Desert Manufacture

The horizon burned though it was not on fire. Heat rose in translucent waves from the golden desert floor, mingling and merging with the clear blue sky. Jarvis walked toward that mixture and though he’d made no progress in the time he measured and the time he hadn’t, he pressed on all the same. He knew before he began this journey that his options consisted of escape and insanity, each at the cost of the other.

“Sobering thought, ain’t it?” Elias spoke between mouthfuls, sending flecks of bread and spittle on the hard consonants. “Y’know, the desert? How it don’t end? So they say at least.” He bit off another chunk.

“It’s not endless. Nothing is.” Jarvis flinched away from his cellmate who burst into laughter.

“Speaking in absolutes, huh? Shit like that’ll get you offed.” Elias took a messy swig from his victory grog and wiped his mouth and chin clean of the foul smelling drink. Jarvis grimaced as he watched the man revel in his meager opulence. He wished for a larger window if only to have something else to focus on.

Elias irritated to the point of Jarvis wishing the Pitch would take him. Maybe then he would get a cellmate more like himself, quiet and reserved. With a nice collection of books, he thought. With his rotten luck he’d get another just like this one as they seemed to be the only demographic in the population; not counting himself of course. When Elias began pawing at his groin to relieve a pesky itch, Jarvis thought happily of trading the bigger window for a chance to kill the slovenly mess before him.

“What’s that look for?” Elias said.

“There’s no look. You’re seeing things.”

“Yeah, I’m seeing that look you’re giving and I don’t like it.”

“Makes two of us then, doesn’t it?” Jarvis rolled his eyes at the confused glare of his cellmate. “Just eat your winnings already. Making me sick.”

Elias responded with some quip about jealousy and its relation to physical stature, but Jarvis could no longer remember it.

~~~

continued in Stranger and Fiction Anthology 3

Surrender by Steven Belledin. Inspiration for this story.

You Wish to Know

Dank was the word. Brian had been trying to think of it once he turned down the alley. Trash lay scattered and slips of newspaper flew about until they caught on objects or were gripped by grimy puddles. Weak light from apartment windows overhead only illuminated the occasional drops of water from leaky gutters. What looked like a rat carcass, but could have been a blackened Styrofoam cup, rocked gently in the breeze. How anyone could willingly bring themselves this way without some illicit purpose became clear to him then; they couldn’t. He wished he hadn’t worn his designer shoes.

An intermittent drip echoed louder than it should have, but Brian noticed he couldn’t hear anything else. It grew louder with every step he took, like an indirect variant of water torture. Suddenly a dark green bulb flickered on, muddled and encased in a small steel cage. It revealed a weathered door with a brass knob that shined in defiance of its surroundings. He approached it quickly. Beside the door, but out of sight, the loud puddle rippled, but stopped. It then threw itself into reverse and spit up the droplet until that paused then fell back to the puddle starting the process again.

The sign by the door had faded, but Brian could still read it: The Prime Minister’s Witch. This is the place, he thought. He looked up and down the alley for prying eyes, witnessing none. He knocked in a 2-3-1 pattern and waited. The door opened by an inch and an eye flashed in the crevice before the door closed again. After a shuffle of chains and locks the door swung wide open, but a woman blocked the entry.

“You wish to see the witch.” She hissed at him in a thick accent, though he detected no malice in it; only the factual statement. She wore an ornate but moth afflicted shawl that hung loosely, plainly showing her tattoos and tightly bound corset. “And you’ve the payment.” Again, plainly stated.

“I-I’m sorry, I wasn’t told anything about a payment.” Brian said, worried he’d missed a vital point somewhere in his briefing. The woman didn’t care. She stepped aside and directed him to enter, which he did quickly.

~~~

continued in Stranger and Fiction Anthology 3

The Prime Minister's Witch by Hethe Srodawa. Inspiration for this story.

Cracked Looking Glass

All Jerry could hear were the hisses and beeps that came from the life support machines on the other side of the wall, so it surprised him when Dr. Kleiner suddenly spoke. “How is she doing?”

“Dr. Kleiner!” Jerry snapped to attention, pulling his feet off the desk. “I’m sorry, I-”

“It’s alright, Jerry. I know this assignment is boring.” She looked through the glass, inlaid with fine wire mesh, and watched the comatose patient. “How is she doing?”

“Well, her vitals are normal and all. No spikes, but there were the occasional dips. Nothing out of the ordinary, really. It’s like she, well, it’s like she’s missing her head.”

“In a sense she is.” She sighed. “Kind of fitting, don’t you think?”

The patient showed no signs of trauma. Except for her ghostly pink lips she appeared to only be sleeping and likely to wake up refreshed at any moment. This made the tubes and nodes connected to her seem very unnecessary. Jerry and the other nurses assigned to her had learned to watch by listening, as actually watching manifested in them a subtle madness that would grow exponentially if allowed. Dr. Kleiner, however, seemed immune.

“It really is a shame. So full of life and yet confined to a tiny little room.” Dr. Kleiner bit her thumb and furrowed her brow “…the harsh light doesn’t do her any favors either.”

“I dunno, doctor. She looks fine to me.” Jerry said, typing away at the keyboard, unaware of the look she gave him.

“You think she’s pretty.”

“Well yeah. Everybody does, don’t they? She’s a beautiful tragedy. People love that.”

Dr. Kleiner looked at him a moment longer, then resumed her gaze on the patient. “I’m sure the money helps too.”

“Money?” Jerry finally looked at her. He thought he might have seen a hint of a smirk.

“Of course. We’re a fairly large hospital. Not every coma patient gets this kind of treatment. Didn’t you ever wonder why she’s been under near constant surveillance?”

“I have, but… I just figured she was, I dunno, new?”

“Oh, that’s right.” She laughed. “You only just transferred here a few weeks ago. Her parents are exceedingly wealthy.”

“I never see them though. If they care so much-”

“They care by throwing money at the problem, Jerry. She’s been here over seven months now. No change.”

Jerry froze, his finger stuck on the ‘O’ key, making it repeat across the screen. He looked into the room, focused on the sterile walls and machines that had been housing and sustaining the girl. After a few moments he realized his hand was on the keyboard and fixed the error, which had become a long, shouting paragraph. He got up from his chair and approached the window, facing it straight on. He spared a glance at the patient then looked to Dr. Kleiner.

~~~

continued in Stranger and Fiction Anthology 3

This Man Says

It started to rain around 8PM and hadn’t stopped. The sickly yellow lamp of the streetlight rippled when seen through the third floor windows. Reynold LeFevre tried to sit still. Every squeak from his chair echoed throughout the empty, mostly dark office and it was a little too disquieting for him. If not for the streetlight, his desk lamp and monitor would be the only sources of light; to conserve energy the lights went off at 9, no exceptions. For the third time that week he’d stayed late to work on his project and only in the last hour had the effort begun to pay off.

Tears welled up in the corners of his eyes from the strain of staring at a monitor. He backed away and rubbed his eyes, though he had trouble opening them again. Everything stayed blurry for a moment, with spots floating around until a few blinks later when it all went back to normal. When he focused on the monitor again it was too late. The glare became too much and triggered a nasty headache. He looked at his watch, unsurprised to see it read 1:18AM. There would be no more progress as all the tables, figures, reports and statistics bled into each other in a hodgepodge of numbers and right angles.

“I need some damn coffee.” He said, shutting down his computer. When he turned off the lamp his headache abated, but it left him in the relative dark of the office. The rain had let up and left fat droplets that all glowed the same sickly yellow on the windows. He watched as they ran down the glass, colliding with other drops that collided again until only a streak remained and disappeared from view. Suddenly, he heard a faint pop, almost like the filament of a light bulb snapping. Standing at attention, earnings folder shoved halfway into his messenger bag, Reynold looked around. Nothing. The security guard didn’t make rounds in the office anymore, unfortunately. He resumed putting away his folders, a little harried this time when another pop went off. This time much louder.

He could’ve sworn he saw a bit of flash from the far end of the office too. It’s nothing, I’m just tired, he thought. There came another loud pop, a thunder clap compared to the other two, and everything went dark. The lamp post that illuminated the office erupted in sparks that faded in the rain and shards of glass that fell to the street. Reynold ran for the window, his arms splayed in an effort to avoid running into chairs or desks. He pressed himself against the glass and looked to the alley below. In the pale moonlight he saw one shadow chasing another. He tracked their progress by splashes in the puddles they ran through. When they got too far away he followed them, minding the narrow aisle.

Another gunshot went off as the hunted rounded the corner to the front of Reynold’s building. The bullet must have hit, because they collapsed and rolled to a stop, clutching their leg. The reach of a nearby streetlight didn’t extend far enough to give Reynold a clearer view, but he could see the hunter ambling toward their victim. Please don’t kill him, he thought. The hunter obliged and only kicked the man in the chest before holstering their gun. Relieved, Reynold watched with rapt attention as the scene played on. The hunter waved into the dark and from down the street a pair of headlights came on. They flickered as the driver started the engine and drove up to their signaler. The clean white van passed under the streetlight; Sellars’ Construction in red screen print on the side was all Reynold could see before it passed into the darkness once more.

~~~

continued in Stranger and Fiction Anthology 3

Eggs and Toast by Craig Sellars. Inspiration for this story.

Slipshod

Just before dawn on a balmy Sunday morning, a mile outside of a festive looking shanty town, a spaceship landed. It resembled a dilapidated, lime green Ford Pinto station wagon with startling accuracy, save for the gull wing doors. With a click and a hiss the passenger side door opened, spewing white clouds of pressurized air from the seam. A figure stepped out, its eyes wide, round and glowing white. It was actually just the goggles; the rest of him wasn’t all that impressive. Spindly limbed with messy black hair, he wore a dusty red smock and black rubber galoshes. His mother certainly hadn’t dressed him that day.

“Where’s the town, Todd?! You said you’d land near a town!” he yelled, brushing off his clothes.

“I did land near a town. Honest I did.”

“Well where is it then?”

“A mile, uh…” Todd raised his arm like a divining rod. “That way.”

“Ugghhh.” The little one groaned, his shoulders drooping as he threw his head back in frustration. “That’s not close at all! And take off that dumb gas mask. The air’s fine.”

“Stop yelling at me, Tim. If I landed closer somebody woulda seen. And I’ve seen their movies, Tim. If I take this off-“

Tim waved away Todd’s superstitious worrying. “Whatever. Now I gotta lug my stuff the whole way.” He stepped back to the ship and leaned inside, fumbling around. After a few moments of rifling through empty take-out containers and soda bottles he got what he needed. He gripped a leather strap connected to both ends of a large pipe with flared ends and an aiming reticle...

He has a bazooka, apparently. I did not know that. Todd took something of his own from the ship, wrapped in a tarp, and strapped it to the top of his backpack. In direct contrast to his slim friend, Todd had a wide, stocky frame that held up quite well to Tim’s ineffectual physical abuse. His arms were like marble pillars and his hands were the size of frying pans, but his legs looked like they would buckle at any time from the weight. He wore a burnt orange robe and a full face gas mask with goggles that glowed just like Tim’s.

Tim slung the bazooka over his shoulder and fidgeted with the strap, squirming to get comfortable under its weight. He watched as Todd closed the door of the ship, causing the whole thing to rock. Tim closed his door with all his might, and succeeded only in closing it.

“Whatever. It’s time to go.” Tim readjusted the strap again and walked toward the village.

“It’s over there, Tim.” Todd said, pointing and looking at the ground.

“Whatever! Let’s go!”

“Okay, yeah. Sorry.”

~~~

continued in Stranger and Fiction Anthology 2

Crash Site by Tang Kheng Heng. Inspiration for this story.

It ain't what it used to be

“It kinda comes and goes, y’know? The nightmare. I just see Sophitia falling and my god damn jetpack isn’t going fast enough. Most times I don’t even wake up when she hits. I keep flying down until I hit too.”

“And then you wake up?”

“That’s usually enough, yeah.”

“I see.”

Marqus watched as his therapist scribbled a note on its pad. He couldn’t help but notice a screw coming loose from the neck.

“Hold still a second Biff. You got a screw coming loose.”

“Projecting isn’t conducive to treatment, doctor.”

“Oh, ha ha.”

He picked up one of the many cross-head screwdrivers lying around and, bracing Biff with his hand, tightened the screw. The robot’s glowing white eyes flickered and died, its arms stuck in note scribbling position. Marqus waited a few seconds for reboot until he noticed the tapping pen.

“Biff, knock it off.” He rapped the handle of the screwdriver against the metal skull and the eyes lit back up. “Honestly, why you had to develop a sense of humor.”

“I am programmed to understand the human psyche on such a level that developing such traits was all but a foregone conclusion.”

“Yeah. You mentioned something like that before. G’night, Biff.”

“But doctor, your session-” Marqus flipped the off switch. The way a robot’s voice lost momentum and wound down to stuttering groans when shut down would always unnerve him. To be sure it turned off he tapped Biff’s head again. Nothing.

He hadn’t always been so quick to shut down his robots but their constant mechanical whirring sounded best when it stopped. However, after years surrounded by them he could no longer stand straight up silence, so finding just the right balance between quiet and noisy was a never ending struggle. Even the otherwise inaudible buzz of light bulbs reached his ears. He turned out the lights as he left the room.

The spiral staircase creaked at every footfall and the wrought iron hand rail felt cold as death. Whenever it was windy, which was often, trips to and from his therapy sessions became a foreboding affair. Biff had commented on it before, going so far as to suggest they go elsewhere in the compound, making Marqus remind it of his long and perilous career that left mere creaking and chills a non-issue. He preferred to keep his past well removed and secure from his present and the east tower was perfect for that.

“Augh! What the-!” He felt a stinging sensation in his palm,  different from the dull ache of mild arthritis. A thin cut went across it, though only small sections were bleeding. He looked for the cause and found a fine point barely sticking out of the rail. In the dozens of times going up and down the steps he’d never come across it, so while he cursed his luck he couldn’t help but laugh at the odds. Examining the cut further he realized that it intersected a scar he got years before in heated combat. It faded to a pale streak over the years, but he could still make it out when he squinted.

~~~

continued in Stranger and Fiction Anthology 2

Beyond All Spheres of Force and Matter by Federico Piatti. Inspiration for this story.

Chalk

 Melanie loved to draw. Melanie did not, however, like to be outside. So when her father presented her with a brand new set of sidewalk chalk she was less than enthused.

           

“Sidewalk chalk? I like crayons an’ markers, dad. They don’t make my skin all bumply when I touch ‘em.”

“I know that you like them, Melanie. With markers and crayons you only have a small piece of paper, but you get a much bigger canvas with chalk.”

“Yeah, but-“

“Aren’t you always telling me how you need more and bigger paper?”

“So get bigger paper, please.” She hung her head as she said it, glancing sideways at the plastic clamshell container. She did like the soft, pastel colors. “I’ll try them.”

“You will? Not just for a few minutes like the watercolors?”

“The paper kept gettin’ soaked!”

“You’re right. We’ll just have to come back to that one day.”

Melanie loved the smooth and simple nature of watercolor art. When several attempts to replicate the style with her preferred mediums didn’t meet her exacting standards, she asked for a watercolor set. She was greatly disappointed when she couldn’t get it to work. Being five at the time didn’t help matters one whit.

Her father was always supportive when it came to her hobby. He didn’t have much free time with such a demanding career, so what little there was he used to bond with her over their shared love of art.

She picked up the container and, with the familiar assurance that dad would be in his office, she took it outside. The cement patio was fairly large and occupied by furniture. A set of rocking chairs next to a small, short table were perfect spots for stargazing. Rain from last night left flat craters on the dusty glass tops of two dinner tables, but the chairs around them were dry and warm from the unimpeded glow of the sun. It was gorgeous outside, making Melanie squint to see properly.

She held up a hand and looked for the source, flinching once she found it. Going back inside where the sun couldn’t reach sounded like a great idea. Yet her interest in seeing what some of the chalk would look like when scrawled across the cement sounded better. It took her a moment to decide on a spot. Moving furniture if she needed the room wouldn’t be much of a problem, but she liked to work with as few interruptions as possible. The neatly empty space next to the garden, she thought, would be perfect.

~~~

continued in Stranger and Fiction Anthology 2

Good Day, Sunshine by Russell Walks. Inspiration for this story.

Signal in the Concrete Sea

            Debris from the constant skirmishes warped the layout of the city into an unrecognizable state that hindered Emily’s progress to her waypoint. Buildings stood like corpses on display, their insides blown apart and scattered in the streets. Steel support beams stuck out from the rubble all gnarled and frayed. They made her think of scorched hands grasping for a world above the destruction. It helped her to ignore the real bodies.

            Her mission consisted of a single objective; to signal the resistance’s surrender. Their forces were crippled beyond recuperation and all communication was blocked. Even after weeks of sustained loss this decision wasn’t easily reached. Senior officials were whittled down to a handful that no longer held majority against the younger generation of leaders that wished to continue fighting. Rhetoric of honor found in death clashed with the sound advice of living to carry on the spirit and will of the people. It took a concentrated assault from Domain forces to draw the conclusion that surrender was best.

            Since contact with Domain was limited to firefights their options to convey the message were severely limited. A traditional blue signal flare would be the only certain way to get the message across. The only issue left was how to deliver it.

Emily had long been disillusioned with the war, so when the declaration was given it was as if she had suddenly been woken from a deep, numbing slumber. To be asleep while so much was at stake weighed on her, so before requests for a volunteer went out she demanded to be given the opportunity. Taking cover in the charred husk of a school bus did little to dissuade her from the mission.

Her overly large coat made it difficult to squeeze into and out of confined spaces, and the bulky flare constantly threatened to become dislodged from its clip on her shoulder holster. There weren’t many elements not conspiring against her at this point, but it only made her more determined, if not outright defiant. She would strip away Domain’s reasons for slaughtering citizens and extinguish its apparent lust for doing so.

All she needed was time.

***

            “I’m telling you, Commander, all we need is more time.” Captain Moore said, exasperation clear in his voice. “We are close to discovering their base of operations, and once we have that we can deliver a final blow to the resistance and be done with them forever!”

            “I understand your reasoning Moore, but compiling a majority of our forces into a single entity is an invitation for attack. Battles haven’t been fought like that in over a hundred years and for damn good reason.” Commander Dufresne took a slow drag from his cigarette then put it out to save it for later. He ignored Moore’s tantrum of knocking over a lamp and storming from the room, spitting out curses as he went.

In his long and storied military career there was no end of brash upstarts. The medals on his chest mattered less and less, apparently. For years it sickened him to be forced to deal with them, but the high turnover rate ensured their stay was strictly temporary. Soldiers he hated to bury; they fought with singular purpose: officers he gladly disposed of; they schemed to avoid the responsibility of war.  In that way he respected the rebels; they fought with purpose as well in spite of it being wholly wrong. They deserved to die; nothing less was acceptable.

            “Commander Dufresne?” said a voice over the intercom. Dufresne acknowledged it with a grunt, and the person continued. “We have intel that needs your attention, please report to central command.”

            “Noted. I’ll be there in a minute.”

            “Very well, commander.”

          

~~~

continued in Stranger and Fiction Anthology 2

The Signal by Ritche Sacilioc. Inspiration for this story.