The Green-Walled Tower

March 27, 2013

The Light of Times Past – Friday Fictioneers

This Friday Fictioneer prompt was an interesting challenge. To me, it said primitive technology in the midst of modernity. So that was the jumping off place for this story. Thank you to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for the picture.

The Light of Times Past

“Great job, Shane. Those cybos didn’t have a prayer.”

Shane smiled and nodded. He stowed his blaster rifle, flew home, and threw the main breaker.

That time was precious—that hour he spent daily in the oil lamps’ glow, with not even a single LED breaking the spell.

Shane was proud of his job defending humanity from the cybo attacks.

But still . . .

He missed those days—doing homework and saying prayers by lamplight in that old wooden house, with its blue door and freezing outhouse.

He took out the old German Bible, opened the cracked cover, and began to read.

53 Comments | tags: Amish, Bible, cybo, fiction, flash fiction, Friday Fictioneers, nostalgia, robots, science fiction | posted in Dusk

March 27, 2013

A.W.A.R.D.S

By David Stewart

I woke in a room that smelled vaguely of peanut butter and wasabi. It was the kind of smell that slapped you awake and made you write home to mom about it. Once I was fully awake (and had written a short note to my mother) I noticed I was in a long, pearly-white corridor. It was shiny and plastic, like something from a 1970’s sci-fi movie.

I stood up and noticed a plaque on the wall that said Ancient Wasteland And Robotic Doughnut Society, or A.W.A.R.D.S. for short. An arrow pointed down the corridor with a friendly reminder written next to it that said “I’m pretty sure this is the way you want to go.” I took the wall’s word for it and started off.

Before too long, I came to a door with a computer screen next to it. On it, were the words:

Most Influential Blogs of 2012. You were nominated for this award by Alastair of Alastair’s Blog. Do you accept? (Y/N?)

Blink. I wasn’t expecting that. Of course I hit yes. To be nominated for anything by Alastair, who posts such amazing photos and cool music was a honor.

The screen changed. There are no rules for this award, it read.

“Is that true?” I said.

Yes, the screen said.

“Can you hear what I say?” I asked.

No, the screen said. I was suspicious. Please enter blogs you have found influential.

That was an interesting challenge. Hmm, I thought and started punching in names.

– Arjun Bagga of http://arjunbagga.wordpress.com/ I love his beautiful pictures and stories and actually I was inspired to write my Fantastic Travelogue after reading one of his posts. I love the way he captures the souls of common people.

– Rochelle Wisoff-Fields – Addicted to Purple http://rochellewisofffields.wordpress.com/ I have had a lot of fun and learned a lot participating in the Friday Fictioneers, a group she runs. I love the way she comments on every story that’s posted.

– Sharmishtha Basu: http://sharmishthabasu.wordpress.com/ Sharmishtha has been very influential to my writing, from inspiring stories, to using pictures of mine in her writing. I love her fantastic stories, great artwork, and spirit of activism to help those in need.

– Written Words Never Die: http://ericalagan.net/ Eric has been a very influential blog for me. I love his dark and fantastic stories and his short, but powerful flash fiction.

I stopped for a moment and the door suddenly opened. There were others that I found inspiring, but the screen had turned dark, so I continued down the corridor. I walked for a while and was passed by a robotic doughnut that was playing with a yo-yo.

I came to another door. This one was glowing and next to it was a screen with cherubs on it. The cherubs were playing cards when I got there but when they noticed me, they jumped up and shoved the cards out of sight.

“Welcome!” they said in unison (they said everything in unison, which was a bit disconcerting). “This is the Shine-On Award. You got nominated by Kim, from Unwalled. Do you want to accept?”

“Of course,” I said. “Kim is awesome. I don’t have any other friends in the Bahamas (that I know of) but I could have a million and still not have one as nice as her.” They nodded enthusiastically.

“So what do I do here?”

“You have to nominate 15 people that you think really shine,” they said.

“And what does that mean?” I asked.

They conferred for a moment. “That’s up to you. Also, you have to nominate 7 blogs that tickle your fancy.”

“I just put in some that were influential. Can I skip the ‘tickle your fancy’ part?” I asked.

They conferred for another moment. “Fine, as long as the influential ones also tickled your fancy. Did they?”

“Assuredly,” I said. “Can I nominate Unwalled back?”

“Uh…No. But you can thank her.”

“Very well.” I started to think of some blogs that I thought really shined in one way or another.

“Would you like to add why?” the little cherubs asked. “It’s optional.”

“Will the people see this?”

“Mostly likely, yes.”

Very well. I started typing.

1. Teacher as Transformer: http://ivonprefontaine.com/ A source of inspirational thoughts from a fellow teacher.

2. Miss Four Eyes: http://missfoureyes.wordpress.com/ Really, what’s not to love? Adding a little joy to my daily reading.

3. Mindful Splatter: http://marilyndavies.wordpress.com/ Great stories and pictures of daily life.

4. An Evil Nymph’s Blog: http://evilnymphstuff.wordpress.com/ Wonderful photographs and stories from the island of Mauritius and the mind of an evil nymph.

5. Ironwoodwind: http://ironwoodwind.wordpress.com/ I love reading his great, compelling stories every week.

6. Rambling and Other Nonsense: http://matronbell.wordpress.com/ She posts beautiful thoughts and great stories. I just finished her novel, Planet Atlantis, and really liked it.

7. Josie Coccinelle: http://josiecoccinelle.wordpress.com/ The only French blog I follow. She has such a sweet heart. I wish I could comment more confidently on her posts, but I’ve forgotten a lot of my French.

8. The Urge to Wander: http://theurgetowander.com/ She goes all the places I wish I could, or remember going. I travel the world through her pictures.

9. ABC of Spirit Talk: http://abcofspiritalk.wordpress.com/ Such great thoughts, especially those that use animals as metaphors.

10. Diary of a Lost Girl: http://completelymistaken.wordpress.com/ I love everything I read from her and am always happy when I see her around.

11. Boomie Bol: http://boomiebol.wordpress.com/ What a great and kind poet. Passion and love exude from her writing.

12. Life in Kawagoe: http://cocomino.wordpress.com/ My window into the world of Japanese culture, sharing the simple side of life.

13. Luddy’s Lens: http://luddyslens.wordpress.com/ A wonderful look at the world through photographs.

14. Elixir: http://bradleyball.wordpress.com/ One of my oldest friends. I love reading his perspectives on life, family, and Christianity.

15. Jodies’ Journies: http://cutenosegrl.wordpress.com/ Inspiration and thought-provoking posts.

I could have kept going, of course (my blogging friends really do shine on) but as soon as I had put in the fifteenth name, the door slid open.

“Bye bye!” the cherubs said in unison and then disappeared.

By this time, I had no idea what to expect next. I came to a staircase and starting climbing up and up. Lightning flashed. Somewhere, off in the distance, the Inspector Gadget theme was playing. I came to a third door. Actually, it was a portcullis. The screen next to it was 3D and when I approached, a booming voice shouted:

“You have been nominated for the Epically Awesome Award of Epic Awesomeness!”

“Is that a real thing?” I asked.

“Yes, of course. You were nominated by the Blog of the Imaginator, a very epically awesome person in his own right. Do you want it or not?”

“Of course,” I said. Who wouldn’t want an award for being epically awesome, or awesomely epic?

“There are rules!” the voice boomed. “First, you must tell me ten things about yourself…and write them on pieces of fruit!”

“I don’t see any fruit,” I said.

There was a rattling sound and a wagon-load of fruit rattled down the corridor towards me. “Sorry!” the voice echoed. “Our cook quit today. Now get writing!”

I picked up a banana and wrote: I hate getting up in the morning.

“Be more interesting!” the voice shouted.

I wrote I have watched the entire Simpsons series in order on a rather large apple. The voice didn’t say anything else, so I got down to work.

3. I abhor long sleeves (written on a mango)

4. The longest I’ve been unemployed since I was 12 is five months (written on a bunch of grapes; one word on each)

5. I’ve always lived on either the top or bottom floor of a building (written on a watermelon)

“These are becoming pedestrian!” the booming voice warned.

I picked up a cantaloupe and wrote: I love coffee. The voice huffed a little, but shut up.

7. I am currently listening to Don Francisco on Youtube (written on a jack fruit)

8. My current cell phone was obsolete when I got it in 2008 (written on a mandarin orange)

9. I really want to go camping in Greenland sometime (I tried to write this on a strawberry, messed it up, ate the strawberry, ate a few more, then wrote it on a musk melon.)

10. I hate it when I maek typos (written on a papaya)

“Are you being sarcastic?” the voice demanded, but then noticed that I had ten things and continued. “Next, you must nominate 10 people whom you think are epic. Get cracking!”

I stepped up to the screen and started to write.

1. Monk Monkey: http://monkmonkeysblog.wordpress.com/ A great, funny blog

2. Music and Fiction: http://musicandfiction.wordpress.com/ Music plus fiction equals a great combination

3. Oh God, My Wife is German: http://ohgodmywifeisgerman.com/ Hilarious cross-cultural fun. When people think fun, they think Germans.

4. Chosen Voice: http://chosenvoice.wordpress.com/ Seriously, check out her artwork and stories. Epic is the only word.

5. Tales of a Charm City Chick: http://talesofacharmcitychick.com I’ll read anything I can get from the inimitable La La.

6. waldotomosky: http://waldotomosky.wordpress.com/ Sweeping sagas of brawling Norsemen are just the beginning.

7. Christopher de Voss: http://chrisdevoss.wordpress.com/ Great quirky fun that’s right up my alley. Plus, he’s the guy that made up the name Edward “the Squid” Morrison.

8. The Bumble Files: http://thebumblefiles.wordpress.com/ One of my oldest blogging friends and such a great wealth of quirky stories and great thoughts.

9. Dysfunctional Literacy: http://dysfunctionalliteracy.com/ Where I go to feed my love of great and weird books, as well as the continuing saga that is the Long Story.

10. Moments with Millie: http://momentswithmillie.wordpress.com/ I love reading her inspirational thoughts every day. She has a beautiful, loving heart.

“Next, you have to tell the people that you nominated them!” the voice shouted.

“But won’t they know when they get the notification that I linked their blog?” I asked.

“Are you that lazy?” the voice shouted. “Where is your netiquette? Now go tell them!”

“Are you going to open the door then?” I asked. There was a pause.

“Fine.” The portcullis clattered up and I walked forward. Soon I found myself looking out of my own Green-Walled Tower. The land of A.W.A.R.D.S. makes you feel good but it sure can be strange sometimes.

For those who are interested, here is what the original forms of the awards look like:

http://kattermonran.com/2013/03/01/most-influential-blogs-of-2012/

http://unwalled.wordpress.com/2013/03/21/the-shine-on-award/

http://theimaginator.wordpress.com/2013/03/25/awesome-again-only-epically-so/

40 Comments | tags: blog award, blogging, epic, fiction, green-walled tower, influential, shine-on, writing | posted in Uncategorized

March 25, 2013

Like Rats in the Air Vents – Fantastic Travelogue #12

By David Stewart

Sometimes you have some amazing adventures you just have to tell everyone about. Read the rest of this account here.

Synopsis: I was hiking in the mountains of Korea when I got lost at night and came out in a strange valley. I couldn’t understand anyone, but I found out they knew Chinese characters. I met a young woman name Ain-Mai, and later, her brother Sing-ga. While I was there, a creepy woman appeared. Ain-Mai and her brother told me that the creepy woman was named Hengfel and came from another world. Hengfel eventually captured all three of us and brought us back to her world. They took Ain-Mai away and put Sing-ga and I in a room with a bunch of other men who all looked drugged. It looked a bit like a harem. They gave us something to drink, which made Sing-ga very sleepy but had the opposite effect on me. We got out and found Ain-Mai in a cage, hundreds of feet above the floor, in a room with thousands of cages. I rescued her, fighting off dragons as I did. We got away, but they tore my right foot up a bit.

I have never been on drugs, so I don’t know what it’s like to come down from a high, but after my experience in that cavernous, dragon-infested fortress, I think I have some idea.

Ain-Mai, Sing-ga and I were moving as fast as we could down the corridor we had come from, away from the room with the cages. I was in the lead and was at first thinking of going straight back to the round transporter room—just powering through everything and risking everything to get back right away. Then the pain started. This was troubling, since I hadn’t felt any pain since they had forced that potion down my throat, even when I was punching dragons in the face.

It started as a dull ache in my foot and hands and just kept growing. I looked back and realized I was leaving bloody footprints from my right foot where the dragon had ripped off my boot. After that, it only took a few minutes for the pain to grow to the point where I could barely walk. Sing-ga was still lethargic from the potion they had given him, and Ain-Mai was shaken up from being in the cage and being attacked by dragons, so none of us were in great shape.

The pain was starting to overwhelm my senses. I felt Ain-Mai take me by the arm and lead me to the side, into darkness. We were walking through a small, fetid passage, barely big enough to stand up in. The floor was rough and bolts of pain shot up through my injured foot with every step. After a while, we were in total darkness and felt our way forward with our hands outstretched. The air was moist and warm and smelled like mold.

I don’t how long we went like that, but it was probably about an hour. Before long, I was crawling on hands and knees. We passed shafts cut in the walls with water pouring down through them and even drank a little. The water was hot and tasted metallic, but it quenched our thirst. Ain-Mai was leading us now. I don’t know where she thought she was going, but we followed her instinctively, going further and further into the dark labyrinth.

We seemed to be in a system of air vents. They criss-crossed at intervals and strong, warm wind blew in from some. We heard snatches of sound from cross-tunnels: rumbles and roars as of huge machinery, and screams and yells of monstrous beasts, or something worse. The sounds rose and then faded and died away, like the turning of a radio dial.

At last, when I thought I could go no further, we saw light ahead: warm, tan daylight. It was coming from a cross-tunnel and a strong, dry wind blew out of it. We pushed against the wind until we came to the end of the tunnel and looked outside.

The opening was barred with a cross of metal, but we still could have squeezed outside if we had wanted to. We were very high up—at least 5000 feet, I would guess, and I looked out over a wide, desolate landscape. Far below were the remains of towns and cities, dry riverbeds still crossed by bridges, and roads bordering dead fields. Everything I saw was brown and withered.

As I watched, a dragon floated into view far beneath me. I craned my neck to see where it was going and saw that we were in some sort of monstrous tower, with walls that fell away almost straight down. The outside surface was covered with plates that stuck up, just like the cage room. Here I could see dragons hanging off them and I realized that was what they were for. The dragons used them to hang on and rest, like birds perching on a branch.

Sing-ga was already lying down on the passage floor. I mimed sleep to Ain-Mai and she nodded. She lay down in front of Sing-ga and motioned for me to lie down in front of her. I lay down on the hard floor and felt her warmth behind me. Just before I drifted off to sleep, I felt her hand on my shoulder. With that simple act of human contact, I realized how much I had missed it. Ain-Mai’s hand on my shoulder filled my mind with peace and helped to soothe some of the throbbing pain that wracked my body. Still, when I finally fell asleep, I dreamed of my wife standing far away, across an abyss that I could not hope to cross.

(to be continued…)

6 Comments | tags: drugs, escape, Fantastic Travelogue, fantasy, fiction, fortress, injured, other worlds, travel, travelogue, tunnels, wife | posted in Travelogue

March 24, 2013

Slumming on the Ceiling – Visual Fiction

By David Stewart

Taken in Daejeon, South Korea

Drunk. Bum. Loser. Deadbeat.

Freddie had heard them all and much worse as he sat in his underpass and watched people go by. He had a battered cardboard box in front of him with a few coins in it. Occasionally, more would be thrown in, but not usually. If the police chased him out, he waited until they walked away and then went back.

Thursday night had started as a good night. He had been able to buy a bottle of cheap liquor and had found a new blanket in a donation box. Half the bottle was gone when he suddenly began to feel lighter. Light began to filter in through the stairwells, increasing until it became as bright as day.

This is it, he thought. The angels, the angels are coming for me at last. One too many brown bag comforts, I suppose.

Freddie rose off the floor, floating up until he hit the ceiling. His perspective shifted and he found that the ceiling was now down for him, while the floor was above him. He sat in surprise and watched his handful of coins disappear into a light fixture. He tried to get them but burned his hand. It didn’t seem like he was dead.

With a shrug, he took a swig from the bottle and laid down on the ceiling. Freddie was used to life handing him surprises. Might as well make the best of it.

~*~

This is an alternate perspective on a couple of other stories I did, called What is it? and Why it’s bad to destroy the Earth.

11 Comments | tags: aliens, bum, fiction, homeless, Korea, photograph, science fiction, underpass, visual fiction | posted in Visual Fiction

March 21, 2013

The Green-Walled Tower is Coming to Youtube!

By David Stewart

Okay, I guess the title said it all.

I’m always looking for new and creative ways to tell interesting stories and now I’m thinking of expanding my storytelling to video form. Not as movies really, but…well, you’ll see. Don’t worry; I will still be posting stories here as always.

This new project of mine might take a little time to get going, but what I’m curious about now is what to call my channel. I have a few ideas for you to vote on, or you can think up a totally awesome new name and tell me in the comments too. If I pick your super cool awesome name, I’ll dedicate a video to you.

The Green-Walled Youtube? It’s an idea.

18 Comments | tags: green-walled tower, outside the tower, poll, video, writing, Youtube | posted in Uncategorized

March 20, 2013

You can Bait a Fool with Water… – Friday Fictioneers

By David Stewart

I figured that this picture would inspire a lot of heart-warming tales (although we do get a lot of variety in the group). In any case, I decided to go in a slightly different direction…

You can Bait a Fool with Water…

“Careful.” (Nervous girlfriend.)

“Don’t worry; it’s got a blindfold on. It can’t see us.” (Cocky boyfriend.)

Just a little closer. (Horse looking at two oblivious humans through the fly-mask.)

“Hey, it’s doing a trick! It’s holding the hose in its mouth.” (Boyfriend, gawking.)

Yes. Trick.

Water splashes on electric fence, splashes on cocky boyfriend. Sizzling, sparking, collapsing, convulsing. Girlfriend runs to help.

More sparking, collapsing, convulsing.

She couldn’t help. Two unconscious humans.

Fall, my dainties, fall. (Horse smiles.)

Snaky tongue emerges from horse’s mouth, dragging unconscious humans under the fence.

Body ripples, teeth and claws grow.

Horse no more.

Dinnertime.

58 Comments | tags: creepy, fantasy, fiction, flash fiction, Friday Fictioneers, horror, horse, monster, trap | posted in Dark

March 19, 2013

Work in Progress Challenge

By David Stewart

I was tagged in this by Ritika Upadhyay at LeBlog and thought it was intriguing so I decided to pass it on.

Here goes:

1. What is the title of your book/WIP?

This is tricky for me, since I currently have 5 novels I’m editing, although none I’m writing a first draft of. Still, I’ll do the one I’m actually working on at the moment. The title of that one is The Inner Darkness.

2. Where did the idea for the WIP come from?

Almost all my novels start with a single image, either just something that pops into my head or something from a dream. This one started with the image of a light on a long finger of rock, burning in an infinite black abyss of nothingness.

3. What genre would your WIP fall under?

This is fantasy. It has elements of romance, action and comedy in it too. It is in 1^st person POV, which sometimes troubles me, but I think it’s important, since it’s very much about the main characters journey and he really is a very dynamic and quirky sort of guy.

4. Which actors would you choose to play your characters in a movie rendition?

Hmm, I haven’t though about anything like that yet. The main character is gallant but also full of bravado, so maybe Robert Downey Jr. would be a good choice. The main female character…maybe Selma Hayek?

5. What is the one-sentence synopsis of your WIP?

A inveterate wanderer finds a cave where people sometimes emerge with no memory of who they are, including one young woman who changes his life. That obviously leaves out a lot, but you get the gist.

6. Is your WIP published or represented?

It’s on the 4^th draft, I think. I haven’t had much time to work on it lately because of writing my blog stories.

7. How long did it take you to write?

It was originally a Nanowrimo novel, so I wrote the rough draft in a month. However, I’ve been working on it for a few years since then.

8. What other WIPs within your genre would you compare it to?

Not sure. This has to do with traveling between worlds, which is not an uncommon theme, but I like to think I’ve put a unique spin on it.

9. Which authors inspired you to write this WIP?

No specific author has inspired this specific novel. Perhaps H.P. Lovecraft and William Hope Hodgson for their depictions of vast, dark, empty spaces. The tone of the story is nothing like either of these authors though. I like to think of it as a light and quirky take on serious matters.

10. Tell us anything else that might pique our interest in this project.

The world where this takes place is the same one that Horus Vere and Bruce Riansson are from. They are characters from previous stories I’ve posted on this blog.

One last thing… Tag, You’re It!

Here are some people that I follow who I either know are working on a long story or I suspect it. In any case, I’d be curious to know more about it and its background, if you’d like to share. If you’re working on something and I missed you, I’m sorry. I’d like to hear about yours too.

11 Comments | tags: editing, novel, WIP, work in progress, writing | posted in Uncategorized

March 18, 2013

Motivational Drill Sergeant

By David Stewart

I don’t know my father’s name, but I think it’s Gary. Everyone calls him Motivational Drill Sergeant—even me. I don’t know when he got the name, since he’s never been in the Army—actually I’ve never known him to ever have a job. He just sits around the house, brushing his crew cut, playing solitaire, and waiting for someone to come. Then he yells at them for a while, and they give him money and go away.

I was home one afternoon when there was a knock at the door. I opened it to see a one-legged frog sitting on the doormat.

Source

“Is this the house of the Motivational Drill Sergeant?” it asked.

“Yes,” I said, quite unfazed. I’ve seen stranger things show up at our door. “How did you knock on the door?”

“I waited until some Girl Scouts came selling cookies. They knocked but then they saw me and ran away. I’m not well-liked, you know.” It lowered its head.

I gave up trying to talk to people—or animals—who come to see my father. “You want me to carry you in?” I asked.

“No, no, I’ve got it,” the frog said and set about trying to struggle over the threshold. After fifteen minutes of waiting, I gave it a boost and it pretended not to notice.

“Motivational Drill Sergeant! Someone here to see you!” I yelled. My father immediately appeared in the door of his office. He had been listening and waiting for me to call him.

“I see, I see!” he said. “Boy, go get my shaving kit.” He always calls me Boy. I don’t mind; it was better than those two weeks last summer when he kept calling me Girl, or those weird three days when I was Puffy McPastry.

I went and got his shaving kit from the bathroom. My father has the words SUCK IT UP tattooed on his upper lip. Whenever someone comes to see him, he shaves off his mustache to make the point. I gave him the shaving kit and he marched back into the bathroom.

“Right!” he said several minutes later, striding out. The words SUCK IT UP stood out clearly. “What’s the matter with you, frog?”

“I—”

“And how did you lose that leg?” My father was slowly getting his yell up. It took him a few minutes after playing solitaire for several days.

“I went to Paris on vacation,” the frog said. “Somebody ate it.”

“You are the sorriest excuse for a frog I have ever seen!” my father bellowed. “I’ve seen better frogs at the zoo gift shop—those plastic hollow ones with the squeaker in their mouths that you buy your kid, to piss off your wife. If you were in a not-sucking race with one of those, it would beat you hands-down.”

“But I—” the frog began again.

“Shut your fly-hole! You think you’re special? You think that all it’s going to take is for some dame to kiss you and you’ll turn into a prince? You are not a prince! You’re nothing but a measly, one-legged frog who needs to grow up. Now get out there and be the best one-legged frog you can be!”

I thought he had gone too far. The frog was crying now. “Thank you, Motivational Drill Sergeant,” it said at last. “Thank you so much.” It gave my father $500 and then hopped away, falling over the threshold and out onto the front step.

“That’s right,” my father said, pointing to his upper lip. “Suck it up.” Then he went back to playing solitaire.

12 Comments | tags: fiction, frog, funny, Motivational Drill Sergeant, quirky, suck it up | posted in Light

March 17, 2013

The Sundering Fog – Visual Fiction #22

By David Stewart

This visual fiction is the second picture I’ve used of this bridge. I like the fog on it, since it gives a much different feel. Plus, the first Visual Fiction I did, The Bridge, didn’t have a story with it. This story is the beginning of a longer one I might write sometime.

Taken in Wanju, South Korea

The last time I saw my son Seth was when I sent him over the bridge to go to school. The first day of Grade 4. I should have gone with him all the way to school, but that’s easy to say now. He wouldn’t have wanted me to anyway; he was so independent and on that day what he really wanted to do was cross the bridge by himself. I waved good-bye and watched as he disappeared into the fog.

I started my shift at the garage. From where I worked I could see across the river to the island where half the town was located, including the school. The fog usually burned off by about ten but that day it remaining like a blanket on the river.

About 11:00, there was a sudden crash; not an explosion, but a rending, tearing sound, as loud as a jet engine. Everyone ran outside, looking here and there and trying to figure out what had happened, until Randall Haskins tried to drive over to the pharmacy, across the bridge. I heard the sound of screeching tires and then Randall’s hysterical voice shouting, “The bridge! The bridge is gone.”

It wasn’t gone, but there was a large hole ripped from the center span of it, at least fifty feet wide. No one could see any reason for it, nor was there any concrete or rubble in the water below. The police chief took a couple of men and motored across in a boat to check on things on the other side.

They never came back. They didn’t even radio in after they went onshore. Another boat went over and the same thing happened. In total, seven boats went to the island that day and none of them were ever seen again. The police cordoned off the shore on both sides of the river all around the island and prevented anyone else from trying to go over there.

The fog cleared up the next day and we all saw the island sitting there in the river. Not a single person was visible all that day. The next day, the national guard sent four boats of armed soldiers across. We watched them with binoculars as they searched the streets. They reported back that no one was there, but we noticed as we watched that as they went in and out of the buildings, their number slowly decreased. Sometimes men would go into a building and not come out again. The men on shore tried to warn them, but they couldn’t get through and eventually the soldiers all went into buildings and disappeared.

Now the island just sits there, off limits to everyone. I stare obsessively at it whenever I can, trying to catch any glimpse of movement, trying to see my Seth. I can’t help it. I almost welcome the foggy days, when the misty white curtain obscures my view and numbs my pain and nagging worry, at least for a little while.

13 Comments | tags: bridge, creepy, fantasy, fiction, flash fiction, horror, Korea, missing, photograph, son, visual fiction | posted in Visual Fiction

March 16, 2013

The Killing Type (Part 2 of 2)

By David Stewart

A few days ago, I posted a call for song suggestions. The idea was like my Open Prompts stories, except that I would use quotes from song lyrics in my story. Thank you to the people who gave me suggestions. They are, in the order they commented:

Arjun Bagga: Hank Williams Jr.’s “A Family Tradition”

Miles Rost: Alphaville’s “Dance With Me”

starlight: Patrick Park’s “Blackbird through the Dark”

Michelle Proulx: Jack Johnson’s “Bubble Toes”

The Bumble Files: Amanda Palmer’s “The Killing Type” (Also, obviously, the inspiration for the title)

I have linked the quotations from the songs to the place in the Youtube videos where they appear. This is Part 2 of the story, so you can read Part 1 here.

The Killing Type: Part 2

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Cassandra looked over at Doug and saw the fierce delight in his eyes. He was staring at the squig-squill, like a gladiator staring down his doomed opponent in the ring.

“Come on, let’s just go,” Cassandra said, reaching out for his hand. He shook it away.

“Hold on, you gotta watch this.” Doug darted forward and held the knife in front of the squig-squill. The creature lashed out at the blade. A small splash of pale pink blood landed on the ground and it pulled back with a roar of pain.

“Hilarious, isn’t it?” Doug said, with a laugh. “It’ll keep attacking and hurting itself, it’s so stupid.”

“Doug, come on. Let’s go,” Cassandra said. She tugged on his arm, trying again to pull him back to the rover.

“Fine, let’s go,” he said at last. He darted forward again and stabbed the long knife through the squig-squill’s throat. The creature fell back and Doug stepped on its chest. Even with the thin atmosphere, Cassandra heard the crunch of breaking bones.

“What are you doing? Are you crazy?” she cried.

“What do you care? They’re just pests. I’m not going to leave it alive after I’ve found it.”

“But it didn’t attack us. It was just defending its home. How did you get in this condition, Doug? You weren’t like this four years ago.”

“It’s easy for you to say, Cassandra, living in Coventry in the middle of an empty plain. We fight these things every day up in the mountains. They hide in the mines, they ambush the transports. We wiped out a lot of them before we started digging, but still they keep coming back, again and again. We need to wipe this planet clean, and then there will be peace. Stay here a minute.” Doug stepped over the body of the squig-squill and disappeared behind the bushes.

“Where are you going?” she asked. He didn’t answer.

Cassandra followed him through the bushes. In front of them, the ravine came to an abrupt end and was covered with a screen of woven plants. Doug ripped it aside, revealing what looked like a pile of fur, until a head raised out of it, hissing and snarling.

Doug kicked the pile apart and a handful of scrawny younglings tumbled out of it. A female had been covering them with her body. The female attacked Doug’s legs with its teeth, but they had no effect against the metal shin guards built into his suit. He kicked it off and stepped on one of the younglings, slowly crushing it into the ground.

“Stop it!” Cassandra screamed. “Let’s just go. Please, Doug!”

“This is a mercy killing, Cassandra,” he said. “These ones are dead anyway. If the female goes to get them food, they’ll freeze and if she doesn’t, they’ll starve. She won’t go, so they’ll all die slowly together. It’s a foregone conclusion anyway, so might as well get into it, right?” He gave her a grin as he moved from youngling to youngling. Crunch. Crunch. Crunch-crunch-crunch. “My jellyfish dance, Cassandra. No rhythm, so but I’ve got some deadly moves. Come dance.”

“You monster!” she shouted. It wasn’t just the killing; it was the look of joy on his face as he crushed the little creatures under his heavy boots.

He stopped smiling and looked hurt. “Geez, it was just a joke. Sorry.” Crunch. “It’s got to be done—I was just putting a good face on it.” Crunch.

“Would you just stop!” she shouted, so loud he put his hand up to his ear in pain. The female was crawling back towards him and he stepped away from it.

“What do you want, Cassandra? We can’t live on this planet in peace with these things, and if they’re going to attack us, someone has to stop them. And I’m good at it. I saw you when you were dancing, with that look of joy on your face, oblivious to the rest of the world. You know that desire that burns a hole you’ll never fill with anything else. You have dancing and I have hunting. You’re the dancing type; I guess I’m the killing type.”

She looked into his face and saw with horror that he was right. He had become a killer, and he loved it. He turned around. “Go back and wait at the rover. I’m just going to take care of this last one.” He held up the knife and took a step towards the female squig-squill.

Cassandra ran at him and shoved him to the side. Doug tried to step to the side to maintain his balance, but he tripped on a rock and fell face down. His scream of pain reverberated inside her helmet. She ran to him and pulled him over and gasped when she saw the knife sticking out of his chest.

“Doug, I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m so sorry.”

“Killer,” he whispered, and for a moment, she saw his familiar, teasing grin touch the corners of his mouth before the life went out of his eyes.

Cassandra stayed kneeling for a moment until she remembered the squig-squill behind her. She jumped up, but it was nowhere near her. It was picking up the crushed little bodies that were scattered around the dell and arranging them by the rock wall. Then, as she watched, it made its way out through the bushes and lay down, covering the body of the dead squig-squill with its own.

Cassandra pushed the button on the com, trying to keep the tears out of her voice. Still, her voice quavered when she spoke. “Akash, come get me. There’s been an accident.”

* * *

Coventry Outpost was a storm of rumors, but all anyone knew for sure was that Doug Rankin, the son of Camellia Outpost’s commander, was dead. Cassandra sat in her room, confined there by her father while they sorted things out. After an hour, her parents came in. Her mother sat down and hugged her tightly.

“This is a horrible tragedy,” her father said, “but I think we’ve found a way for some good to come from it. Here is what you are going to tell everyone: you were walking with Doug when you were attacked by a group of squig-squills. He tried to defend you and killed a lot of them, but then several hit him from behind and he fell, accidentally stabbing himself with his knife. Akash is willing to testify that he was worried about you and came to find you, arriving just in time to scare them off.”

“What good could come from that?” Cassandra asked softly. She felt as if all the energy was drained out of her. The world was a more confusing place than it had been, just hours before.

“You pushed him and he died,” her mother said. “Some people might consider that manslaughter, and that could even carry the death penalty if Rankin pushes for it. He is inconsolable. But there were no witnesses; there’s no reason we should even go through that.”

“Plus, now I’ll have a pretext to start hunting them again,” her father said. “The commander seems to think that since they’re not attacking us at the moment, we have to maintain some sort of truce with them. But their numbers are just increasing and some day there may be enough to attack Coventry itself. Remember the Magnolia.”

“No, I’m not going to tell them that,” Cassandra said. “I’m not going to let you hunt them. I saw them, Dad. They’re intelligent, and it would be wrong.”

“You would throw away everything because of them?” Her father’s voice was full of disgust and disbelief. “You would possibly even die for those things—our mortal enemy?”

“I’m not a killer, Dad,” Cassandra said. “I’m sorry. I guess I broke the family tradition.”