Because My Dad Called This Morning to Ask If I Was Writing Another Novel Today

The Fiction Friday Prompt: A boy and his father awaken early to watch the sunrise from their mountain campsite, but they begin to panic when the sky remains dark long into the afternoon.

Birds were just starting to rustle in the leaves, letting out the faintest sleepy chirps as the night sky lightened ever so slightly with the approaching dawn. Jarrod rolled over and grumbled as his dad shook his shoulder again.

"Rise and shine, champ. If you want to get that photography badge, we need sunrise shots."

Jarrod pried one eye open and looked around, "Aw dad, there's gotta be another hour before actual sunrise." He shrunk back into his sleeping bag and wiggled around a rock that had lodged in the middle of his back.

His dad tugged the fabric away from his face, laughing, "True. But I figured you'd want to eat and set up the tripod and so forth. And," he shrugged, glancing around at the wooded campsite, "we really should head closer to the lake shore if you want impressive shots. Too many trees blocking the horizon here."

Jarrod groaned but pushed into a sitting position, blinking owlishly. "Logic. Always logic with you."

His dad laughed and tossed a can of Coke at him, "You're breakfast, sir."

Jarrod snagged the can and popped the top to take a long drink, "Ahh." He lowered the can, "I might just make it after all. But there's food, too, right? You said something about cooking over a fire proving that we remembered our roots?"

Dad rolled his eyes at the hopeful tone and struggled to hide a smile as he prodded the fire back to life, "It'll happen faster if you get up and help."

They worked in relative silence after that to fry bacon in a skillet perched precariously on two of the blazing logs. Eggs were scrambled after the bacon finished and the combination was rolled into a tortilla. Dad sipped coffee from a chipped blue and white camping mug that matched the ancient percolator and Jarrod finished off a second Coke.

Looking up at the sky, Jarrod frowned, "I thought it was supposed to be clear this morning, shouldn't it be lighter by now?"

Dad glanced at his watch and arched his eyebrows, "Yeah. Maybe I got the time wrong though." He shrugged, "We can check the Internet we get back home, but there's no cell signal up here."

Grumbling about having woken up too early, Jarrod helped tidy up the campsite and collected his photography gear so they could set out to the lakeshore. Dad frowned up at the sky again and grabbed his flashlight to help on the path.

When the tri-pod was set up, Jarrod glanced at his dad's watch, "It's almost seven, dad."

Dad nodded and looked around. The pre-dawn mist still clung to the surface of the lake and the evening rustles of bugs and other nocturnal animals continued, mixing in with the sounds of the early rising birds. He slipped his phone out of his pocket and checked for signal, still no bars. "Let's wait here a little longer," he glanced up at the sky that was the same midnight blue of the early morning, though the stars had all slipped from view, "Maybe I read the time wrong, but," he furrowed his brow, "it's awfully late for the sun not to be at least half up for this time of year."

Jarrod settled his eye into the viewfinder of his camera and adjusted his aim slightly for where he thought he'd get the best shot of the sunrise. Minutes ticked by with no appreciable difference in the surrounding noises or the morning sky.

"Jarrod?" Dad swallowed and looked around apprehensively, "Something isn't right. It's nearly eight now - we've missed the sunrise...though I'm not sure where the sun is, to be honest. This," he gestured around, "is exactly what it looked like when I woke you at 5:30."

"What should we do?" Jarrod tapped his finger nervously on his knee.

"I think it's time to pack up and head home. I...I need to check on your mom and sister."

Jarrod studied his father's usually unflappable face, noting the lines of worry around his eyes and the corner of his mouth and nodded. He quickly detached his camera and collapsed his tri-pod and followed his father down the trail to their campsite.

They were packed and back in the car in fifteen minutes, having taken time only to ensure that their fire was completely out and that all they'd brought in with them had been shoved in one way or another back into the car. They crept down the rutted trail toward the main road, dad banging the steering wheel with frustration everytime they had to slow even more for turns, rocks, and deeper ruts. Jarrod kept his gaze fixed on the sky, looking for any sign of daylight.

By nine they had hit the main road and were navigating the switchbacks toward the tiny town that guarded the base of the range. "There's cell coverage there. We called when we arrived, remember?" Dad spoke more to himself than Jarrod, but there was comfort in the words, regardless.

Jarrod grabbed the phone from the dash when he saw the buildings in the distance. He rolled down the window and held the phone outside craning his neck to see the display. Dad looked over, concerned.

"Still no bars. Wh-" Dad slammed on the brakes and the car skidded to a stop inches away from a man lying prostrate in the street. Jarrod braced himself against the dash and swallowed, "What do we do, dad?"

His dad got out and checked the man's vitals. Shaking his head he got back in the car and wiped his hands with an antibacterial wipe before locking the door. Saying nothing, he steered around the body and increased his speed. As they sped through the town, Jarrod noticed other corpses draped on the buildings and streets, some human, others animal - all laying as though they simply dropped where they were at the same time.

"Check the cell again."

Jarrod looked at the display and shook his head, "Still nothing."

They pulled onto the Interstate and began racing for home. After a few minutes, Jarrod spoke, "Dad...we're the only car out here."

"I know, son, I know. Keep checking the cell." He glanced up at the sky and pressed his foot down harder on the accelerator.

At 10:30, they swerved off the highway onto their exit. The sky remained the same, though Jarrod imagined it had become somewhat more ominous. Dad slowed slightly at a light that was red before zipping through. There were still no other cars on the roads. He slammed the car into park in their driveway and was out the door and up the steps to the house with the engine still running. Jarrod turned the key and removed, taking care to lock the doors before following his house.

"Sylvia?" Dad hollered as he tore from room to room, "Sylvia!?"

Footsteps stomped up the basement stairs and the door creaked open. Jarrod's mom poked her head out, "Jarrod? Dan?" She hollered back then glanced at her son, "Why are you back so early? It's not even sunrise yet."

"Mom...it's after ten." Jarrod pointed at a clock and his mother frowned. His dad rushed toward her gathering her into a suffocating embrace, "Caite?"

Mom pulled away slightly, "She's sleeping, in the basement. We had a little camp out ourselves." She smiled and shrugged, "We both felt a little left out."

Dad ran his hand over mom's hair and kissed her forehead, "Sorry. Let's go get her. I think we need to leave. It's not...I don't know...I can't..." he stopped and shrugged. Mom simply nodded and hurried upstairs, calling over her shoulder, "Jarrod, pack what you can in the cooler."

Jarrod ran to the kitchen and began emptying the fridge and pantry. Caite came to help when she was dressed. By noon, they were on the Interstate again, heading East.

"Where are we going, Dan?" Jarrod's mother sat serenely in the front seat, barely noticing the dark scenery zipping by.

"All I know is that we've got to try and find the sunrise."

Faculty Meeting Friday Fiction

While I'm sitting here listening to a choppy, rah-rah infused faculty meeting, I thought I'd play around with this week's writing prompt.

For the last 9 years, a wife has forgotten her husband's birthday. The 10th time, he snaps.

"Morning, honey." John tried to catch his wife's eyes in the mirror as he stood at the sink, shaving.

Melissa rubbed her eyes and grunted, heading for the shower.

He sighed quietly and returned to shaving, watching her with one eye as she spun the hot water to full then stepped in as steam began to billow. Shaking his head, he rinsed his face and went back into the bedroom to dress.

Twenty minutes later, he sat with his laptop and a mug of coffee at the kitchen table when Melissa rushed in and bee-lined for the coffee maker. She stopped and frowned at the empty pot then glanced at his mug curiously, "John?"

"Hmm?" He didn't look up but deliberately sipped from his coffee.

"Didn't you make me any coffee?"

John raised his eyebrows and feigned surprise, "Oh, sorry. No, I must've forgotten."

Melissa grumbled and checked her watch, "Guess I'll stop somewhere on my way in." She paused to glare at him for a minute, "I'm not sure how you forget that I like coffee too."

John shrugged and sipped his coffee again, "Things get forgotten, you know?"

Muttering under her breath, Melissa gathered the rest of her stuff and headed to her car, barely resisting slamming the garage door behind her. When she'd left, John allowed himself the wry smile he'd been hoarding and pushed away from the table and headed back upstairs. With efficient motions, he pulled his suitcase out of the closet and began to pack.

He got to the airport just after ten A.M. and paused to look at the departures screen. "Hmm. Snow or beach?" He muttered. With a scant pause he decided, "Snow. Melissa always wants to go to the beach. I can't remember the last time we went somewhere I actually was interested in." With that in mind, John checked the departure screen again then headed toward a ticketing desk.

He flashed the ticketing agent a charming smile, "Is there any room on the noon flight to Switzerland still?"

"Let me check, sir." The young woman whose nametag declared her to be Judy, tapped efficiently at her keyboard. "We have two seats left in first class, sir."

"Sounds perfect. I'd like one of them, please." He slid his passport and American Express across the counter to her.

"Certainly." She began typing efficiently yet again. "Would you like to book a return flight now?"

John paused, "Let's leave it open."

She nodded once and continued typing. "Luggage?"

"Just carry on."

"Alright, sir." She reached down and retrieved the tickets from the printer, "Here are your tickets and boarding passes. You're all checked in. You'll depart at noon with an hour layover in Boston, and arrive in Switzerland around 8 this evening, local time." She paused to check her screen, "You depart from gate C-15, which is down this hall," she pointed, "through security, then left. Have a good trip."

John smiled and collected his documents, "Thanks. I plan to." He made his way easily through security and found a seat to wait for boarding. As he sat, he pulled out his phone and booked a room hotel at a luxury ski resort that allowed him to schedule airport pick up. Then he spent some time dealing with email from work.

He chuckled as he saw an email from Melissa.

John, don't forget that we're watching the beasts tonight for Dan and Kathy. You'll need to pick them up from school as I've got a late meeting. -M

He shook his head and typed a response:

Melissa, Wish you'd mentioned that when you agreed to it. I can't do pick up, have a late meeting myself. Sure you'll figure something out. -J

Before he could dwell on just how annoyed she was going to be, the gate agent called first class boarding and he slid his phone away and meandered down the jetway.

The flight was uneventful, almost pleasant. He mentioned to the flight attendant that it was his birthday and they were able to scare up a cupcake and unlit candle to go with the champagne he'd already requested. The transport was waiting as he got off the plane and, on arriving at the lodge, he realized he'd landed truly in the lap of luxury.

Deciding on a late supper, he took some time to settle into his room and check his voice and email, his grin growing at the successively annoyed messages from Melissa. As he contemplated calling back, his phone rang.

"Hi honey."

"What is going on, John? We had commitments tonight that I had to take care of on my own. What are you thinking?"

"I'm fine, thanks for asking."

"I didn't ask - could you please answer my question? And then you can just get yourself home - late meeting my aunt Marge...what's going on?"

"Ah, now it's a shame you didn't ask. I'm afraid I'm out of town for a week, possibly two."

"What? Why on earth didn't you tell me?"

"I put it in your planner, honey."

He heard her flipping pages and the pause as she saw his reminders leading up to his birthday, with suggestions of trips they could take to celebrate this milestone year.

"I'll be home after my vacation. Unless, of course, I forget."

Fiction for a Freezing Friday

The prompt: It took Edgar six months to muster the courage to ask out his dream girl. Their first date is almost over, and it couldn’t have gone better—until he discovers his wallet is missing. Write the scene.

Edgar smiled across the table at Lola, "Would you like dessert? I hear they have really good creme brulee." He paused and cleared his throat, "We could share one if you wanted."

Lola considered a moment the nodded, brushing her silky red hair back from her face and angling her neck so that the candlelight perfectly accented high cheekbones and green eyes that sparkled with unspoken humor, "That's the perfect way around my objections, Edgar." She flashed a grin, "But you have to promise not to say anything when I eat most of it by myself."

Edgar signalled to the waiter, "Creme brulee, two spoons." He winked across the table at Lola, "So, finish telling me about your latest project."

Lola chuckled, "Edgar, we work together every day. Surely you've heard all the details over the cubicle wall. You already know that marketing sold the client some mythical software system that 'we already have' and 'just have to tweak' even though it pretty much can't be done. I mean seriously," she rolled her eyes, "I don't know if I'm more irritated at marketing for their outright lies or at our client for being stupid enough to think that this little software company is sitting on perfected artificial intelligence and just not bothering to cash in." She sighed, rolling her eyes again.

When the waiter slid dessert on the table between them she flashed him a bright smile and Edgar felt his heart stumble in his chest. It was just one of the reasons that he'd fallen for her six months ago when he started at their company, she smiled at everyone, regardless of status, and didn't seem to have a mean bone in her body.

Lola arched a brow, and paused with the spoon half way to her mouth, "You're staring...did I drip?" She quickly looked down at her blouse, searching for spots.

Edgar shook his head and cleared his throat, "Sorry, I was just...wool gathering." He smiled and took a spoonful of creamy custard, "So what will you do?"

Lola shrugged, "Just keep plugging away, I guess. I mean, at some point someone is going to have to explain reality to them, but," she shrugged and scraped the last of the custard out of the dish, "that's above my paygrade."

The waiter appeared at Edgar's elbow and discreetly slid the check onto the table. Edgar glanced at it and winced inwardly then reminded himself anything was worth actually getting a chance to have Lola to himself. He reached into his pocket and his face went blank, heart racing he dug into his other pocket. He cleared his throat and managed a weak smile at Lola.

She tilted her head, "Something wrong?"

"Well, um." Edgar blushed and swallowed the lump in his throat, "You see," he laughed, a high, nervous sound, then cleared his throat again, though his voice still only came out as a whisper, "It seems I left my wallet...somewhere else."

Lola threw her head back and laughed. "Oh Edgar. You really are a nerd, aren't you?" Chortling she held out her hand, wiggling her fingers until he slid the check across the table, cheeks on fire. She dug into her clutch and produced a plastic rectangle, "Never leave home without it." She winked, her smile softening the words.

Edgar just shook his head and started muttering under his breath, chastising himself.

The waiter took the check from Lola with a curious glance at Edgar. Lola reached across the table and patted Edgar's hand, "It could happen to anyone, Edgar. Don't worry about it."

He sighed and shook his head, "Thank you. I'll pay you back on Monday."

"Oh, don't be insulting." Temper spiked into her voice, "We both ate, why does it matter who pays? Anyway, I had a lovely time."

Edgar stood and managed a smile, "Me too." He walked around and helped her into her coat, "I was going to suggest a movie or dancing but," he shrugged, "Maybe another time." With a stifled sigh, he helped her into his car and walked around to the other side.

"I'd like that." She turned in her seat and met his gaze, "I really would. Just don't wait six months to ask again, ok?"

Edgar nodded and started the engine.

"But I'll be sure to bring some extra money, just in case." She winked, laughing at the stricken look on his face, "Lighten up, Edgar. It's ok.'

He pulled up to the curb in front of her house and parked. "Lola," he cleared his throat, "I really did have a wonderful time. Could we," he paused fighting the urge to clear his throat again, "maybe try again next Friday night? I'll even make our first stop an ATM, just to be sure."

Lola laughed and leaned over to brush her lips lightly across his cheek, "I'd like that. Pick me up at 6:30." She slid out of the car before he could get his seatbelt undone to walk over and get her door, "Good night, Edgar. I'll see you Monday."

He watched as she let herself in and shut the door, then drove away shaking his head and lecturing himself.

Lola locked the door behind her and set her purse down on the hall table. She froze in place for a moment, her eyes rolling up and fluttering as she uploaded her report on the evening to the main server. Seconds later, she strolled to a recliner and sat, reaching around to slide the recharging plug into what would pass for a navel under all but the closest of medical scrutinies. She sighed contentedly as she began to recharge and leaned back in the chair. As her eyes drifted shut, they caught sight of the company logo on a mug across the room and she smiled.

Some Fiction For A Drizzly Friday

The WriteAnything prompt is: A woman whose husband is killed during a tour of duty overseas decides to turn her home into a boarding house.

It had been six weeks since the grief counselor arrived on her doorstep with a box and a somber looking officer. She couldn't remember either or their names nor much of what was said. When she thought back, all she could really remember was the sensation of falling and the sound of wind rushing past her ears. She hadn't fainted. She had stood, nodding sensibly, and automatically reached to collect the box of her husband's possessions. Then she had calmly shut the door in their face, cutting off the thanks of her nation.

The box sat, untouched, in the center of the dining room table. She wasn't sure what to do with it. There was no point in opening the dam of emotion that would surely break past the thin wall she had erected around her heart when she'd heard the car pull into the drive. In the back of her mind she knew that once that flood began it would never end, so she invested every minute into keeping it at bay.

Glancing around she considered the space. They had bought the house with an eye toward the future family they hoped to have. Now it all seemed too much, though keeping things tidy certainly kept her occupied. Still, the moon colonies were becoming a vacation destination despite the uprisings, she snorted as she considered the word the newscast used to describe the all out war going on from Mare Crisium around to the dark side. Whoever had determined the names for the dry lake beds had probably no idea of their veracity. Then again, it had been over a century since the first moon colony and only in the last fifteen years had the natives revealed their presence, and their displeasure.

She tugged her thoughts back to the issue at hand. She could either return to her parent's home on earth, marking herself forever as a failed colonist and removing any opportunity to travel further from home, or she could figure out a way to make things work and at least keep up that end of their long term plans. He had always wanted to be on a deep space exploration team and had counted on his military career to get him there. She had planned to tag along, with the family, and had invested her time into childhood education. The thought of teaching sent a shudder through her. The required student teaching was as much time in a classroom that she could handle. Better to slink back to earth and bury herself in grief.

After a moment's thought, she nodded and strode purposefully to the table. She grabbed the box and stuffed it into the bottom drawer of the cupboard. The main floor would do. She hurried to the sleeping wing with a tablet and drew up a list of what would need to be done to make the rooms rentable.

She opened in just under two weeks. There was fresh tinting on the walls an locks on the bedrooms. Each room already had its own bath which had made the process considerably easier and less expensive. A message to the tourism department had resulted in an inspection and then a listing in the official guide and her first bookings. The feeling of falling was slowing and the rushing noise fading into the backgound of every day life. She was finally getting her feet back.

The bell rang. She glanced around the scrupulously clean sitting room and wiped nervous palms on her pants before fixing on the welcoming smile she'd practiced in the mirror for the last two weeks and opening the door.

Weeks later she could only remember the sensation of falling, the sound of rushing wind, over which carried the tinniest sounds of the grief counselor stuttering nervously, "There seems to have been a mix up...", and her husband's arms wrapping around her as she slid bonelessly to the floor.

A Little Fiction, Cause It's Friday

The prompt today: Your character is determined to do something they know to be a mistake.

She brushed her hand across the soft skirt of her new dress and frowned. With a shake of her head, she threw her shoulders back and tilted her chin up, this was her chance and she would take it. Perhaps it would work out. She chewed her lower lip for a moment then threw the dress over her head before she could change her mind and flee.

Flight was, realistically, the only other option. She had been promised. The wedding would take place today. After that, well, it would remain to be seen what happened. She glanced at her reflection and grimaced. Plain was the word people used when they were kind. Homely echoed through her thoughts. Brown hair, lifeless and dull. Brown eyes that did not shine. Ruddy cheeks creased from age and hard work. Flight would put her at the mercy of strangers. At best she could find work as a servant, at worst...well, it was not much different than this option, though with a wedding she would have some legal protection. She sighed and reached for the veil her father had insisted on. It was nearly opaque, but she knew her way from this room to the next where her bridegroom stood, waiting.

She cast one last glance around the room of her childhood and slipped into the new sandals that were given her with the new dress. Something to celebrate her new status as a married woman. She managed to hold back the audible snort that thought caused and reached for the door. She would do this, and let the consequences be on her head. At the back of her mind, the rebellious thought filtered through that it was her father who ought to bear the brunt of the consequence, as this was his scheme. She shook herself mentally, she had agreed and now she would follow through.

There was no fanfare as she joined her husband to be at the altar. This was a simple ceremony for family. An expansion of the household, nothing more. Words were spoken. Vows exchanged. Each second ticking by driving another little stab of pain into her heart. She should be joyful. She should know she went to the arms of one who loved her. Swallowing, she said the words, forcing her voice to be steady.

It was done. She peered through the veil at the face of her husband and caught her breath as he reached for the edge, his face shining with joy and expectation.

Time stood still as the smile melted from his face, pausing at confusion before flaring into wrath. His mouth dropped open and a choked sound escaped as his head swiveled from her face to her father's, "Leah?"

Fiction Friday (Well, I Started It On Friday, Anyway)

The prompt this week: A new government R&D facility is built on a decommissioned prison site.

They might as well have spray painted it neon orange and put a big flashing sign outside that said "Top Secret Research Going On Here." That was my first thought as I drove up the gate on my first day of my new let's-hope-it's-really-better-than-the-last-one job. My fifth job this year. I was fairly certain that leaving another job was going to render my resume something that was used in business classes across the country as an A+ example of how not to succeed. Honestly, I was kind of surprised that it hadn't done that two jobs ago.

The guard carefully checked my two picture IDs against his list before handing me a visitor badge with terse instructions that it was to be visible above the waist at all times then waved me through to the next set of gates. The second guard was considerably friendlier and I had the errant thought that they probably used the first guard as a scare tactic for those who thought it'd be cool to come visit the new prison.

That's how the structure was billed - the New Prison. There were even prisoners in residence. I'd learned that much on my tour during the fifth interview. I wasn't clear exactly why they were there, but I hoped that maybe today would help in that regard. Or at least that I'd get a clear answer to one question. We'd have to see - government folks weren't exactly known for being forthcoming, especially not those in this agency. They were so paranoid they told me it would be better if I didn't even think the initials of the agency that I worked for..just in case. I rolled my eyes as I remembered that sage advice and pulled into a parking spot.

Walking across the small lot toward the concrete bunker that held the next security check, I glanced out at the fenced in recreation area for prisoners. There was gleaming razor wire curling across the top and sharp, barbed spears pointing out the other direction, in case someone managed to get through the wire, I guessed. Rumors circulated that the barren area between there and the road was planted with mines but I didn't know if that was true. Shuddering slightly I hoped I'd never have the opportunity to find out, that just seemed...cruel. Even if the prisoners here were the worst of the worst. Again, I was relying on rumors, but a few hints here and there in the papers and whispered discussions that you overhear at any government facility, and it seemed as if those felons convicted of particularly gruesome murders had all be transferred to the "New Prison". Opening the door, I shuddered. I tried to blame it on the blast of air conditioning that greeted me, but I knew it was thoughts of the cold blooded men and women who lived here as smokescreen for the facility in which I now worked.

Again the guard checked my IDs and then gestured for me to sit in a yellow plastic chair. After a little fiddling with the backdrop behind me, he tapped the webcam situated on the monitor in front of me, "Look here, please."

I mustered a smile, trying to strike a balance between professional and casual. The mouse clicked and the guard fiddled with something on his screen. I craned my neck to try and see how the photo had turned out, but before I could sneak a peak, a laminated card was shooting out of a desktop printer. He deftly punched a hole in the top and threaded the card onto a lanyard, "This will give you access to where you're meant to be. It will also allow us to find you at any time as needed. Please keep it on your person, in sight above the waist, at all times. Do not ever, for any reason, allow it out of your personal control."

With a nod I took the badge and slipped it over my head, pausing to unclip the visitor badge. The guard took it and gestured to the small door opposite his station, "That's the elevator to the research areas. You'll need your badge and the pin you were given when you were hired." He gestured to the larger electronically locked doorway, "That's to the prison area. Your badge is not programmed for access."

I nodded again and approached the elevator, swiping my card across the barely visible reader. Another seamless panel slid open revealing a pin pad. Hesitating a moment I concentrated then punched the code that had been drilled into my memory. After a pause just long enough for me to begin to wonder if I had messed something up, the door slid open. I stepped into the elevator and pressed the only button on the panel.

I was almost sure it was a figment of my imagination, but the elevator seemed to get darker as it descended. I stopped counting when I reached 72 and felt my heart rate begin to increase. How deep was I going? Just as my palms started to sweat, the elevator slowed to a stop and the door slid silently open. I wished heartily for the cheerful ding that most often accompanied such a thing, but there was no noise. Stepping nervously out into the empty lobby I looked around. The door slid shut behind me, causing me to jump. I shut my eyes and forced several deep breaths in and out. When my heart rate had settled a little, I started forward.

Nearing the wall, I spied another card reader. I slid my card through and waited. The wall in front of me started to shimmer until it was transparent. I edged a toe forward and found no resistance, so slid the rest of the way through the opening. Immediately I was awash in the normal sounds of office life. A hive of cubicles wiggled through the immense room. Keyboards clicked and quiet murmurs of conversation faded in and out. Looking over my shoulder I saw that the wall had...rematerialized, I guess, behind me. I caught sight of a woman I remembered from my interview and cleared my throat, managing a little wave.

She looked up and considered me for a moment before nodding in recognition and beckoning me to her desk, "You're right on time. Any problems?"

I shook my head no.

"Alright, this way then. Let's get you settled in. First days," she paused, "well, first weeks usually, are spent getting acquainted with the work we do here. I imagine you're curious." She smiled slightly.

I struggled to keep up with her brisk pace through the maze of cubes, "Well, yes."

"It'll all be clear soon. Ah, here we are." She stopped in front of a cube, empty other than a workstation and a huge pile of binders. "You'll want to read in the top down order to get the full picture."

Just then a blood curdling scream followed by several muted cries and popping noises tore through the room and everything went silent for several heartbeats before picking up right where it had been.

"What...?"

She just shook her head and tapped the top binder, "Read, dear. That won't concern you for a while yet." With that she strode back in the direction of her cube.

I slid into the chair, pulled the top binder into my lap and flipped open the cover. I barely noticed when it slid from my fingers and clattered to the floor, pages of photos fanning out from the open rings. My eyes locked on the picture of the woman who had just left, then scanned back over the description of the surgeries that transformed her from hardened criminal to civil servant cyborg.

A Little Fiction, Cause It's Friday

The prompt this week, from Write Anything, is: "Don't sit there," she commanded, "that's the cat's chair."

---

I couldn't escape the cliche that flitted through my head as I peered through the madly flapping windshield wipers trying to see if I was at least managing to stay in the general area of the right side of the road. I'd given up on lanes twenty minutes, and a whopping quarter of a mile, ago. The headlights of my best junk yard find yet barely cut a two foot swatch of dark away from the front of the hood. I continued inching along hoping that no one else was crazy enough to brave the elements tonight as the steel gray paint blended perfectly with the road and rain and I doubted anyone would see in and glimpse the red velvet seats. I managed a self-deprecating chuckle at the memory of the yard owner's face when I asked if the '73 Impala still ran. It did, barely, but that's really all that mattered. And for the $20 he finally agreed to take for it, I could put up with the limited aesthetic appeal. Provided I didn't run it, and myself, into a tree, of course.

"Who goes out on a dark and stormy night? Seriously?" I muttered under my breath as I slowed even further and listened as the engine sputtered and begged for more gas, "Nobody, that's who. They're all smarter than this. Heroines in horror movies are smarter than this." I felt the rear tires slip on the pavement and carefully steered into the skid, trying not to over correct. When they regained purchase, I continued slipping my way, inch by inch, up the mountain road.

I was only vaguely aware of time passing, focused as intently as I was on the two feet of road in front of me that was marginally visible through the rain and dim light from the car. My hands were cramping I was squeezing the steering wheel so tightly and I felt the stirrings of a charlie horse in my right calf from maintaining that tense balance between too much and too little gas. Gradually I noticed that my gaze traveled farther as I squinted out the window and the wipers began to squeak noisily as they swished back and forth. I glanced around, the forest along the sides of the road seemed to be thinning as well. I increased my speed, letting out a whiff of relief as the last bits of rain dribbled across the car and the first tendrils of moonlight worked their way from behind the clouds.

It wasn't much of a moon, just the thinnest sliver, but still the light was welcome. With the clouds and rain gone, I could see the lights of what I hoped was my destination glowing in the distance. I sped up again, feeling the chugging of the engine ripple through the frame of the car and quashing an errant thought about gas mileage as my eyes flicked to the gauge that now rested just above the half-way mark.

I slowed to a crawl as I reached the gates and studied the, my mind groped for a word to describe it and I whispered, "Castle" that loomed at the end of the driveway beyond the iron gates. "At least they're open," I muttered and pulled through slowly listening to my tires crunch the gravel drive. "She must have every light on, I guess that's one way to avoid leaving an inheritance, spend it all on your electric bill." I rolled my eyes and parked at the foot of the steps leading to the imposing front door. Grabbing my leather attache case from the passenger seat, I ran a hand over my hair without bothering to look in the visor mirror. The rain had brought out the curls, I could feel that, so I knew my usually sleek, chin-length bob that I felt gave just the right hint of professionalism and "don't mess with me" vibe was now a riot of wave and curl that zigged and zagged across my head, creating the woebegone waif look that seemed determined to plague my entire adult life. Sighing, I stepped out and climbed the steps, "Don't fight the inevitable." I reminded myself, and plastered a "trust me, I'm here to help" smile on my face.

I was reaching for the knocker when the door swung open. I adjusted my gaze down and felt my smile stretch into something more genuine as I saw my new client. She looked just like she had when she visited my office last week, dainty was the only word you could use. Dressed completely in black, to the pillbox hat with short veil and lace gloves. Her silver hair was coiled tightly at the nape of her neck and I had to quash a shudder as I remembered my third grade librarian.

Before I could open my mouth, she gave me a stern look from head to toe and nodded sharply, "You're late." She gestured at the foyer impatiently and I quickly entered after carefully wiping my shoes on the mat.

"I'm sorry, the rain," I gestured at the now cloudless sky with the tiny sliver of moon and cleared my throat, "It was..,"

She cut me off, "Late is late. When you're old like me, perhaps you'll learn to appreciate the limited time some people have." She snapped the door shut and strode, briskly for someone just past their first century, into a small sitting room. She gestured to a chair as the grandfather clock in the hallway began to sound the hour.

I started to sit in the chair she'd indicated, snapping upright at her terse voice, "Don't sit there," she commanded, "that's the cat's chair."

I cleared my throat, "Sorry." I glanced around and settled in another chair, "What kind of cat is it?" I began sliding papers from my bag and looked up to find her staring at me quizzically.

"Cat? I hate cats. Always have. Allergic, you know." She shook her head and held out a hand imperiously for the papers.

I opened my mouth but thought better of it and handed her the papers, casting a glance at the cat chair again as she began to flip through. Curious, and punchy from the adrenaline of the drive that was now wearing off, I slipped my attache onto the chair.

She looked up and shook her head, "Don't put that there, that's the cat's chair. I told you."

Nodding contritely, I slid the bag to the floor and blinked as a huge calico cat strutted from the hallway, jumping into the chair. She sat, eyed me for a moment, then shot a leg into the air and began to lick herself.

I cleared my throat and my client looked up, "Ah, Mrs. Fillibee, so glad you could join us." She smiled and passed the sheaf of papers over to the cat who paused momentarily in her licking to eye them nonchalantly, "They're all in order as you see." The cat ignored both of us. My client seemed to take that as approval and gestured for a pen. She signed her name in an elegant scrawl and handed the pile back.

"It's been a pleasure doing business with you." I glanced at the cat, "And you, Mrs. Fillibee." My client eyed me curiously, and seemed to be considering taking the papers back.

"Do you make a habit of talking to furniture, dear? My sister had a bit of the dimentia...you might want to be careful of that."

My mouth dropped open, and I gestured at the cat, "But, the cat? You called her...?" I glanced between the two of them confused.

She shook her head, frowning, "Told you before, I hate cats. Can't stand them." At this, Mrs. Fillibee mrroowed quietly, "Now my sister," she gestured at the cat, "has always been fond of them, but we reached an agreement long ago. She had her favorite calico preserved when she passed, and that's been enough."

I cleared my throat, "Could...could I see it?" She looked at me quizzically, so I added hurriedly, "Since it's part of the estate, I might need to do some research ahead of time for a buyer for such a specialty item."

That seemed to satisfy. She nodded once and stood, gesturing to the cat, "Come along dear, let's show off your favorite possession." She led the way through an archway that I had assumed led to the dining room. It might have once served that purpose, but now it was clearly set up as a display for prized objects. Fine bone china hung carefully on the wall. Paintings that I was sure were oringial works of Cassat were hanging opposite. Featured prominently on the wall opposite the archway were four dressmakers manniquins holding amazingly well preserved gowns from the mid 1800s. In the center of these stood a young woman, forever frozen at twenty or twenty-five, dressed in a lovely calico dress.

Friday Fiction

Tilting my head to the side, I considered the dusty lump in my hand, the smear of clean revealing the word "Kodak", a hint of their signature yellow peeking through the holes in the letters. "Who even uses film any more?" I wondered aloud, rubbing the rest of the canister on my cutoffs to remove the dust. I pursed my lips, "Well, the tail is tucked in, so it's been rewound." I rolled the canister in my palms, humming quietly, then shrugged and tucked it in my pocket before dipping my hands back into the bucket of warm, sudsy water to retrieve my rag and continue cleaning off my new find. After an hour of serious scrubbing, I was damp head to toe with a combination of sweat and splashed suds, but I smiled as I dropped the rag back into the bucket now filled with murky brown liquid. The dresser was gorgeous, as I knew it would be the minute I saw it. The wood appeared to be oak, stained a deep brown that accented the Art Deco cut outs and inlays. I took a dry rag and began rubbing furniture oil into the wood, restoring some of the gleam as I first applied then carefully smoothed off the polish. Finally satisfied I nodded to myself and, careful to avoid pinching my fingers like I had at the yard sale, maneuvered the dresser onto the plywood on casters that served as my homemade dolly. I left the drawers sitting in the driveway and scooted the dresser inside, arranging it between the two bay windows under the black and white photograph of desert lightning that I had found in a yard sale three years ago. I stood back and admired the dresser, but my eyes drifted up to the photo and I smiled, as I always did, feeling myself being transported to that desert in the grip of a storm. I could almost hear the sizzle of electricity in the air. Shaking my head to clear the thoughts, I took a step back and nodded, "That finishes this room, don't you think?" I glanced at my calico cat, Betty, who lounged in the sunbeam on the window seat. She flicked the tip of her tail and stared back. "I'll take that as agreement." Rolling my shoulders I continued, "I'll just go get the drawers and we'll have a lovely place to store blankets and pillows and, well, anything we can think of." I laughed as Betty yawned and returned her gaze to whatever cats stare at out the window. I never saw any birds, but that didn't mean she didn't. Three trips later, and the dresser was complete. I considered the gruesome mystery that sat bookmarked and alluring on the other window seat, then wrinkled my nose as the cool of the house alerted me to my soaking clothes. "Shower and dry clothes first, book second." Betty twitched her tail but didn't turn to look at me, used to my habit of talking to myself. I tugged off wet clothes as I made my way to the bathroom, pausing to dump them in a soggy heap on the lid of the washing machine and flip the stereo on, cranking up the volume so I could just make out the melody over the pounding of the water. Once dry, I gathered up the rest of my laundry and, congratulating myself on my industriousness, began filling up the machine with cold water. I looked at the pile of clothes, a small mixture of darks, lights and everything in between. "Sort them by color," I muttered to myself and began making even smaller piles on the floor of the laundry room, stopping to check the pockets as I did so, "Come on...windfall" I urged, hoping for enough "free" money to justify a splurge on Chinese for me and Betty for dinner. My fingers closed around the lump in the pocket of my damp cutoffs and I extracted the film canister again. I looked at the crumpled five dollar bill, two nickels, a dime, and twelve pennies adorning the top of the dryer and set the film next to it. Betty padded down the hall and stopped at the doorway of the laundry room, sitting primly and tucking her tail around her feet before meowing inquisitively, "Nope. No Chinese for us tonight, Betty. But I'll whip something up. What do you think, soup?" I added detergent to the washer then considered the three piles of sorted clothes before rolling my eyes and scooping them all into the machine together anyway. "If they haven't bled all over each other by now, they're not going to. Right?" I flipped the lid down and grabbed the money and film, stuffing them all into my pocket before squatting down to scratch behind Betty's ears, "Did your sunbeam move or was I just taking too long?" She meowed again then began to purr as my fingers found the persistent itch at the base of her ears. The film canister poked my thigh, "What do you think, five bucks ought to be enough to get some film developed, right? Should we blow our windfall on alleviating curiosity?" Betty butted my hand then stalked off. I watched her move down the hallway before standing, "I thought cats were supposed to be curious." I dug the film out of my pocket and eyed it, "Oh what the heck...maybe I can take a vicarious vacation with complete strangers." I hopped in the car and zipped over to WalMart, grumbling quietly about the fact that I never seemed to find a parking spot in the same state as the store. I dropped the film off at the one-hour and went to gather some necessities for me and treats for Betty, who had been batting her last catnip filled mouse around suggestively for the past few days. I knew how to take a hint. Photos and supplies in hand, I zipped home, resisting the urge to flip through the pictures until I was ensconced in my bay window with Betty. When I got home, I set the plastic bag on the counter and dug out the photos. The rustling bag brought Betty scampering and I scooped her up, settling us both on the window seat. She meowed and wriggled but settled down when I started scratching her ears before flipping open the photo envelope. The first 4x6 was a punch to the solar plexus. My fingers stilled and I stared, mouth agape. Betty butted my hand with irritation and I tilted the photo so she could see, "Look familiar at all?" I stood, spilling the photos onto the floor and sending Betty scampering off prrrowing madly. I held the photo up and to the side of my framed desert storm and stared in awestruck horror at the continuation of the scene. The shadow on the edge of my print was not, in fact, a Joshua Tree as I had always imagined. With shaking hands I pulled the print off the wall and set it in the middle of the floor, laying the 4x6 to the right where it clearly belonged. I glanced at the photos spilled on the floor and, one by one laid them in place, expanding the scene. Shaking, I stood and walked to the window and watched as clouds rolled in over the mountains and the first drops of rain splattered on the dusty ground. Lightning streaked across the sky, illuminating the desert that stretched out behind my house and the Joshua Tree that graced the right edge of my property. I moved away from the window and looked back at the collage of photos that showed the landscape I knew well. My haunting desert lightning storm taunted me from the center of the tableau even as the air sizzled with the storm outside, but my eyes were now drawn away from that bleak beauty that had always captured me. Now I could focus only on the remains of the Joshua Tree and the body that lay dismembered beneath it. The body with my face.
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Cause It's Been A While

This Week’s Theme: Start your entry with a fire. Acrid smoke billowed up from the blazing pyre, choking the air with a pungent, faintly unpleasant smell. Julia's eyes watered but she continued hacking at the arm chair with her axe, each whack causing a new hemorrhage of stuffing and ripped fabric to spill onto the ground. When she had worked a piece free she hefted it onto the pyre, laughing desperately as the flames lept to encompass the new fuel. She continued working at a steady pace until the chair, and the rest of the jumble of furniture on the lawn, disappeared into the flames. With the last piece tossed on the fire, Julia stepped back, admiring the way the dancing flames lit the front of their dream house. Four bedrooms, four and a half baths, a huge kitchen perfect for entertaining, and the sunroom and deck across the back. She and Rick had known at once that it was where they wanted to raise their as yet unborn children. Julia snorted and shook her head, dragging her mind back to the present, not the insane day dream of seven years ago. She watched as a leg from the dining room table disappeared into unrecognizable ash and began to laugh, unable to stop. Some detached part of her mind whispered urgently that she might have truly gone too far this time, but the rest of her remembered only the sight of Rick and Diane, the oh-so-perky next door neighbor, giving the guest bed a once over. She turned at the sound of a car in the driveway, her laughter trailing off as Rick slammed the door and stalked toward her. "What do you think you're doing, Julia? Have you completely lost your mind?" He reached for her, fury vibrating off his arms. Julia grabbed the axe from where it rested at her feet and arched a brow, her voice barely audible over the popping of the flames, "Try it Rick. Just try it." She hefted the weight of the axe, considering, "We did say til death us do part." He stepped back, his fury still visible. "Just sign the papers, Julia. We'll split everything." "Oh, I already split everything." Julia grinned and gestured to the fire, "Split right down the middle." She laughed, adjusting her grip on the axe handle, "Well, everything but one very important thing." Rick's eyes widened, "You're completely insane." He glanced at the neighbor's house, wondering why Diane, or someone, hadn't called the police. "The Nesters are out of town this week, remember?" She gestured toward the house to the left of theirs, "And having only two neighbors was such a great selling point for this house." Julia's eyes flitted toward the fire then back to Rick's, "And Diane, well, Diane is busy cooking." Hefting the axe once more, she brought it down on his skull grinning at the satisfying noise, "Perhaps you should go and join her." Julia dropped the axe onto the flames then bent and hefted Rick to the top of the pyre. Tilting her head and considering, she squirted another bottle of lighter fluid onto the bonfire then pulled a lawn chair close and sat. After a moment, she rummaged around on the grass near her chair and, smiling, poked the hangar, preloaded with a marshmallow, into the flames.
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Friday Fiction

This Week’s Theme: Pick an adult character (it can be a new character, an established character, or even a famous character from fiction) and write a scene where the character demonstrates one of the child-like habits listed here. (You can read the first part of the story here.) Seraphina curtsied deeply once more, careful to keep her eyes lowered lest he see the fire building in them, "Yes Lord." She caught the barest flick of his fingers, his usual dismissal, turned on her heel and swept from the room. She was careful to keep her stride and visage smooth as she made her way back to her rooms in the advisor's quarters of the complex. Having found out Malinder's duplicity primarily because he chose to disregard the intricate network of servants who kept the castle running smoothly, Seraphina was determined to avoid that same mistake. Especially as it seemed likely from the Lord's reaction that this might prove to be the final, fatal mistake Malinder was allowed. At last she reached her rooms. Still cautious, Seraphina called out for her shared maidservant, "Sara?" Throwing the bolt across the door, she strode quickly through the six rooms that made up her small suite. "Sara? Are you here?" Finally convinced that she was alone, she grabbed the pillows from her bed and threw them, one at a time, against the tightly shuttered windows with a throaty growl. "So close." She threw the final pillow, her voice raising, "I was so close to freedom!" Out of pillows Seraphina began to tear the blankets from her bed and toss them into a heap on the floor. With a final kick to the pile, she sat on the edge of the mattress, head in her hands. After several minutes of silence, Seraphina stood and gathered the bed linens, dumping them in a pile on the mattress. She quickly changed for bed, taking meticulous care to hang her gown and leave the bathroom tidy, as was her habit. Finally, dousing the light, Seraphina wriggled into the pile on the bed, wrapping herself snugly into the cocoon of blankets as her mind raced over this new, impossible task. Find Malinder. That was the less challenging of the two as she had a fairly good idea where he'd be hiding when it got out that he had provided a false cure. The man had no imagination and never could understand that he inspired loyalty in no one. She wriggled, pulling the blankets tighter around her as she yawned. Deliver a cure. This was, in actuality, less challenging than widely believed as she was one of three people who had created the disease that now drained the life from their Lord. But that action had been out of desperation and a need for freedom - not just for herself, but for the people. No matter what she did, she was proved a traitor to someone and her life was forfeit. As she finally drifted into sleep she muttered, "There must be a third choice," and prayed silently that she would find it.
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Friday Fiction

This Week’s Theme: Use as many of the following 25 words as you can. barge flare harsh ordinary sore bore floor hoard rare torch carve folklore lair scorn tore fare gorge lord snare unicorn flair hare marvelous soar warn (I'm pretty sure I used them all) She barged through the door to his lair, pushing her way ahead of the servant who shrunk away from the marvelous display of temper. "My lord," she began, even as she swept into a deep curtsey that took her closer to the floor than truly necessary for a show of respect. In fact, her flair for the dramatic hid the scorn that lingered on the edges of her actions. "Yes?" His voice was harsh and gravelly. He swiveled in his chair, his face remaining hidden in shadow, flickers of light from the nearby torch casting eerie shadows over his gnarled hands and spindly fingers that continuously stroked the rare and prized unicorn horn that had become his constant companion. She straightened, swallowing to quell the rising of her gorge as he faced her. There was nothing ordinary about his appearance. He bore the oozing sore as a badge of honor and those who expressed revulsion did not fare well. "I have come to warn you. The folklore brought to you by Malinder was incomplete. Should you carve into the horn with the sharpened bone of a spring hare as instructed the result will not be the healing and immortality you crave." His anger was reflected only by the flare of the torches in the room, his voice remained calm, "Malinder suggested you would bring me this news," one spindly finger tapped the horn, "he felt you would attempt to snare the horn and hoard immortality for yourself. Have you a defense?" "My lord, I have ever been your faithful advisor, never seeking to advance myself and proving my loyalty time and again when those less faithful tore the veil, necessitating this quest. You know I had not part in this. Yet, if you have lost faith in me and choose instead to believe Malinder, then I can not and will not seek to defend myself. Instead, I will ask only to be released from your service." Silence, interrupted only by the spitting of the torches and the clicking of a single fingernail against the horn, stretched across the room. Finally, his finger stilled and the barest wheeze preceeded his gravelly voice, "Very well." Her heart, beating frantically, began to soar as she whispered, "I am released?" "No. I accept your warning. Bring to me the traitor Malinder and find the remedy you have sworn to provide."
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Friday Fiction: Even Spies Need Cash

This Week’s Theme: Pick one item from each column. Roughly sketch out a short scene that includes the character you selected and the situation you selected. The scene should begin or end with one of the characters performing the action you selected. Don't be too literal--there is creative leeway as long as the building blocks are still recognizable. This scene should be generally compatible with your character from last week's challenge. For instance, in my case I wrote about someone who presides over a Wizard's Union, so if I chose the situation involving a broken down car, I'd need to make the car into a horse-drawn coach. I hope these are generic enough that the situations can come out dramatic, funny, or anywhere in between. You'll have to click over to see the columns and options, I don't feel like replicating them all. However, my selections are the following: Character -- member of a secret society who brags about it (well, secret agency) Situation -- stuck in an elevator with an ex Action -- rips up a plane ticket (well, shuttle ticket) I've never minded having all eyes on me. In fact, it's one of the things I love most about my job. I spend my days on classified assignments, but never really have to try and appear, well, covert. They've given me sneakier assignments, where a low profile was needed, but at the end of the day we all agree I'm just not suited for that. Today is a pretty typical day. I got my briefing, such as it is, this morning at breakfast. Usually our briefings are like any staff meeting. Anyone not on assignment comes to a big conference room and assignments are handed out and discussed. I was terribly disappointed when I first joined and attended my first post-recovery staff meeting. I expected a shadowed figure in a chair with a deep, mysterious voice and data crystals that would self destruct after playing. In reality, Janelle, who is five feet and not an inch over and on the skinny side of slender, leads a brisk, business-like staff meeting. The only mystery is that no one is really sure if Janelle is a Modified or not. Anyway, I was surprised when the computer announced Janelle at my door while I was still aimlessly stirring coffee and wondering if I would finally get a posting or if that ridiculous, PR motivated interview "assignment" had killed any chance of a career that I might have. And all of that culimnates in me standing here in this marble bank lobby at five minutes to blessed nine o'clock in the morning. Today I'm taller than I like, hovering just over the six foot mark. And that's before the four inch heels that go with Marlinda DeLaToria's usual costuming. In fact, it's good that I'm a bit of an exhibitionist at heart, because this sleek black skirted suit would be modest on someone roughly five inches shorter. As it is, I'm even noticing the flashes of leg reflecting in the mirrored columns as I stride across the lobby with brisk, business-like clips of my heels. I stop just before the chrome and glass door and smooth a wisp of thick black hair back into place, checking the tightness of the french twist and giving a surreptitious check to the pale violet lenses that are a distinctive feature of Ms. DeLaToria. Once inside, I flash a smile at the tellers who are setting up for business. They don't notice as they're all synthoids, but the security cameras would. Calling for the elevator I wonder idly if DeLaToria smiles out of pity or smug superiority. Shrugging mentally I step in, noting that Devon Martaan, Senior Vice President in charge of Lending is right on time in his usual place behind the buttons. Inwardly I roll my eyes, what a control freak. "Good morning, Mr. Martaan." Another brief smile before pretending to rummage in my bag to cover the sound of a quiet beep as I release a virus wirelessly into the security system, destroying the day's data and rendering the system useless. "19 please." After pressing the button he turns and I catch him eyeing my legs in the reflection of the marble floor. "Ms. DeLaToria." He inclines his head slightly and a smile flickers at the corner of his mouth, broadening as he notes our position between floors an instant before he stops the elevator car. "Marlinda," he moves to stand close, and runs his knuckles down my arm, "What's it going to take for you to admit what's between us?" "There's nothing between us, Mr. Martaan." I deliberately move to the other side of the elevator, "Nothing but air, at least. Let's keep that part true, shall we?" Smiling innocently I slip a small laser stunner out of my bag and aim it at him. Chuckling, Devon reaches into the breast pocket of his suit and holds up two shuttle voucher envelopes. "Now, now, Marlinda. First class, see?" He glances at the envelopes then back at me, "So let's take a little trip, get to know each other better, and discuss your career advancement opportunities. You know the Old Man listens to me." "I see you're smarmy as ever, Devon. This is going to be more enjoyable an assignment than I'd thought. You see, Marlinda won't be joining you on your little trip. Sadly she was collatoral damage because you've become more than the nuisance you were when we were dating." I position myself in front of the elevator buttons as I speak, but continue to aim the stunner steadily. "You don't recognize me? Now I'm crushed." Rapidly I morph from Marlinda's image to my original. As myself, I waggle my fingers in a friendly wave, "How many years did we date while you did whatever it took to get to the top here?" I resumed Marlinda's shape and quickly checked the French twist. "Surely you didn't forget that I have records of your embezzlement proclivities. Didn't you figure out that I joined the C-corps? I figured you for someone just a little more clever, I guess. But then, who in their right mind tries to steal from the Corps? I guess it just proves where your mind is." Reaching over, I chuckle quietly at the dumbstruck look on his face and pluck the tickets from his unresisting hand, shred them, then tuck the pieces into his breast pocket, taking a moment to pat his cheek lightly. "Bye now." I spin the dial on the laser stunner to vaporize and in an instant Devon is nothing more than an acrid smell and bitter memories. Starting the elevator again, I press the button for the lobby. A security droid meets me when the door opens, and I give him a harried glance, "Wouldn't you know the elevator malfunctions on a day I left an important data cube at home? Please let my scheduler know I'm running late, would you?" The droid nods in acknowledgment as I glance at my watch. Five after nine. I smile as my heels clip hurriedly across the lobby. Not bad for a day's work.
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Fiction Friday

This Week’s Theme: Choose one of the following odd character names and create a character sketch to go along with it. The genre, if any, is up to you. I leave it up to you to decide exactly what the sketch includes, but don’t just give us a physical description and a career, tell us about the character. Some common features of a character sketch: physical description, job, hobbies, education, family, habits, fears, dreams, history and anything else that helps you understand the character better. Make it an interesting character because we’re going to use them in a future [Fiction] Friday. Marmalade, Zilch, Silence, Gerund Minty, Wicked, Electron, Ism Broke, Hex, Yule, Eave Siren, Parsley, Tart, Deal Ebb, Surreal, Tepid, Dime Hi. My name is Silence Golden. I can wait while you compose yourself, I'm used to it. My parents, as you might imagine, have a rather odd sense of humor. Either that or they're big proponents of the "Seen and not heard" method of child rearing - I never really could decide for all I grew up with them. There certainly were times when they wished I would just hush, but I think my name brought out an extroverted streak in me that they never could have anticipated. But for all of the eye rolling that I do about my name, it's never really crossed my mind to have it changed. After being 'Silence' for 28 years it's tough to imagine responding to something as normal as Diane. And, once you get past the inevitable attempts to make a joke you haven't heard, it's kind of fun to know you're unique. Or at least mostly unique. If I recall correctly, the Quakers used to think Silence was a perfectly good first name. But don't quote me on that, Earth History was never my best subject. Since I don't allow photos - and I appreciate you respecting that condition of this interview - I suppose it's only fair to send you a description, though you have to understand that what I look like today in no way guarantees what I'm going to look like tomorrow. Or for that matter, later on this evening. But right now I'm about 5'10", on the thin side, with shoulder length pink hair. Yes, pink. Since I'm not out on assignment right now and thus don't really need to try and blend in overly, I thought I'd try out something fun. But I could get orders at any time and then it'll be back to something more normal most likely. Though I did actually have one assignment...well, I don't think that's been declassified yet, but the hair was excellent. This is my favorite height, so I choose it a lot when I'm on leave. I can't get much taller without appearing too thin and giving away that there could be something amiss, and being shorter, well that just makes me feel entirely too average. My eyes are blue, always. It's a side effect of the blindness, which is a side effect of the Chameleon Mutation. They tell you all of this before you enlist, but it's the only thing I regret. My eyes used to be a very pretty green. Still, there are lenses - today I've matched them with my hair just for fun - so you can play with all the different eye shades you could possibly imagine. In fact, you really have to have lenses in at all times, apparently there are some complications that can arise if your eyes are unprotected. How are you an agent if you're blind? Well, that's one of the trade secrets. They cover it in orientation once you've recovered from Mutating. But essentially it's to do with other characteristics they look for during the selection process. An ability to adapt, if you will. In fact, if you're not already chamelon-like, chances are the selection committee would never approach you. Other than my work and my unique physical characteristics, I'm just like anyone else. I keep in touch with my familiy - they're still back home, and no, I won't tell you where home is and don't bother searching records. There are no links between Silence Golden and my family anymore - and it's not like Golden is a particularly uncommon name; not since the re-naming initiative. We're a pretty typical family: one boy, one girl. My parents didn't bother trying to get permission for more children than replacement quotas allow - they said something about us being a handful as it was. My brother is older, though he hasn't quite decided what he's doing with his life yet. I think me joining the C-corps threw him off his stride. I feel bad about that, but this is where I was meant to be - I've never been more sure of anything in my life. Beyond that, I enjoy all the usual things - travel on and off planet, watching sports, and I play a mean game of poker. My initial degree was in journalism so I'm a bit of a news junkie. My secondary and tertiary degrees are all part of C-corps training, so I can't really talk about them. Habits, fears and dreams, hm? They train you out of habits that would identify you, it's one of the reasons I'm so good at poker, so if I have any and no one in our standard evaluation has pointed them out, then I've got bigger problems on my hands than a habit. As for fears, I'd just as soon not say explicitly, but I've seen what can happen if the mutation goes haywire and I've taken precautions to see that I don't live through it if it happens. Dreams? What could be better than being in C-corps? I'm living my dream. Ok - that's really all the time I have, I'm sure you had more questions but I've got another comm light flashing. The transcript will be reviewed by security, edited, and once it's approved you'll be allowed to leave the holding area with a copy. Anything edited will also be excised from your memory, like it said in the release you signed when you asked for the interview. Have a good one.
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Friday Fiction

This Week’s Theme: This Week’s Challenge: Pick a mythical person or creature (e.g., Santa, Thor, Easter Bunny), and explain through dialogue, essay, or anything else, why they are unhappy with their job or position in life. Nag, nag, nag. This is the summary of my life, and frankly, I'm about ready to retire. People think that I have some cushy job that really only involves work one day a year. Well, let me just say to those idiots, being Santa Claus isn't exactly a walk in the park. First off, the whole "Santa" thing - look, my name is Nick. Just once, I'd like to be called by my first name and not have it prefaced by "St." - and let's just leave the whole "Father Christmas" thing completely alone. Even Mrs. Claus, I mean Edna, calls me "Santa Baby". Besides that, I like getting mail just as much as the next person, but if you'd go ahead and ask your kids to at least pretend to care how I'm doing before they start in with their littany of demands, it'd go a long way toward me shortening the "Naughty" list. (And gosh - you parents need to chill. Sometimes your kids get on the Naughty list and, well, frankly, that's your fault. Don't go grumbling and making me the bad guy just because you're too lazy to correct their behavior, and then when they pitch a fit, don't be siccing your lawers on me. You know I keep a list of Naughty and Nice, it's part of my job, so deal with it. If you want off the Naughty list, you know what you need to do.) Then there's the elves. I don't know what kind of whitewash job they've done on the public, but elves are not good coworkers. You've never met a more onery bunch of control freaks than elves. There's no skipping, whistling, or singing while they're in the workshop. I think they hate their jobs more than I hate mine, so at least that's some consolation - especially since they unionized last year and now in addition to the free room, board, 360 days off a year - paid mind you, and health care, they've decided they need a salary. Of course, they haven't got anything to spend it on here at the North Pole, so they'll disappear to Vegas for weeks at a time and come back drunk and broke (and covered in ridiculous gold chains - bling just doesn't work on elves). Try making toys when you entire staff is detoxing. And medical bills have gone through the roof now that at least a quarter of them are in rehab at any one time. Though I have to give them props, I guess, for realizing they need help and trying to fix their life. Even if they do decide that the only place they could possibly recover is somewhere in L.A. (Between you, me, and Rudolph here, I think half of them are hoping to get jobs in the movies and pitch the whole toy making racket. Heck, if I thought they'd hire a fat man with white hair, I'd be down there too. Edna looks great in a two-piece and has been complaining about all the cold lately.) As for the sleigh and reindeer - it's not exactly a stretch limo. It's bumpy and cold and, well, when a reindeer's got to go, it's got to go, which makes for some interesting dodging with the wind whipping in your face. Frankly, you just pretend everything wet that hits you is snow and anything blackish on you is soot - dwelling on reality is just depressing. Add to that the fact that we've had to change our route considerably since NASA got some ridiculous idea to start tracking us by satellite - we can't even go the fast way anymore, so most days I don't get home for a quiet evening by the fire with Edna. I'm lucky if I have time for a shower before those bratty little elves are up and clamoring for their presents and year end bonuses. Day off? Ha! Just as soon as I'm back and the elves taken care of the reports of all the "maybe next year" start pouring in. And thank you notes? That'll be the day. One of these years, you mark my words, I'm going to put everyone on the naughty list, lay off the elves, and retire.
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A Cinquain for Friday

Tired

Eyelids drooping,

oxygen seems so scarce

that yawns are inevitable.

Nap time.

April is National Poetry Month

In case you didn't know. I know you know, but there's always the chance that you've forgotten. Anyway, in honor of such, and because I love poetry, I am reinstituting for the heck of it my much ignored magnetic poetry challenge. I imagine I'll do one each week in April, unless I do more. Or less. We shall see.

Rules are simple:

• You must use as many of the words given as you possibly can and still come up with a coherent, cohesive poem.
• You can modify words as needed (pluralize, etc.) however those who can manage without excessive modification will score better than those who can't.
  
• Scoring is completely arbitrary. And there isn't a prize. (Well, beyond knowing you've crafted something lovely and lyrical and contributed to the celebration of a joyful artform.)
• You can add words as needed, or reuse them if you like. But as with modifications, you score higher if you can avoid it.
• Deadline for submission (as a comment to this post) is Saturday (4/7/07). Or you can email them to me (sleepybeth - at symbol dealie - gmail) and I'll post them for you. You can be A. Nonymous if you like.
  

So, without further ado, the words (drawn with complete randomness from my giant bowl of magnetic poetry words) for this challenge are the following:

• have
• moon
• want
• at
  
• skin
• arm
• always
• are
• woman
• dress
• honey
• cry
• power
• chocolate
• luscious
• read
• they
• smear
• under
• after
• and
• winter
• with
• them
• petal
• above
• will
• and

Happy poetry-making! (I'll post my own concoction after I come up with one. Maybe in and around the Saturday timeframe.)

(Apologies for multiple publications if you saw this in your reader...I forgot the photo, added it, then decided it added nothing and took it back out. Fickleness, thy name is Beth.)