She gritted her
teeth and resolutely ignored them.
The Swan Song
Challenge #11: write a story of 256 words or less which shares a title with, but contains no quotes from, your favorite song; it must break the fourth wall and must move between two fields of action.
(The title is taken from "The Swan Song" by Substance for God.)
"Every time you start to fly... for the first few moments... you must find your wings."
That was what Heron told me. He knew of flying and he spoke these words to me when I tried on my sister's wings. I thought it was funny at the time, because I had no wings of my own to find. I couldn't fly anyway, no matter how hard I tried. Heron did not want me to, either. "The ground is life," he told me; "and if you die, I disappear with you."
A: "Not a bad start. Interesting premise, anyway."
B: "Well, yeah - actually, it's developed a bit more further down. Look at this bit:"
"When it is your turn to cross the river, I will no longer be with you," he told me.
"I've crossed the river often, though," I reasoned. "I've seen my sister, and once my mother took me with to visit my aunt and grandparents. They were terrible."
A: "That's even more interesting."
B: "Yeah. I'm not denying that. It's definitely interesting. It's just - that's all there is. A deep-sounding opening line, an unusual character, and a bit of admittedly interesting worldbuilding - but after 1,203 words of pointless and excessive description, it dies at the first whiff of plot. This premise might work for something like FFM, but it's set up like a novel. Naturally it fails."
A: "Harsh."
B: "G. Deyke has written better things, that's all I'm saying - Borrowed Strength, for instance. This one's better put to rest."
A: "Requiescat in pace."
His Eyes
It has been three months since we heard from the mainland.
Speculation abounds. Some catastrophe has befallen them there: a plague has ended them, perhaps, or a war, or something so dreadful that we cannot even imagine it. We are left here to starve, slowly, as we wait for news and supplies.
At noon we saw a boat on the horizon.
Through the spyglass we saw that its occupant was a lone boy, and that his skin was patterned with lesions. Sula saw something in his eyes, he said, though he would not speak more clearly of it; but he was so shaken by the sight that he begged us to shoot the boat down at a distance.