Anarki – 12

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Previous chapters here.

Staci drives alone on a county highway at night, cruise control set to just under the speed limit.  She fishes a Kool menthol out of a soft pack on the dashboard.  Her teeth clamp down on the filter to keep it in place, just like daddy used to.  A cheap plastic lighter clicks once, twice, and coughs out a flame on the third try.  Staci takes a long, soothing drag.  Her eyes water from the smoke, but they never leave the highway.

From the trunk, there’s a swift staccato of knocking, followed by a groan.  “Tammi,” Staci mutters.  She turns her radio on to the retro ’90’s station.  The volume goes up until Tammi can’t compete with Paula Cole’s singing.

In the passenger seat, Staci’s phone vibrates.  “Shouldn’t text and drive,” she says, and takes another drag from her cigarette.  The phone vibrates again.  She picks it up and looks at the message.

“YOU ARE TAKING AN UNNECESSARY RISK.  PULL OVER NOW AND DO WHAT YOU MUST.”

Staci snorts smoke.  “Why can’t you just tell me to kill her?  Don’t tell me you people at the other end of this phone are getting squeamish.”

Another buzz, and the phone brings up new text: “DO WHAT YOU MUST.”

Pulling her steering wheel right, Staci guides the convertible over to the shoulder and stops.  The radio still blares music.  Tammi knocks on the trunk lid in time to the drums.  Staci isn’t looking at her phone while she’s stopped on the shoulder.  In her hand, her cigarette draws a straight line of smoke that billows out when it catches the wind.  Her life used to be just as neat at the beginning.  Now it’s just as chaotic.

Staci takes a drag and sets the cigarette in her soda can ashtray.  She puts her phone down in the passenger seat and it thumps on the deputy’s revolver.  Staci flinches.  Another trophy of a life gone wrong.

For a few moments, Staci entertains a dangerously exciting thought.  What if she stopped running?  What if she turned around and faced what’s coming?  Staci held her breath and let it out slow.

It wasn’t Tammi’s knocking that drew her out of the moment.  Tires crunched gravel, and a blue sedan pulls off the highway in front of her.  “Shit,” Staci breathes.  “Shit.  Shit.  Shit.”  She reaches for the revolver and tucks it under her leg.  A man gets out from the sedan and waves, door left open and the engine left on.  He wears jeans tucked into cowboy boots, and a shirt that almost doesn’t cover his gut.  He smiles and walks up to Staci in her car.

“Afternoon, ma’am,” he shouts, competing with Nirvana on the radio.  “Car problems?”

“Nothing I can’t handle,” says Staci.  She flashes him a winning smile, not quite damsel in distress, not quite independent woman.  In her head, Staci tries her best to will him to get back in his car.

“Well, your radio ain’t busted,” the man says.  Staci doesn’t laugh.  He blinks.  “Say, can you turn it down?  I can’t hear what you said.”

Shit.  “I can’t turn it down,” Staci yells.  “I’m fine, promise.”

She catches his gaze move from her eyes to her chest.  He frowns and says, “Well, okay then, just thought I’d do the nice thing when I see a lady in trouble.  You have a good one-”  Tammi pounds the trunk lid hard enough to rock the car.  The man’s eyes go wide as his attention shifts away from Staci’s chest.  He says, “What do you got in the trunk?”

“None of your goddamn business,” says Staci.  She takes the revolver out and squeezes the trigger.  A loud pop shatters the air.  She missed what she was aiming at—his chest—but hit his neck instead.  Blood sprayed out like it came from a water sprinkler, some if it landing on her windshield.  The man gurgles and falls to his knees.  Staci turns her car off.  Tammi’s knocking stops along with the music.

Staci grabs her phone.  It buzzes with a message: “FIX THIS QUICKLY.”  Staci wipes tears from her eyes.  She gets out from her car, doing her best to avoid the dying Samaritan.  She fishes for her keys and unlocks the trunk.

Inside, Tammi’s face switches from rage to fear, and her eyes can’t get away from the barrel of Staci’s revolver.  Staci tugs at the duct tape covering Tammi’s mouth.  Tammi starts sputtering something that Staci doesn’t care to understand.

“Shut up and listen,” says Staci.  She cocks the hammer of the revolver back, and it silences Tammi.  “I just shot a man who didn’t have to die.  That’s the second person I’ve killed today because you couldn’t leave well enough alone.”

“I-I-I,” Tammi stammers.

“Oh right, make this about you,” Staci says.  She puts the barrel of her revolver up against Tammi’s head.  “Remember that time when I drove your busted ass to the women’s shelter?”  Tammi nods, eyes down, submissive.  “Remember what I told you?”

“That-that-that I’m a survivor,” says Tammi.

“I lied,” says Staci.  She squeezes the trigger.  A deafening pop splits the air.  This time, Staci hits where she was aiming.  When her ears stop ringing, she savors what she hears.

Silence.

Minutes later, Staci has her luggage out and in the back of Samaritan’s car.  Samaritan is now in her convertible, behind the wheel.  Tammi sits in the passenger seat.  They both smell of acetone, from a good full bottle Staci kept in her luggage.  Staci turns the wheel and gets her convertible rolling.  As it heads further off the road toward some trees, Staci takes out her lighter and lights a rag.  She tosses it into the car, and she’s rewarded with spreading flames.

She doesn’t stick around to watch the Viking funeral.  Her phone buzzes as she gets into Samaritan’s car.  “HEAD WEST.”  This time, she does as she’s told.  She sees the smoke rising in her rearview mirror, the cost of trying to do the right thing.  She accepts that she doesn’t know what that is.  She accepts that whoever is at the other end of the phone knows better than she does.

Story Snippets: Sci-Fi WIP

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Ed sat alone in his medical quarters in orbit above Earth.  He couldn’t stare out of his porthole for long.  The rotating view of the planet did a number on his stomach.

His quarters were more than generous.  Ed could walk about five steps from wall to wall.  The faded gray carpet, as old as it was, allowed him to walk around barefoot.  He had a single bed which he made every morning.  Today, he had two cushioned chairs out, facing each other.  His had a holder for his drink pouch.  At least some things in space hadn’t changed.

Outside, Ed caught a brief glint of silver meandering north through the Sahara.  Did he see hints of green flanking the ribbon of flowing water?  Or was he imagining things again?  Both questions jockeyed for attention in his mind.

He did not have the courage to answer either of them.  Through the porthole, the Nile came and went, replaced by a cornucopia of stars and galaxies nobody planetside could look up into the sky and see.  As the colorful display spun, Ed turned his attention away from them and focused on the empty chair opposite him.

Except now he was back on the bridge of his research vessel, Tsiolkovsky.  He extended the navigation dome out as far as it would allow.  Inky black dominated most of his field of vision, save for a thin, white halo near the edges and cutting across the middle.  Just outside the halo, it was as if he were looking through a lens that tinted the entire universe a subtle shade of blue.

Ed held his breath as he beheld the singularity from the closest distance he dared to get.  His sensors and flight controls were engaged to automatically keep him from drifting too close.  On a typical mission, the information would be up on a holographic interface display in front of him.  This being his first mission to a black hole, he didn’t want anything to spoil the experience.  He was a scientist, not a poet.  All he had to enjoy natural beauty were his five senses.

Dispatches From The Sky Princess

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The airship Sky Princess lurched in the air like a leaf on the wind, buffeted by heavy winds from the storm below it. Its steam engines ran at more than full power, struggling to keep the technological marvel aloft. Thunder slapped the outer hull, ringing it like an over-engineered bell. Felicity DuBois, the ship’s engineer, pushed her top hat farther back on her head and polished her goggles. The engine made a coughing noise, with a bit of a sputter.

It should be doing neither of those things.

Her assistant Collins, a small but eager lad picked up in their last port, poked his head out from the crawlspace below the boiler. His voice came out in a thick accent, like it had gone out into the wilderness and came back permanently befuddled. “That got ‘er, mum?”

Felicity blinked. “I’ve told you before, Collins, Ms. DuBois or Ms. Felicity are what I prefer you call me.” Steam hissed out from the boiler in fits and starts. The ship lurched to port, pulling Collins from the crawlspace and flinging Felicity about the cabin. “Oh dear,” said Felicity, holding her aching head. She couldn’t tell if it was a concussion or the machinery making it throb.

“Oof,” said Collins, brushing himself off. “Beggin’ your engineership’s pardon, Ms. DuBois, but is this a good time to be discussin’ formalities?”

“You have a point,” said Felicity. Her gut flipped. “We shall take this up again after we stop losing altitude. I hope.”

Collins beamed, then scrunched his face in puzzlement. “My dear mother said I got enough attitude for ten lads. We shouldn’t run out anytime soon.”

“Altitude, Collins, altitude. Judging by the sounds outside and inside, we’re making haste towards the ocean.”

“I don’t know why anyone’d want to go there in this storm,” said Collins, scratching his head.

“Exactly,” said Felicity. She rolled up her sleeves and picked up the nearest wrench, longer and almost as thick as her forearm. “I shall now demonstrate advanced techniques in the field of engineering, Collins. Pay close attention.” Holding the wrench high, she brought it down with a calamitous strike at the steam exhaust pipes. She repeated the gesture several more times, administering it to different parts of the pipe.

“Engineering, this is Captain Miller! We’ve lost engine power!” The captain’s voice came out sounding tinny in the ship’s voice tube. “Is everything okay? The engines appear to be–wait, what’s that banging sound?”

“Nothing,” said Felicity, between swings.

“Advanced engineering, Cap’n,” said Collins.

“Are you hitting machinery with a hammer again?” asked the captain.

“No,” said Felicity.

“It’s a good sized wrench,” said Collins.

Another whack with the wrench, and the engine sputtered back to its usual noises. Felicity blew a strand of hair out of her face. Captain Miller said, “Ms. DuBois, I know you are skilled in all matters mechanical, but I fail to see how violence will solve our–oh hells! It worked! We have power! Helm, pull up! No, up! Opposite of down! Yes, that lever!”

The ship swung back to starboard, with just enough time for Felicity and Collins to brace themselves. A few of the rivets in the boiler hissed steam, but they stopped when Felicity waved the wrench in their direction. Captain Miller’s voice came through the tube again, “Good job, you two! Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll see about finding a way out of this storm. Bridge out.”

Felicity allowed herself a brief smile before tossing the wrench aside. “The most important thing about engineering, Collins, is that machinery often tries to have a mind of its own. Sometimes one must use a tool in a non-standard way to coax it into proper functioning.”

“I think I understand,” said Collins. “Use the big wrench when things get a bit on the ugly side.”

“Precisely,” said Felicity.

Story Snippets: Self Image

Image courtesy of the J. Paul Getty Museum.

Author’s Note: Here’s an excerpt of a story I’ll be publishing in my writing group’s upcoming anthology.

Clint fishtails his truck into a gas station parking lot just outside Flagstaff, Arizona, oversized tires pummeling the old asphalt.  He parks in two, maybe three spots at the side of the store.  His hand reaches through the truck’s open window to pull the handle.  It opens with an impolite creak.  Clint dangles an electric yellow sandal three feet off the pavement, held in place by the pinching fabric of an ugly Christmas sock.

He finds a step welded onto the bottom of the truck frame, puts his weight on it, and hops out of the cab.  “I’ll give that landing a ten out of ten,” Clint says.  He brushes the long, lime green strands of his wig from his face to put his sunglasses on.  They’re cheap plastic, taken from a different gas station back east.  The paper tag spins and tickles his nose.  A good snort sends it flying.

Clint’s corduroy pants whistle as he walks towards the front of the shop.  They’re a shade of purple he likes to call, “Mysterious.”  He doesn’t wear a shirt.  Instead, he has a woven fabric hoodie with zigzagging lines in turquoise and pink so hot it could melt plastic.  Clint stops and snaps his fingers, rushing back to his truck.  “Almost forgot,” he says.  He reaches up and opens the cab, searching the floorboard near the pedals.  His fingers brush over his .38 Special, wrapped tightly in a cheap plastic shopping bag.  The plastic crinkles as he shoves the gun in the back of his pants, the grip hanging just above his beltline.  He covers the exposed grip with the back of his hoodie.  “Now we’re ready to party,” he says, hustling back to the station.

Clint stops to check his reflection in the glass doors in front of the station.  He flashes a smile that doesn’t last very long.  Underneath his getup, he looks small, like a child trying on a parent’s clothes.

He swings a door open and hums along with the depressing electric chime.  The store has that floor cleaner smell, sweet and disgusting.  Along the back wall, the refrigerators click and hum while struggling to keep beer and soda cold so close to a desert.  A lonely soda fountain sits next to a slushy machine and a pot of coffee that looks old enough to vote.

Behind the counter, a middle-aged clerk sits with his back to the door, eyes glued on a tube TV.  Clint walks up and reads some of the handprinted signs taped to the open safety window.  They’re the usual warnings, no underage sales, ten dollar minimum to pay with plastic, no shirt, no service.  “Excuse me, sir, can I trouble you a moment?”

“Sure, what do you need?” asks the clerk.  His tone of voice lacks a soul.  He spins his stool around.  The plastic nametag pinned to his shirt reads: “Sundrop.”  Sundrop’s mouth drops open.

“I was wondering if I can get some change,” says Clint.  He pulls out a shiny, brown leather billfold, “BDENRGY” stitched on the side.  Clint takes out a fifty and lays it on the counter.  “I don’t like the way Grant looks at me.”

“You, uh, you gotta buy something,” says Sundrop.

“Of course, of course,” says Clint.  He scans the shelves of cigarettes and chewing tobacco behind Sundrop’s head.  “I’ll take a pack of Coffin Nails, non-menthol, in a box.”

Sundrop’s frown is the first sign of humanity Clint has seen all afternoon.  He gets the pack, sets it on the counter.

“Can I get a lighter, too?  And I’ll need a bag.”  Clint grins, a bland attempt to combat the clerk’s growing frown.

Story Snippets: Antisocial

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Before Nick gets out of bed, he puts on his glasses and powers them up. Ghost images flicker to life across his field of vision. Without much thinking, he holds up his hand in front of his face and opens his SmileMedia app. A red circle grabs his attention: seventy new posts since he fell asleep.

He uses one arm to get out of bed while the other flicks through the posts. Most of it’s the usual morning noise: updated statuses and automatic broadcasts from other apps. His friend, Ramona, is starting a new diet. Jax, his boss, shows off pictures of his new sofa. Manny, a digital acquaintance, announces his latest podcast and merch drop.

Although he shouldn’t, Nick hops in the shower while scrolling. A dozen new posts populate his feed. One by one, he flicks a soapy finger across his field of vision. He’s being offered ethically-sourced coffee from Somalia. A reminder that his free trial of the dating app Hook Up is about to expire. Has he found Jesus yet? Each post gets swiped away, replaced with another thing that must be looked at.

Out of the shower and dressed, Nick continues swipes in between pouring a bowl of cereal and finding a spoon to eat it with. When he opens his fridge, a dozen offers for groceries populates his feed. He accepts them all with a wave and grabs the milk carton. The milk isn’t too spoiled, not enough to draw his attention away from floating text.

An unknown number of posts and ads later, Nick stops a spoonful of cereal halfway to his mouth. It’s a single line of text, white letters on a red background. “Burn it down,” it says. A brief flicker, a flash of something – the message disappears, replaced by someone selling erection pills.

Story Snippets: September Rough Drafts

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Author’s Note: Here’s an excerpt of one rough draft I’ve been working on lately. Things have been a little hectic as of late, but I’m hanging in there.

Goran Talshek entered the small parlor, and the room filled with police constables stopped talking.  He had worn his magic hunter’s mask—the word for it was hargoth—for a year now.  The attention he got from it still bothered him, making him shrink a little in his blue apprentice clothes.  Goran pulled the brim of his wide galero hat down to hide the fearful and angry looks he received.

It could not shield him from the whispers.  “He’s still wearing the blue,” said a constable, not bothering to lower her voice.  “They sent us a new one.”

“Only cowards pick the mask over a noose,” said another one, masking his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Two copper moons says he’s a rapist,” said a third constable.  He wiped a greasy hand on his dark uniform coat and fished in his pocket for his coins.

“I’ll take it,” said the first constable, stopping to get her own money out.  “Though my coins say he’s a thief.”

Historical Foods

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Sometimes I come across interesting facts while researching ancient cuisine. While I knew that Egyptians brewed beer, I didn’t know that they also had an affinity for breadmaking. Depending on the dynasty, Egyptians had access to a bunch of different kinds of bread to eat.

I collect these little details and squirrel them away for later. They add flavor and depth to the imagination, a way of grounding the fictional in something more real. It also helps to make me feel closer to people who lived thousands of years ago. Just a glimpse behind the curtain of time is all it takes.

Even modern cooking is something I’m interested in. Sometimes I get to see how people from all over the world make the food they eat. There are countless videos on YouTube from all over the world, as well as food blogs. It’s great to see how people overcome challenges to cooking for many people, or what local foods are prevalent in a society. I feel thankful that there are people who share such things.

Baking Bread While Blocked

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Something I’ve been doing more of is walking away from my keyboard when I can’t write. Lately, it’s been to the kitchen to figure out breadmaking. What started as a benign inquiry into how food worked ages ago has become a therapy of sorts while I can’t figure out what comes next on my computer screen.

Of course, the bread I make doesn’t look like the picture above. They’re not ugly lumps of flour and yeast, but they’re not pretty, either. I see video after video of people shaping perfect balls of dough on their counters and think, “What the hell are they doing that I’m not doing?” It’s almost as if the yeast is afraid of my touch while it sings in everyone else’s grasp.

My latest attempt at breadmaking has been with something called a poolish. Basically, it’s a bit of water, flour, and yeast that sits out overnight. It does make the bread taste better. However, the bread I made also has a hard crust I haven’t seen since Germany. Yes, that bread was awesome, but I lost a baby tooth eating one (a story for a different day).

As fortune would have it, as I spent ruminating on how I can get a better loaf next time, I did get some fresh ideas. So yeah, baking has paid off for now – even if it isn’t in the way I thought it would.

Anarki – 11

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Links to previous posts.

Staci Blevins takes off her heels as she sneaks down the corridor past the gas station restrooms. There’s an emergency exit at the end of the corridor, with a bright red sign saying, “Emergency use only. Alarm will sound.” Staci pushes it open and scans the weed-choked blacktop. No alarm sounds. Nobody waits outside for her. The sheriff’s deputy must be gone.

At the other end of the blacktop, Staci’s car sits alone. She can’t see around the corners of the gas station, so she can’t tell if they’re waiting for her. Did they have a description of her vehicle? Is someone watching it? Those two questions pull her stomach tight and squeeze. Her phone – her lifeline – was in the car. But the police were here, and they were looking for her.

To Staci’s right is the highway and the most obvious route of escape. On the left, there’s some pine woods that stretch for miles. It’s a hot day, and the blacktop pokes and sticks to her bare feet. There should be a decision she needs to make, but her mind’s a little fuzzy from the heat and the long trip. “Fuck it,” she mutters, and she tiptoes towards the car.

Her hand’s on the door handle when the deputy says, “Ma’am, you’re a hard woman to find.”

Terror holds Staci in place, stock straight, one hand on her car and the other holding her useless shoes. In her head, she counts to three and takes her hand off the car. She turns to face the deputy and gives him her best smile. “I didn’t know anyone was looking for me, deputy.”

“I find that a little hard to believe.” The deputy looks like most law enforcement she’s met before. Short haircut hidden by a hat, windbreaker with the local department logo, uniform devoid of wrinkles. He’s clean shaven and his boots shine. He might be the same age as her oldest would have been. From his belt, he takes a pair of handcuffs.

“Are those necessary?” she asks, knowing the answer.

“Give me your hands, ma’am,” he says. The cold metal clicks into place, squeezing the knobs on her wrists. “Let’s get you to the station.” He reaches for her elbow, hand gentle but firm, guiding her away from her car.

In the passenger seat of the open convertible, Staci’s phone vibrates. It rattles something in her mind, but she takes a step with the deputy. Relief helps her take another step. She’s caught. There’s nowhere else to run. The next step comes easier.

Her phone vibrates again, and Staci pulls free from the deputy’s grip. The deputy reaches for her again, and she pulls back to the car. “Sorry, sir, I know you want to take me in, but it wouldn’t be right if we just left the car sitting here.”

“I’ll call for someone to come pick up the vehicle and take it to impound,” says the deputy. He doesn’t raise his voice.

This makes it hard for Staci, who has to take a deep breath. “It’s not the car. It’s in the trunk.” The deputy arches an eyebrow. “I’ve got a shotgun in there.”

“Thanks for telling me,” says the deputy. He looks confused now, eyes going between Staci, her car, and his cruiser across the parking lot.

“Can I?” Staci points to her pockets. He nods, and she fishes out her keys, tossing them to him. “Just unload it and it’ll be fine.”

He grunts and heads for the convertible’s trunk, unlocking it. “I don’t see a shotgun, ma’am,” he says.

“Underneath the luggage,” says Staci. The phone in her car vibrates again, but she ignores it.

The deputy pulls out a few suitcases and says, “Is it in the back?”

“More towards the middle,” says Staci. “Check under the mat that covers the spare.” The deputy shifts and tugs at the mat. He pulls out another piece of luggage, and turns to stick his head back into the trunk.

Halfway through the motion, Staci grabs the trunk lid with her hands and slams it down. The lip of the lid catches the deputy at the base of his neck. His knees buckle, and he tries to steady himself with his hands.

Staci pulls the lid back up and sends it down again. It connects with the deputy’s skull, and the car’s frame shakes with the impact. “Unghn,” the deputy mutters. “Please…unh.”

The lid swings up and down again, and this time Staci hears a sickening crunch. The deputy goes limp, and he falls from the back of the car. Staci kneels down and fumbles through his pockets, taking out his handcuff keys. She unlocks her cuffs and massages her wrists. For the most part, she avoids looking the deputy in the eyes, until she closes the trunk and takes her keys.

Eyes that could have been her eldest child’s look at her with a familiar emptiness.

Staci’s phone vibrates, and she seizes on the distraction. She reaches into her convertible, grabs her phone, and unlocks it. Two dozen missed texts. “I know, I know,” she mutters.

The latest one grabs her attention, one word, in all caps: “TAMMI.” Tears cloud Staci’s vision, and she has to blink them away.

Her stomach clenches again, and she sighs in resignation. Her phone goes in her back pocket. She goes back to the deputy, making sure she doesn’t look him in the eyes again. After a few seconds fumbling with his belt, she frees his gun from his holster. She makes sure it’s loaded, checks the safety, and then holds it at her side.

Staci tiptoes back across the blacktop towards the open emergency door, one more mess to make before she can get back out onto the road.

Story Editing This Week

Image courtesy of the J. Paul Getty Museum.

With all that’s going on, I’ve found that the short story collection my writing group puts out is a healthy distraction. The process is straightforward. We review each other’s first and second drafts and try to give constructive feedback. This year, we have a healthy number of submissions, which means I get to spend more time reading good stories.

I’m also looking forward to the feedback I’m going to receive for my own story. Sometimes I get a story idea that’s almost there, but doesn’t find a way to finish. The latest one I’ve been posting snippets of is exactly at that point. Something is in the mess of jumbled words I wrote. Hopefully it can get rescued before the final draft is due.

Also, I’ve come to appreciate deadlines. They help me finish stuff. I wish I could set more of them with other stuff I work on. That, however, is a different thing for a different time.