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Politics in Fiction (A Brief Glance)

Election day has come and gone. I have mixed feelings about the results, but I’m feeling positive for Colorado overall. That’s about as political as I’m going to get here, at least as far as real-world politics go. However, it did get me to thinking about the concept of politics within fictional realms.

Some stories revolve almost entirely around political intrigue. George R. R. Martin’s A Song of Ice and Fire is one of the most prominent examples of this today. With plot details inspired by The War of The Roses, among other things, ASOIAF is filled with characters who live for gain of power and wealth. They don’t care if they have to spy, steal, or murder to achieve it, and no one will stand in there way, neither kings nor innocent children.

Writers like Tom Clancy became famous for writing thrillers inspired by real-world political events, focusing on them in a modern setting. Drug wars, assassinations, and bids for the US presidency serve as the core for Clancy’s books. Events could easily be pulled from headlines and adapted to fit a plot, provided that it be done carefully.

How much sway should politics hold over your story? That’s really up to you. Do you want your piece to become an Author Tract, where it’s little more than a way to express your opinions via fictional characters? That’s okay, it can be done well. Do you want your piece to be critical of existing political systems in the real world? Or would you prefer to establish a new system as a thought experiment?

Frankly, I like the idea of trying all of them on for size, along with things that involve a complex world without getting into politics whatsoever. Developing a somewhat functional political system can be a fun part of world building, but be sure that you don’t let it overwhelm the story.

The Casket

“The Casket”

The casket was made of steel, polished and gleaming blue in the June sun. I didn’t know the man inside, but I knew of him. Everyone in town knew about the house where he’d lived for the last forty years. My dad told stories of how, as a teen, he and his friends had dared each other to enter Mr. Walter’s yard, to approach the house, to lift the brass knocker on the door, to steal a sprig of foxglove from the sunken garden. He told me that he’d won almost a hundred dollars over the course of a single summer. I didn’t feel brave enough to tell him that I’d never made it beyond the fence, but I always nodded every time he mentioned some detail of the grounds.

Mr. Walter’s funeral was simple. He was buried in the graveyard a quarter mile outside of town. Pastor Mikalsen came to do the service, and my dad and I were the only mourners, unless you count Zeek, the gravedigger (who only has the job because he lives nearby and owns a backhoe). I guess that’s what happens when you spend most of your life as a hermit, even in a small town. No one wants to come to say goodbye. Dad said he felt obligated after antagonizing the old man for most of his own youth. We didn’t even dress up, since we’d been out working on one of our tractors all morning. Two mourners whose only black attire that afternoon consisted of grease-stained jeans and t-shirts.

I told Dad that I’d walk home after the service was over, and that I wanted to have a little while to think. He gave me an understanding nod and climbed back into the pickup, calling for Pastor Mikalsen and his wife to join us for dinner that evening as he drove away. I watched as the pastor followed him back to town before asking Zeek if he needed a hand. When he waved me off, I wandered the few uneven rows of remaining stones. I’d always loved spending time in the little cemetery, even waking up early on Saturdays in my youth to ride my bike there. My great-grandfather and great-grandmother were buried there, and I soon found myself standing before their headstone. Zeek finished piling the last of the dirt on top of Mr. Walter and headed off toward home, the backhoe serving as his transportation for the afternoon, and I was finally alone with my thoughts.

I sat down in front of my great-grandparents’ grave and looked at the dates carved in the dark marble. They’d died less than a year apart, and only a few months after I was born. Dad didn’t talk about them much, and all I really knew was that we lived in their old house. Mom talked about her side of the family even less, though I suspected she had good reason for keeping such things to herself, and never prodded her about it. She might as well have been an orphan for all I actually knew about her relatives. I didn’t mind too much, because it meant a hell of a lot fewer road trips across the country to see them. There are only so many times you can drive across Nebraska before it starts to take a toll on you.

After a few minutes, I stood up and dusted myself off. I made a final round of the cemetery, being careful not to walk on the freshly packed soil where Mr. Walter now resided. I set off down the road for home when inspiration struck, and I started walking the opposite direction. Soon I stood before the towering home the old man had once occupied. Daylight, I mused, made all the difference in approaching the building. Even on a bright afternoon, the place loomed over the grounds. The wrought iron gate where I stood was marked with a massive stylized “W,” itself in turn decorated with an intaglio of ivy. I traced it with my fingers, feeling the textures of the etched metal. With a brief glance over my shoulder, I gave the gate a gentle push until it opened.

That was all it took. I felt a surge of confidence as I slipped into the yard, leaving the open gate behind me. I was in Mr. Walter’s yard. Remembering Dad’s stories, I headed for the back of the house, following the flagstone path that led to the sunken garden. I pulled my phone from my pocket, snapping a few pictures along the way. To say that it was beautiful did no justice to the place. I realized that Mr. Walter must have maintained everything himself until his death, and that he had clearly poured all of his energy into that garden. While the rest of the yard, and the house itself, had fallen into some state of disrepair, the garden was pristine. A jeweled mosaic decorated one of the walls, sapphire, topaz, amethyst, and a half-dozen other stones set in patterns resembling flowers. Ivy grew around it, but had been carefully cleared away from the mosaic itself.

I could have lost myself in thought in that garden, but I had work to do before the light faded. Finding a patch of the famous foxglove, I picked a handful and headed back to the gate. The walk back to the cemetery took only a few minutes. I laid the flowers down at Mr. Walter’s grave, knowing that the chances of anyone else ever doing to same for him were slim. I didn’t know the man in the steel casket beneath my feet, but I knew of him. Everyone in town did, but I wouldn’t forget him. Somebody had to remember the dead, after all. When our houses are torn down, and our gardens are left untended, eventually only memory will remain, though that too will fade.

It was time to go home. The sun was setting, and we had company coming for dinner.

 

 

(This piece was written for a flash fiction challenge hosted by the inimitable Chuck Wendig. We were given ten words, and instructed to pick five of them to include in a 1,000 word short story. I used topaz, orphan, casket, hermit, and foxglove.)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Trifecta Week 109: Whatever

This week’s Trifecta Challenge is based on the third definition Merriam-Webster’s Dictionary provides for the word “whatever.” Clocking in at exactly 333 words, here’s “Whatever.”

“The delete key is dangerous, you know. It’s why I like to write with a pen and paper. Pen’s better than pencil, too. It’s harder to throw writing away permanently when it’s not just 1’s and 0’s.” Marion smiled at me. Her arm was resting on my chest, rising and falling with each of my breaths.

“I know what you mean,” I replied. My fingers caught briefly in her hair and I pulled them free. “Sorry,” I muttered as they found her neck.

“S’okay. Didn’t hurt.”

“But I know what you mean about the delete key. That’s the hardest thing for me, when I’m writing something on the computer, anyway. I hate knowing that a single button press can wipe out any idea that didn’t strike me as immediately working.”

“Exactly.” She shifted slightly, leaning against my shoulder. Neither of us were really paying attention to the show we’d put on the TV. Our conversations had the tendency to shift toward work anyway, whether we intended for them to or not. “It just bugs me that I could lose an entire piece as soon as one ‘Whatever!’ moment hits me.”

“Papers can be pulled out of the trash. You know, provided you don’t set them on fire…”

“One time. That happened ONE time. Besides, I apologized for that. But you,” she said, slapping my chest, “won’t let me live it down.”

“Only because you set off the smoke alarms. We’re damn lucky we got the dorm aired out before the rest of the building alarms went off. Last thing we needed was for the RA to catch you drinking that night.”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right. Still, I could always give you crap about the things you got caught doing on campus.” Marion flashed her Cheshire grin.

“Touché, love. I suppose it’s best to quit while I’m behind.” I pulled her close to me, kissing her forehead.

“I love it when I win.”

“That’s why I let you get the last word.”

“Thanks.”

Trifecta Week 99: Special Challenge

This week, Trifecta celebrated their 99th writing challenge (not including “Trifextra” bonus challenges) with something special. Typically, challenge entries involve using the third definition of a given word in a story that ranges between 33 and 333 words. The 99th challenge, however, was something special. We were given a photograph of page 99 of the Oxford English Dictionary and told to write exactly 99 words using one of the words on the selected page. The page ranged from “babushka” to “back” and included several wonderful, potential-filled words. I opted to go with the first that caught my eye, and so I present you with “Babushka.”

“Babushka”

I’ll never forget the stories that my babushka used to tell me when I was a boy. She would take me on her lap next to the fire and speak in a hushed voice about the things that lived in the woods, and how she was one of them once, before she fell in love with a human. She once said that certain things linger in the blood, and can remain dormant for years, and that I must never tell my mother. After all, they may still be out there, watching and waiting to see if I’m like them.

Trifecta (Week 96)

This week’s Trifecta Challenge gave us the word “animal,” with the definition being “a human being considered chiefly as physical or nonrational; also :  this nature.” It’s been a few weeks since I last wrote one of these, so with 333 words, here’s my entry for the challenge.

“Animal”

Animal.

That’s what they call me. They spit the word at me through the ventilation holes in my polymer prison. They don’t think I can understand them, that I’m mindless, that the virus that began developing inside of me three months ago has transformed me into a thing from their nightmares. Animal’s better than the other word.

But I can hear them. I hear the scientists talking. That’s how I know what’s happened, how long it’s been. And it’s not being held in a plastic cell that scares me. I’m just a passenger in my head now, a prisoner locked in my own body, and so far undetected by any of their tests. But I can still hear them. I know what they say, but all of my will isn’t enough to move my jaw and tongue and make myself say anything beyond the roars and screams.

I’m more scared of me than I am of them. I may be slamming my fists and feet and knees and head against the walls and getting them to threaten to shoot me, but that’s not scary. What scares me is that it’s not me doing that. I’m not any more in control of my limbs than I am of mouth.

It’s the virus. It has to be. I remember getting sick at work. The tremors, the headaches. I thought it was just the flu, but I went to the doctor anyway. Better to get back on my feet quickly, right? Turns out whatever it was was like nothing they’d ever seen before, or at least that’s what the scientists say when they come by to look at my body. It’s not me that they’re seeing. That’s why they call me an animal. Pure instinct. Unhuman.

Trapped in a cage that’s trapped in a cage. Still, I know they’ll come back to me, when they find a cure. After all, they’re using me to develop and test it.

I’m not an animal.

I am patient zero.

The Crack (Trifecta Week 86)

Another Trifecta Writing Challenge entry for you today. Here’s “The Crack.”

“I think I may be going mad,” Kerry muttered as he looked at his surroundings. The sun beat down upon the fields, black grass shimmering in the light. It stretched on into hills and valleys without a single variation in shade. Reality was breaking around him, and the source, the crack was nearby, but that was the only thing that was certain anymore. It was coming for him. He had seen things since his first encounter with the rift, since the day he’d met Alicia, though even now he couldn’t say if that had been ten years or ten days ago. This field before him might only be an illusion. Regardless, the crack was coming closer. There was only one way for him to end it.

“But if I am, I can think of worse ways for it to go.” He saw her then, or her shape, white flitting across the black, and he drew a dagger from his belt. She moved toward him, never touching the grass, never noticing the narrow band of chaos that seemed to be carved across the landscape by her passage. Finally reaching him, she stopped.

“Hello, Kerry.” Her voice a jumble of voices clamoring at once.

“Hello, Alicia.”

“I’ve been waiting for you.”

Kerry’s face was grim. “I’ve been looking for you. I hoped I’d find you sooner.”

Alicia’s shape twitched as if it had just noticed the blade he held. “Is that what I think it is?” the multitude asked.

“Let’s find out.”

He stepped behind her, arms around her in a final embrace as he guided her hands upward and the knife point found her neck.

The crack that had trailed behind her yawned wide. Kerry clutched Alicia’s limp body to him and let the chaos swallow them both. All that remained was black.

Trifecta: Week 81

Trifecta Writing Challenge: Week 81. Our word was light.

 

I can see the light from here. It’s shining through the blinds as I’m trying to fall asleep, and I’m beginning to realize the futility of that goal. I think it’s the North Star, but I’m too exhausted to care. It’s been a long trip, and I know that I’m nearly there, so I suppose that’s a plus. Maybe one more week before the ship reaches land. I’m hopeful that my son is safe, and that his last letter to me was accurate, that he is ready for my arrival. Our future is bright, almost as the star I see above. Perhaps instead of sleep, I will make a wish and go for a walk on the deck.

Trifecta Week 78: “Pedantic”

It’s Week 78 over at Trifecta, so here’s yet another one-word prompt story. “Pedantic.”

“It’s dull.”

“What?”

“Your story. Dull. Boring. Dreary. Pedantic. Drivel.”

“So, you didn’t like it?”

“I didn’t say I didn’t like it. Just that I think it’s shit.”

“What the hell, man?”

“Hey, you asked me what I thought of it. I’m just being honest.”

“Yeah, and an asshole.”

“An asshole who is happy to be brutally honest with you.”

“Apparently so.”

“But seriously. You can write better than this. This is uninspired. I’ve seen what you can do. Who were you trying to fool with this stuff?”

“What? Fool? Why the hell would I be trying to fool anyone?”

“Beats me, but this bit of ‘story’ that you handed me an hour ago is nonsense. Unimaginative. Dull. Bullshit. Pedantic. Did I use that one already?”

“Yeah, you did, actually.”

“Well then, I guess it counts double. Go rewrite it. Better yet, throw this away and start from the beginning. Forget you ever had this idea.”

“Fine. FINE. I’ll scrap it.”

“Good.”

“Is it really that bad?”

“Oh yeah.”

“Hmph. Fine.”

“Please, just…try harder this time.”

“Alright. But you know something?”

“What?”

“Next time I ask myself to read something I wrote, I’ll do it without all of this talking to myself nonsense.”

“Sounds like a good plan.”

“Good. Now, shut up and let me write.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“Yeah, I know.”

Ecstasy

This was written in response to the most recent Trifecta challenge. Here’s “Ecstasy.”

 

She had begged him to go to the cavern, to gain the experience for himself. Now he sat alone, waiting for the process to begin. Crispin closed his eyes and felt the vapors wash over him, enveloping his skin and pouring into his mind. The ecstasy would be upon him soon, the tremors in his legs, his fingers, his arms. Bracing himself against one wall of the cavern, he collapsed in a fetal ball and the visions began.

There they were, standing together with their fingers intertwined. The snow was beginning to fall as they shared a lingering kiss. Eliza’s dark lashes were dusted with white as she leaned against him. She had been laughing when he dropped to his knee and startled her into silence with a small velvet box.

They lay on their backs under an alien sky, Eliza resting her head against his chest. Crispin pointed out constellations that no human had ever named before, tracing dreams in the night above.

They sat at a café in Paris, half-finished pastries and cooling coffee on the table between them. Eliza ran her foot across his, blushing as she did.

They cried together in an empty room, Eliza slumped on the floor and Crispin leaning on the crib that would never be filled.

As suddenly as it had begun, the ecstasy ended. Crispin’s head cleared and he managed to stand. A bottle of water stood on the table. When he stumbled while reaching for it, Eliza’s hand caught him and pulled him upright. She waited patiently while he finished the water, only posing her question after the last drop was gone.

“So… How was it?”

“Different,” he replied. “I saw a lot of possible futures, Eliza, and only one thing was certain in any of them.”

She tapped her forefingers together, looking away. “W…was it…”

“It was you, Elly. You were there by my side, in every one of my visions.”

She smiled, pulling him into a hug. “Then let’s go home.”

The Secret Door Writing Challenge

This week’s writing challenge from the delightful Mr. Wendig has given me an opportunity to revisit an older piece. Back in August of 2011, I wrote a short story entitled “A Ball of Light in One’s Hand” for a writing challenge hosted by Sonia M. The story was a 500 word microfiction piece for a prompt that asked us to write about doorways. I obliged, and you can read part one at the link above. Today, I’m sharing a piece written for Chuck’s latest challenge over at Terrible Minds. We were given a link to The Secret Door and told to write a 1,000 word microfiction story based on the location we found on the other side of the door. I’m very pleased to be able to share this with you. This is Damien’s Return.

“Damien’s Return”

Damien landed on all fours on a blindingly white surface. Blinking, he stood only to stumble again as he realized he couldn’t find any sort of visible horizon. Everything around him was the same dazzling absence of anything that resembled anything. He shook his head in an attempt to orient himself, finally managing to stand on what he forced himself to consider the floor.

Wherever that last door had taken him, he was able to breathe, and the bookseller was nowhere in sight. “Phew… She must not have been able to follow me here. Wherever the hell ‘here’ even is.” It hadn’t been like any of his jumps before, no matter where or when any of the doors had taken him. She’d always been able to find him, track him somehow, but then all of the other doors he’d passed through had been real, physical ones. It was sheer desperation that had made him try for the picture in the book. No other door had been in sight, and her last words had chilled him. “Give me the book, boy, and I’ll kill you quickly.”

It hadn’t been an idle threat, and he knew it. He’d lost friends in the weeks since leaving her shop, the book clutched to his chest. She’d come for it, no regard for any who stood in her way. His cousin Ari had been found outside of Damien’s apartment, his blood pooling on the pale green hallway tile. Two of his coworkers the week after, dead in their cubicles with words carved over and over again into their skin: “The book.” Damien was well acquainted with the smells of paper and ink, but the bookseller taught him the smell of death, and it mingled with the more familiar scents. Here, though, only paper and ink remained. Paper and ink…

“I’m in the book,” he whispered. He took a hesitant step and heard the familiar crinkle of a crisp sheet of paper. “All of this white… I’m on a damn page.”

“Indeed, you are, young Damien.”

The boy whirled to see who had spoken. As he spun, a thin line of black began to spread, a horizon drawing itself across the white. “Who said that?”

“I did.” The black continued to crawl across the white until it had completely encircled Damien. The new horizon yawned and an elderly man stepped forth out of the black. “My name is Rhu, and I am the author of the book in which you have taken refuge. I must say, you’re the first one to think about hiding in here. Well done, Damien.”

“How did I get here, Rhu, and how do I get back out?”

“Do you really want to go back, my boy? After all, she’s in a fine temper, what with having lost you again. I’m sure that she suspects that you’ve made it here, but that scares her as well. You see, outside she controls the doors, but here in the book my power is absolute.”

“You haven’t answered my questions yet.”

“Very well. You got here the same way you’ve gotten everywhere and everywhen else you’ve ever gone since picking up this book. You learned the secrets of door travel that I originally mastered, thanks to my writings. When you needed an escape from her, the book responded to your need and gave you a way out. In, rather. As far as getting back out, I can send you away from here, if that’s what you desire. I can send you back to the real world, but there is no guarantee that you’ll be safe from her. Her power grows by the day.”

“Who is she?”

“A former student of mine, I’m afraid. She thought that by locking me away in my own book, she’d get rid of me. Instead, I’ve managed to get the book into the hands of those who might be able to defeat her. That’s why you found her bookshop that day, Damien. You have the ability to stop her once and for all, but the first thing you need is time. I can give that to you, if you wish to avenge the deaths of your friends.”

“I…What do I have to do?”

“Trust me, Damien. She can’t have sole control, and the number of people who might stand against her is dwindling. There is a place far from her. As I said, I can’t guarantee your safety, but I can grant you a bit of time. You see, I’ve been writing in here when she doesn’t have the book, adding to what I know, what I’ve learned. It might give you enough of an edge to win, but you’ll have to follow the instructions exactly as they are written. Can you do this?”

“I can.” If it meant stopping the woman who smelled of paper and ink and death, he would give it everything. A grim smile appeared on his face. “I just have to read?”

“Yes. The book will return to your hand as soon as you leave here.” Rhu grasped the black horizon, lifted it, and shaped it. A moment later a door appeared, black and inky at first, but gradually coming into shape as a heavy oaken door with a large silver knocker in form of a lion’s head. “Your door, Damien. Thank you, and goodbye.”

The old man vanished. Damien stepped toward the door, took a deep breath, and opened it. The noise was overwhelming, a deafening roar of wind and a clash of steel on steel. He was at the back of a train, winding along the side of a mountain. A small village sat in the valley below him, tranquil in comparison.

“This is the place,” he said, bracing against the railing. “But where’s the book?” As he spoke, a glow appeared above him. Damien stretched out his hand, and the light coalesced into the familiar black leather-bound volume that smelled of paper and ink. He opened the book and began to read.

To be continued…