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Category Archives: Short Story

Each month, the wonderful Sonia M. over at doingthewritething presents her fellow bloggers with a writing challenge, usually to create a piece of microfiction that fits within a particular word limit and based on a simple prompt. It’s a great way to connect with other writers, and it can only help to boost your creativity. Isaac Asimov even wrote under similar limits, once crafting a short piece of fiction designed to fit on the back of a postcard. The man was a genius, but I digress.

This month, Sonia’s challenge for us was “First Impressions and Famous Last Words.” We were allowed to write any genre, but we were limited to one hundred words and told to create either the opening or closing lines to a story. Here’s my contribution.

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The explosion shook me off my feet, hurling me into the bulkhead. The airtight doors around me began to seal, red hazard lights flashing as artificial atmosphere vented. I scrambled for my emergency oxygen mask, knowing that precious seconds would make the difference between living and dying. As soon as I was breathing normally, I looked around again, pleased that my training had saved me but terrified of what could’ve caused such a catastrophic failure in the compartment. My communicator was still attached to my belt, but it had been damaged in my fall. No signal. I was truly alone.

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Was it the first or last hundred words of a story? I don’t know. I like that it could be either one.

Number Two in my series of microfiction stories inspired by Cowboy Bebop episode titles, this is Stray Dog Strut. Some influence comes from the same source as the poem I posted. It’s also set in the same universe as the other story in this series, Asteroid Blues, and my earlier piece, Trans-Planetary Express. Reading any of the other stories is non-critical to understanding, but you will see further references to them as time goes by.

Stray Dog Strut

My name is Dog. Well, it is now. It’s not a real name, I suppose, but it’s one that I go by out here. I’ve gone by a lot of names in my life, so Dog is as good as any.

I used to work for the Express back in the day. That was right after things really calmed down in the colonies on Deimos. With half of the other moon blown to hell, tourism dropped off big time. The layoffs hit everyone hard, but people in my line of work usually found something to do, whether it’s private security or public military service. But not me.

Things just never seemed to go my way after I lost my job with the Express. Without the cash for a ride home, I was stuck on Mars. They’d built the planet into an ecumenopolis after the terraforming, and they called the city Valentine, like it would have any connotation for the illiterate masses flooding in from Earth and Luna, or the few surviving Phobian refugees. I don’t like it here, but I don’t have a lot of options at the moment. I’m keeping my head up, though. I knew a guy who let it get to him. Last I heard, he was on Phobos at the time of the blast, and might’ve even been involved. No thanks. Not my bag, not anymore. I got out of that lifestyle years ago, and the Express hired me.

The new transports are faster and nicer than the Express was, even in her glory days, but they lack the sentimental quality she had. Now it’s all surgical steel, emotionless smooth bulkheads, spartan quarters. They’re more expensive and not as nice. The TPE, now she had everything. She was a spaceliner, though, built for affordable luxury travel from Earth to Mars. I’m sure that I could find work on one, if I really tried, but I need to get myself cleaned up before I try.

Out here, I’m what they call a stray, so going by this name is all the better for me to fit in until I feel like the time is right. Maybe I will get back to Earth eventually, but here, I’m a person who can accomplish things for the rest of the strays. Valentine’s beautiful, but not without its flaws. There are others out here who depend on guys like me. We look after each other. Besides, it’s Earth. From what I’ve head, it’s almost back down to 2023 in terms of population, so that’s a good indicator that things are looking up, despite the exodus to the colonies. They’re talking about building Io up into a global city too, so I’ve got no desire to move further outward again.

My great-great grandpa owned a little piece of land back home. Should still be family around somewhere. Maybe I’ll try my hand at farming. It’d do me good to get out of the cities for a while. Anyway, I should get on my way. I’ve still got to find a place to bed down for the night. Good luck to ya, son. Thanks for listening.

 

One of my fellow wordpress bloggers recently “liked” one of my posts on here, and so I decided to look at her blog to see what she had to say. I was fascinated when her blog contained this. You see, Joanna is a fan of my favorite anime series of all time, Cowboy Bebop. She also happens to be a writing blogger, and she has given me great inspiration. She’s working on a series of short fiction pieces based on the titles of the episodes that make up the series. Please note that this series will not attempt to directly reference Bebop or its universe in anything other than the titles. This isn’t supposed to turn into fan-fic. This is #1 in what will hopefully be a 25-26 piece series of original microfiction. Here I present “Asteroid Blues” for your reading pleasure.

Asteroid Blues:

You don’t expect the depression. It sneaks up on you in a place like this. You can do whatever you want to try to find a way around it, or a way to fight it. Doesn’t do you a damn bit of good. I’ve seen it a lot, so much so, in fact, that I didn’t recognize the symptoms in myself until after I’d seen to half of the crew being sent off. I just dismissed the signs, telling myself that it couldn’t happen to me. I was the strong one. I was in denial.

The Kuiper Belt is no place to make a living. The corporations set up the mining facilities and a few of the basic necessities, then they left. Now we’re here, sucking out ice to transport back to Earth. I’m sick of it. I’m tired of having nothing better to do when I’m done with work than going out and drinking. I’m tired of being so far away from my wife.

I know that I can get better. I just can’t shake the feeling that something big is about to go down. Something. My last memory of Earth was walking to my car, getting ready to leave for this job. It was the first real week of spring, and she was standing on the porch in a cotton dress, waving goodbye to me and whispering “I love you” in the breeze.

Why does that sit in the front of my mind, six months later? Because she’s gone…I got word today. The accident took her. Now there’s no reason to go back. Her funeral was a week ago, and I just found out. Guess I should leave the damn bar and go home, but I don’t really know what I’d be going back to. Maybe just one more beer…

Well, another month has come and gone, and that means that it’s time to post another writing challenge entry for Sonia M’s monthly challenges. I missed last month’s, due to my travels and being cut off from the internet for a while, but I’m back. Our topic this time around was “Make a Wish.” With that in mind, I decided to write this for you. I hope you enjoy it. Here’s “What Price Happiness?”

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Did it really count as a wish? Maybe so. I always thought of it as more of a foolish kid’s dream, but hey, what else do kids do? We dream, and we make wishes. We hope against hope that things will turn out better for us. We don’t think about consequences when we’re young, and some of us don’t think about them even when we get older. And if the joy we wanted turns out to only come at the cost of misery for those we love? If we’re lucky, maybe we stop depending on wishes, and start trying to make changes for ourselves. Sadly, all too frequently I have found that I have been scrambling to undo the damage that I felt I had caused.

Does trying to fix things count as learning a lesson? I don’t really know. I’m still trying to figure out when this went all “Monkey’s Paw” on me. I’ve lived my life trying to avoid regrets, ever since the day that I met her. Even now, years later, her words still echo in my head. “I said I knew that it was a mistake. I never said I was sorry I made it.”

Am I happy now? Honestly? No, I’m not. I should’ve known I wasn’t going to be the one paying the price for a wish that I never even intended to make. I guess it’s too late now, the words are probably meaningless, but I can at least say that I’m sorry.

I’m rereading Hemingway’s The Sun Also Rises today, and I blame Woody Allen. Actually, I blame Corey Stoll and his incredible performance as Ernest Hemingway in Allen’s latest film, which won the Oscar for Best Original Screenplay. Stoll’s performance was only one of the many constant bright points in the film, but it was this moment that really won me over. I knew then that I was going to have to return to one of my favorite books of all time. It’s quite the change of pace from the other story that I’ve been reading lately, and it’s always good to return to familiar territory.

When I was in college, I read Hemingway for the first time. I had read his work before, when I was in high school, but that was before I truly read Hemingway. Now I feel as though I am reading some of my favorite works for the first time, and so it is that The Sun Also Rises has made its way back into my hands. It feels right to be reading classic literature. I’m not trying to be a book snob or anything, because I’ll read pretty much anything and give any author a chance at least once, but it’s good to come back to perennial favorites. There is something almost indescribable about Hemingway’s storytelling that pulls you in. If you haven’t read it yet, I highly recommend you do so. He’s really not that intimidating of an author. Personally, I feel that he’s the easiest of the Lost Generation to really understand.

On the other side of the reading coin, there is the Lovecraft collection that I’ve been borrowing from a friend. Now, I own a copy of the Necronomicon, quite possibly the most thorough (and best titled) collection of H.P. Lovecraft’s work ever published, but it’s sadly hidden away in a storage unit for now. Despite the presence of perhaps only a third of the more well-known titles that exist within the pages of the Necronomicon, this collection does a phenomenal job of presenting some of the best work (albeit the shorter pieces) that he ever wrote, including “The Call of Cthulhu” and “The Shadow Over Innsmouth” within its pages. I read the former story while on an airplane over the Pacific Ocean, and I think that the only better way to experience it would be to read it on a ship in the Atlantic. You can’t beat reading a story where it takes place. This reminds me, I’m working on a piece at the moment that is set in a building not unlike my hometown library, with a few creative twists. I’ve never been in a building that is more suited for a horror story. I’m drawing on influences of Poe, Lovecraft, and King, masters of the genre, and injecting just a little bit of truth. We’ll see how it turns out.

 

Yes, I have Lovecraft on the brain. GET IT OFF!

Whew. So, Miss Sonia’s latest writing challenge is this: fifty words from one word. Mine was Euclidean. Enjoy.

Non-Euclidean geometry, they called it. It’s a mind screw. I think that’s kind of the idea. I’m not too sure how long I’ve been here now, and I have no way of knowing if there’s any way out of these damned Escher staircases. Too late. I can hear them coming.

Greetings, readers and fellow NaNo participants! Having already topped 1,000 words on the day, I’ve taken a slight break from all of the insanity of the first day of my first ever attempt at National Novel Writing Month to share something with you. This is not the original story I’d planned to post for Sonia M’s October/November writing challenge. I was going to go with something a little more tilted for yesterday’s mood, and you may still get that at some point. This is something that I crafted within the last half hour or so. Call it a writing sprint. I’ve prepared another piece for you that I hope you all enjoy. I present “Masks” for your reading pleasure.

Masks

“It’s not who you are,” she spat. “It’s who you keep pretending to be. Why can’t you just be yourself when you’re around them?”

I pondered this, not wanting to fuel her anger. She was upset enough as it was. “I dunno,” I replied. “Honest. I don’t even realize that it’s happening. I guess I’ve just been hiding things from so many different people for so long that I don’t even make a conscious effort to do it anymore.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Her hands were alternating, sometimes crossed over her chest, other times on her hips. Probably something to do with her uncertainty of emotion. Anger and compassion were dueling inside her head, and the movement she made was my only hint as to who was winning at any given time.

“You say I put on a different mask for every group of people I’m around, and I guess that I can believe that. I mean, to one circle of friends, I am a slightly different person, and then there’s my family, and even there I suppose there’s a different face that’s presented to my parents versus my sisters versus my cousins and whatnot.”

“You’re just now realizing it?” Chest.

“It seems that way…”

“Then what’s going on when we’re together?” Hips. Uh oh.

“When I’m around you, it’s like I can take the masks off. I don’t need them around you. Who I am when I’m with you is probably the closest I’ve been to my true self in years.”

“And I’m supposed to just accept that? Do you even know who you are?” Still hips. Defcon 2.

“Yes?”

“ARGH!” She stomped away briefly. “Can you at least give me an answer?”

“I don’t remember who I used to be. I’m fairly certain that I’ve been hiding myself from everyone for so long, that I can’t remember what my own face used to look like.”

“Why?” Chest. Maybe still a chance for redemption in this conversation.

“I got made fun of a lot as a kid. I thought we talked about this before. I was the easy target, I guess, maybe because I never had what it took to be an athlete. People seemed to think that was the only way out of my home town. Maybe they thought I was doomed, and so they were trying to toughen me up. Maybe they just didn’t like dealing with someone smarter than they were. The first ‘mask’ I would’ve put on would’ve been to hide the fact that it hurt when they said things like they did.”

A hug. I guess that I’d at least said something right.

“You never got over it, did you?”

“I’m not sure. I think I’ve moved past it, but I still put on these other faces when I’m around them.”

“Then it’s time to change.” She took my face in her hands. “And I know just how to get that first mask off,” she said as she kissed me.

Jetsam:

Commissioned for duty on a ship in a Gnomish navy, Jetsam was designed for ship to ship battle and boarding parties. He quickly rose through the ranks of the other Warforged sailors and soldiers in a desire to prove his existence as worthwhile to his creators. His great dexterity, Mithral plating, and skill with a spiked chain made him feared by any foe who saw his vessel approaching. Within the first year of his “birth” in the foundries, Jetsam found himself promoted to the rank of first mate on board the flagship of his fleet.

Among the Warforged that comprised his fleet, Jetsam was fairly unique in his fondness for humanoid flair and style. He would frequently go to sea in a tricorne hat, long crimson coat, and oilskin boots. Jetsam enjoyed the expression on his opponent’s face when they realized for the first time that they were not in the presence of a human sailor. When the war ended, Jetsam learned that the world had little room for a living construct built for sea battles. Without a navy to serve in, Jetsam found himself metaphorically adrift.

After several months of wandering, providing odd services as a bodyguard or bouncer or enforcer or explorer, Jetsam encountered a band of pirates who were thrilled at the prospect of having a new hand that never needed food or sleep. Jetsam found new purpose in life, hunting around the world for treasure. Tragically, Jetsam’s captain and crew were lost following a great sea-battle. The lone survivor, Jetsam found himself adrift on an island far from his homeland, in a strange realm where none seemed to have heard his name or seen his fearsome sigil flying above the waves. Eventually, without an artificer for support and repair, Jetsam wandered into a cavern filled with towers of chests filled with gold and jewels. Stunned by this vast trove, Jetsam set himself as a watchman, in the hopes that someday another member of his loyal crew might stumble across his location. Perhaps he is there still…Rumors fly of a mysterious humanoid shape carrying an everburning torch staggering out of the ocean on moonless nights and slowly making its way back to the caves in the cliffs, though none have yet been bold enough to venture out to investigate it.

Seriously? Yet another awesome writing thing that I’ve never heard of before? This is getting ridiculous.

For those of you who have played D&D (or other roleplaying games), the concept of character creation is nothing new. You decide on a race, a class, and some equipment, and off you go on your first adventure. Sometimes you don’t have a lot of stuff planned for that character. You never know if she or he will even survive the first encounter with goblins in the woods, but you try anyway. Poor Jor. He never saw that hydra coming.

Anyway, I digress. Sometimes the character you create is something more than just a one-shot hero. Sometimes you want to feel like you know them better than your best friend. That’s when this kind of thing comes into play. About three years ago, my girlfriend’s brother decided he was going to create a D&D world where we could have multiple characters living in different areas. Then, regardless of where in the game world a session would be taking place, we’d have a character who would, theoretically, be close enough to the action to participate. As we would all be creating multiple characters, we decided one of the best things to do would be to establish a character backstory for everyone. Each player was tasked with crafting his or her characters and their individual histories. What was it that brought each one of them to this exact moment? That was our goal. I greatly enjoyed each of them, and I decided that it was high time that I share a little more of my nerdiness with you. Tonight, I present you with the story of Jack, a wandering scholar a la Indiana Jones.

Jack:

Forty years ago, there was a small group of adventurers who roamed the world of Taesos, combing dungeons and caverns and castles in far countries to gain the knowledge of ancient civilizations. A man named Dorn was one of their number, and upon his return to his home city of Arnes he married and founded a small private university in the large manor that he built with funds dicovered in his travels. It was here that he began to pore over the information that he and his friends had found. Dorn began to study alongside his students and found that with the right training, anyone could accomplish astounding deeds. His school quickly became known as a prestigious adventuring academy.

Not long after, Dorn and his wife welcomed the birth of twin sons, Jack and Alexi. In an unpleasant turn of events of which not even Dorn know’s the truth, Dorn’s wife fled Arnes with Dorn’s best friend, Georg, and with Alexi, the elder twin. Dorn was left to raise Jack alone.

Jack’s childhood was far from dull, however. Living in an academy that was made to train adventurers was an intense experience. Jack inherited his father’s brilliance and trained every day to increase his knowledge and his skills in all fields. When he reached the age of eighteen, he set forth with a group of friends to seek out his long-lost brother, Alexi. After searching for many months, Jack finally stumbled upon his brother’s trail, deep in the mountains on Nyord’Wrend. Georg, it seemed, was a powerful illusionist who had sensed a dormant power inside Alexi’s mind and convinced the boy’s mother to leave her husband and younger son and join him in a quest for power.

Georg and Alexi slaughtered all of Jack’s companions and in what may have been a brief moment of compassion for his brother, Alexi teleported Jack out of Georg’s hands and back to Nirruna, wiping his memories of Alexi’s hiding place in the process.

Jack returned home distraught that he has failed to rescue his twin. He set about studying furiously that he might find some way of overcoming Georg and freeing his brother, and someday reunite his broken family. Now he is ready. He has set forth from Arnes once more to right the wrongs and dispose of all in his way, regardless of the cost.

For Sonia M.’s latest challenge, we were asked to write a fairy tale. In the spirit of building up the world in which some of my other microfiction pieces occur, I’ve crafted for your enjoyment a library fairy tale. Here’s “The Library.”

Once upon a time, there was a young girl named Ilyana, who loved to read more than anything else in the world. She’d heard stories about the library, but she’d never seen it in person until today. She’d expected something grand, and she was not disappointed. Towers soared upward, fingers reaching for the sky above. Tethered to one was a large airship, and she could barely make out the letters on its tailfin designating it “Bookmobile.”

The girl’s eyes were wide in amazement. Magic. It had to be. Electricity surged up and down her spine as she stepped timidly through the archway. Ilyana looked closely at one of the walls nearest to her and gasped in shock as she was struck by the realization that the entire building was made, not of brick, nor marble, nor wood, but paper. Millions upon millions of tomes, countless numbers of volumes of books, were housed here, within a structure made of their own kind. Spider-thin writing crackled across the parchment surfaces of the floors, columns, and ceiling, the words of long-forgotten authors lending strength to the library, binding the pages together with ink.

Nervously eyeing the guards who stood near the reference desk, she approached the wizened man and woman who co-occupied it.

“And what can we do for you today,” they asked her in stereo.

“I…I came to get a library card,” she whispered, barely audible.

“Ah, a new mind to fill,” the librarians replied. “We’ve been waiting for you, Ilyana.”

She gasped. “How did you know my name?”

“We are librarians, dearie, we know everything. We knew that you would be coming to us today, and we knew that you would be seeking this.” In unison, the two elderly librarians reached out, holding a small gilded piece of parchment between them. It had Ilyana’s name on it in a curved script, more beautiful than she’d ever seen it written. “You’ll want to go that way,” they added, gesturing to a long spiral stair.

“Thank you!” Ilyana grinned, taking the card and dashing off for the stairway. It seemed to go on forever, but the books and pages that composed it lent a spring to her every step. Finally, Ilyana reached the top of the stairs and found a single door, her name carved in the lintel. A small slot stood in the door, just at her eye level, the golden words above it reading “Library Card Here, Please.”

Placing her new card in the opening, Ilyana watched as the door slowly swung open to admit her. A voice from the books whispered “Welcome, Ilyana…” She knew then that this room was hers, and hers alone. She took in the walls and the books that covered the shelves. It was just for her. One book beckoned to her, and she opened the book to those first magical words. “Once upon a time,” it read, “there was a young girl named Ilyana, who loved to read more than anything else in the world…”