All Things From My Brain » Flash Fiction

RC Cola, Moonpies and Zombies

Patrick Hester — Fri, 28 May 2010 12:00:59 +0000

I knew I had a problem the moment I walked through the sliding doors at the Mega-lo-mart and saw Zombies eating people.

Now, the President of these United States had just been on the idiot box telling us that we could get along with the Zombies if we just tried to understand em better. For me, that just seemed silly. I mean, how can you get to understand better something that’s focused on eating your brains? I mean, that’s the only word they know so it’s not like you can hold a conversation with one. How would that go?

“Hello. I’d like to understand you better.”

“Brains…”

“Yes, we both have brains. Mine’s a little less… decomposed than yours, and I tend to keep it inside my skull where yours seems to be leaking out a bit just over your ear. Doesn’t that hurt?”

“Brains…”

Silly.

Part of me wanted to turn right around and hightail it down to the Piggy Wiggly but, as I watched a Zombie with its torn up clothes, gray skin and wild eyes start to chow down on old Mrs. Fletcher over on the number two fast lane, I figured I had to do something.

Back about a year ago, they redesigned the whole damn store to add groceries; means that where the electronics section used to be is now all fruits and vegetables and frozen goods is where the music, dvd’s and video games once lived. All of that got moved to the back of the store which is where I headed. I kept my eyes peeled, of course. Last thing you want is to let your guard down around Zombies or else you’ll find yourself stumbling around repeating the same word over and over again like a broken record; Brains. Still, I wished they hadn’t moved everything around the way they had. Now I have to walk from one end of the store to the other to get what I need and that’s just inconvenient even on the best of days, which this was not.

My daddy was the first one to clue me into the one and only weakness of the Zombie and he figured it out on a lark one night. He and his buddies were out hunting early one morning when this Zombie comes stumbling into their camp all stiff-armed and hungry for brains. Well, it just happened to be near Halloween so mister Ferguson over at the radio station – the FM station, not the AM; that’s his father mister Ferguson Senior – well he, as a lark, slipped a few seconds of a Michael Jackson song in between Merle and Charlie. People were outraged, of course. The station got more calls and complaints about that than when he played a clip from David Letterman for April Fools. But that’s not the point of the story. The point is, damned if that Zombie, upon hearing the music, didn’t up and start dancing right there in the middle of the camp. Daddy said it was the only time he didn’t see a Zombie stumble along. It was as if the music had revitalized its whole body and, more importantly, it gave daddy’s best friend, Arlen, time to blow its head off with his double ought.

Digging through the music I found the cd I wanted, thanking my lucky stars they even stocked it (it was in the $.99 bin), then grabbed a cd player still in its box, a package of connectors and headed in the back of the store. There wasn’t a soul in sight. I wasn’t sure if that were a good thing or a bad so I just concentrated on the task at hand. I found the little office where they make the announcements over the speakers and I hooked the cd player into the rca jacks, then I opened the cd (no easy task; they had sticky-stuff along the top edge, the long edge and the bottom too) put it in and set the same track to play over and over.

I could see on the little tv screens that it was working; Zombies all over the store (and there were a lot of them) had all begun to dance to the choreography of ‘Thriller’, hands raised like claws, slashing back and forth, heads tilted up, eyes wide. It really was the damndest thing.

Once they were dancing, it was easy enough to head into sporting goods, load up a shotgun and start picking them off one by one as they slid into the isles to meet each other and dance in step. Part of me felt bad; never was a fan of ‘duck in the barrel’, but it was kill or be eaten so… Made a mess, too. Brain matter everywhere, brownish bloody goo too. Be hell on the janitorial staff come morning.

When it was all said and done, I went over to the groceries, ‘Thriller’ still playing throughout the store, and loaded up on RC Cola and Moonpies – the reason I went on this little late night snack run. In my heart I thought that maybe my clearing the store of Zombies might clear my taking of this little snack but in my head I knew the corporate types would never see it that way so I scanned everything on the number four fast lane and left twenty dollars on the til.

It wasn’t until I was halfway home that I realized I still had the shotgun and pockets full of shells.

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Tales from The New Universe: Gunny Homn

Patrick Hester — Mon, 08 Feb 2010 19:30:49 +0000

Happy Monday.

I wanted to share something different with you today. It’s not Flash Fiction due to it’s length, but nor it is really a short story. It’s something in-between.

It’s a bit of future-history from The New Universe (my own little sandbox of creative endeavors – everything I write exists in this little Universe I’ve created). I hope you like it.

Tales from The New Universe: Gunny Homn

Descent

The Slider shook violently as it sliced through the atmosphere. The exterior glowed white hot, the heat shield pushing away the worst of it to form a long tail in its wake. Inside, she felt none of it; her body snug in the viscous gel that kept her blood oxygenated, her body safe from the G-forces the Slider was experiencing and from the heat and friction chipping away at the surface of the craft.

Just large enough for one person, the Sliders sole purpose was to deliver someone to the surface of a planet with minimal time, effort and cost.

Someone like Gunny Homn.

* * *

Homn pulled the strings of her boots tight, the worked, brown leather laces wrapping around the knee-high, tan boots four times before they were short enough to be tied. Her pants were tucked in and tied up the sides, simple cotton leggings beneath them. Her belt was braided and made of stiffer stock, carrying two pouches, a long-blade dagger and a smaller, flat blade knife used for eating. The tan shirt also had a second, cotton shirt beneath it that doubled as a lining and she wore a green, short cut vest and matching jacket over that. The long, dark, oiled cloak that would complete her outfit still rested on the back of the chair next to the desk.

A quick look in the mirror and she flashes the woman reflected there a rare grin, tugging on the thick braid of hair hanging down, hugging the left side of her face. She definitely looked the part of a heathen. Now, she just needed to convince the Vice-Captain.

* * *

“Unification is the single greatest priority for the Human Race,” said the speaker on the chat, wearing a brown L’oum-suit with gold trim and a mirror-mask reflecting the gray L’oum of the interviewer. “Between the dilution of the Blood and the Cullings, we really cannot afford to allow these lost, backward splinter worlds to continue their Unholy Evolutionary Paths unaided.”

The mirror-mask of the interviewer held a blue tint, trimmed in pale red. “But, many within the Hierarchy of the Dome, argue that these splinter worlds, because of the divergence in their Evolution, are actually throwbacks to a baser, lesser Human existence than what we know today and will only serve to further pollute our lines if Unification is allowed. How do you respond to them?”

“Don’t you see? That is precisely why we must bring them back into the fold. Because they are throwbacks, their Blood is much closer to Genetic Purity. They haven’t experienced the Degradation as so many of us have. For generations, dilution of the Blood has caused more and more genetic mutation and weakening. These splinter worlds have survived in the old ways. They have diseases, suffer from exposure to bacteria, breed through sexual reproduction – things that we have not experienced in thousands of years. Because of this, they build up tolerances we can only dream of. Bringing them back into the fold will only strengthen us over time and ensure the continued expression of The Message throughout the Universe.”

Homn nodded thoughtfully. High Command agreed with this assessment. There was a program being developed even now to try and find these splinter worlds, assess the odds of successful Unification. They were even looking for volunteers who might be willing to act as the Forerunners. Fingering the a’Ddah of her N’osh to align with the docking web, she wondered what that might entail, a sense of adventure beginning to take shape in her heart.

* * *

“These images were taken from a high orbiting o’Anah’N'ret. A splinter world. We believe there are hundreds, perhaps thousands of such worlds, scattered across the Universe. Upon the Breaking, many fled the Culling of the Ute and no record was made of their journey, nor their destinations, so that the Evil may not find them.”

Homn stared at the images flashing slowly across the scried. She was shocked to see people so naked. Not a single one wore the Sacred L’oum or made any effort to hide their Souls from the Universe. Many around her seemed just as disturbed as she, some turning away in disgust or fear. As she watched, an image of a woman stunned her; she had long hair, wrapped upon itself in an intricate pattern that seemed impossible to her eye. Never had she seen such hair, spilling from the woman’s head down one side of her naked face. Her skin was strange, darkened with hue and color, and she wore some sort of garment that covered parts of her but could not have protected her from the Universe. Also, it accentuated her shape in a scandalous fashion, taking away any semblance of Blessed Androgyny.

Equally, men were naked to the Universe, their faces visible, skin darkened, clothes seemingly made to somehow accentuate their differences rather than hide them as was proper. It was as if madness had taken them. She had heard of whole Seeqhs going mad, removing the Sacred L’oum, mixing and comingling as savages, Souls naked to the Universe. It was the kind of thing you told in hushed tones to frighten and motivate the young newly hatched.

“They are more primitive than we could have ever imagined. To contact them will require sacrifice and dedication above and beyond anything that has ever been asked before. Only the strongest of us will be able to endure such trials. No one will judge you if you choose to leave now.”

Homn stared, curiosity warring with fear in her heart. She had never before found herself wavering once a decision was made, yet she had never expected this. ‘Sacrifice and dedication’? Watching as so many begin walking away, she remembered what had brought her to this point; the Human race needed these heathens in order to survive.

Steeling herself, she stayed where she stood. When the last of the deserters, for that was how she thought of them in her mind, when the last of them left, there were only a handful still standing before the Captain.

Nodding to those remaining, the Captain continued the briefing.

* * *

Homn stared at the reflection before her. It was her, naked to the Universe. After weeks, it was still difficult to see and she found herself looking down or away lest the Ute feel her presence and swarm for the Culling.

Her head was covered in a thin layer of fuzz; hair. She’d never had hair before. It was unnerving. Her skin had taken on a slight hue under the daily imaging doses she endured at the hands of the scientists. They assured her that it was safe in low doses, but she’d seen Rotero’s naked skin blister and belch something green and red all at the same time. He’d screamed, too; a horrid sound gurgling forth from his throat. Then they took him away and she had not seen him again.

Her round mammaries looked odd to her, but they told her they were necessary and adequate for the task. Most surprising to her had been the hair growing near her sex, and the bleeding that had begun almost as soon as her Sacred L’oum had been removed. The scientists told her that it was normal and ancient, but she did not see how this was possible. She was leaking fluids from inside her skin - that could not be normal!

The thought made her stomach speak – another oddity without the Sacred L’oum, and something she had never known before. Sometimes that sound meant she had to ingest something. With her mouth. Other times, she had to expel something from… other places. It was all so base and degrading and very inhuman.

They said and spoke and assured her that this was how the splinter Human’s lived their lives every day. She couldn’t fathom any of it. It was so… brutal, savage. The stark differences between male and female offended her. Esah and she had been set the task of standing, face to face, speaking to each other directly. The task was difficult; they were required to look each other in the eye while speaking, no mirror-mask to protect them. This necessitated risking soul to soul contact without reflection. During the exercise, Esah’s sex had inexplicably engorged. They rushed both of them to separate rooms for testing and decontamination.

She could tell that the scientists had been unnerved by the entire affair.

The Rorsah came to speak with them each day after that, despite their sins and nakedness. It was the only comfort for her at this point, knowing that what they did had been approved by the Church, that their souls were protected even if their skin were not. An entire F’qua had been devoted to thirty-eight hour prayer just for their squad.

Just yesterday, they had told her she would be elevated to Gunny. She was equal parts disturbed and prideful. She knew she had to continue on.

* * *

“Kneel before your God,” said the Rorsah, and Gunny Homn fell to her knees. She pressed her face to the floor, feeling the vibration as the walls of the tank slowly receded and the room filled with light and warmth. Her skin prickled.

You have done well, Gunny Homn, said the Human God, speaking in her mind. Euphoria spread through her body. Yours shall be a shining example to all Human kind. Rise, and look upon your God so that you may take me with you in your heart and spread The Message wherever you go.

Gunny Homn rose, tears streaming down her face as the God of Humanity shone brightly before her.

* * *

“You are the only one, Homn. The only one to persevere. Yours shall be the example for those who come after. Are you prepared?”

Gunny Homn looked up at her own reflection in the Vice-Captain’s mirror-mask. She saw her own excitement there, her own pride. She would be the first, but not the last. Unification would begin here, now.

“I am,” she replied. She stood above the Slider. The Honor Guard saluted her as she was lowered inside. The seal locked her inside and the pumps began to fill it. She breathed deeply, letting the gel fill her, become part of her.

The only indication that the Slider had been ejected, was the slight thrumming in her ears.

* * *

Her senses were under assault; lungs burning, eyes flaring with pain from the colors and light, ears thrumming with the beat of her own heart, deep within her chest. She fell to her knees, palms forward, the gritty surface cutting into the exposed flesh, digging beneath her fingernails. Back arched, she expelled the last of the gel from her lungs, then shuddered with her first burning breath.

The air was warm but sweet; she gasped repeatedly, taking in great breaths, eyes watering. She threw herself away from the puddle of gel, rolling over on her back, eyes staring sightlessly up at the blur she assumed to be the sky. She clutched to the dirt now, digging her fingers deeper, afraid for the first time in her life, aware that there is no ships deck beneath her, but rather a world turning that could spin her right off.

She could feel the weight of gravity pushing her down.

Her heart pounded in her ears, her breathing started to stabilize. For the first time, she drew in a deep breath through her nose, a thousand scents assaulting her, swirling through her mind which churned trying to identify them. Eyes beginning to clear, she saw a deep blue sky above her, the color unlike anything she had ever seen before.

The breath she’d been inhaling caught in her throat.

“…so beautiful.”

* * *

Aboard the o’Anah’N'ret, the Rorsah stood beside the Vice-Captain, watching as the Slider’s vapor trail faded beneath them.

“What we do today will change us for all time.”

The Vice-Captain nodded, purple tinged mirror-mask reflecting the blue planet’s glow. “Perhaps she will find what we seek.”

“Perhaps,” the Rorsah agreed. “I doubt it though. Are the other Forerunners prepared?”

“Each o’Anah’N'ret reports ready.”

“She truly believed she was the only one…,” he shook his head. “Tell them to proceed.”

“If we find evidence of Homeworld on these first excursions, the Universe shall truly tremble.”

“The Universe should tremble, for we are returning and all that was lost shall be taken back.”

The Vice-Captain nodded at that as well.

~End

(for now)

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Flash Fiction: The Legend of Aoudjila

Patrick Hester — Tue, 27 Oct 2009 00:29:31 +0000

Tales from The New Universe: The Legend of Aoudjila

Zohhāk fled from the great city early in the summer, making his way across the blistering desert where he intended to die. His lover had rejected him, taking another as husband after many nights where she whispered through the wall to him, promising that he alone would win her heart and her hand. He left without knowing that her father had arranged the marriage against her will and that she, too, was heartbroken and distraught.

He ran for a day and a night without pause, deep into the desert where none return. He ran until his eyes began to swell, his skin to blister, and his feet to bleed. When he collapsed, the desert rejoiced, for it knew that soon, it would consume this trespasser as it had done a thousand times before and would do a thousand times again.

But Dahae, the great Ezhdehā, saw the little man and his flight into the desert, and she watched him, watched as he ran and ran until his tiny legs could no longer hold his weight and he fell into the greedy desert sands. She came to him, pushing away the sands with her cool breath, cradling him in her arms and lifting him away, deeper into the desert where she knew of an oasis.

There, beneath the shade of a fruit tree, she held the little man, so curious to her mind, and dribbled the precious water of the Aoudjila into his dry and cracked mouth. When she held him, she sang softly the songs of her home and realized that she wanted to know more of this man.

But that was forbidden, for she was Ezhdehā, and he merely human. Still, there were ways around this, so she called on the Daēuua and asked for a boon, and the Daēuua were glad to help her, for they saw that only chaos and pain would come from her request, which they thrived upon. They used their mainyu to transform Dahae into the image of a beautiful human woman, and this was the first thing that Zohhāk saw when he was able to open his swollen eyes again, and he fell hopelessly, endlessly in love.

They spent that night cradled together.

Zohhāk decided to build a home at Aoudjila for his love, a home they could share and live together in as husband and wife. The home became a grand design, growing and growing in size and complexity as his mind tried to design something worthy of her beauty and grace. His brothers came to help him in the desert, and they brought their own families and tools and construction materials.

Zohhāk devoted all of his time to the building of the greatest home ever conceived, and then it became clear to him that a mere home was not enough – his lady deserved a city full of people to worship her as a goddess. So focused was he on building a home worthy of his lady love, that he left Dahae alone most of the time, and she could be seen resting beneath the shade of the fruit tree, her stomach swelling as the months went on but her spirit falling deeper and deeper into despair. She stayed only because of the child growing inside her.

Aoudjila grew from the desert like a tree spurting from the fertile ground near the great rivers of the frigid North. Zohhāk pushed to make every detail perfect for his love, from the smallest petal design in the lattice work walls of the garden to the towers rising higher than any other in all the land, each tipped and trimmed in gold that caught the sun and glowed like stars throughout the day. The walls were of gleaming white stone, matched in the streets and kept clean and swept every hour. This meant that Aoudjila could be seen from far and wide – a gleaming white oasis deep in the heart of the desert.

When he felt it was finished, when he felt that it was at last worthy of his great love, Zohhāk sought her under the fruit tree where he first saw her and fell in love, only she was not there. Concerned, he called for a search of the city. It took hours, for he had built a sprawling city with thousands of people living within its mighty walls. In the end, she was nowhere to be found. It was then that his brothers, chagrined, told him that she had left long ago, years ago, while he was obsessed with building the city and had ignored her altogether. They brought forth his son and told him that he must be a father now, but Zohhāk could only scream for the child had his mothers eyes.

Zohhāk cried for days and the Daēuua rejoiced, for at last, they had their due. They reveled in the misery they had caused, for they had known he would ignore Dahae and knew that she would never remain with a human for long – child or no child.

Zohhāk left in the night, distraught and grieving, and the desert was not kind. This trespasser had survived for too long, had even had the audacity to build a great city where none had ever stood before. Angry and hungry, the Daēuua whipped the sands into a fury that night and took Zohhāk into their gritty embrace. But it did not end there, for their anger was great.

A storm like no other was called, the winds carrying the sand higher and higher, swirling and howling while the Daēuua laughed in the night. They pushed against the shining walls of Aoudjila, splashing over them like water, filling the streets, burying the houses and the gardens so as to consume it altogether.

The desert reclaimed the great city of Aoudjila that night, and no trace of it has ever been found.

Yet still, on quiet nights, when the sands are still and the air is clean, a soft weeping can be heard. Some say it is Dahae, mourning the loss of her husband, Zohhāk, and the child they made together…

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Flash Fiction: The Guardian

Patrick Hester — Fri, 25 Sep 2009 21:12:30 +0000

Tales from The New Universe: The Guardian

All I had to do was save the world.

Her name is Alison. I met her ten years ago. We were married eighteen months later by a Priest without a flock on a mountain with the snow falling all around us and the sun hidden behind thick cloud cover. It wasn’t love at first site. We both had a lot of baggage.

Eventually, we had four children together; Ben, Ashley, Naomi and Jordan. I got to name the first born, Ben, but then I was told that I lacked the imagination for naming kids as each subsequent child was born. I didn’t care as long as they were healthy, which they were. They’re gone now.

I watch her from a distance, sipping her coffee in one of those little white cups with the lids that seem to be all the craze. I’d forgotten about those. And she doesn’t know me now. We haven’t met yet. Probably never will now. The guy across from her is her husband. James, I think. Never met him. He wasn’t in the picture when we first met.

The motorcycle vibrates between my legs as I race down the highway. I need to stop watching her. That was another life, a life that won’t happen now, can’t happen. I can’t seem to let go, though.

The cave serves two purposes; it gives me a place where I can do my work without being discovered and it reminds me of the comics I used to read as a kid. I always was a sucker for comics. No bats in this one that I’ve seen yet. I try not to think about how this cave used to be filled with hundreds of people. If I’ve done my job right, it will never have to serve as a home to so many refugees seeking shelter from the storms.

“Welcome home, sir.” Home. Right. The voice is pleasant enough. I based it on Alison’s because I like being tortured. Goes with the whole ‘living in a cave’ motif. So does the giant super computer with the AI running stuff for me. Amazing what you can do with lottery winnings.

“Telemetry?” I asked as I toss my coat on the sleeper sofa. The heaters I installed a couple weeks ago kick on and start to take the chill out of the air.

“Twelve objects approaching upper atmosphere. Four are viable for reentry.”

Damn. That’s how I screwed up – I never considered debris or stellar drift in my planning or my calculations. Enough of the stuff made it to the planet’s surface to change things forever. My fault. My responsibility. Now it’s spread out, impossible to find until it’s on target for planet fall.

“Drones?” I asked. Felt a twinge in my gut. They were coming fewer and far between now. When I first came back, they would rip me apart for hours at a time. Now, they were ‘twinges’ that went as fast as they came. Progress, I suppose.

“Armed and ready for launch. Sir? The military has been actively attempting to track our drones for some time. I do not believe they appreciate our efforts to eliminate the debris before it can be retrieved by them.”

No. Of course they don’t. Neither do any of the private contract firms who are also scrambling for more sources of this tech. But I’m still ahead of them. Decades ahead. Perhaps more when it comes right down to it.

“Cloaking devices are still working, aren’t they?” I ask. The chair squeaks as I sit down, reminding me that I need to oil it. Soon.

“As far as we are aware, yes,” she says. “However, I do not wish to underestimate their ability to cleverly use the technology they already have to break through our countermeasures.”

“We won’t. If they take out the drones, I’ll go myself.” I turn, the suit catching the light just right. Have to admit, I’m putting it on more and more these days. Too many people have gotten their hands on the technology from the fleet, the little bits that have been slowly floating towards Earth since I carried out my plan, mined the area of their arrival and, I thought, blew the bastards to kingdom come. It was all to change the future, save the human race from near extinction.

I never counted on the debris falling to Earth and pushing technology years ahead of where it should be.

“Debris is beginning planet fall.”

“Launch drones for intercept – full countermeasures. Monitor military frequencies and chatter for a heads up on any attempts at interception.”

“Drones are away.”

I lean back, watching the telemetry on the monitor, fingers steepled before me.

“Keyword search has triggered an alert – Tokyo. News is reporting a ‘hovering weapons platform’ attacking the city, threatening to destroy it unless a ransom is paid.”

I sigh. We humans never learn. “I’m on my way.” I put the suit on, a combination of human and alien technology, something I had to build to protect me in space as I laid my trap, and had to modify to destroy alien and hybrid technologies being used back here on Earth. I point my arm and the platform locks the tires of the bike in place and flips, revealing my tethered hovercycle.

“First drone has impacted. Debris has been vaporized.”

“Update me en route.”

Where I come from, the world ended on January 14th, 2007. An invasion fleet appeared behind Mars, then attacked the Earth, killing billions and enslaving the rest. Only a few remained, refugees like me, freedom fighters waging a war to free our world. I traveled back in time, using their own technology against them, to destroy them before they could get anywhere near the Earth. Change everything. Save the world.

I destroyed them, but I failed to save the world.

Now it’s my responsibility to make it right, protect us from ourselves.

They call me ‘Guardian’ in the news.

I suppose that works.

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Flash Fiction-In space, nobody knows which way is up

Patrick Hester — Fri, 18 Sep 2009 23:19:58 +0000

Tales from The New Universe: In space, nobody knows which way is up

“Four minutes of reserve oxygen remains,” said the computer voice in my ear.

Mutiny. That’s what it was – mutiny! Do you know what they did to mutineers in the old days? Do you? …yeah, me either – but I’m betting it was bad and that it hurt like a sonovabitch!

Floating in the empty space between places, abandoned, left for dead and for what? I’m not such a bad captain, am I? Sure, I push the crew hard, but no harder than any other captain looking to make a profit these days. Times are hard; Raiders hitting ships of all sizes and shapes nowadays, and the Company is cracking down on freelancers anymore – they don’t like the competition (or the independence). Translates to there being fewer and fewer jobs available and if you don’t deliver more than what you promised and twice as quick, well, there’s no guarantee you’ll get paid, let alone get the next job.

Doesn’t mean I deserve to be left in the black of space no matter what I done!

I tap the oxygen gauge on my glove but it doesn’t move out of the red. The emergency beacon next to it is still blinking, which is good. It only has a signal strong enough to be heard within a few thousand miles, which is bad. I’m glad I’m not spinning – who wants to die dizzy? Or in a helmet full of your own puke? No, floating is bad enough, thank you very much.

Looking ‘up’, all I see is darkness. Getting cold now, too. I hate space. I should’ve stayed on the farm, should’ve listened to the old man. He’d love to hear me admit that.

Dammit all to hell, she tricked me!

“Captain? We’ve got a problem with the primary booster. Reb says the panel’s come loose again.” Cam. Short for ‘Camille’ and she really is short – a head shorter than me and I’m easily six four. Her voice grates on the nerves, always has. It’s like she’s pumping it through that tiny little nose of hers – the one I’d like to break for all the crap she gives me on a daily basis. It’s no wonder nobody tries to get in her pants – not if having to listen to her spew venom after was part of the deal.

“Dammit,” I sighed. It’d been a long few days of her bitching at me. “Can it be repaired?”

“Yes, but we only have an hour before the next scheduled burn. If that panel is loose, it could be touching the fuel line. If it’s charged, it could ignite and blow us all to hell.” Couldn’t be worse than where we were.

“All right, all right. Get Gem on it,” I said instead of what I was thinking.

“Gem’s in sickbay – we think he broke his arm. Dora’s cleaning the tubes and has Xy helping. I can’t go – we never patched my suit.”

“Dammit,” I sighed again. “Fine, I’ll do it. Give me twenty minutes to get suited up.”

Space walks are never fun. When you’re in the ship, you have a nice artificial gravity field keeping your feet planted firmly on the ‘ground’. Outside the ship, there’s no way to even know which way is ‘up’. I hook my carabiner into the eyelet just outside the airlock door – so I don’t float away. Everything you take for granted on the inside gets harder out here – even turning a screw to tighten up a booster panel. Tools help a little, proper tools help a lot. We don’t have proper tools – can’t afford em. Yet. Soon, hopefully, but not yet. It’s on the famous ‘list of things we need someday’ that I have posted in the crew commons.

“Cam?” I ask into my comm. “There’s nothing wrong with this booster panel.” There wasn’t – it looked good. I reached my hand up into the hole and gave it a little wiggle – tight as could be.

“Sorry about this, Cap,” came a gruff voice. I felt a tug on my tether and turned as I was yanked away from the ship. Gem was at the airlock door. He’d just cut my line loose and gave it a great heave. I reached to grab onto the booster panel but it was already out of reach. Gem pointed something at me, some sort of compressed air gun that launched a friggin potato at me! It hit me in the shoulder and the force of the impact pushed me further away. I reached for the control to my ‘oh shit’ thrusters and got hit with another potato, this one in the gut. Hurt like a sonovabitch!

“Dammit Gem!” I shouted. I got another potato for my trouble. I was a good fifteen yards from the ship now. Gem was getting back into the airlock.

“You’re fired, Captain,” said Cam with a laugh.

“Bitch!” I shouted.

I hit the booster on my suit but it was too late; my ship’s engines flared to life and it shot away. In seconds, it was a small dot in my visor, then it was gone.

“One minute of reserve oxygen remains,” said the computer.

“I haven’t lost yet, Cam. I haven’t lost yet,” I chuckled with my last breath.

* * *

“What do you mean the computer is shutting down? Get it back online!”

Cam was screaming at Dora, who winced at every word. Xy looked scared beside her, his eyes wide.

“You don’t understand, Cam,” Dora said calmly. “All the systems are going offline, everything. We have an hour at most of air and heat left, then we’re dead.”

The crew swallowed this news poorly, erupting in a shouting match until a new voice could be heard, a familiar voice. Everyone listened.

“If you are hearing this message, the ship has most likely been commandeered by raiders,” said the Captain through the ships intercom. “I hate raiders, so you can all freeze in hell. I have rigged the ship’s system to a central password and no one has entered that password in twenty-four hours which means you are dead. Every single one of you damned raiders. Justice for killing me and my crew. Die in the cold of space you bastards.”

Everyone looked at Cam, who had turned a horrid shade of green.

“That asshole…” she whispered.

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Flash Fiction-SuperHero

Patrick Hester — Thu, 03 Sep 2009 22:46:26 +0000

Tales from The New Universe: SuperHero

The thing about being a superhero is that everyone expects you to save the day all the time, to be on your toes no matter what, to have all the answers.

No one warned me before all of this started that it would be like that. I thought it would be a lark; saving pretty (grateful) women from the bad guys and always coming through in the nick of time to save the city, people cheering me on, giving me keys to the city, having days named after me so kids could get out of school to come see parades in my honor. That sort of thing.

I thought it would be easy. Stupid, right?

I did get the key to the city early on. God, fifteen years ago? Has it really been that long? The years start to blur after a while, bleeding into each other and overlapping so I don’t always remember things in the right order any more. I wonder if any of the others feel that way? There’s a couple dozen of us now, not like in the old days when there were just two or three at most.

Anyway, the rest of it? Got tired real quick. There are only so many women you can save before they all start looking the same. It becomes old hat. I can’t even count how many times the city’s been in danger and I had to save it with only a couple seconds left on a timer – the bad guys? They love their timers. It’s like some bad piece of pulp fiction.

Week after week, the same stuff happening with a new twist and I have to keep up with it and roll with the punches. It’s exhausting. Have you ever tried crisscrossing a city ten times in a night because all the loonies were out in full force and pulling crap at the same time? Believe me – it’s not easy and it’s not fun.

Forget having any semblance of a real life with the secret identity thing. It’s worse than being married to a cop or soldier. Every time you go out the door it’s not just people with guns and knives threatening your life, oh no, it’s freaks with frost guns and magic powers and lasers that shoot out their eyes – FRIGGIN LASERS! Who could sit at home and handle that kind of worry and stress every day? Not my Martha, that’s for sure. Left right after the first major threat to the city I faced, when old ColdFront brought the temperature down to ten below and kept it there for a week, demanding ten million dollars before he’d turn his machine off. Finally found him in the old sewers, the ones they condemned and built right on top of decades ago. I got pretty beat up taking him down, spent days laid up in bed, covered in bruises, delirious with fever and suffering from exposure. Lucky I didn’t lose something to frostbite. That’s when she called it quits. Left a note as soon as I was up and around again and could fend for myself.

I don’t blame her. Still hurts, though.

Seven days a week, twenty-four hours a day – that’s what this gig is all about. No vacation days, no HMO plan, no 401K; just a constant, steady beating on your body and your mind, slowly wearing you down until you have a ‘bad’ day and some freak gets lucky because you’re too slow or too tired or just too damned old. Then it’s ‘game over’ and the city moves onto the next hero to show up and save them from the bad guys.

They have a ‘Fallen Heroes’ museum, you know? It’s downtown. Full of pictures, videos and mementos of all the heroes who got sloppy and kicked it – ain’t no such thing as ‘retirement’ for us. It’s closed three days a week now due to budget cuts and lack of interest. They used to take kids there on school field trips, but the neighborhood has gone down hill so they don’t take the kids there anymore. Too dangerous.

If they don’t close their doors, my costume will probably be in there one day soon. Can feel it in my bones. They’ll rip the mask off my broken body and everybody will stare at my face and say that I look like anybody else, nothing remarkable about me at all – except for the scars. Then they’ll figure out who I was pretty quick. Someone will write up an expose, maybe interview Martha and give her her fifteen minutes of fame. And for a week or two I’ll be the biggest piece of news on the wire. They’ll add me to that museum, probably use my spare costume on a mannequin once they search my place and find it, build a nice little glass encased memorial full of the crap I keep in the basement; my souvenirs. The culmination of my entire crime fighting career reduced to trinkets and knickknacks arranged behind a slab of glass.

It won’t be long until some kid comes along to take my name and run with it, same as happened with the Star Kid when he died two years ago in that embassy bombing. What a mess that was. God.

The costume will be different yet close enough that people will recognize him and think he’s me, but it won’t be. It’ll just be some dumb kid in a mask who never got told what this life would be like if he got into this mess. He’ll do it because it’s fun when you start, because people will look up to him, and because he’ll think he’s making a difference.

Same as me.

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Original Fiction-Welcome to Solar City

Patrick Hester — Thu, 13 Aug 2009 23:25:48 +0000

Tales from The New Universe: Solar City

“Welcome to Solar City” says the card in large, bright blue letters. It depicts your classic suburban dream complete with a row of large houses each with neatly trimmed yards and white picket fences all lined up nice and proper the way they can only ever manage in a piece of cheesy art. Each home has a large tree in the yard with a swing made of rope and wood hanging from an extra thick branch that just happens to be the perfect length and height for such a thing, as if it were grown for that purpose and that purpose alone. The sky above is blue and pristine, utterly devoid of clouds and the bright yellow and orange sun with its pointed halo has a smile on its face and sunglasses shading its eyes.

The whole thing makes you want to be there, want to live on that street, have barbecues with the neighbors on cool summer nights when the air feels crisp and the fireflies compete with the local stars to see which can be the better source of amusement and delight for all the little kids you’ll have with your plump wife in the frilly apron and the perfect hair that falls just below her shoulders. It’s all a dream concocted by some corporate stooge who lives in a shimmering glass fortress with an iron skeleton billions of miles away on the edge of an ancient city that can’t even remember what a tree looks like or how grass feels on a cool night between naked toes weary of their cotton and leather day prisons.

The reverse of the card shows a name and an address, neither of which are located in Solar City. Just another wide-eyed dreamer come to make their fortune and thrive in the Utopian splendor of the new frontier, a suburban paradise where work is easy to come by, the pay’s great and there’s two women to every man so your chances of getting laid are spectacular. A genetically engineered chicken in every pot and a house for everyone willing to put in some extra effort, roll up their sleeves and help build a community in the farthest reaches of the universe where such things are not commonplace.

The card doesn’t mention the hundred and thirty degree days because this rock is too close to the sun and the terraforming is still underway, or the fact that water is an expensive commodity and there isn’t enough to keep the average person hydrated let alone to waste on watering a lawn. It doesn’t show you that the jobs are all in the mines where at least it’s cooler by ten degrees if you don’t mind your lungs filling with dust and burning from the gasses or the back breaking labor because the company is too cheap to pay for anything other than hand tools and dynamite and ‘worker safety’ is a myth whispered about in the dead of night like sweet nothings in the ear of your lover. Or how, if you’re a woman, most likely you’ll be spending the majority of your time flat on your back with your legs in the air because the company knows that men who get laid are less likely to revolt and rise up to kill their corporate masters for treating them like a disposable commodity.

The sky isn’t even blue here; it’s a hazy red when it isn’t covered in dark clouds from the great machines pumping gasses into the atmosphere in an attempt to make it all the barest of habitable environments for the human animals thrust upon its surface like so much kindling tossed into the fire. The whole thing is a lie, a cosmic joke, the endless cosmic joke, perpetuated on every fresh faced virgin stumbling straight off the transport with their eyes still full of the wonder and excitement at the thrill of new adventure and the prospect of a better life. None expected what they received, none were ready for it, ready for the kind stranger who offered to guide them or show them a place to stay til they got on their feet or simply said ‘hello’ to them in passing. They didn’t know that he or she intended to murder them; steal that wonder and excitement from them along with their very life while leaving them to bake in the sweltering heat of an unforgiving sun on a god forsaken hellhole.

Nothing else was taken, just their lives; as if that weren’t enough. They still had what little money they’d begged, borrowed or stole for the trip out to the rim; pittance really, and hardly enough to buy a meal here, let alone start a life. Each still had a suitcase or a satchel or a duffel full of their worldly possessions clutched in their hands or lying nearby, wholly untouched and undisturbed, not that they would’ve been worth much, but here, anything that is worth something is worth stealing if it means the difference between eating and not eating. No sign of rape, no sign of anything at all on the bodies except for the smashed in skull, always from behind, always looking like someone lost a fight with a burning rage and pounded the poor soul to death like a miner pounds on a rock until it yields the treasure locked within or crumbles to useless dust carted out like so much offal.

Then there’s the card. The little postcard, four and a quarter by five and a quarter, sold in the giftshop out at the port and a hundred others exactly like it spread out all across the galaxy like cookie-cuttered boxes that could be inserted into prime real estate without any fuss. Printed by the Company in mass quantities, impossible to trace and always right there where we can see it, never a speck of blood or gore or anything on it, not even genetic material that the sniffers could sniff out and track. Addressed to the victim but printed not hand written with no return address and a counterfeit payment barcode that somehow, never, ever raised any flags with anybody when it was scanned by the geniuses at the postal service. Placed for us to find right there in the open. Taunting us. Daring us. Saying ‘look at what I’ve done’.

Seventeen so far. All virgins to this place, to this hell we have to call home because not a one of us can afford to escape it. We eat, we sleep, we fuck – someone else if we can afford it; we find dead bodies on the row. Rinse and repeat with genetically engineered meatloaf on Thursdays. None of them are the same, except they are virgins; different ages, different sexes, colors, height, weight – all seemingly random and all across the board without any pattern. Left for dead. Left for me to find. Left for me to clean up. One after another. An endless, nightmarish stream of broken dreams and bodies baking in the sun.

My job is to find out who’s responsible, bring them to justice, make hell safe again for the virgins, keep the flow of workers to the mines consistent and steady. A Company man through and through, as if I ever had a choice. Yay for me.

Yeah. Like the card says, “Welcome to Solar City”.

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Flash Fiction-Whooops!

Patrick Hester — Thu, 16 Jul 2009 18:12:53 +0000

Whooops!

If this is the way I’m going out, then bring it on.

That’s what I wanted to say. It’s the renegade in me; the rogue. He’s always saying stupid shit like that, and it never, ever ends well.

Still, when you’re staring death in the face, I suppose there are worse things you could say.

“Fuck.”

Like that.

I don’t usually cuss. Honest. I say ’shit’, sure, but that’s not really cussing, right? I admit that, on occasion, a choice phrase or two have been known to slip through and then there’s this f-bomb hanging in the room, kinda like right now, and people are staring at me, and I’m staring at them, and no one is really sure of exactly what to say or how to react. I guess in a situation like this one, the old f-bomb just has a bit more impact because I don’t use it all the time. I suppose, if I were some sort of sailor, I’d probably use it all the time. But, I just find it so crass. It’s sort of like a last resort kinda word, you know what I mean?

“Would someone, please, kill this asshole?”

Now he cusses a lot. You can just tell sometimes, you know? Tall, bald, tons of muscles and no neck, tattoos running up one bare arm and back down the other and this sort of perpetual grimace frozen on his face – yeah, this guy is a cusser. Not that I’m trying to perpetuate any sort of stereotypes or anything. I’m not saying that, just because he has tattoos or muscles or anything, that that precludes him to being this foul-mouthed individual. It’s just, well, he is. You know what? Stereotypes exist for a reason so don’t judge me!

Now, the other four guys – well, three really. I can’t say for sure that the fourth one is a guy or not. I’ve never been able to really tell with the lizard people – it’s the greenish-gray scaley skin that throws me every time. I read somewhere, once – or maybe it was a teacher or something that told me, I don’t recall – anyway, I either read it or heard it, but the gist was, the males had these spikey yellow things on their heads, and the females had these sort of lesser spikey things that were greenish-gold. I know, right? Yellow and gold are so close, you can’t tell either – am I right? And who wants to get close enough to look and tell for sure?

Anyway, the other four – they don’t seem like the cussing type. I can’t know for certain, of course. I doubt they would entertain the idea of a sit down to discuss it. They have other things on their minds right now, and, really – they are henchmen and have to follow orders. Wait – can lizard people be henchmen?

Whooops! Four guns are coming up and are about to be pointed at me and a split second later, they’re going to start shooting. I really don’t want this to be the way I go out, so I’m gonna have to try something a little crazy. Don’t worry – I do this sort of thing all the time. It almost always works out all right. Well, there was that one time with the-but you know what? I prefer to think positively and not dwell on things that my or may not have resulted in certain things becoming liquefied due to unforeseen circumstances beyond my control. And a laser.

First, I release the clasp on the harness, which is the only thing keeping me suspended in the air in the first place. Without that, I start falling towards the floor at a pretty alarming rate. The guns are firing now, but they’re pushing those sonic pulses through the air where I was instead of where I am - a key point and one you’d think they would’ve adjusted for by now – not that I’m encouraging them to react quicker or anything.

I hit the ground running. Well, rolling. Not easy, actually. My armor isn’t bulky but nor is it terribly flexible. Rolling? Well, let’s just say that you really have to be desperate to even try it. Which I am. So I roll. The crates stacked two high in this warehouse are the perfect place to roll to. Well, behind. I can hear that they have adjusted their trajectories now, as blast after blast hits the metal crates and starts shaving off slivers and chunks that are not me so I’m fine with it on the whole. I’m safe for a moment. Sure, also pinned down and there really is nowhere to go from here. But I’m not dead, so there’s an upside.

“Should we return fire, sir?” that in my ear.

“Would you?” I asked. Looking up, I could see the hole where the roof had been not quite as supportive as I thought it would be, causing me to fall prematurely into the fray, as it were. Lucky for me we were preparing to crash in anyway, so I had my harness on and a rope attached, otherwise this would’ve been a very different scene what with the splatting and the broken bones and the knees for shoulders…

The rest of my squad were still up there but my second in command? He does things by the book. Even if it means letting me get shot a lot while he waits for the go ahead. What do you expect from a cyborg? Original thoughts?

“This is the police,” his voice boomed through the warehouse. He could do that sort of thing. “We have you surrounded!” Then he started firing, as did the rest of the squad. Thankfully, this meant I was no longer under fire and could breathe again. I peaked around the corner and saw that the bad guys had dispersed, probably taking cover, except for one, who was lying still right where he fell. The bald, tattooed, muscle endowed leader was running out the far door.

“I’m going to do something stupid, follow me when you can,” I said, then started running after him. The cover fire from above became much more vigorous as I ran past hidden bad guys intent on seeing me dead. Actually, I can’t back that up – I have no proof that they actually want me dead, only that they were ordered to kill me. Really, there is a distinction and I need to give them the benefit of the doubt.

The door looks further away than it probably is. I hope. So I’m running. No one shoots me in the back, so my squad is doing their job. I get to the door and plow through onto the stairwell and listen. The bald guy is running down. I can still catch him. Oh. That part about us having the place surrounded? That was a fib. There’s just us, and us is on the roof and in this stairwell and I need to start running now.

This warehouse backs up onto the junkyard, so this side isn’t level with the opposite side; it plunges down about six flights of stairs. He’s two below me and moving fast, so I take the stairs two at a time, then three, then I just sort of hop from one set of stairs to the next, lower set. Which hurts. Just a bit. I can take something for it after.

I have to hand it to baldy, he can move when motivated. Something about having the police chasing them really motivates criminals to sudden and incredible feats of strength, speed and agility normally unseen by the average human being. I suppose it could also be the illegal cyborg upgrades that a lot of them get that factors into it. I don’t judge. Well, I try not to. Mostly. Still, annoying, right? And so unfair.

I manage to close the distance between us, so that when he hits the door and flies outside, I am only one flight of stairs behind him. I blow through the door, ready to go full on sprint, really, really push and use the last of my energy to catch up to this scum-bag, just an all out, full on, classic sort of police on criminal chase. I’ve prepared myself for that, for the exertion and the pain. Bring it on!

So it just blows my mind that he’s only a couple feet away and pointing a gun right at my face. Which sucks. I mean, what kind of criminal turns to fight when they can run, right?

“Fuck.” There it is again. I honestly do apologize. These moments – they simply bring out the worst in me, I suppose. For his part, the bad guy seems to find it amusing because he’s got this smirk on his face. It’s the kind of smirk you just want to slap right off of a face when you see it, just open hand slap so hard their head snaps to the side and their eyes and teeth just sort of rattle around and they have absolutely no idea whatsoever what just happened and then they give you this look of utter disbelief. That’s the kind of slap I wanted to give him.

See, the rub, the crux of this situation is this; the police have been using these non-lethal sonic weapons for decades now, but the criminals? They don’t play by the same rules. They hack their weapons, crank up the sonics beyond lethal and into the stratosphere somewhere between ‘liquify the human brain’ and ‘pop your eyes like soft boiled eggs’. So, with that weapon pointed at my head, I am, without a doubt, a bona fide goner.

Which is the point where the bad guy is suddenly, and violently, replaced by my second in command. Yeah, the cyborg. He just sort of is there. I blink.

“Sorry, sir. Got here as fast as I could.” I stared at him, at the chrome legs and arms, the human chest and head half covered in chrome itself with that one, creepy green eye that just sort of pulsed at me all the time…

“Did you…?” I wasn’t sure exactly how to end that question, so I just let it hang out there.

“Crush the suspect into the soft ground by pile-driving down onto his shoulders from a high altitude?”

I nodded.

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, fuck.”

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Flash Fiction: Ghost Story

Patrick Hester — Thu, 09 Jul 2009 19:17:42 +0000

Ghost Story

“Well, there it is! The most haunted house in the world! Do you know, they say a hundred people died in there on the same night! Poisoned! And we’re gonna spend the night!” George grinned at his friend Aiden, who appeared to be turning a fine shade of green. Without another word, George stalked up the stairs and into the condemned house, leaving Aiden alone in the over grown yard full of too-tall weeds and stickers. He’d already gotten a couple in his socks and they hurt.

Aiden readjusted his rolled up sleeping bag under his arm and stared up at the old house, the oldest on the block. It had sort of towers that rose up to little flat points surrounded by tiny versions of the iron fence that kept most people out. The windows were all boarded up, the green paint chipped and fading, the porch wide and flat but with spider webs in the shadowy corners and weeds growing up through the cracks. He scratched his cheek, sure he felt a spider crawling there.

George reappeared in the doorway. “What are you waiting for? Come on!” then disappeared again.

Screwing up his courage, Aiden followed his friend of two weeks, taking the steps in one great leap and then rushing inside. He looked around wildly, half expecting ghosts to be sitting or standing around waiting for him and chatting with his friend. Instead, he found a dusty stairwell to his left, a mostly gone chandelier above him and a wide open room to his right. It was here that George sat on his own sleeping bag, engrossed in a pile of old baseball cards he was arranging into piles on the floor.

Aiden quickly scurried into the room and set his sleeping bag up opposite his friend. He looked around the room; there was a fireplace big enough he could probably stand up in it, it had a fancy looking mantle with carvings in the wood and a thick layer of dust. Sitting on top was a broken mirror frame. Jagged shards were still in the top and the bottom, but the rest was gone. Suddenly, he realized that it looked like a giant mouth with teeth and quickly looked away. The walls had wallpaper on them. It was faded, but he could still make out what vague shapes and colors that twirled around. The windows behind him were boarded up on the outside, letting only slivers of the fading sunlight in. He grabbed his little lantern and set it where he could quickly grab it and turn it on as soon as that sun did go down.

“…this is a bad idea,” he muttered. George looked up, concerned, then smiled.

“Don’t you want to see a ghost?” he asked.

“Well…” Aiden said, drawing the word out and looking around again. “I thought I did, but now I don’t know.”

“Look,” said George as he stood up and walked over to his friend. “We both said we wanted to see a ghost and that we’d do this together! Ghosts can’t hurt you or anything, they can just jump out and say ‘boo’ or something, right?” he asked. Aiden nodded, looking around as if he expected one to do just that. “So, we’ll just spend the night and if we see a ghost, that’ll be really neat. And if we don’t, well, we’ll still have a great story to tell at school, right?”

Aiden nodded. He had to admit, his friends would be really impressed to learn that he’d spent the night in a haunted house, not to mention how impressed they’d be if he actually saw a ghost. He nodded to himself again, stronger now. Everyone would want to be his friend.

“Good?” asked George.

“Good,” Aiden replied with a smile. George smiled himself and went back to his baseball cards. Aiden spared them an uninterested glance. He didn’t really care for baseball, unless it was on his PSP, which he slid out of his pocket and turned on, then sat across from George and started playing. When the sun set, he turned on his lantern and they sat huddled around its neon glow until it was very late.

George yawned as he slid into his sleeping bag. They had not seen a single ghost so far, but Aiden hadn’t really looked very hard. He’d almost suggested that they take a look around upstairs, but then realized what he was about to say and snapped his mouth shut so hard his jaw still ached. Aiden followed his friend’s example, switching off his PSP and sliding into his bag.

“Do you think we’ll see anything tonight?” he asked.

“Dunno!” George replied. But he was soon snoring, so that left Aiden alone to stare at the ceiling and listen to the creeks, pops and cracks of the old house. He heard a lot of things that made him jump, but nothing said ‘Boo!’ to him – not even once. And before he knew it, he’d fallen asleep.

“Time to get up!” George shouted. Aiden woke to find his friend sitting up and once again, going through his baseball cards in the weak morning light.

Aiden groaned. His whole body was stiff from sleeping on the floor. He pushed himself up on his elbow and regarded the room again. It didn’t look half as scary as it had the night before. He threw back the top of his sleeping bag and stood up, then walked around a little bit. “Did you see anything?” he asked.

“Like a ghost? Naw, not really,” George replied. “Never do,” he said with a dramatic sigh. “I’m just not that lucky.”

“Yeah,” Aiden agreed. “I was scared and stuff, but now I sorta wish I had seen a ghost.”

George laughed and it echoed through the room. “But, Aiden,” he said. “You did see a ghost.” …and then he faded away, baseball cards, sleeping bag and all.

Aiden ran screaming from the old house.

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Flash Fiction: Dungeon Master

Patrick Hester — Wed, 01 Jul 2009 18:22:25 +0000

“Um… Okay. You’re standing at a crossroads. You see before you a mist rising from the marsh.”

Duncan stared out above his screen, only his eyes visible to the players crowded around the too small table. To his left was Mark; a Half-Elf Thief unimaginatively named ‘Marc’, a surly sort, always looking over his shoulder and muttering to himself, then came Xander as ‘Rogkar’ the Dwarf, a Warrior whose great battle-axe was nearly taller than he was. On the right sat his brother, Aaron; playing an Elf Predator Druid named ‘Sinese’ currently in her Tiger form and next to him sat Bryon with his Human Paladin, ‘Adama’, complaining about both the Half-Elf and the Dwarf incessantly.

“I don’t want to go into the marsh.” That from Mark. Or ‘Marc’. Sometimes it was difficult to tell which was doing the whining.

“Coward!” bellowed Adama, slamming his hand down on the table and causing everything to jump and shift slightly to the left. Duncan hated that name. He wanted to force Bryon to change it to something less Battlestarish but he was afraid that ‘Starbuck’ was next on his list of names, so he kept his mouth shut.

“Do you have to hit the table?” asked Xander as he scrambled to reset the minis on the map.

“I say we send the Thief into the mist – he should be right at home sneaking through the dark!” Adama again. Bryon rarely broke character during a game.

“Sinese purrs her agreement,” said Aaron.

“I’m bored!” Mark whined. He was the youngest of the group, only just thirteen. Duncan and Xander were fifteen, Bryon fourteen and Aaron thirteen and a half.

“Come on Mark,” Duncan pleaded. He really wanted this campaign to move forward. He had plans. Serious plans. Plans within plans. It had to move forward! “You said you wanted to play.”

“It’s stupid,” Mark complained, thudding his head on the table. He muttered something else.

“What?” Duncan asked.

Mark looked up again. “I said I wanna play Xbox.”

“What is this ‘Xbox’ the fiend speaks of?” shouted Adama. “I know not of such things! Surely it is some evil witchcraft! BURN HIM!”

“Are you always a douche or only on Fridays?” Xander asked him. Bryon’s eyebrows drew together but he said nothing, simply crossing his arms and leaning back in his chair.

The group was falling apart! It was up to Duncan, the Dungeon Master, to pull them together again.

“Why do you want to play Xbox, Mark? This is soooo much better than any Xbox game!”

“No it’s not!” Mark whined. “I want HD graphics and explosions and monsters!”

“But, this has all of that and better!” Duncan countered. Mark looked unconvinced. Duncan took a deep breath. “Look, your imagination is better than any old Xbox graphics! Let me paint a picture for you; You are standing at a crossroads. The night is cool, the air crisp and clean. To your left you can hear the music from a lively inn. The air carries to you the scent of roasted pork and sweet apple wood burning on the fires. You can just make out the glow from those fires beyond the curve in the road. Before you, the road trails off into a misty covered marshland. You hear the sounds of crickets and frogs and smell the musty/wet scent of old growth and rotten, decaying foliage. Down this road is the half-sunken temple of the old King Dorain, his wealth legendary, his obsession with protecting that wealth overshadowing that legend. Rumor has it, that temple is guarded by the undead, Zombies who want nothing more than to eat your brains. To your right, the dirt road becomes ancient stones five paces wide by five paces long. It stretches on as far as your eyes can see and deep into the distant mountains, leading into the West and becoming the Road to Faloan, seat of the High Elves and their massive forests.”

Duncan looked each of his players in the eye. Aaron sat with his mouth open, eyes wide and filled with excitement. Duncan could only smile at his little brother, proud that he had awed him so. Byron had a similar expression on his face, eyes wide and mouth open. To his left, Xander sat with a smirk on his face. He alone, as Duncan’s best friend, knew the work that had gone into this campaign, all the hours he’d spent, research he’d done. Duncan nodded to him and Xander nodded back. Plans within plans.

Then he looked at Mark, who looked like he swallowed a bug.

“See? If you use your imagination, there is so much more possible! There really is no limit!” Duncan pleaded with him.

“That’s stupid!” Mark cried. “I don’t wanna use my imagination – I wanna play Xbox!”

Duncan hit his head on the table, then tossed a die on the table, not even bothering to see how it landed. He muttered to himself.

“What?” Mark asked.

Duncan looked up and shouted, “A DRAGON SWOOPS DOWN AND EATS STUPID MARC IN A SINGLE GULP AND THEN WINGS AWAY WITH A FULL BELLY AND A SMILE NOW GET OUT AND GO PLAY XBOX!”

Mark exited quickly, slamming the door to the basement as he hit the landing above. Duncan looked over his screen at his remaining players. They were each staring at something of interest on the table before them so they would not have to meet his eye. Duncan picked up his dice, rolling them over in his hands. “Okay, so, you’re standing at a crossroads in stunned silence at the pointless, sudden and violent death of your comrade. You see before you a mist rising from the marsh…”

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