Ichabod Ebenezer's Blog, page 11

First Day

Image by David Mark from Pixabay



“I’ve got to say, this place is not what I expected,” Brinda said,

taking in the solar honeycombs climbing to the atrium ceiling high above.

“How so?” Ms. Salt said. The human resources representative who guided her private tour wore a smile that hadn’t wavered since she introduced herself.

“Well, naturally I’m super excited to start working for the world’s
greatest cybernetics company, but I expected higher security.”

“Our bioscanners may be unobtrusive, but they’re state of the art. I assure you, every living thing in this room and beyond is tracked and identified.”

“But if these are all employees, why is no one wearing the
implants you create?” She looked around again at the open space where people
gathered in small groups, enjoying their leisure time.

“I understand. But Cybercore is trying to move past our
reputation as a cold, faceless corporation. Individuality is encouraged here,
and implants are seen as conformity. This way please.”

The elevator opened onto a darkened bank of monitors, the
images leaping several feet off the screens. Employees hand-manipulated the
images like physical objects.

“Whoa.”

“Indeed. This is how the majority of our programming is
done. A.I. has advanced to the point where it interprets the programmers’
desires, writing optimized code nearly instantaneously. These next-generation
gloves are indistinguishable from human skin. This way.”

As the next door opened, a man in a uniform entered, blocking
their way. “What are you doing here, Ms. Salt? Your 11:00 hasn’t arrived yet.”

“There must be some mistake. This is Brinda. It’s her first
day—”

“Bioscanners never registered Brinda entering.”

Brinda smiled. “Brinda. Binary Replicant, Intrusive Data Acquisition. Trademark BioMimic.” Her lower-arm flipped downward on a hinge and a blade extended, slicing cleanly through the security guard. “And it really is my first day.”

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‘Belle’ and ‘Cirin’

Image by Jonny Lindner from Pixabay



“It’s just… Cirin, it’s not because I couldn’t get a date. I can,” Belle said.

“Belle, a woman as gorgeous as you could probably get any man in this room. But that’s not all you’re after…” Cirin said, chasing an olive around his martini glass.

Her eyes burned and she stopped fidgeting with her wine
glass. “This is my opportunity to get ahead in the company, and I can only do
that by snagging the perfect date.”

“Devilishly handsome, quick with the humor, not too controversial, and always willing to celebrate your big win afterward in the most debauched manner possible?”

She shifted in her seat when he mentioned celebrating. “Exactly,”
she said in a voice two octaves lower than previous. “So, how does this work?”

Ciriatto looked around the crowded restaurant, pulling the
ancient parchment from his pocket. “I’m afraid there’s the formality. You
understand what you lose in exchange for this guaranteed promotion? Hmm?” He
produced a fountain pen from seemingly nowhere.

Her fingers shook as she reached for the pen. “I never
really thought about my soul. I guess I didn’t believe I had one.” Her elbow
collided with her glass, sending wine streaming across the table. “Oh!” She
whipped the contract out of the way, further upsetting the table.

Appetizers ended up all over Ciriatto, and she followed, napkin in hand, wiping down his pants.

“It’s alright, just sign.” Ciriatto waved off the approaching waiters.

Belle breathed deeply, took the pen and signed her name.
Ciriatto took the pen back and signed his own, only then seeing her signature. “Jezebel?”

Belle smiled. “Didn’t notice when I switched contracts, hmm?”
 The ground around them caught fire as
burning wings extended from her back. “Seems you’ve been skimming off the top,
Ciriatto. Management can’t have that. This contract gives me your job, and you’re
getting… well…” She looked down as the floorboards fell away and distant
screams echoed upward.

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Thanksgiving with my Protagonists

Image by Element5 Digital from Pixabay



As I crossed the street toward the neon lights of Delaney’s,

a 1939 DeSoto came out of the fog and caught me straight in the Conquistador hood ornament. I momentarily saw the old lady behind the wheel as I rolled up and over, but it didn’t look like she noticed me at all.

I slammed into the street behind her car, and as the tail
lights disappeared, I wished her a Happy Thanksgiving, complete with
instructions on where to stuff the turkey.

Miraculously, I was unharmed and so were the two jars of gravy
I carried—mother’s recipe. I got to the curb and threw open the door to my
favorite bar.

Only, that blow to my head must have gotten me turned around, because I ended up in some guy’s dining room. The table was set for four, with crystal glasses and silver-inlaid china. The man sitting across the aromatic turkey from me was dressed in a red robe with intricate beading, and an ornate amulet.

“Please, sit down,” the man said in the wealthiest of
British accents.

Intrigued, as well as hungry, I took a seat and put mom’s gravy next to the turkey.

“Emily should be here shortly, but I’m afraid Regan won’t
make it tonight. He’s not quite done yet.”

“Not done with what?” I asked.

“Not fully formed in the Author’s mind.” An alarm sounded,
and the man looked at his wristwatch as if the sound could be coming from
there. “Ah! 11:11.”

The front door opened again, but that was not the Seattle
streets outside. Smog lay low, and the houses I could see across the abandoned
street had their windows boarded open.

A girl no more than eighteen stuck her head inside. “May I
come in? I brought pumpkin pie.”

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The Mushroom

Image by Enrique Meseguer from Pixabay



“I’m just saying, couldn’t we consider moving?” Audrey
asked.

“Why would we want to leave?” her mother asked. “This part of the glade gets more sunlight than most, and that means the best growing conditions.”

“It’s not the location, Mom, it’s the house!”

“Nonsense. Nothing’s wrong with the house.  It’s cozy, you have your own room… Not a lot
of your friends can say that, can they?”

“We live in a mushroom, Mom. A literal mushroom. Everybody makes fun of me for it.”

“So, you live in a mushroom, so what? Anabelle lives in a hole
in the wall. Is her place so much better?”

“Mom, I reek of mushroom. It doesn’t wash out! Just smell my
hair,” Audrey said, pulling her delicate curls across her face and making a
face. “It’s disgusting!”

Her mother gave it a cursory whiff. “Well, I think it smells nice.”

“Whatever, Mom. Just promise me you’ll talk to Dad about it.”

“Alright, we’ll talk. I can’t promise anything will come of
it. Who knows if any places are even available?” She shrugged and flitted back
to stirring he cookie dough.

Audrey’s face brightened momentarily, then her eyes narrowed
conspiratorially. “Actually, I know of a place. You know where Robin lives?
Well, her family left The Glades, so her place is empty right now. If we move
quickly, it can be ours!”

“Robin’s place? Can’t we find something closer to ground
level?” her mother said as she began spooning clumps of dough onto a baking
sheet.

“There’s no point if you’re just planning to trade one mushroom for another, Mom. Besides, you’re not scared of heights, are you?”

Mother blushed. “Of course not. Don’t be silly. Now, go
before you’re late.”

Audrey kissed her mother’s cheek, then flew outside to join
her hovering friends.

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The Lightning and the Lightning Bug

I was asked recently which was my favorite quote about
writing. Many leapt to mind, and I didn’t think I’d ever be able to choose one
favorite. Spoiler alert, the title of this post is a dead giveaway.

The image above gives a paraphrasing, so here’s the quote as
I’m used to hearing it:

“The difference between the almost right word and the right word is really a large matter. ’tis the difference between the lightning bug and the lightning.”

Mark Twain.

It really gets to the difference between being a writer and just plain writing. When writing, you tell someone what happened. But when you are a writer, that ain’t nearly enough. The reader should feel a sense of immersion in the words, should leave knowing what they taste like. That metallic tingle on the tip of your tongue just before the author’s fury rains down upon you and sweeps you away.

If Alan dies, it
isn’t enough to say that Alan died, or even that Nathan plunged his lance
through Alan’s chest. A writer must make you feel Nathan’s anguish in
fulfilling the prophecy by sacrificing his brother and thereby saving the
kingdom. You should know that he wants to look away, but he owes it to Alan to
imprint that dying look of betrayal and yes, love, upon his memory forever.

I’m going to throw
in two other quotes to help illustrate and support my choice. First, ponder
this one for a moment:

“A good book makes you want to live in the story. A great book gives you no choice.”

Unknown.

The difference between a good book and a great one, the stories themselves being equal, is that lightning. Two storytellers can perform Cinderella, but one just reminds you that you’ve heard it a thousand times before, while the other draws you in and makes you see something new.

Being a writer is
about that search for just the right word. A sentence might go through a dozen
revisions before it

Conveys the
meaningMakes you feel
what the writer intended, andFits the meter
and tone of the surrounding sentences

Which is why I defer to Thomas Mann for this last quote. Because if you just want to convey a message, it’s easy just to write it down. But if you want to move someone to tears, or sway them to your point of view, you’re going to have to spend some time and find the lightning..

 “A writer is someone for whom writing is more difficult than it is for other people.”

Thomas Mann.

Be sure to check out this list of more great quotes on Writing: https://thewritepractice.com/become-a-better-writer-quotes

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Selkie Point

Image by enriquelopezgarre from Pixabay



“Come on! I’m telling you, you’re gonna love it.”

Sophie yanked on his arm, pulling him forward.

“It’s not that I don’t know how to
swim… It’s just that the ocean looks pretty rough tonight…”

“Don’t be such a wuss, Geordi.
Besides, we’re not going in the ocean. You’ll see.” She tugged again, and he
let himself be led.

There was a short field of sandy
grass past the car park, with an aged wooden sign proclaiming “Selkie Point.” Past
that, an expanse of craggy volcanic rock battered by the rising tide.

She led him to the edge of the
grass and pointed. “There, see?”

A wave crashed against the cliff
face, shooting water high into the air. It rained back down upon the rocks to
spread out in a thin sheet and slide back into the ocean. Except, in one
location there was a large circular depression that rose and fell with the
swells, capturing the oceanbound seafoam.

“Wow,” Geordi said.

“That’s where we’re going. Now come on, take your shoes off,” Sophie
said.

“What?”

She slipped off her own shoes and
socks. “I know. The pointy rocks will hurt your delicate feet.”

She giggled and ran across the
rough rock, splashing through the small puddles left behind by the last surge.

Geordi took off his shoes and put
one foot tentatively on the rocky ground.

“Well? Come on,” she said with a mischievous smile, then she turned and pulled her shirt off over her head, tossing it aside.

The muscles on her naked back moved in magical ways before she plunged into the hole, and he took off running. He whipped off his shirt and jumped. On the way down, he saw not a girl waiting for him, but a seal. It opened its mouth, displaying massive teeth.

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Year of the Dragon

Image by Stefan Keller from Pixabay



As father and son rounded the bend in the trail,

the sea that they’d been smelling came into view, and with it, the dragons circling the crumbling towers of a Forgotten Ones’ castle.

J’meia sucked in breath, stopping mid-stride and nearly
falling forward. “Dragons! They’re real!” He stared for a long while as two of
the dragons dueled each other in mock battle, then looked up to his father’s
smiling face. Realization dawned in him. “You knew?”

“Of course!” J’naero beamed. “I brought you here to pick
one. Which is your favorite?”

J’meia’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. “You are teasing me,
father.”

“You were born in the year of the dragon, and with the
dragon’s mark over your eye. Only one child in a generation is called as you
have been, and they have a chance to be heroes and legends.”

His father gripped his walking-stick with both hands and
lowered himself shakily onto his bad knee, but J’meia’s attention had already
returned to the dragons playing in the early morning sun. J’naero turned the
boy’s face toward him, the wine-stain birthmark coming into view. “You are
twelve today, and you have the honor of choosing. But this is not an easy task.
Choose poorly, and the dragon will bite you in half. Show fear, and even if you
choose well, it will burn you to a crisp. You must be strong, and you must
anticipate its moves, or it will shake you off its back to plummet to your death.”

With that, his son took off running, completing the rest of
the trail in under a minute. J’naero stood painfully, clutching his staff with
white knuckles as the dragons noticed Jmeia and landed, towering over him.

The boy reached his open palm toward the middle one.

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The Boys

Image by ambroo from Pixabay



I woke up thinking it was morning, with all the light seeping through my blinds,

but it was just after three am, and that wasn’t sun light. Too curious for my own good, I got up to see what was making that red glow.

Raising the blinds, I felt a low vibration, like a motorhome
warming its engine, and was shocked to see a red orb hanging low above the
trees.

Then I noticed my brother in his PJs in the middle of the
street, staring at that thing. And he wasn’t alone. The neighbor kid came walking
up the street, and I saw two other boys I didn’t recognize. They were all
heading toward that weird light.

I threw a coat over my nightie and ran outside. “George!” I
whispered urgently. He didn’t seem to hear, so I grabbed his arm, tried to hold
him there.

He looked at me with distant eyes. “Beth,” he said. “It’s so
beautiful.”

“I don’t like it, George,” I said, clinging to his arm.

He brushed me off. “I just want a better look.”

“It’s calling me,” the neighbor said. If it was calling, I
didn’t hear anything, just this vibration… and a little headache starting in
the back.

I followed them, hoping to turn them around, when we passed
through some sort of… field? I didn’t see anything, but all my hairs standing
up as I passed through. I noticed the entire world had gone silent and red, then
that ache in my head became an icepick, and I fell to the ground right where
you found me.

#

I looked around at the men, surprised that they seemed to
believe me. “My brother didn’t come back, did he?” I asked.

“Young lady, every teenage boy in town disappeared last night.”

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Shy

Image by Simon Wijers from Pixabay

They were lost. Maddy was now certain they’d gone off the trail. “I’m sure the party is just ahead,” she lied.

“I’m not so sure,” Kensie said. “There’s something in the
trees. I keep seeing movement.”

Maddy had seen it too, but to keep from scaring her sister,
she hadn’t said anything. “What is it?”

“I don’t know. Whenever I look, it’s gone.”

“It’s probably nothing. Come on, the sun’s going down.”
Maddy set off away from the sunset. If they kept going east, they’d eventually
reach Coillte, even if they missed the lake party.

“There it was again!”

“Where?” Maddy scanned the trees.

“Oh my god, what is that?”

Maddy followed Kensie’s shaking finger but didn’t
immediately see what she was pointing at; the tree was like all the others.

Except this one had a pale arm wrapped around it.

Ice formed around her heart. There were more too. The
peculiar spirits of the Wicklow Mountains. “The taibhse cúthail,” she
whispered.

“What?”

“Shy ghosts. I didn’t think they were real. Legend says they won’t come out while you’re watching. Don’t look away.” She scanned the forest and soon found more of them in front of her.

She needed to watch them, but the sisters had to get out of there before it got too dark. “Grab my hand. Don’t take your eyes off them.” She reached back and took Kensie’s hand, then hurried on.

“Maddy?”

“What?” she said without looking back.

“That’s not my hand.”

Maddy looked down at the pale hand gripping hers, and up at
her sister. The arm came from somewhere over Kensie’s shoulder. She locked
terror-stricken eyes with her sister’s as a second hand wrapped around Kensie’s
waist.

She felt an arm slip around her own midsection, then
something whispered in her ear.

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Prey

Image by Peter Pang from Pixabay



People blame me for the fog that shrouds the night.

I let them believe what they will. It is good that they fear
me. “Go my lovelies. Find the one I seek.”

The crows’ eyes flash red in understanding, and they take to
the skies, ebon feathers drifting slowly to the ground. I close my eyes to see
through theirs.

I feel the blood rushing through their veins. Thrilling.
Tempting. Maddening. I push down the animal inside and ignore the sound
thrumming in my ears. I am flying.

The billowing clouds rush past below me. I am the murder,
and their eyes are mine. I dive below the fog and a city takes form. My servants
see what mortal men cannot. I spread out through the streets.

Lights burn, inviting, behind shuttered windows. I ignore
them. My quarry has taken to the streets tonight. A bawdy song breaks the
silence and I become the crow that heard it. A man in top hat and cape leans
against the tavern wall relieving himself on the cobblestones.

Repulsive. On another night, I may have stopped to remove
this blight from the world, but I hunt other prey, and will not be diverted.

A flash of skirt in a dark street draws my attention. I switch
crows and bank toward that motion. The bird cares nothing for the glimpsed
bosom, the wisp of hair trailing down her long neck, but I push it closer and taste
her perfume as we dart past. I will remember her.

A third crow hears the clink of holy water bottles, sees the
glint of the gilded crucifix ever at his chest.

I open my own eyes, and instantly I am there behind my prey. “Hunter,” I whisper, baring my teeth to strike before he can turn.

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