Michael S. Atkinson's Blog, page 44

Monster Problems

This story was written for Trifecta’s weekly prompt, and continues the saga of the Third Little Pig. Enjoy!

“They are coming.”

Eulalie’s terrified whisper echoed in the corridor, as the distant bagpipes grew louder.

“Who’s coming, exactly?” the Third Little Pig said. “Are they worse than the giant snake?”

“Much worse. They’re kelpies, don’t you understand? Kelpies! Water monsters! They’ve plagued my island for years. They’ll drown you in a second if they get the chance!”

“But…” Prince Evinrude said in confusion. “We’re miles from the sea. How could they get here? It’s not as if there’s an underground lake beneath the castle where they could be hiding…. Wait. There is a lake, isn’t there. Oh crap.”

Eulalie made a little gasp at the Prince’s indelicate language. The Third Little Pig rolled his eyes. “Of course there’s a lake. There’s always an underground lake in these things. No one ever asks why they build castles on top of lakes, which gets you all sorts of structural integrity problems, not to mention the occasional lake monster. No, you’ve got to have the underground pond, haven’t you? Honestly.”

“Could we maybe have this discussion later?” Evinrude said. “Specifically, when the kelpies or the giant snake aren’t about to eat us?”

The aforementioned giant snake, meanwhile, had been listening to the distant bagpipes and considering what to do. Aurora hadn’t been thrilled about transforming into a snake; she would have liked to transform into something less slithery, like a swan perhaps. Unfortunately the dark magics that allowed her to manifest herself outside her slumbering body hadn’t given her many options. Evil enchantresses didn’t turn themselves into swans or fluffy cats. Snakes were pretty much it. So here she was, and now it seemed there were other monsters around that she hadn’t reckoned with. What to do?

Aurora decided. She didn’t want the kelpies to get her prey before she could. She lunged towards them with all the grace of a stampeding water buffalo. Evinrude gripped his sword, wondering why he hadn’t just slept in that day and given the whole adventure a miss.

 

 

 

 

Encounter

This story was written for Trifecta’s weekend challenge, which was to write a haiku. This is what my muse gave me. I think my muse has been spending too much time with Sokka.

“Hi, Sal.”  Quincy says.

First contact. Unsure. Will she?

Her smile, bright. “Hi, Q.”

Strikes

This story was written for Trifecta’s weekly prompt, which was to use the third definition of the word “turkey”: “three successive strikes in bowling”. An interesting prompt, needless to say. I decided to try out a character I plan on using in my NaNoWriMo novel this year. I’d appreciate any criticisms or suggestions you might have as to his development. As a Douglas Adams character once said, he’s just this guy, you know? 

Christmas Eve. Most people would’ve been home with their families. Jason was at a bowling alley.

He had, of course, brought his own bowling shoes. The Centipede Incident of ’79 had taught him that. He selected the a ball from the return machine, hefted it cautiously, and then sent it spinning smoothly down the lane. Strike. Naturally.

“Nice roll,” a woman said from behind him. Jason glanced at her; she was standing by the jukebox. She hadn’t selected a track yet, though she had one highlighted on the screen.

“Thanks,” he replied. “You a Katy Perry fan?”

“Used to be. Not so much now. I prefer Adele.”

Jason recognized the code phrase, even with the improv. He hated when contacts did improv. Couldn’t they just stick to procedure?

He sent a second bowling ball down the lane. Strike, again. Time for the next code sequence. “The tractor is red.”

She blinked. “What?”

Crap, he thought. “My apologies. I thought you were someone else.”

“Huh,” she said. “Who were you looking for, Old McDonald?” She smiled as she said it, and Jason wondered if his evening might not be completely shot.  The machine returned his ball for a third time. He retrieved it, and smiled back at her.

“Something like that. Name’s Waterfalls. Jason Waterfalls.”

Her smile changed subtly, and Jason’s inner alarms went ringing. “I thought you might be.”

“You know, I just remembered I have to buy a present for my niece,” he said, edging towards the door.

“Oh, don’t go, Jason Waterfalls. Really, don’t. Pity about your niece. Looks like someone else will have to play Santa for her.”

Her hand started to move from her coat pocket. Jason didn’t have his gun on him. Turned out bowling balls were just as serviceable, if clunky. She crashed headlong into the rack of bowling shoes. “Strike three,” Jason said. “Sounds like a turkey to me.”

“Ow…” she whimpered, either from the pain or the horrible line. Jason decided not to ask.

J is for Jousting Judicials

Last time in the Catrina Chronicles, Susan and her iguana guide had just begun their journey into the depths of Character Hell. Before we follow her, however, we must go back to see just what our series’ namesake is up to….

There were a lot of things that Princess Catrina knew. For instance, she knew that she was a character in a story. She had known this since she was sixteen going on seventeen, to borrow a phrase. She had managed to come to terms with it, though she would sometimes complain if she felt her author was taking too many liberties with the story, as he often did.

She also knew that she had completed four or five quests, depending on how one counted, the most recent being her successful retrieval of Mlrning, the Shovel of Thor. Catrina had stored the Shovel safely away in an appropriately secret chamber in the castle Shmirmingard, so secret she had forgotten where it was herself. (Oops). She knew further that she was happily married, and the mother of two newly born children named Timothy and Tamalyn. Finally, after a fair bit of time traveling (the logistics of which she’d long since given up trying to puzzle out), she knew that she had arrived safely back in her own proper time period, the 12th century. By all accounts, therefore, she ought to be quite happy.

But she wasn’t. Because there were several things she did not know. She didn’t know how to speak Elvish, for instance, as she had neglected her mythical language studies in school. Worse, however, she did not know where her royal consort, Perry, had gotten to. She had left him back in Shmirmingard when she’d gone off with her evil brother Edmund after the Shovel. When she’d finally returned, he had disappeared. There were rumors about an incident involving a bear and the magical trousers of Merlin, but Catrina chalked that up to nerves. That, or her castle staff had been playing a mass medieval version of Telephone. At any rate, she hadn’t seen a sign of him, or a bear that might be him, or even of Merlin’s blessed pants since her return, and Catrina was beginning to be irritated.

Equally alarming, she hadn’t seen her friend Ermingard, whom she had awakened from an enchanted sleep a while back. Ermingard wasn’t the most cheery of friends ever, but she was a good shot with a Spork-bow, and a fair poet besides. She had gone off with Catrina’s evil movie-version twin Katrina, in order to save Shmirmingard from Doctor What and Susan. But there had been no word as to how that quest was going. Catrina, of course, had no idea that they had been turned into garden gnomes; if she had, she would’ve gone clean beyond irritated into livid.

She could of course have gone off on a new quest to find her misplaced royal consort, or discover what had happened to Ermingard and Katrina. But, in the most aggravating development of all, she couldn’t. Her parents had gone off on vacation yet again (there were rumors they would be retiring soon, no less), and that meant she was in charge of the kingdom’s affairs. This didn’t mean exciting things like leading the royal armies into thrilling heroics, or even dedicating new statues and kissing babies. No, what it meant nine times out of ten was fiercely boring administrative work.

That explained why, on that bright sunny morning so perfect for going on an adventure, Catrina was sitting on her uncomfortable throne trying desperately to pay attention to an exceedingly knotty legal argument. (Seriously, she reflected, she needed to get some throne cushions, and quickly. Who made these things out of metal, anyway? What was the point?)  The matter, as best as she could make it out, involved a question of kitten jurisprudence.

It seemed there was a girl cat, and a boy cat, and as medieval society hadn’t gotten the memo to spay or neuter one’s pets yet, these two cats had done what came naturally to them, and produced a whole kindle of kittens, three to be precise. Unfortunately, the parent cats were owned by different families, and they had gotten into a squabble about who owned which kittens.  The two families had come to Catrina expecting her to sort it out, which she had promised to do.

But then, everything changed when the Fire Nation attacked.  Catrina promptly gave a mental slap to her author for meming her own story, which had nothing whatever to do with the Fire Nation, or anything in the world of Avatar: the Last Airbender.  Back in her own story, what had actually happened was that Catrina had gone off on a quest, recounted in her novel Catrina in Space. She had hardly returned when she had gone off on another quest, to recover Mlrning (the Shovel of Thor!).  She had been gone some time. In the meanwhile, the original kindle of kittens had grown up and started their own families, which meant even more kindles of kittens. There were seventeen new kittens now, plus the first three, and the two parents, and nobody knew to whom they belonged.

“Well….” said Catrina solemnly, as the two quarreling families stood hopefully before her, “I could resolve this in a civilized legal manner. I could go to the castle library and research cases on kitten ownership, and then I could write a thoughtful legal opinion applying the law of kittens to the facts of this case.”

The two families smiled in relief, each certain that Catrina’s opinion would come down on their side. Their smiles disappeared as she went on. “But there are two difficulties. First, I am not a licensed lawyer in this kingdom, so I would get into trouble with our bar association for the unauthorized practice of law. That isn’t so bad as it sounds, since we don’t even have a bar association. That’s a modern innovation, you know. All that I just said before about legal opinions would be lovely if I were living in the 21st century. But it creates a bit of an awkward juxtaposition here, with this being the 12th century. So do you know how we resolve complicated disputes in the 12th century?”  Her green eyes began to glint dangerously.  “Violence. Oh yes. We’re going to have a jousting match.”

The families gasped in shock, but before they could protest, Catrina cut them off with a wave of her hand. She rose from her uncomfortable throne, adjusting the golden circlet around her hand and drawing herself up in as grand a manner as she could muster. “It is the judgment of the Crown that the plaintiff and defendant in this matter take themselves to a lovely wide open field on Saturday next, acquire such armor and horses as they might need, and then charge at each other with long pointed sticks until one of them falls over. The one left standing shall inherit all the kittens. Case dismissed.”

She beamed at her astonished subjects, decided that she had dispensed quite enough justice for one day, and then left the throne room in search of the castle kitchens to see if they had any blueberry cordial available. Being a princess was thirsty work.

This has been another episode of the Catrina Chronicles. For previous episodes, go here. Also I apologize for this episode being a day late; I usually try to have a new one out every Monday, but, well, law school. Which may explain why this story ends the way it does. At any rate, thanks for reading!

Post-Saturday Musings

Technically I should’ve done this yesterday, but the Big Announcement has thrown my world a-kilter. You probably know all this by now, dear readers, but in case you hadn’t heard, Ben “My Last Superhero Movie was Daredevil” Affleck has been cast as Batman.

Ben Affleck.

Batman.

Oy.

…

By now, of course, a good many Batman fans across the Internet have expressed their rightful outrage at this pick. Whereupon the Ben Affleck defenders came back with counter-arguments, and so on, and so forth, ad infinitum, ad nauseum.

I notice the arguments in favor of Batfleck tend to focus on two points. 1) the fans were outraged over Michael Keaton, and that worked out. 2) Ben Affleck is, well, Ben Affleck. He directed Argo and some other movies, and he’s Turned His Career Around. Also apparently he wants to direct Justice League, or Warner Brothers wants him to direct Justice League, and he wouldn’t do it unless he got to play Batman. Or so I hear.

Well. Yes, Michael Keaton worked out, maybe, though I’m hardly convinced that his was the defining performance of Batman. He couldn’t even move his neck, for crying out loud. And, as I recall, he killed people. Batman does not kill. That was pretty well established, I thought. But, secondly, even if Michael Keaton worked out better than the fans thought, does that mean WB should completely ignore our concerns? We’re the ones who’ll be paying the ticket prices and marching into the theatres to see this thing (maybe); I should think we merit a little consideration, instead of, “Shut up, he explained”.

And Ben Affleck may be a very good director and actor. But so was George Clooney. That worked out well, didn’t it?

I don’t know. Maybe I’m wrong, and if Ben Affleck turns out to be the most epic Batman ever, I will gladly eat my metaphorical hat. But…I don’t like it. Now the story about the next Batman/Superman movie is all about BEN AFFLECK instead of Batman. And that, I think, is my real worry here, that he didn’t get the part because he’s a good fit for it, he got it because he’s BEN AFFLECK.

Ah, well. Back to Marvel.

 

A Bedtime Story

This weekend’s Trifecta prompt asked us to do a children’s bedtime story in 33 words. I don’t have children myself, but I would like to someday, and if I did this is how I imagine my bedtime stories might go.

“Once upon a time….”

“Pirates!”

“Right. Cap’n Bluebeard kidnapped Princess Emilia-”

“No, spaceships!”

“And then he teleported her to-”

“No, werewolves!”

“Bill the Werewolf saved her, and they lived happily ever after.”

“Yay.”

Sword and Corridor

This story was written for Trifecta’s weekly prompt, and continues the saga of the Third Little Pig. I was also a bit inspired by a particular passage in The Fellowship of the Ring, which I’ve been re-listening to on audiobook. You’ll know it when you see it.

The little mouse had lived its whole life in the castle corridors, and it had never had a day’s trouble. Now, all of a sudden, everything was madness. A man came running down the corridor with a drawn sword, while a pig had come running the opposite way. Yet a third person had come in exclaiming something about a giant snake, and sure enough, right behind the pig an extremely outsized snake came barreling. The mouse was so distressed it resolved to leave the castle at once and flee to the countryside, which it promptly did. It met another mouse in a meadow just outside the castle, started a large family, and spent the rest of its days in happy mousey fulfillment.

Meanwhile, back in the corridor, Evinrude was wondering when the sword’s powers were supposed to kick in. The pond lady had been somewhat unclear on that point before she’d tossed the thing at him. He cast a hasty glance over it, hoping for some inscription that might give a clue about its magical properties. The sword had exactly one rune, glimmering silver on its blade, a shining brand left by its long-vanished makers. Evinrude had neglected his runic studies, or he might have been able to recognize exactly which Dwarven smith the mark represented. He then could have identified the smith’s Dwarf-clan and dialect, and from there deduced several possible magic phrases that could help. But even if he had paid attention to his studies, he wouldn’t have had time to do that anyway. The Third Little Pig flew past, and the snake was practically upon him.

Then it froze. Evinrude was about to seize the moment and strike, when he paused too. In that silent instant, an ominous sound came to his ears. The low wailing cry grew steadily louder. Only the lady Eulalie from the distant islands had heard that sound, and she trembled. “Bagpipes,” she whispered shakily. “Bagpipes in the deep. They are coming.”

I is for Infernal Iguanas

Last time in the Catrina Chronicles, Susan, Catrina’s archenemy and fairly unpleasant villain all around, had just opened the gates of Character Hell….

It was everything Susan had imagined. And oh, how she had imagined it. Ever since that terrible day when the minions of Character Hell had risen against her and chased her out, she had been planning her revenge. She had prepared ominous Latin chant selections for a choir. She had practiced her villainous pose, the one she would strike when the gates opened and the powers of Character Hell realized who’d just come back. She’d even planned what she would do then. Twin laser pistols blazing, she would march right through Character Hell, level by level, all the way down to the deepest point, the Lake of the Omnicides, the frozen horror in which were imprisoned all the fictional villains who had tried to destroy their universes.

Down there, she knew, was a throne, locked in ice, and on that throne sat whoever it was that was currently in charge of the whole shebang. Susan had heard that Edmund, Catrina’s evil brother, had taken over, but it seemed he had gotten himself pitched into a river of lava. As this was fairly near one of Character Hell’s entrances, the jury was still out on whether Edmund was permanently or just mostly dead. Susan hadn’t given it much thought; the main point was that Edmund wasn’t ruling Character Hell anymore. More than likely some random fictional demon had taken over in his place. Susan meant to give that demon the battle of its life (so to speak), a battle that would live in horrible tales, a battle that would illustrate to the minions in graphic detail exactly what happened to people or beasties who crossed her. And then she would take the throne of Character Hell, bring it back into line, and start working on her ultimate plan: destroying all fictional reality. It was positively glorious. Epic, even. She couldn’t wait.

So she smiled as the doors rumbled open and the Latin chanting cued up. Susan’s fingers tightened on the firing pads of her laser pistols, expecting to face a whole swarm of rampaging minions. But…then her mouth fell open. Nothing. There wasn’t anybody on the other side. All that met her was an empty field that stretched away to a distant grey river. The Latin choir fell silent. Susan actually thought she heard a cricket. She wasn’t even sure if it was a Hell-cricket, with its horrible Chirp of Insanity, or just a plain old ordinary cricket.

“Oh come ON!” Susan shouted. That wasn’t exactly the first thing she said; she let out a whole string of expletives that would’ve made the proverbial sailor blush. She hoped faintly that someone listening might be offended and attack. But no one came. All she saw was the same empty field, no grass, no trees, just boring old dirt, and the same river in the distance. It was infuriating. She’d been prepared to be challenged, attacked, even (just possibly) driven out again. She hadn’t been prepared to be ignored.

Then suddenly she saw a gazelle loping merrily across the field. Actually, as it came closer, she realized it wasn’t a gazelle at all but an impala. Not the car. The actual antelope. Leaping around like it was a perfect sunny day. Worse, Susan realized that it was showing clear signs of wanting to come close and nuzzle her hand. The thing must have wandered off from Character Heaven. “This place has just gone to crap,” Susan said, as she leveled her laser pistols. At least she could kill something.

“Hey,” said a small gruff voice behind her. Susan spun around. Standing there next to the door was a tiny green iguana. “You here for the tour, miss?” he asked, punctuating his question with a spit into the dirt.

“Miss,” Susan repeated.  “Miss? MISS? I am SUSAN, you brainless bug-eating reptile, I once ruled Character Hell, and I have returned to claim my-”

“Actually, ma’am,” interjected the iguana, “That’s a common misconception. Iguanas like me, we’re herbivores. We only eat plants. Not bugs.”

Susan’s face went sheet-white with fury. “I don’t care what you eat. You think this is freakin’ Dante? You think I’m here for you to show me around, consequences of sin, all that, so I can go on my merry way to Paradise? No way. I built half this blasted place, I know the layout, and I want to go right to the bottom. Lake of the Omnicides. Right now.”

The iguana grimaced. If you’ve never seen a grimacing iguana, it is a sight to behold. “Ma’am, there’s rules involved, protocol, I can’t just take you straight down without going past-”

“Oh yes you can,” Susan said, aiming her laser pistols. “Or I will destroy you right now.”

“You do know we’re in Character Hell, yeah? And I’m one of the spirits that helps run the place? So your laser pistols won’t, y’know, work?”

Susan had hoped the iguana wouldn’t be smart enough to grasp that. Apparently she had underestimated it. It would be the last time she would underestimate a sentient iguana. Not that she expected to have too many more encounters with iguanas, sentient or otherwise, but one never knew anymore. “Fine,” she growled, holstering her weapons, “we’ll do it your way. Level by stinkin’ level. And on the way down I wanna know what’s going on. Hippobears and hippogriffs loose outside. Random impalas bouncing through. No one here to fight me. Who’s running this dive?”

“That…” said the iguana grimly, as they made their way towards the river, “is kinda complicated…”

This has been another exciting episode of the Catrina Chronicles. Be sure and tune in next week as Susan’s descent into Character Hell continues. For previous episodes, go here. For my Amazon author page, go here. And as always, thanks for reading.

Saturday Musings

Next week begins my third year in law school. Among my classes this term is “Law and Literature”. The selection of stories we’ll be discussing includes Antigone, The Lottery, the Book of Jonah, “Harrison Bergeron”…..and part of the grade is based on writing an original short story.  Say, Mr. Law Professor, might I introduce you to a girl named Catrina? 

Needless to say, I am fairly excited about this term. Of course, earlier today I was in some emotional distress, mainly because I rewatched Serenity. That is one good movie. But I admit,  I was a bit reluctant to watch it, because there are some terribly sad moments. But then, there’s some terribly awesome moments too.  One of my favorite moments in any movie ever, for instance….well, I won’t spoil it for those of you who haven’t seen it, but let’s just say the bad guy’s expression goes from smirk to stunned disbelief in about two seconds. And it is good.

I suppose this post should have some substance before I finish, so I thought I’d return to a classic blogging subject: spam. Lately I’ve been wondering whether the spammers who visit my blog are really free-verse modern poets trying to share their creative genius with the world. For instance, here’s one comment I recently received.

Howcome just have pc sitting there,

unused in the exploration?

Pierce Brosnan, as Bond, wore a quantity totally different designs of the

Seamaster.

Ruby Season four Episode 5 is just now ready to give you 100% Tv

For pc entertainment.

Electro-mechanical watches utilize electricity at a injury

Spring

Now, I’m lousy at literary criticism. I think sometimes a whale is just a whale. (I also think, incidentally, that Moby Dick is vastly overrated. It’s a whaling encyclopedia with an occasional plot thrown in.)  And I shudder to think what future literature scholars will say about my work. (“So, what do you think the Zombie Penguin Apocalypse symbolizes here?”)  But I thought I’d try my hand at this clearly meaningful work presented by a person who, sadly, prefers to remain anonymous.

The first line, for instance, “howcome just have pc sitting there, unused in the exploration”? A question I ask myself every day. Do we really use our PCs, or laptops, or other computer devices for exploration, for gaining knowledge and enlightenment, or are they just sitting there, unused?  Tragic.

And then the next part, “Pierce Brosnan, as Bond, wore a quantity totally different designs of the Seamaster.”   Our mysterious writer, facing the ennui of unused technology and unexplored worlds, ventures into film criticism. But even here, he finds no meaning. Pierce Brosnan, the Bond of the 90s, is indeed totally different from the Bond of today, a Bond that’s much grimmer, darker even, like the sea. A seamaster, unmoored from solid ground of truths everybody understood, still trying to find certainty in a rapidly changing world.

So our writer goes on, “Ruby Season four Episode 5 is just now ready to give you 100% Tv for pc entertainment.”.   I had to do some research on this one. Clearly the writer is referring to Ruby, an American reality-documentary series formerly on the Style channel, which addressed the struggles of a woman attempting to lose weight. The writer refers to a specific episode, “Ruby’s Beach Meltdown”, in which, as Wikipedia informs me, the titular character finds that she has not succeeded in her weight-loss efforts. The writer of this free-verse poem may have identified with Ruby in her fight, and was ready for more entertainment, even thrilling heroics, but….Ruby has, it seems, been canceled. The writer must have been terribly distressed.  Film and television has failed, the world is unsure, everything is disappearing. But then…

“Electro-mechanical watches utilize electricity at a injury.”  Yes. Yes they do. Even after a terrible blow, an injury if you will, watches still keep on going, utilizing their inner spark. You might say they take a lickin’ and keep on tickin’. And so, I think our writer must have taken solace in that, because the poem concludes with a single word. “Spring”.  Ah, spring. The embodiment of hope, the promise of new life, even after the darkest winter.  Truly, this poem is a masterpiece of hidden emotion and deep meaning.

….

Or it’s just some random phrases thrown together with a link that would probably give my computer a horrid virus if I were so foolish as to click on it .Which I didn’t.  But still….I like to think it’s an epic poem.

Soaring Happily

For this weekend’s Trifecta prompt, they specifically asked that we avoid creepiness this week, and give them a story of soul-soaring happiness, inspired by contemplation of sun and light and shiny things, and specifically this photo project by Eirik Solheim. So, I contemplated sunlight and happiness. This is what my muse gave me. Roll film!

 

“Where’s your captain now?” the Zombie Philanderer snarled as he advanced upon Tasha.

“Right behind you.”

“Wha-”

*POW*.

“Nice one. Looks like he’s going right into the sunset.”

“Forget him. C’mere, you.”

*Smerp*.