Writing by alphabete on Thursday, 29 of July , 2010 at 0525
"Devoia? More like AVOID-YA!"
Devoia didn’t know what to do, so she stood there humiliated as Jay walked away. When she got home she cried into the soft fur of her artificial rabbit.
Saturday morning Suzan called, all sunshine and roses. She grinned at Devoia’s hair tied up in a scarf and her one open, squinting eye.
"G’morning! I got some tickets for the cgrav show. Wanna go?" Suzan was highly in love with anything automotive.
"Suzan it’s-" she eyed the clock in the corner of the screen, "eight-thirty. Can’t you call after the time is in the double digits?" She didn’t want to go anywhere. Devoia wanted to stay in bed. "Ask my brother. He loves cars."
"Well…" Suzan leaned in close to the monitor. "He wouldn’t really appreciate the new models with ArTel. But okay, I’ll ask him. Maybe when he gets home you can get him to stop talking about booth babes long enough-"
"Wait, what? ArTel?" She sat up. When she finished rubbing her eyes and both of them were open Suzan was grinning triumphantly. Devoia narrowed her eyes: this had better not be a trick. "ArTel, really? Are you shitting me?"
"Oh Devoia, you’re my favorite turd. I wouldn’t shit you! Be over in an hour?"
"Half an hour."
While Suzan was chatting up other auto enthusiasts, Devoia hovered around the new ArTel-equipped vehicles trying to learn everything about their programming. The intimidated man fielding her questions stalled her until one of the ArTel developers showed up and she talked her way into an internship.
By thirty-six, Devoia Chagra had become one of the most celebrated artificial intelligence developers for counter-gravitational vehicles. It had been she who suggested that a cgrav should bond with its driver and become a bridge to the vehicle. This idea gained little traction until offworld surveyors complained that pets were increasingly not allowed to accompany them to jobsites. Some clever folk had figured out a way to run their pets’ ArTel in their cgravs through an emulator. Others turned to mods that enabled the pets to control some of the cgrav functions but companies put the kibosh on that as soon as they found out. It took their vehicles right out of warranty.
This was just the in that Devoia had been looking for and she quickly turned her idea into something valuable. Her own much-tweaked cgrav ran Rico Suave, named after a Twentieth-Century pop star.
In the years since school the friends kept in touch, though work and life had prevented them from seeing one another as often as they would have liked. After several years of spotty contact, Suzan learned Devoia was back in town. They scheduled dinner.
"And she wouldn’t let go until we were on the ground. I was so sore!" Erik poured another glass of wine.
"She’s never liked flying. I spent two weeks convincing her that she wasn’t going to die a fiery death in a cgrav." Suzan couldn’t stop smiling. She’d never seen Devoia so happy before. After dinner, Erik went into the kitchen to make dessert.
"Wow, I didn’t think you had it in you, Devoia."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean…I remember in high school, after that whole thing with Jay you just kind of shut down. I guess I never thought you would finally meet your equal in a man and settle down, be happy and all of that."
Devoia beamed. "To be honest, I didn’t either. I was happy, you know, with my ArTels. They can be just like people."
"Well where did you meet him? Does he have any brothers?" Suzan laughed, hoping she didn’t come off as desperate.
Learning in conspiratorially Devoia replied "It’s really all thanks to you dragging me to that show. I don’t know if I’d have Erik otherwise."
"Oh, did you meet him through work?" Suzan was dying of curiosity. Devoia had spent all her free time- ever- playing around with neural nets and learning algorithms. When did she have the time to get involved with someone? She hadn’t even seemed interested in people.
"You could say that." She tilted her head back and drained the rest of the wine from her glass. "I built him. Remember Rico?"
Suzan’s eyes widened. "The car?"
"Yes! Well, I decided why bother trying to meet someone when you can make someone? So I made some modifications and got a blank droid from a dealership. Then voila! Erik."
"Erik’s a robot? But he was eating!" Suzan could hardly believe what she was hearing. Erik wasn’t anything like the ArTels that were currently on the market as companions. First of all he seemed so…so human. "You could get rich off this. Richer. Hell, I’d buy one just so I wouldn’t have to bother with trying to meet real men any more."
"That’s why I made him and believe me it’s worth it."
With warm hugs and a promise to call, Suzan departed late in the evening. On the way home she talked to Ches.
"Hey, you ever, uh, wanted a body?"
"I have a body. You are in it." His voice was so impassive. Its voice. Ches was nothing like Erik.
"I mean, to be more than just a car. You could be a droid." The last statement sounded like a question. She wasn’t sure if she was asking her car out.
"Miss Bates, my architecture is incompatible with that of a droid. In addition, I am unable to want anything. Would you like me to take you to a dealership?"
"No. Thank you" she said quickly, embarrassed. After the cgrav descended into the port atop her house she got out, then paused.
"Have you forgotten something, Miss Bates?"
She shook her head then realized Ches would’t be able to parse that. "N- actually, yes. Ches: reconcile this drive to null. My authorization."
"Are you sure you would like me to forget our conversation?"
"Yes." She shut the door. "I’d like to forget it too."
Category: interstices
Writing by alphabete on Wednesday, 28 of July , 2010 at 0330
It’s been a rough week. I’m behind on the Roll Calls for the niner fiction. Pressing evidence for a stricter schedule if I’ve ever seen it. I beg a thousand pardons from all for this egregious lack of on-timeness. With all that out of the way and with due apologies to everyone who waited for this Roll Call, I present to you the most giant Roll Call ever, comprised of the last 2 week’s #SaturdayShortStories and this week’s #ThursdayTales. This is lots of stories! As always, if you enjoy a piece or have some sort of feedback please take a moment to leave a comment at the author’s site or on io9 under one of the handy linked hashtags above. With that out of the way, enjoy!
(Read more…)
Category: #saturdayshortstories,#thursdaytales,roll call
Writing by alphabete on Monday, 26 of July , 2010 at 0012
Hey guys, here’s a quick update/rundown on the Roll Calls situation:
I’m behind for yesterday’s and last week’s #SaturdayShortStories Roll Calls
I’m behind for this week’s #ThursdayTales Roll Call
I apologize very much for the lateness. I was very sick last week so I managed the TTRC but didnt finish the SSSRC. This week I was getting caught up but suddenly a pile of stuff fell upon me and I haven’t finished. I am working on it and I had hoped to finish them up today but it just didn’t happen that way because people needed me to help them do things and so I did. Not making excuses, just cascading things caused a problem.
Hopefully I will have this up by Monday evening. I hope. I have a day full of stuff tomorrow but I’m surely gonna try. If not, then it will be Tuesday at the latest. Again, I apologize very much and I know some people have been asking, and I did dawdle a bit but it wasn’t nearly enough to cause this kind of backup. I don’t think I really accounted for other life activities (when this started I didn’t really have anything else to do but that totally (temporarily) changed and I’ve never been good at planning things or accounting for contingencies so here we are.
On the plus side:
This Roll Call will include 32 stories. That’s a lot of reading. A lot. Believe me, I know!
If you want to check the stories out they are listed at io9 under #ThursdayTales and #SaturdayShortStories and if you enjoy one or have constructive feedback, please leave a comment for the author, it will be much appreciated. I’m making a schedule. We’ll see if I can’t get these things out on time in the future AND get some FridayFlash written.
Thanks for being so patient.
Category: roll call
Writing by alphabete on Saturday, 24 of July , 2010 at 0355
Inspired by a handsome, dapper writer with long hair and a sexy accent. Written for #SaturdayShortStories at io9.
Before Paolo had found himself sequestered from the world in this quaint little cottage he was renting on the grounds of the estate of Lord So-and-so, he’d been an inveterate party animal and wholly unashamed womanizer. The collection of suits and hats that were probably being eaten to Swiss cheese by moths now had been his uniform for impressing the ladies. With bespectacled dark eyes, swarthy complexion, and long hair he looked the part of a writer, and he used that to his advantage. There was nothing like the look on a woman’s face when he nimbly rolled a smoke and licked the paper, then flicked his eyes up to hers and said in his accent of his “I’m a writer.” It was a one-way ticket to Fucksville and he’d been there so many times it was reflected in his writing. Perhaps proving that sometimes you can judge a book by its cover, he wrote sex-filled mystery novels and women ate them up. His favorite artistic endeavor, however, was signing his autograph on a woman’s body with his tongue- the autograph wasn’t permanent but the memories sure were.
After one conquest, he’d awakened in the night, sweating and gasping. He’d been dreaming of falling.
The nameless partner to his left sat up with him and sleepily asked if he was alright, rubbing her eyes with one hand. She placed the other hand on his back and he started, shaking it off. The sensation was too intense, some sort of prickling feeling that seemed to be inside or underneath his skin. The girl on his right just groaned and turned over. Suddenly acutely aware of the feeling of the silk sheets he climbed out of bed over the body of sleeping girl and the protests of the other and sat in his leather chair, naked, to commence writing. The next day everything was fine, but some weeks later it happened again, and then again. He sought to mask the feeling with increasing amounts of hard liquor, but it worked only for so long. Those girls had it easy. The stronger the sensation’s presence became, the weaker his control over himself became and eventually he had hurt someone.
Della…that was her name. She’d given Paolo her body after he’d told her he would model his bombshell jewel thief in “Heart of the Night” after her. She was perfect: long blonde hair, deep blue eyes, and the most shapely red lips he had ever seen, with a shapely body to match. Della was a stunner and he’d immortalized her in name and in form in his half-finished work. Barry didn’t know this- hell, nobody did- but the last night they’d been together he was in a frenzy of agitation. He bit her too hard, pulled her hair, rutted her like a beast, ignoring her pained cries. Oh she’d fought him: clawed his back, slapped him called him a bastard, but the pain was what kept him going. He felt himself ascending, the prickling inside him growing, and he exorcised it on her until she was bruised and battered and sobbing. When he was finished he collapsed, panting, suddenly contrite and mumbling humiliated apologies while she hobbled painfully around the room, gathering her belongings to leave. Many hundreds of thousands of dollars later he had bought her silence and hidden his shame but that was the last time he touched a woman. Whatever was wrong with him wasn’t getting any better and now he was practically a rapist as well as an alcoholic.
Barry had noticed a difference in him as well, and had called to ask him about it sometime last year.
“So…are you changing genres on me?”
“What?”
“You’re asking me why your manuscripts keep getting rejected. Paolo, you write detective stories. What’s with all this freedom stuff?”
“I don’t know, I just- I don’t know.” He didn’t know. The half-completed noir novel was languishing on his laptop and he wasn’t able to finish it. He was writing a new story, again and again, and it had nothing to do with jewels or detectives or girls whose namesakes he had alienated.
“Look, man. We’ve been friends a long time and worked together even longer. Are you having some kind of problem that I am unaware of? You’re not like yourself at all, man. What is this new stuff, stream-of-consciousness? Bird men, freedom, ancient vistas, this is weird shit, Paolo. I don’t wanna sound harsh but keep it up and you’re gonna have to find a new agent ok? The market’s tough as it is right now and I don’t do fantasy. Better take a breather or something, pal. Go see a psych, get some pills, take a sabbatical.”
The pills didn’t help; that uncomfortable, agitating prickling showed up even under the meds. The psych blamed it on the alcohol. Faced with the decision between drinking and medicine, he got rid of the prescriptions and went abroad. He couldn’t relax any more than he could at home, but he found solace in the cottage and could suffer, curse, and cry alone. Eventually the prickling had cost him his laptop when he found that in his frenzy to rid himself of the feeling he was smashing the keys down and bruised the hell out of his fingertips. One day he found himself considering gluing thumbtacks or bits of broken glass to the keys to provide the painful relief he so desired. The realization that his body and mentality had been so perverted sent him into a fit of rage and he picked the laptop up and threw it onto the floor, destroying it. He bought an old manual typewriter that made his hands ache with its stiff keys and expended his frustrations on it. He could bang with impunity on it and it kept on working.
The birds were loud. The cicadas were loud. The colors in the garden were loud and the smell of the flowers was loud and the sun was too damn bright. Paolo took a drag off his cigarette, squinting his eyes against the smoke rising from its tip as he pinched it between his teeth so he could pull his hair into a ponytail. His head ached and his mouth tasted sour from too much vodka and vomit and the taste of tobacco was not helping at all. Another day with another hangover after another night of shitty sleep. It felt like his skin had wool underneath it and his muscles were tensed with energy he couldn’t expel. All that agitation made him antsy, irritated, and sore. He shook his head, plucking the cigarette from his mouth and pressing his lips together in annoyance. This was bunk.
He would have asked himself how he was supposed to get anything done in this state but he was, in fact, more productive than he’d ever been. Consumed with restlessness he’d tried running, swimming, even aerobics. Yoga was too calm and while boxing was cathartic he was afraid he would hurt someone or beg them to hurt him. While he was busy concentrating on the enormous headache he was trying to get rid of and contemplating going back to bed he became aware of the sensation: his bones were singing and his muscles were tensing. His back hurt from all this tensing. He was never the type to be stressed out before, but all this stress was definitely stressing him out now. Clenching his jaw so tightly he thought he could hear a tooth crack, he crushed the cigarette out and rose to go to his desk, clenching and flexing his hands the whole way.
Sitting in his straight-backed wooden chair before the enormous, old typewriter Paolo exhaled sharply and licked his lips. Briefly he touched his forehead and winced at the sting of his fingers against the raw gouges he’d created the night before. The vodka didn’t really help with his problems but it had become a familiar habit and a sort of safety net. Before he could claw his eyes out or his skin off, or any number of other things he could guzzle it down and pass out. This was no kind of life for a writer. He started typing.
Hours into the late afternoon the pile of paper next to the typewriter was ridiculously large. Why hadn’t he ever been so prolific before? Maybe fantasy was his thing now, because detective stories weren’t getting any traction at all. Snatching the page from the machine and dropping it atop the others he glanced at the vodka bottle and realized it was too early to start drinking it. Well, maybe just a nip. After draining the flask he tossed it aside and grabbed the manuscript to stack it, slamming it hard against the scarred wooden desk. He felt the slices of papercuts opening and he slammed harder, craving the pain. Anything to distract him. By the time he stopped the bottom edge of the manuscript was beaten up and he started to read. It was the same story he’d been writing for a year now: flying men and women, leaping from cliffs and soaring over forests and mountains and fields. Reading it filled him with delirious envy. Paolo wanted that delicious feeling and every day when he woke up he lamented being earthbound. He hadn’t been falling in that first dream- he’d been flying.
With aching muscles and shaking fingers he rolled a cigarette, spilling tobacco everywhere. Oh what happened to these magic fingers? The ladies would not be impressed. He laughed joylessly and sucked in smoke until it burned his lungs.
Later in the mirror Paolo examined his body. He’d been in good shape before but now he was so thin, birdlike. His cheeks were hollowed and the shadows under his eyes rendered him gaunt and made him look older than his twenty-seven years. Wiping steam from the mirror he studied his collarbone, ran his fingertips over its bony prominence. It didn’t seem this noticeable before, maybe because he used to eat regularly. The cold drip of water from his hair felt strange on his skin but he didn’t feel prickly yet. The burning hot shower did the trick for a while, at least. It was unpleasant at first but over the months he’d grown used to it and would curse in frustration at a shower that wasn’t hot enough to scald him. His eyes wandered to his shaving kit and he rubbed a palm against his stubble-studded cheek. He hated electric shavers but he’d had to resort to them because the thought of using his straight razor always spawned other, more gruesome thoughts. He wasn’t ready for that yet, but he was close.
He threw the manuscript in the trash. Barry was right about one thing- it wasn’t even a story. After venturing out to get more vodka and tobacco papers Paolo returned to the cottage and sat down to write the same story again.
Sitting before the keyboard again he started to type. The man, maybe himself, standing atop a cliff, surveying the world below. The prickling rose in his back and he typed harder as he described the feeling of wings extending, arms stretching out, leaning forward and pushing away from the solid ground. The man in his story fell into the currents and was lifted, feeling the wind slide over and under his wings ruffling the feathers. Paolo started to cry, pressing so hard on the keys that he thought he might break his fingers. Hell, he hoped he would. He typed harder. The agitation only grew and in a few minutes he abandoned typing altogether and instead pushed his fingers through his hair, dug his nails into his scalp and wailed, slamming his elbows against the table and the corners of the typewriter and everything else. The pain wasn’t enough. He stood, kicked the chair, kicked the leg of the desk, kicked the footboard of the bed, jumped up and down as hard as he could. Nothing worked. Finally he lay on the floor in a heap, dragging his nails against his scalp and face, sobbing as hard as Della had when he’d violated her. Nothing made it better.
That night Paolo decided to go for a long drive. The beat-up little car he’d bought to use was noisy and the suspension was shot but he didn’t mind- the bumps and vibration kept his mind off the persistent feeling of being wound too tightly with energy he could not expel. He didn’t notice the scenery and barely avoided hitting pedestrians. He had no idea where he was going but it didn’t matter because there were lights in his mirror and now he was being pulled over for erratic driving. It didn’t help at all that he was unable to sit still, fidgeting in the seat and gritting his teeth and breathing hard from exhaustion and rage. He slept poorly that night in gaol, unable to achieve the peace he could only get from doing the complete opposite of drying out. The next morning he was released and told to go straight back to the cottage. Instead he continued the way he’d been going the night before, ignoring architecture and other drivers and making his way to lush, green country.
He left the car unlocked. Standing on the cliff, he saw the sea, smelled its saline tang. It was nothing like the pristine world of his dreams but it was as close as he’d ever get. The sensation became a noise in his head and he turned around for a moment, looked beyond the car to see where he’d come from, the place he could go back to. The noise grew louder and his vision receded. That place wasn’t where he’d come from at all, and it was no refuge for him now. Facing forward he closed his eyes. He could feel all the tingling of the past year concentrated between his shoulder blades, shaping itself and changing him. He felt wings extending and now the prickling became power. Arms outstretched and with a ragged, triumphant shout Paolo leaned forward and his feet left the ground.
Category: interstices
Writing by alphabete on Thursday, 22 of July , 2010 at 0811
Written for io9’s #ThursdayTales and over the word count limit suggestion, this story is my second fan fiction (the first will be published for #SaturdayShortStories) and is based on Dark City by the niner known as kalaeth. Before the jump is 988 words. After the jump is a bonus: the ending!
Emil knotted the silk thread and slid on another pearl. Three of four strands were finished and this was the final one. In the room Stella had named the vault, all was dark save for the lamp illuminating the table. Mechanically, he made another knot, checked his handiwork, added another pearl.
Stella was so beautiful. Her laugh was infectious, issuing from her lovely mouth as the clearest and most joyful sound Emil had ever heard.
One day she came to him smiling, asking if he knew the penalty for stealing glances at girls without saying hello. She laughed at his stuttering inability to respond before sashaying away, sassily tossing her great waves of auburn hair. She could have been a Gibson girl but she left her hair loose and wore, inexplicably, trousers. Stella was fascinating. College-educated and with no intention of becoming a housewife, she was a girl who shouldn’t even have existed, as far as society was concerned.
Sloe-eyed and possessed of exquisite bone structure, she became the perfect canvas for Emil’s creations. After a tortuous apprenticeship under a man who for several years had all but spat on his every effort, Emil graduated into the world as a jeweler with a reputation garnered largely because of his instructor. Men before Emil had failed to endure Mr. Raines’ grueling routine and unbending dedication to absolute and unerring quality. It was only after he was able to satisfy those demands that Emil was allowed to create his own pieces and when he did the quality and beauty of his work astounded even his dour instructor. If it hadn’t been for him, Emil guessed, he’d never have met Stella. Stella with the perfect wrists and long graceful neck. Stella with the delicate pianist’s fingers and gorgeous earlobes. Somehow she fell in love with the fumbling jeweler and became his wife. As a wedding gift he gave her a pair of black pearl earrings. The rare gems instantly became her favorite and she induced him to promise to make her a necklace to match them.
To say the marriage was a beautiful, wondrous experience all the time would have been a lie. Stella was happy to model jewelry and work in his shop behind the counter. Emil, however, spent more and more time in the vault, designing bespoke pieces for his increasing number of wealthy and famous clients. As the Twenties roared in, Stella took up dressing like a flapper and her lush body filled out those tiny dresses in a way that caught the eyes of many a man. Her husband did not care for his one bit and he barred her from wearing such clothing and from working in the shop. Relegated to the house, Stella chafed against the restriction. Her hair greyed and some of the sparkle went out of her eyes. Her laugh was softer, muted somehow. She took to pinning up her hair and she looked a little more like a Gibson girl but it was only for convenience; she had a child to chase around now. Emil had emerged from the vault long enough to give his wife a child though he was making a bracelet when his daughter was born. By the time Diana was in college Stella had long realized she’d never been her husband’s first love.
“Let’s go to dinner, Emil. We haven’t been out together in so long.”
“I can’t tonight. I have to finish this ring and there’s still the set I need to make for-“
“When am I going to be worth as much attention as your precious damn jewelry?”
“How do you think I pay for this house you live in, Stella? It’s not free!”
“You hardly talk to me any more. The most attention I can get is you groping me in the middle of the night when you finally come to bed. I’m more than that, Emil. You used to love to talk to me.”
“We’re talking right now aren’t we?”
At a speakeasy one night, she sipped a gimlet and listened to people playing music that would never be heard in a legitimate establishment.
“Shame, isn’t it?” A man had slid onto the stool next to her. He pulled out a silver cigarette case, offered her one.
“What is?”
“These guys. They make such great music but they had the misfortune to be born the wrong color.”
“Is it really misfortune? I don’t see many of us being able to compose something like this.” She slurred a little.
“I’m Peter.” They shook hands and drank in silence for a while and he invited her to dance. To his surprise she accepted and they spun around the tiny dance floor to soft jazz. She did not, however, accept his invitation to come to his home. Disappointed but chivalrous, he sent her home in a cab with his telephone number in case she changed her mind. Drinks and dancing with Peter became routine and Stella bloomed, once again suffused with life. Emil barely noticed.
Stella became pregnant. Emil was unhappy about this, not wanting the hassle of raising another child. This combined with his inattention hurt Stella so much that she withdrew completely, made her bed in another room. Unable to mollify his wife, he began secretly working on a gift for her in hopes she could be reconciled to him. He wondered how he let this happen and promised himself he would win Stella’s respect again. She didn’t seem to notice and though she had stopped going out as her belly grew, she wasn’t talking to him if she didn’t have to. One afternoon she was napping when the doorbell chimed. Minutes later her bedroom door flew open.
(Read more…)
Category: interstices
Writing by alphabete on Saturday, 17 of July , 2010 at 1414
It’s looking like #ThursdayTales is growing! This week there is a plethora of flash fictions, a handful of drabbles, and a couple stories I missed because they were linked from a secret location in the comments section of an article. Sit back and loosen your belt because this week there are a whole lot of goodies, and you’ll need to have room for all of them. As usual, these are listed in alphabetical order according to the niner nickname which posted it. As always, if you find enjoyment please leave feedback for the author as a comment either at the author’s site or in this comment thread on io9. Let the niner fiction begin!
A job to do, Agrippa
When does dirty work become too dirty? Agrippa gives us a tale of very interesting rough men assigned to do a rough job. While this story is unfinished, this episode stands by itself and paints an interesting picture that I know I would like to see more of. This tale plonks us down in the middle of the action, first introducing us to some intriguing characters and pushing them into a tense situation. The sense is strong that there’s a much larger story at hand, and I’m curious to know what that is. Agrippa, I demand satisfaction!
Impatient, Atrum
Tom is an impatient man. Against the advice of his friend he embarks on a vengeful mission with consequences beyond what he could imagine. Wonderfully written, Impatient takes us into a cold moment, unpacking a lot of story in a small space. This is a bite-sized horror that only gets more horrifying as it goes on. Well done.
The Perfect Sandwich, Bamf.to.NYC
What would you do to save your bacon? Peter is willing to do all kinds of things to protect this valuable resource from harm. This tale starts off with a delicious sandwich and takes us to places we weren’t expecting. This one gets better with multiple readings (as bacon gets better with multiple eatings) and the details hint at a situation in which the BLT becomes, dare I say it? Poignant. Poignant bacon. Go read this.
Untitled, bookwench
This tiny little drabble tells us about the real menace of vampires, with imagery that sticks.
Windows: Or, End of Tour does not mean End of Service, bookwench
Niner bookwench, the limit-breaker and purveyor of stories featuring my favorite flower, has come to us this week with the sequel to last week’s tale of 2 people in a unique situation. Spinning the first chapter around, she takes us through the life of Saul, Gabrielle’s “keeper” from the first episode. This chapter took me a bit by surprise and really gave Saul life. I would say more but it’s hard to without being spoilery for both chapters, so you’ll have to read it. Here’s hoping there will be more installments in this delightful series.
Untitled, Eldritch
There are a lot of post-apocalyptic stories out there but I have to say this short story really grabbed me right in the orange juice pump (it’s what I had my heart replaced with). In just over 500 words Eldritch brought us a story that I thought would end one way and it most certainly did not. The twist you’ll find here will mostly be in your heart. It left me in tears, and that’s a great thing.
Mouse’s Tale, Eridani
Mouse works at a bookstore where she never looks at the merchandise. When Mandy from the sex shop next door comes over to say hello, the bookstore is revealed to be more than probably anyone was expecting. The power of books to transport is explored in this tale which is a little humorous, a little scary (just a little), and a lot of fun.
Beautiful, Gaudy Mouse Muad’Dib
This tale, based on (heavily altered) actual events, follows a young woman on what may be the last day of her life. Perspective plays a big part here, as does the rain. And pie.
Untitled, hdgotham (Hannah Wilson)
Evocative of mythology, this untitled tale takes us into the life of a woman who has amazing power, but suffers from a single critical weakness. Thus begins a chain of events that, to the perfectly fitting end, demonstrate what can happen in the absence of love. The imagery on display here is well-placed, not telling too much but cleverly populating the mind with pictures both delightful and terrible. A fine addition to the niner fiction canon.
A Question of Culture, jasongw
I found jasongw’s post in the abovementioned story at io9 about ThursdayTales. Since I had overlooked it, it seemed only right to include it in the TTRC. While he did not link a specific story, I imagined he meant the most recent one, and it’s very good. A Question of Culture is a lovely little tale of a meeting between friends that leaves one wounded. To say more would give it all away but the beauty in this tale is its immediate relatability to the real world. If you’ve had this experience, you will recall its sting. If not, perhaps you will gain a little insight here.
Bathroom Monologue: “I’d rather be a rising ape than a fallen angel.”, John_Wiswell
Fiendishly clever tale about a fallen member of the Heavenly Host observing the birth of mankind. Inspired by a quote from Terry Pratchett, this piece explores how the (supernatural) other half lives and what they think of us. How far have we really come, and will it ever be far enough from our roots?
Mad Scientist, kalaeth
Quantum Entanglement rears its head again in niner fiction, this time coming to us from kalaeth’s mysterious adventures. Professor Onzi takes the narrator (and us) on a wild ride involving a coffee shop that doesn’t serve coffee, the Egyptian pyramids, a cardboard box, and peach jam. Gleefully zany, Mad Scientist is a hilarious sendup of a previous ThursdayTales entry.
Untitled, Lacara
At one point or another I think each of us has wanted to be a hero. Lacara’s first foray into ThursdayTales takes us into a day with Charlie, who gets the chance. A wish and a magical stone give him a rare opportunity to save life as he knows it, and while I won’t say what happens next, the link is handily included so that you may find out. Whether he succeeds or fails, we get a good tale out of it.
Untitled, LittleDragon
Drabbles from dragons, it’s how we do things in niner-land. LittleDragon brings us a dialogue between a dragon and the parent of a missing child. With nary a wasted word this little piece humorously addresses the troubles of the venerable mythological beast.
Dreaming, Myseri
A park ranger comes upon a vehicle in the desert and his problems begin. Smoothly written and with disconcerting tension, Myseri delivers a tale that seamlessly meshes the real and the unreal. Rich with little details, Dreaming is one of those stories that’s a little like free-falling. Have a look to find out what happens when you land.
Cyberpunk Character Chapter X, Newton’s Law
Another tale I missed in the io9 post comments, this takes place in an unspecified but intriguing future. This one might bear a couple readings because it is dense but it’s well worth it. A courier is rushing to deliver a mysterious, time-sensitive package while its senders and intended receiver wait anxiously for it to arrive. The author says this is part of a larger work. I say good because the end left me wanting more. Bring it!
Untitled-Chapter Zero, RalOberon
Recollections after the apocalypse. Andrew thinks back to what things were like before The Fall, contrasting today’s world with his own post-Fall existence. This is a thoughtful, and thought-provoking tale about what it means to be your own person and what liberties we trade for the ones we think we’re gaining. Part of a series, and one I am anticipating reading more of.
Weasel Patch, Reavyn
Drabble from the incredibly subversive Girl Scouts series involving a boy who tries to infiltrate the Scouts’ camp. Short and sweet and a perfect nibble before tackling the latest full-length episode in the series.
The Night Owl Patch, Reavyn
The latest full-length episode in Reavyn’s Girl Scouts series, The Night Owl Patch takes us into the heart of the Scout country. The Girl Scouts have room for all kinds in their ranks, and here we learn about a very special group of girls. Instead of delivering the fear-infused tone of previous chapters we get to take a look inside the sanctum of the well-trained and exceptionally well-organized Scout camp. On one hand it is heartening to know how well Girl Scouts are trained. On the other hand, it’s a little scary.
Entanglement, ep.2, Scirocco_Mole
Continuing last week’s awesome tale about Quantum Entanglement, ep.2 takes us back to the lab where it all started. Even if you aren’t a physics nerd at all this series is good fun. You don’t have to understand QE (for now, no word on later) to get caught up in the geeky sci fi fun that is Entanglement. Keep an eye out, this could go anywhere, and I mean anywhere. (That is the extent of my knowledge about Quantum anything and it’s probably wrong.)
Clarence, The Great&Powerful Turtle
A young man shares his journey from childhood and safety to a time of uncertainty. Strong characterization and a sense of grim resignation punctuate this piece, giving it emotional power. I found myself rooting for the protagonist and sharing his dark moments, which doesn’t always happen for me when reading a first-person perspective. This is apparently part of a larger work, which I suspect will be quite interesting and am hankering to read more of.
The Lucky Ones: Chapter One, WatchingPreacher
In this tale, a young man discovers he is a “seer” and can envision futures. WatchingPreacher uses an interesting device here, that of showing us these potential interactions and their potential outcomes. The idea that the future is not a straight line and that myriad possibilities exist just after the next intersection of circumstance and choice is interesting, and this story’s exploration of that concept makes for a strange yet ultimately interesting read.
Untitled, WookieLifeDay
WookieLifeDay brings us a little drabble about two men, perhaps friends, perhaps enemies, who meet on a snowy day. That’s all I will say, so check it out. It’s mysterious.
Voyages Of The Sandman Episode 3, WookieLifeDay
The newest installment of the space opera detailing the adventures of the Sandman’s crew takes us into the sticky business of space crime lords and what happens when you owe them. If you like space opera, check it out. If you have never experienced space opera, dip your toe into the pool with this one, you won’t be sorry.
I apologize for the lateness of this Roll Call. I am sick, so it took me a while between napping at irregular and random times and general sick-being. I hope this enormous list of stories makes up for it!
Category: niners
Writing by alphabete on Thursday, 15 of July , 2010 at 0314
Which I posted about 24 hours ago at io9. It’s called "Wake" but it should really be subtitled "Read-Only". Here it is, enjoy.
Category: interstices
Writing by alphabete on Wednesday, 14 of July , 2010 at 1942
Another #ThursdayTales story, This time under one thousand words YEAH! Dedicated to S., who is a beautiful lady and doesn’t realize it.
Ugly. She’d always been ugly. Her father had told her so, her schoolmates had told her so, when she got older men didn’t have to tell her so any more because she already knew. With her head down and eyes averted, she made her way along the crowded sidewalk, finding momentary respite under passing umbrellas from the persistent drizzle.
Later but still early for her, with her hair half-clinging and half-curling she stood inside a chilly coffee shop and ordered hot chocolate. She was happy to get back outside where the air was warm, heavy with the rain and pregnant with the scent of earth. A woman passing by smiled and said “Your hair’s going to get ruined out here without an umbrella.” She didn’t care because what did it matter? Who was looking?
On the way to the drugstore she got splashed and grumbled, shaking filthy water off her hands. Inside, also freezing, she picked up a pack of cigarettes and a package of single-edged razor blades. She’d hesistated before but today was it. Refusing a bag, she stuffed the blades into her pocket and stood outside under the awning of the store. The world passed around her and she felt caught in the flow, unable to really touch anything. Blowing smoke from her lips, she flexed her fingers. They felt stiff and damp and wrinkly and cold.
She had a note and a will and all her things were packed. All she had to do now was strike the final blow against herself. In the thirty-odd years of her life she’d drifted, never finding an anchor, never fitting in. She didn’t belong anywhere and she didn’t want to be anywhere either. Her father had been right. They had all been right, and at last her stubborn will to prove them wrong had been worn down by her own experience. There wasn’t any sadness, though she was filled with regrets. Her apartment building was in view now. It was almost the end.
A screech of tires and the bark of a dog. An old woman was lying in the street.
She rushed over, dropped to her knees in a puddle and barely noticed a pebble stabbing her in the knee. The woman was fine, she’d fallen was all. The dog ran in excited circles, yapping and wagging its stumpy little tail furiously as she helped the woman up and began collecting the escaped groceries she’d been carrying: the rolling oranges and the packages of macaroni and cheese, a tabloid magazine. The brown paper bag had ripped so she carried the stuff in her arms despite the woman’s protests and helped her take them to her place.
“Thank you so much. Seems like it’s been terrible outside lately. Don’t you have an umbrella?” There was strong tea with sugar and milk, and despite her own protestations the woman kept her inside with cherry pie. The rain tried to break in but the windows held firm and even the howling of the wind did not induce them to give way. The woman sipped, her eyes appraising her guest who now had the tiny, trembling dog in her lap. “Frankie likes you. Usually he barks at everyone.” She chuckled and went to the stove where an enormous pot of soup was bubbling.
“What are you making?”
“Chicken soup with matzo balls. I learned the recipe from my uncle back when he owned the deli downstairs. Won’t you stay and have some with me? It’ll only be a while before it’s done.” She stirred.
“I don’t want to overstay my welcome, and what with the pie I should probably-”
“Don’t be silly. Your pie has time to settle. It will take a couple hours yet.” She turned, “Do you play chess?”
The old woman was good at chess. Frankie lay on the loveseat next to her, watching. She won, of course, but her companion hardly noticed. She had been enjoying her host’s colorful reminiscing. They had soup. It was delicious. Afterward, there was more pie, more tea, and then it was late afternoon. The old woman disappeared into the kitchen, leaving her with a stack of photo albums. She paged through them running her hands over the film and looking at the pictures. In her youth her host had been a beauty, with flaming red hair and big, spakling eyes. The hair had greyed and her eyes were squinted behind reading glasses but she still had her lush mouth and full smile.
“You know, I used to really hate these pictures.” She was back with a tote bag full of something. She sat down on the couch and Frankie immediately leapt up to snuggle between the women. She patted him affectionately. “When I was a girl I felt so ugly. Nobody liked my hair and my mouth was too big.” She pointed to a photo of herself in a skirted swimsuit. “See there? I was a fat-bottomed girl too.” She laughed and opened another album, one filled with photos of her and a handsome man.
“You weren’t ugly at all!”
“I wasn’t, no. But my Jimmy had a hell of a time getting me to realize that.” Her chin wrinkled and she pressed her lips together. “I miss that man. He knew true beauty. Girls threw themselves at him but he picked me somehow. I always used to ask him why and he would just tell me that I had a heart like a star that he could follow home in the dark. He’d have thought you’re a siren.”
Tote bag in hand she departed from the woman’s apartment, right across the street from her own. Indoors, she unpacked it, found a big container of still-warm soup and the rest of the cherry pie. On the back of the piece of paper where the woman had written down her phone number there was a note which read simply “You’re beautiful.”
Outside the rain had stopped.
Category: interstices
Writing by alphabete on Wednesday, 14 of July , 2010 at 1514
#WebFicWed, something I have not yet participated in, is upon me! And you too, of course. Here I have some links to some fine stories (by niners) which I think you might enjoy. Check them out!
Meester Bond, the_fonz
A great little drabble with a laugh-out-loud twist.
Savannah, kalaeth
A clever little fanfic of the increasingly popular Girl Scouts series by fellow niner Reavyn. Have you bought your cookies yet?
Tattoo, MamaD
Covered in the #SaturdayShortStories Roll Call, this one still gets me. Delve in to the Twilight Zone according to Mama Dragon, and mind the tattoo you choose.
Untitled, Shini: R.O.A.C.H.
Space, culture clash, and aliens. You can hardly get better than this entry to #ThursdayTales.
Enjoy these fictions!
Category: niners
Writing by alphabete on Sunday, 11 of July , 2010 at 0030
In light of the io9 user community’s recent success with #ThursdayTales, a new tradition has begun which aims to be a platform for niners to present their fiction which is longer form. With a much more forgiving 2,000-10,000 word suggestion, #SaturdayShortStories, in its first appearance, has brought out fewer stories than TT but the additional available length has imbued them with fascinating and sometimes disturbing depth. These are some fantastic bits of short fiction, and I’m pleased to be able to share them with you. As with TT, I’m posting these under io9 usernames. If you find enjoyment in one of these stories, please be kind enough to leave a comment if the author’s website allows it, and if not, please post a comment to this SSSRC thread at io9.
A Special Delivery, Agrippa
Five elite agents riding horseback through the depths of the underworld encounter madness and horror the likes of which would break a lesser person. A Special Delivery is one of those stories you need to read with that adventure metal blasting in the background. The descriptions are engrossing (and sometimes gross) and the entire story gave me the sense of being there, mounted on a horse, looking about frantically. There is not a dull moment in this story, from the character descriptions right through the ending, and woven all through the piece are the hallmarks of well-built camaraderie and the steely determination to see the mission through to the end. While reading this, I felt a distinct sense of dread. I worried for the characters and wondered what would happen to them. This is fantastic reading, and I’m hoping to see more entries into the niner fiction canon from Agrippa.
Tattoo, MamaD
In Mattie’s tattoo parlor, three young people bicker and posture, until one of them rings the bell for service. A badboy wants a tat, but something special, something reflective of who he is. Little do he or his companions know what awaits them. Evoking the Twilight Zone, Tattoo packs a lot of punch. The characters are well drawn and Mattie herself is an enigmatic and ultimately powerful character whose art touches something more than the surface. I was drawn in immediately and enjoyed every moment of this piece. Perfect light reading with a very thought-provoking undertone. Recommended.
Self-Portrait, Gaudy Mouse Muad’Dib
Nathan is a sculptor with a lot on his mind and much of it is bad. Practically hidden from his fellow man, he embarks on a journey to make himself whole. Unlike my usual brand of stories this one was an attempt at some kind of creepy horror.
You Wouldn’t Download A Car, mkirkland
You may be familiar with the acronym MAFIAA, but if you aren’t don’t worry, based on the looks of things you will be soon. Here, mkirkland again puts his incredible ability to make use of internet trends and their social/political responses to bring us a story in which George and his friend Manny find themselves taking the road dangerously traveled. With a brilliant and comfortable slice-of-life approach, YWDAC spans several years and takes us from a childhood filled with DIY technology and the wonder of creating it, to the cold, harsh realities of adulthood: greed, unfairness, and the stifling enmity toward creativity that is engendered when some corporation’s money is at stake. Can Manny and George get themselves out from under the thumb of the Mafiaa? I won’t tell, you’ll have to read it. And when you do you might be inspired to go make something. Again, I have to point toward “prescient” when describing mkirkland’s work, because it seems he’s got his finger on the pulse of the internet and I wouldn’t be surprised if most of his predictions came true. [Also available as ePub, PDF, and txt]
Here’s hoping there are more from these fine authors and that even more join in. It’s great to see the creativity flowing from the niner crowd!
Category: #saturdayshortstories,niners,roll call
