'Nathan Burgoine's Blog, page 77

October Flash Fiction Draw

Boy is it fall out there. The maple in our driveway is changing, the air is chilly, and I have a sore throat. But! It’s October, so I dug out my Geek & Sundry playing cards and did the draw for the monthly challenge.

The what-now, you might say? Well, the deal is this: I set a challenge to myself (and anyone else who wanted to play) last January. It’s a year-long monthly Flash Fiction Draw challenge. Using three suits from a deck of cards, and assigning thirteen genres to clubs, thirteen items to diamonds, and thirteen locations to hearts, I made a deck of prompts. Once a month, drawing three cards creates the challenge. No more than 1,000 words, and no longer than a week to work on it, and… voila! Stretched writerly muscles, fun, and zero stress. (And that last rule is super-important: if it gets stressful or stops being fun? Skip the month. There’ll be another challenge November 5th.)

In January, we had Fairy Tales involving a Tattoo Machine set in a Prison! The results were fantastic. February? Crime Caper, Compass, and a Soup Kitchen was a challenge (though with awesome results). March brought Romance, involving a VHS Cassette, set in a Firewatch Tower (results). Then in April, we had Historical Fictions set on Dirt Roads dealing with Rat Poison, and the timelines involved in those results were all over the place. Or time. You get it. May delivered some Science Fiction in our laps, taking place Above the Clouds and involving a Dog Whistle (results). For June, it was a Fantasy involving Hot Chocolate, set in a Junkyard or Scrapyard (which you can happily sip here). In July, we crafted Mysteries involving Typewriters set on a Dam (results here). August brought Ghost Stories involving Earrings set in Tobacco Shops (results here). And September gave us Suspense stories set at a Border Crossing and involving a Bag of Money (results here).

I made a video of this month’s draw, if you want to check it out.

The chart from which the draws were made was this (minus the cards from previous draws, greyed out):

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And the result for October? Four of clubs, Three of diamonds, and Six of hearts. Which means anyone who wants to play along is going to write a flash fiction piece of 1,000 words within the following guidelines: Horror (so not my favourite), set during or at a Blood Drive, and including a…Frog.

If you do participate, please pop a link to this post, or to the Facebook video above so I can gather all the stories again for a round-up post next week.

But the most important thing? This is supposed to be fun and inspiring. If it’s not working for you, take a pass. There’ll be another challenge on the first Monday of November (that’s November 5th), from the remaining items on the list. The “rules” such as they are are pretty limited: You have to use the genre, the item, and the setting (though you can play a bit fast and loose within those guidelines), no more than 1,000 words, and the piece needs to be finished by next Monday (October 8th). That’s it.

Enjoy!

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Friday Flash Fics — LIFE

The latest Friday Flash Fics photo is a bit haunting, and a concept occurred to me but not a resolution. I hemmed and hawed throughout the week, and then decided not everything needs a tidy resolution, and thus “LIFE” was born.

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LIFE

The fog was even thicker the morning after Wendall left. Isaac stared out of the small cabin’s windows, measuring things the way he had since he’d woken up in the strange place: how far down the lane could he see?

This morning, he could barely see the first few the small trees. The large oak beyond was completely obscured. The ditch was barely visible, and the dirt path itself was smudgy and indistinct.

Isaac made a pot of coffee—what happens when I run out of coffee?—and poured himself one cup before putting the rest in the thermos he’d found the first day he’d woken up here. The scent of coffee helped, the way it always did.

If he ignored the windows on the front of the cabin, he could almost feel cozy here. The sagging but still comfortable bed took up a third of the available space. There was a small table near the oven, half-fridge, and sink, with two stools, which made up the “kitchen” and took up another third or so of the open room. What remained was filled by two comfortable—and mismatched—chairs, between which a bookcase stuffed full of random paperbacks covered the wall beside the door to the tiny bathroom with the shower stall and toilet.

The cabin had power, though not much beyond the appliances used it.

There were no lamps.

The first day he’d woken, Isaac had tried and failed to remember arriving. In fact, he couldn’t remember departing, either—he had a vague sense of heading home from work, but beyond that, nothing.

He was just here.

It should have bothered him, but instead of anxiety, there was a soft sort of acceptance.

He was here. That was okay. He’d make a fire in the small fireplace, and relax.

Lord knew he could use a rest, right? Wendall had been telling him that for weeks.

Even the lack of Wendall hadn’t worried him, though in distant way he considered that it wasn’t like them to take a separate holiday.

Of course, this didn’t feel like a holiday. They preferred warmer climes. And being together.

But then, on the third day, Isaac woke with Wendall beside him, and that was that.

They read some of the paperbacks, cooked some of the food that was in the fridge—it was well stocked to begin with, though it wasn’t large and they’d gotten through the bacon within the first two days. They found a battered Scrabble board and played a few games.

And when the sun went down—not that they could really see it beyond the fog—they climbed into the sagging bed together, and drifted off to sleep. There was no clock in the place, so they lived by the light and the dark.

“Where are we?” Wendall asked, on the fifth day.

Isaac looked up from his rack of Scrabble tiles. He didn’t know, of course. Behind him, a log on the fireplace popped.

“This isn’t right,” Wendall said.

“It’s restful,” Isaac said. “And we’re together.”

“But when did we come here. And where is here?” Wendall shook his head, as though the next words were difficult to say, and had to be forced out with effort. “Why aren’t we scared?”

There was a flutter then, in Isaac’s stomach. If it wasn’t fear—like Wendall said, they didn’t seem to have it in them in this cabin—it was something akin. Worry, perhaps.

“We…” Wendall’s breath hitched, and he had to clear his throat. “We could leave.”

Isaac looked down at his tiles again. The first four letters, he noticed, spelled STAY.

“I—” he said, then closed his mouth. He had no idea what he wanted to say.

“Let’s go for a walk,” Wendall said. “At least that.”

Isaac eyed the fog, but he could never disagree with Wendall for long.

They held hands, and walked as far down the little lane as they dared—the fog grew deeper the further they went, but when Isaac realized he was starting to lose sight of the road beneath their feet, he stopped walking.

“We won’t be able to find our way back,” he said.

Wendall looked ahead, into the soft grey nothingness.

“Please,” Isaac said.

“Okay,” Wendall said, and they went back to the cabin.

That had been the beginning of the end, Isaac realized now. Wendall had asked him to try again, despite the fog growing thicker, and he had, though it had resulted the same: at a certain point, it was clear if they kept going, they’d be lost, so he’d stopped, and all but begged Wendall to come back with him.

“I’m going to keep going,” Wendall said, the morning they used the last of the eggs. “You don’t have to come with me,” he added, though the way he looked at Isaac, Isaac knew it was an unspoken request.

“I… I don’t think I can.”

Wendall nodded. “As far as you can, then.”

That was what he did. And he watched Wendall walk further into the fog until he couldn’t see him. He called out a few times, and heard Wendall’s voice from ahead, growing more muffled with each reply until he couldn’t bring himself to call out again in case there was none.

He stood until the fog dimmed toward what he knew would be night, and then he returned to the cabin.

Now, he poured his second cup of coffee from the thermos, and took a sip.

Maybe… Maybe when he ran out of coffee.

Their last game of Scrabble still sat at the table. Wendall had gone out before him, leaving Isaac with five tiles remaining: two E’s, an F, an I, and an L.

FLEE, he thought. Then LIE.

He bit his lip.

LIFE.

Isaac drank his coffee, and watched the fog grow thicker outside the window.

 

 

Friday Flash Fics — Road Tripping in the End of the World

I finally felt a stirring of the muse this week for Friday Flash Fics, and it’s probably no surprise it is a revisit. This one goes back to Benoit and Ray from The End of the World As We Know It, my viral-outbreak story that niggles at the back of my mind now and then. I’ve touched upon this world three times now, if you include the September Flash Fiction Draw challenge, Home, which also included the setting.

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Road Tripping in the End of the World

Their first day of traveling had gone extremely well. They’d only had to stop twice to clear cars blocking the road—the other vehicles they’d been able to get around—and watching Ray work the winch-hook-grapply-thing was, Benoit decided, pretty high on the butch-and-sexy scale.

They’d continued their tradition, finding a house without a car in the driveway to increase the odds that there were not bodies inside to deal with, and that had worked, too.

They had maps—paper ones, of course—but they’d also hit outdoors gear shops over the long, long winter and kitted up as much as they could. They had GPS. Benoit had hit the bookstore and found survival guides, too, and he’d been reading them and trying out various bits.

It had been a long winter, and tough on more than a few emotional levels, but between planning, sorting through everything at the depot Ray had brought him to, and getting a truck ready that could handle whatever they might come across on the roads—definitely a project Ray was in charge of—had kept them busy.

There had been signs of other people here and there, but they hadn’t actually seen anyone. Benoit had spent a clear January morning on the roof of the depot with binoculars, and he’d seen a few streams of chimney smoke deeper in the residential areas of the city. Not many, but some.

And he’d scrounged up the last newspapers that had been printed, too. That was how they’d learned at least a piece of the reason for their survival: they were both AB-negative. The doctors all around the world had figured that out, at least: the only people who weren’t dying from the illness all had AB-negative blood.

Another newspaper pointed out the vector of release of the illness seemed to have been through New York—specifically New York airports—some time in the weeks before Christmas.

There were no newspapers for him to find beyond the twentieth of December.

“British Columbia,” Ray said one morning, while they lay together in the warmth of their bed in the depot’s portable.

Benoit had looked at him. Burly and hairy, Ray had a rough-around-the-edges look to him that was completely belied by his nature once you got to know him—they’d walked on egg shells around each other for the first few days they’d found each other the only other survivor at the hospital last December. Benoit had been terrified Ray would find out he was gay and live up to his appearance. Ray had been just as afraid Benoit would find out and leave him by himself.

Their mutual realization had been a very, very good night.

“B.C.?” Benoit had replied, thinking the look on Ray’s face matched that night: nervous, but wanting to speak his mind.

“Milder winter, better growing, and there’s this town I know. Claims to be the ‘greenest town in Canada.’ Solar, geothermal, wind… basically, it’d still have power. It’d be easier there.” He took a breath. “I mean, once we got there.”

“That’s a long trip,” Benoit had said, but he was already smiling.

“Hardest part is getting out of Ontario, really,” Ray said. “Once you hit the Trans Canada Highway, it’s a straight line right through to B.C.”

Benoit bit his lip. “So that’s a no to Atlanta, then?”

That had been another ongoing discussion. The C.D.C.

“Is it terrible if I say I don’t want to be in the United States?” Ray wrapped an arm around him.

“I don’t think there really is a United States any more. Or a Canada,” Benoit said.

“Well, if there are survivors, I mean.”

Benoit could see his point. “No, it’s not terrible. Not at all.” He snuggled down. “B.C. it is.”

That first day of travel had been great. It felt like an adventure, albeit one where they both knew there were more than a few risks. There was no one to call for help or backup. Ray had spent a very long time over the last weeks picking the truck, making sure the truck would work, and gathering tools and supplies he might need to fix the truck.

Benoit had never felt less handy in his life, and that was saying something.

They left the city behind them, and were passing through what looked like a one-crossroad town when they came across a big truck all the way across the road, from one sidewalk to the other, on its side.

Benoit managed not to look through the window.

It was closer to night than they’d intended to let it get—that was another reality: no street lights.

“That looks like a bad crash,” Benoit finally said.

“We’ll figure out a way around it tomorrow,” Ray said, eyeing the buildings around them. Most of this “town” seemed shuttered and closed—a mom and pop diner with faded signs and wood-boarded windows, a gas station with no pumps, and another square building they could barely make out were their options—the last building at least had space on the sidewalk they could park on, so that’s where they went.

Inside, the main room of the building might have been used by transients, but it was empty now. Graffiti covered most of the walls. There was little to no furniture, but there were large holes in the concrete, and remnants of metal things that Benoit couldn’t identify.

“It’s a garage,” Ray said. “A mechanic.”

They set up their tent inside, cooked on their camp-stove, and slept through the night surprisingly well.

In the morning, Ray handed Benoit a hot tea and kissed his forehead. “Regretting coming with me?”

“Funny man.” Benoit laughed. “No, not even a little.” That earned him another kiss. “I think I figured out a route for back-tracking a little bit. There are side-streets here.” He pointed at his map-book.

“Anywhere I get to go with you is good,” Ray said.

“Aw,” Benoit said. “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me since the world ended.”

Ray laughed.

They cleaned up their kit, packing it all away carefully and checking the building out while the sun crept up—looting was as much a game as a habit—then packed it all into the truck. Benoit opened the door to get back in, and saw Ray staring past him, a big grin on his face.

“What?” Benoit said, turning.

The sign over the front windows of the building had once said ‘Auto Parts.’ The first A was gone, as was the ARTS at the end. Some enterprising graffiti artist had taken red spray-paint and added ‘IA’ after the letters that remained.

UTOPIA, the building declared, with faded, broken, and boarded up cheer.

“Did you see that last night?” Ray said.

“Nope.”

They climbed into the truck together.

Day three was already starting on an up-note.

 

Persisting Beyond Margins Banned Book Night — Saturday September 22nd, 2018.

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ALSO’s 2nd annual Persisting Beyond Margins Banned Book Night.

Given the last couple of weeks, I’ve been remiss in mentioning ALSO’s upcoming ‘Persisting Beyond Margins’ event, the second annual Banned Book Night. It’s Saturday, September 22nd, from 7:00p to 9:00p at Heartwood House (404 McArthur Avenue) here in Ottawa. Tickets are $40, and you can check out the details (and pick up tickets) here.

I participated last year and am back again, with some amazing authors. It was a great night, full of great readings from banned books, and I can only imagine the same will be true this year. And hey, ALSO is a great organization, promoting adult and family literacy. If you’re free and in the mood for some wine and appetizers and a great evening of readings, do consider picking up some tickets—and you never know what you might want to bid on in the silent auction.

September Flash Fiction Draw Roundup

Ah, September! The ninth collection of stories! Before anything else, though, I want to say “Thank you” to everyone who sent messages of support. Coach has left a giant husky-sized hole in our life, and everything else took a dive in the meanwhile.

So, thank you.

Now, what’s this? If you’ve not bumped into these roundup posts before, the Flash Fiction Draw is a randomized card-draw that spits out a genre, an object, and a location, after which writers have a week to come up with up to 1,000 words that fit the criteria. It’s meant to be for fun and inspiration, rather than for serious competition (stretching writer muscles, not stressing writers out). I make the draw on the first Monday of every month (the next draw will be September 3rd, if you want to join in) and post results the following Monday, updating the post as I find new stories writers have written.

These were the cards drawn (and what they meant):

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With “Suspense,” “Bag of Money,” and “Border Crossing,” what did the authors come up with? Well, if you’ve followed along at any point this year, you know some authors tend to deliver the laughs, others the speculative, and some the shivers. This time is no different.

Here they are, alphabetically by contributor:

Jeff Baker wrote “A Traffic in Dollars.”

‘Nathan Burgoine (that’s me) wrote “Home.”

Alex deMorra wrote “An Unkindness.”

“The Dark Netizen” wrote “Border Crossing.”

Cait Gordon wrote “Crossing My Path.”

Jeffrey Ricker wrote “It’ll Be Easy.”

E.H. Timms wrote “An Unremarkable Hound.”

Jamieson Wolf wrote “The Mortal Border.”

Did I miss your entry? Let me know and I’ll add you to the list! And by all means join us next month, when I do the draw again on October 1st. And if you want to see what people came up with for previous stories? The roundup for January (which was “A Fairy Tale,” “A Tattoo Machine,” and “A Prison”) is here. The roundup for February (which was “A Crime Caper,” “A Compass,” and “A Soup Kitchen”) is here. The roundup for March (which was “A Romance,” “A VHS Cassette,” and “A Firewatch Tower”) is here. The roundup for April (which was “Historical Fiction,” “Rat Poison,” and “A Dirt Road”) is here. The roundup for May (which was “Science Fiction,” “A Dog Whistle,” and “Above the Clouds”) is here. The roundup for June (which was “Fantasy,” “Hot Chocolate,” and “A Junkyard or Scrapyard”) is here. The roundup for July (which was “Mystery,” “Typewriter” and “A Dam”) is here. And the roundup for August (which was “Ghost Story,” “An Earring,” and “A Tobacco Shop”) is here.

Home — A Flash Fiction Draw Challenge

Here’s my entry for the September Flash Fiction Draw Challenge (the post for the original September draw is here). In case you didn’t know about this challenge, there’s a video here explaining (and showing the monthly draw), but the quick version is this: I use three suits from a deck of cards to randomly put together a genre (in this case: suspense), a location (in this case: a border crossing) and an object (in this case: a bag of money) and challenge anyone who wants to play to write something over the next week, with a maximum of 1,000 words.

I struggled hard this week—last Monday, we said goodbye to our husky, Coach, and to say that I’ve not been feeling inspired would be understating. My husband and I spent the week trying to adjust to not hearing him, not planning the day around him, and bumping into all the other ways he unexpectedly added colour, noise, schedule, love, and life to our day. So I’m not sure I succeeded here, but in the end, I did have something written, and here it is.

I’ve been toying with the idea of an “end of the world” story for a while, and my notion of a fairly fast-acting illness that spares only those with AB negative blood type that hits during the onset of an ice-storm is a story seed I’ve explored a wee bit in another flash fiction piece around here somewhere, too.

It occurred to me to write a piece from someone crossing the border the day things really kick into high gear, and then a different take on the bag of money occurred to me.

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Home

Gilles didn’t have to fake fatigue; nonchalance was harder. Finally making the front of the queue after the four cars in front of him were turned away, he lowered his window.

The icy winter air was a cold shock.

“Passport,” the guard said.

Gilles handed it over, and the border guard—thickly built with a mask covering half his face—took it with one gloved hand. He aimed a small flashlight at Gilles. Gilles flinched, blinking in the bright light.

“Where you coming from?”

“New York. The state, not the city.” He stressed that. It was important. “A conference. It got canceled.” Everything had. “I got a text a few hours ago. I’d almost made it all the way there, too.”

“Date of Entry?”

“This morning, crack of dawn.” Before.

The border guard made a small noise. Gilles was curling his fingers into a fist and forced himself to relax.

“Contact with the population?”

“The last person I spoke with before you was the guard at the border entry.”

The guard eyed him, flashlight still shining in Gilles’s face.

“Didn’t fill up your tank?”

“I’ve got a quarter left.” Gilles pointed. “It’s a hybrid.”

The flashlight flicked to the fuel gage.

“You didn’t see or touch anyone while in the United States?”

“No, sir. To be honest, once I heard… I…I locked my doors.”

The guard let out a puff of breath. “Smart. Pull into spot A.”

Despite the cold, a trickle of sweat gathered at his temple. “Okay.” His voice came out raw, and he hoped it would be attributed to relief, or just general border crossing anxiety.

Were they going to search his car? What if they denied entry? Where could he possibly go?

He parked, rolled up his window, and waited for perhaps five minutes before the guard came out of the post, and knocked on the glass.

“Leave your keys. Follow me.”

Gilles obeyed, noticing a new guard had taken up the position at the border now, and had already turned a car away. It did a U-turn, heading off into the pelting snow.

The weather was getting worse.

The building held welcome warmth, and Gilles spared a brief glance around as the guard led him through a hallway. There were two guards in the building, in uniforms, masks and gloves. They eyed him in return.

The guard gestured to an open door. Gilles stepped through, and the guard followed him in, closing the door behind him.

Alone with the man, it struck Gilles he wasn’t just thickly built; he was tall, too.

“Strip.”

Gilles blinked. “Pardon?”

The guard stared. “We have a checklist.”

That meant visible symptoms. Gilles swallowed, unzipping his jacket. By the time he’d gotten his shirt off, his hands shook so much he struggled with his belt.

The guard just stared.

For half a second, Gilles wondered if he’d be allowed the dignity of his underwear, but when he looked up, the man gave him a little shake of his head, so he pulled them off, and his shoes and socks.

“Turn around slowly. Raise both arms. Show your hands. Splay your fingers.” The instructions seemed arcane and endless, but Gilles obeyed.

After a long moment, the guard nodded. “Get dressed.”

Gilles fought the urge to dress quickly, instead taking care and working within the limits of his shattered nerves.

“Do you know your blood type?” It was the same monotone the guard used throughout their interaction, but something about the question made Gilles pause. He pulled his shirt over his head before answering.

“AB negative.” He’d had his appendix out when he was twenty.

The guard nodded. “Come with me while I search your car.”

The guard led, and Gilles tried to keep his gaze firmly locked on the big man, not looking at the other two guards as they passed through the building.

The guard nodded at them. Gilles would have missed it if he hadn’t been watching.

What did it mean?

Oh God. They’d turn him away. The borders would close completely. Even if they didn’t, he’d need gas, which would invalidate him crossing again. Risk of contagion.

I’m not sick.

Gilles shivered while the guard worked methodically through his car. Glovebox, back seats, under mats… everything was looked over. Then he popped the trunk.

From where Gilles stood he saw a small bag on top of his suitcase.

That’s not mine, he almost spoke, but clamped his mouth closed. Not possible. How could a bag end get there? He hadn’t stopped! The first time he’d left the car was just now. The only people around…

He remembered the nod.

Oh God. They were setting him up.

The guard unzipped the bag.

Canadian money was colorful. The reds, purples, and blues were obvious, even from where Gilles stood. It wasn’t entirely full, but there it was. A bag of money. In his trunk.

“Please come here,” the guard said.

Should he protest? Gilles walked over to the trunk. What could he do?

The guard pointed into the trunk, and Gilles noticed there wasn’t just cash in the bag, but a few white envelopes, and a piece of paper.

Large letters at the top of the note read: SAY YES.

“This is everything? No one handled these bags but you?” The same monotone.

“Yes,” Gilles managed. He read the rest of the note.

PLEASE GET THESE TO OUR FAMILIES IF YOU CAN. Four envelopes. He’d seen four guards. The envelopes were addressed.

“You might be the last person getting through.” The guard zipped the bag closed. “You’re fine. Welcome back to Canada. You might want to get underway.”

“Thank you.” Gilles met the guard’s gaze. “I will.”

The guard blinked away what looked like tears, then nodded. He glanced up, and Gilles saw the small camera, and realized they’d likely been recorded the entire time. The guard pointed. “Gate will rise when you get there.”

Gilles climbed back into the car.

Another hour, weather permitting.

Gilles started for home.

September Flash Fiction Draw

September! Today is the first Monday of the month, so I dug out my Geek & Sundry playing cards and did the draw for the monthly challenge. Pardon, you might say? Well, if you’re new to these here parts, the deal is this: I set a challenge to myself (and anyone else who wanted to try) last January. It’s a year-long monthly Flash Fiction Draw Challenge. Using three suits from a deck of cards, and assigning thirteen genres to clubs, thirteen items to diamonds, and thirteen locations to hearts, I made a deck of prompts. Once a month, drawing three cards creates the challenge. No more than 1,000 words, and no longer than a week to work on it, and… ta-da! Stretched writerly muscles, fun, and zero stress. (And that last rule is paramount: if it gets stressful or stops being fun? Skip the month. There’ll be another challenge October 1st.)

In January, we had Fairy Tales involving a Tattoo Machine set in a Prison! The results were fantastic. February? Crime Caper, Compass, and a Soup Kitchen was a challenge (though with awesome results). March brought Romance, involving a VHS Cassette, set in a Firewatch Tower (results). Then in April, we had Historical Fictions set on Dirt Roads dealing with Rat Poison, and the timelines involved in those results were all over the place. Or time. You get it. May delivered some Science Fiction in our laps, taking place Above the Clouds and involving a Dog Whistle (results). For June, it was a Fantasy involving Hot Chocolate, set in a Junkyard or Scrapyard (which you can happily sip here). In July, we crafted Mysteries involving Typewriters set on a Dam (results here). And in August, we all put together Ghost Stories involving Earrings set in Tobacco Shops (results here).

I made a video of this month’s draw, if you want to check it out.

The chart from which the draws were made was this (minus the cards from previous draws, greyed out):

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And the result for September? Ten of clubs, King of diamonds, and Jack of hearts. Which means anyone who wants to play along is going to write a flash fiction piece of 1,000 words within the following guidelines: Suspense, set on or at a Border Crossing, and including a Bag of Money.

If you do participate, please pop a link to this post, or to the Facebook video above so I can gather all the stories again for a round-up post next week.

But the most important thing? This is supposed to be fun and inspiring. If it’s not working for you, take a pass. There’ll be another challenge on the first Monday of October (that’s October 1st), from the remaining items on the list. The “rules” such as they are are pretty limited: You have to use the genre, the item, and the setting (though you can play a bit fast and loose within those guidelines), no more than 1,000 words, and the piece needs to be finished by next Monday (September 10th). That’s it.

Enjoy!

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Customer Appreciation Weekend at Bold Strokes Books Webstore!

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Bold Strokes Books is having a weekend-long webstore Customer Appreciation Event, which knocks all ebooks and paperbacks 15% off. Given that Bold Strokes Books is where I’ve published all my novels and my first collection—as well as many, many anthologies in which I have a story—this is kind of awesome. The sale runs until Monday September 3rd, at 11:59 pm, Eastern.

So, which of my books and stories are on sale?

Light
Of Echoes Born
Three
Triad Blood
Triad Soul

And which anthologies in which I have a story?

Blood Sacraments
Dirty Diner
Erotica Exotica
Men in Love
Men of the Mean Streets
Raising Hell
Riding the Rails
Saints & Sinners: New Fiction from the Festival 2013
Saints & Sinners: New Fiction from the Festival 2016
Sweat
Tricks of the Trade
Wings

Anyway! If any of those tickle your fancy, or have tickled your fancy in the past, but you’ve yet to take the plunge? Now is a good time.

Friday Flash Fics — Lost

This week’s Friday Flash Fics struck me as exactly the kind of guy I pictured as Luke, from ‘The Psychometry of Snow’ (one of the stories in Of Echoes Born). So I rolled with that. The mountains in the background made me think of B.C. again, where Luke likes to visit between his other work, and from there I ended up with this piece. Lau and Friesen were a pair of missing persons detectives I’d toyed with when I was working on a piece for Men of the Mean Streets, but that story fizzled out and I ended up writing something else instead. So they’ve been in my head for a while, waiting for a chance.

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Lost

The rumble of a motorcycle came before he caught sight of it. When he did see the motorcycle—and the driver—Friesen turned to Lau and frowned.

“I know, but trust me.”

They waited for the man to pull in. Despite the warm August day, he wore a full set of denim and what looked like an antique of a helmet, which he pulled off once he’d turned off the bike and flipped the kickstand into place.

“How old is he?” Once the helmet had come off, the result was sunglasses, and a shock of dark hair on a lean baby-face.

“He’s older than he looks,” Lau said.

“I don’t think he’s older than his bike,” Friesen said, lowering his voice because the kid—okay, maybe “kid” was pushing it—was approaching now. He joined them at the top of the small rise at the lookout, a pensive tightness around his mouth. When he finally took off the sunglasses, tucking them into his pocket, Friesen decided Lau was right. The smudges under the man’s eyes, the small lines around his mouth…

He was older than he looked. Also familiar in some way he couldn’t put his finger on.

“Thanks for coming,” Lau said, with genuine warmth.

Friesen still wasn’t clear what this guy was going to do for them, but there was a missing kid at play, so he’d shut up and let his partner take the lead.

The guy nodded tightly at Lau, eyeing the area. “There’s a lot of traffic here,” he said, as though two missing persons detectives wouldn’t have considered that.

“Whatever you can do.” Lau opened his hands in front of him. In the two years they’d worked together, Friesen hadn’t seen Lau act this deferential to someone, ever. Not even that time they’d had to speak with the damn Premier of the province.

What the actual fuck? Friesen tried to get Lau’s attention, but Lau wasn’t looking at him. He might as well have been invisible.

The guy blew out a short breath. “Okay. Where?”

They led him to the spot. Everything had been documented, photographed, and taken away, so they were just standing in the middle of an empty parking lot now, albeit one that was marked up and bordered with tape.

The guy took another breath—it looked like he was steeling himself for some reason—and then he took off his motorcycle gloves and knelt down on the asphalt.

Friesen blinked, and frowned at Lau, opening his mouth.

Lau slashed with his hand, scowling.

Friesen bit his tongue.

The guy put one hand against the ground, pressing his palm down.

The three of them stayed like that for a few long minutes. Friesen was just about to speak up—Lau be damned, he had no idea what the hell was going on here, and he might be the junior partner, but this was just too much—when the guy shook his head.

“Nothing. I take it this is a make-out point for locals?”

Lau sighed. “Yeah.” He eyed Friesen, then pulled out a bag from inside his coat.

“Lau—” Friesen said, stunned. It was an evidence bag, and if Lau had signed for it, he’d eat the kid’s motorcycle gloves.

“Not now,” Lau said, and then, adding to the already beyond the pale action, he opened the bag, and turned it to face the kid.

“Jesus fuck,” Friesen said, but he didn’t stop him.

The guy rose, and bit his bottom lip for a second, making him seem all the younger again.

The familiarity clicked. Friesen had seen this guy on television. Some archeology show his girlfriend liked—he told stories around things they dug up. There was a whole series around them. Days in the life of archeological finds, or some shit like that.

He couldn’t remember the guy’s name though.

Friesen watched as the guy put one fingertip into the bag. There was reluctance and care in equal measure in the movement. The barest touch of his finger to the ribbon—the ribbon that had been in the kid’s hair, if they could trust the social media snapshot taken that morning of the kid—and then the guy’s eyes closed.

It was like he was listening. Friesen found himself going as still and as quiet as he could, even though this was off the damn rails and would get him and Lau both fired and what was he even thinking?

“Grey hair. And she knew her,” the guy started saying. “Went right to her. Put something in the drinks, I think—both she and the dad drank them and then she got dizzy. She didn’t want to go, but she couldn’t put up any fight.”

“Grey hair,” Lau said, and he was taking notes. “How old?”

“Fifties, maybe. Strong enough to carry the girl, didn’t seem put out. She had a necklace, too, a medallion…” The guy frowned. “One of those medical alert things, maybe?” He bit his lip again. “There are no other cars, but she didn’t come here with them.” He opened his eyes. “The ribbon fell off when she was carried off that way.” He pulled his fingertip out of the bag and pointed to where the walking trail led off among the trees.

Lau turned to Friesen. “How closely did we look at the grandparents?”

“Pretty damn closely,” Friesen said. “All their alibis checked out.”

The guy closed his hand into a fist. “The girl was crying. She was really upset. Before the grey-haired woman showed up.” He swallowed. “She was in pain.”

That was enough. “Okay, someone needs to tell me why the T.V. archeology guy is here telling us what happened when he wasn’t here.”

“Not now, Friesen,” Lau said.

“Lau—”

“Not now!”

The flare of temper was so unusual, Friesen fell silent.

“If her father was hurting her,” Lau said, in a low, even voice. “Then we need to go over the grandparents again. Didn’t they babysit?”

Friesen nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

“Thanks Luke,” Lau said.

The guy smiled tightly, then went back to his motorcycle. It took him no time at all to be on his way again.

“Lau,” Friesen said. “Help me out here. Who was that?”

“I’ve got three weeks left before I head to the Kootenays and never look back,” Lau said. “And over the years, I’ve met a couple of people like Luke. We don’t put him on the record. We don’t mention this ever happened. And I don’t call him unless… Well. This is a kid, and if it’s a kid, I can call him. If Luke says we need to look at a fiftiesh woman with a medic alert medallion, we’re going find a reason to do it.”

Friesen swallowed. “Ex-wife’s mother. Not the kid’s mother, the step-mother. Grey hair. Epilepsy.”

Lau regarded him for a long moment.

“It seems to me we have no other leads, Friesen. Girl went missing, father isn’t likely to wake up, according to his doctors. Seems to me like maybe we should start over. Maybe check out the grandparents first, this time.” Lau put the bagged ribbon back in his jacket. “What do you think?”

Friesen knew what he was really being asked.

“Sure. Sure. Let’s…” He cleared his throat. “Let’s start with the ex-wife’s mother. Maybe we didn’t look at her so hard because she didn’t have a driver’s license and it would have been a hell of hike.”

“Yeah,” Lau said. “Let’s do that.”

They headed back to the car. Lau drove.

“How..?” Friesen wasn’t even sure where to go with the question.

“When we close this one,” Lau said. “You and I are going to celebrate with a dinner. And over dinner, I’m going to tell you about a missing person’s case I had a couple of years ago, and a tip I chased down to its source.”

“Okay.”

 

Friday Flash Fics — Message

Today’s  Friday Flash Fics picture seemed straightforward enough until I noticed the little dark line that could have been a burned edge to the paper, and then the lighting on the whole thing struck me, and today’s story happened.

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Message

I can’t live like this. He can’t ask me to live like this. I won’t live like this.

It was a familiar refrain, and sounded convincing in Logan’s head, except he’d said some variation on that theme to himself so often it had lost all power.

Love was like that, he supposed, though he had the vaguest idea that maybe it shouldn’t have to be. Why couldn’t they live somewhere better? Somewhere like Vancouver, where they wouldn’t have to worry about parents.

Of course, in Vancouver they’d be living in cardboard box and paying twice the rent. But they wouldn’t have to pretend to be “roommates.” And it was way less likely Carter’s parents would show up with news about girls Carter should meet. Not to mention the clouds of smoke Carter’s parents brought with them. He swore they smoked all the more knowing it set off his asthma. And Carter’s request for them to smoke outside never worked. They’d crack a window instead, his mother saying “I can’t move around like I used to,” and giving Logan a sort of half-shrug before lighting the first of an endless stream of cigarettes.

Half the time she didn’t even remember to exhale in the direction of the window.

“They’re my parents,” Carter would say, and look at Logan with such misery and hopelessness that Logan would do what he always did: give in, and go take a walk on the beach.

Which was what he was doing now. Before the sun had even cleared the horizon. Because Carter’s father had had heartburn, gotten up early, and—of course—lit up a smoke before Logan had even considered getting breakfast started. Given Logan was sleeping on the couch, the smell had woken him up and driven him out.

Of his own damn apartment.

Ugh.

Logan was so lost in his own misery he nearly stepped on the bottle before he noticed it. Even after the sun reflecting in the glass caught his attention, he was annoyed: the town worked hard to keep the beach clean, and there were garbage and recycling cans by the parking lot, so finding litter was always frustrating. It took him another few seconds to notice the cork and the paper inside, tied up in a string.

He picked it up and looked closer. There was no liquid inside, but the corner of the paper seemed stained, or…

Burned?

It took some effort to get the cork out.

Logan pulled the paper out, wincing at the smell of smoke—story of his life, that damn smell—and unrolled it.

He read the note three times, his heart hammering in his chest.

Then he started to run.

*

The flames were already licking the curtains by the window when he burst out of tall grass across from the back door to the apartment building, eyes up and on the edge of panic. He yanked the fire alarm closest to the door, and hooked left for the stairs. They were in the corner apartment on the top floor, but it was only three floors.

By the time he made it to their apartment door, people were stumbling out of their apartments, the shrieking alarm waking them up. But he barely noticed, his eyes locked on the door at the end of the hallway as he ran. Their door.

It hadn’t opened.

He shoved his way in, and a cloud of foul smoke blew past his face. He dropped down to his knees, some vague instinct for clean air reminding him that he was one of the least suited people to the task at hand.

Carter’s father was sat at the kitchen table, still in a robe, pale and sweating, but his eyes were still open and he was wheezing, and holding his arm with his free hand even as flames crept closer along the wood floor beneath him.

A heart attack and a dropped cigarette—at least it hadn’t landed at his feet.

Behind him, the bedroom door opened, and Logan met Carter’s gaze, his eyes widening when he saw the fire and smoke. Then he coughed, winced, and crouched.

“Get your dad!” Logan yelled. “He needs an ambulance! I’ll get your mom!”

Carter nodded, and darted to the small kitchenette, looping his father’s arm over his shoulder—the man barely made any sound.

Logan crawled to what they pretended was usually his room, where Carter’s parents were staying. The fire had hit the curtains over the window and spread to the back of the couch and the wall with the cream “accent wallpaper” that Carter loved so much.

He managed to reach up and open the door.

Carter’s mother was sitting up in the bed, and she frowned at him.

“Is it a test?” she said.

It took him a second to realize she meant the alarm.

“No, it’s not, Susan,” he said, somewhat rudely, but given the smoke in the air behind him and the heat and his rough breathing, he so wasn’t in the mood for her wilful ignorance of reality. He crossed into the room. His throat was already tickling and he fought off the urge to cough. “Come on.”

*

Outside, Logan watched the firefighters do their work, and it was surprisingly quick work at that. Soon the neighbours were all milling about and staring daggers at Logan, who had patiently explained what he could to one of the uniformed men, all the while trying not to eye the bottle that lay off to the side of the path to the beach.

Carter’s father had been sent in an ambulance with his mother, and Carter had followed them in their car. Logan had said he’d catch up. It hadn’t looked good for Carter’s father. Logan had watched the EMTs trade dark looks and the man hadn’t responded at all. By the time Logan and Carter’s mother had made it out of the building, he’d been barely breathing.

He took a hit of his inhaler. The firefighters had checked him out, but he’d done miraculously well.

“You were lucky,” the woman who’d looked him over had said.

Logan nodded mutely.

Finally, when all attention wasn’t on him, he walked back to the path and picked up the bottle where he’d dropped it.

The scrap of cream wallpaper, corner burned, was still there, but it was blank now. The words that had been there—the warning, written in his own handwriting—was gone.

Go home, now. Saturday morning. There’s a fire.

He thought about Carter, at the hospital, and how he should head there, but he stayed still for a long moment, considering.

Finding a pen wasn’t too hard. Deciding what to write on the scrap of paper was more of a challenge.

Carter’s father is going to have a heart attack, Saturday morning. Even though he lights up, don’t go to the beach.

There wasn’t much room on the paper, so the words were tiny.

He walked back to the ocean, then tied the paper up with the string once he found it on the beach. He sealed the bottle and just held it for a few moments.

It wasn’t possible. But…

Logan took a quick breath, then threw it as hard as he could out over the water.

He never heard it splash.