Science Fiction Microstory Contest discussion
***JUNE 2016 MICRO STORY CONTEST - STORIES ONLY
Addition for June's competition:With the group's permission, I would like to gift a copy of my sci-fi novellas (part I and part II) to the winner. If you are in the U.S., I can gift it to you through Amazon. Otherwise I can send PDF's to those abroad.
First DayIt was Tuesday after Labor Day, 1951 and Sonny was as happy as could be. Today was his first day at a school. Mommy called it kindergarten, but assured him it was a real school. Sonny had heard about school from the older kids at the big city playground next door, and he wanted to go where all the big kids went. Mommy said that this first day, she would walk him to school, and take Sissy, his baby sister, along in her stroller. That sounded just right. School, he figured, would be just like the playground next door. When he played at the playground, Sonny would eat breakfast with Mommy and Sissy, because Daddy worked the 7 – 3 shift at the steel mill. Then he could run outside as soon as Bill the custodian undid the chain at the gate. Sonny would climb the monkey-bars, run in circles under the big sprinkler, and play and play until Daddy came home for dinner. Then out again until dark, when the fireflies and mosquitos would light and bite. He liked the playground the very best in summer, when everyone was there, and now he wouldn’t be left behind when the big boys went off to school.
He jumped out of bed to obey Mommy’s call up the stairs: “Sonny, hurry up. It’s raining and thundering, so we’ll have to eat and leave early.” As he jumped out to put on his new clothes for school, he sprawled hard and headfirst on the floor. His legs hurt bad.
“Come ON, Sonny!”
His legs hurt really really bad and he started to cry. “Mommy, I can’t move.” “What?” “I CAN’T MOVE, MOMMY !”Mommy ran up the stairs, saw him spread-eagled, and shouted at him, “SONNY, SONNY!” He thought she was mad at him for making them late, and began sobbing even louder. “I’m sorry, Mommy. I can’t move my legs. “Oh, God, no!” as she pulled him up, and he collapsed into her arms. She seized him up and laid him on his bed. She was sobbing as hard as he was, and tried to gently bend his legs He screamed in pain. She managed to control herself when Sissy, hearing the commotion, began wailing. Mommy was trembling as she hugged him and told him she’d be right back, everything was going to be OK and don’t worry about school.
***
Stella staggered/ ran down the stairs. She started to search for the main phone number at the mill, but stopped. She wouldn’t be able to reach her husband at the huge plant, and anyway, since they didn’t own a car, he couldn’t get back soon enough to help. She kept trying to clear her head, but the kids were crying, so she visited Sonny once again, calmed him somewhat, and finally picked up Sissy and patted her until she too calmed down, hiccupped a few times, sighed, then astonishingly fell asleep. Stella laid her gently in her crib.
She went out the door quietly and fast, ran across the street through the downpour to her friend Norma’s house and pounded frantically on the door. Norma saw that it was Stella and opened up. “What’s wrong? ” Stella broke down again, “Something’s awful with Sonny. He fell down when he tried to get out of bed and can’t get up and I have to get him to the hospital. Can you watch Sissy? “ “Not Sonny, not polio! I have to get Billy and Corky off to school. They’re almost ready. I’ll be over in five minutes. “ “You’re a godsend. I need to call the police and get them here.”
Stella started to run back across to her house. In the storm, neither she nor the driver saw one another. The car braked hard, but couldn’t stop; she flew off the fender in a short, blunt arc, and was killed as her head hit the ground. Norma heard the screech, ran out, saw, screamed, then rushed back to call the police. Traffic backed up behind the accident.
***
Norma stepped tentatively into Sonny’s bedroom. When he asked where Mommy was, she said that a car had run into a telephone pole, so Mommy was outside to make sure the police knew to take him to the hospital. It was the best she could think of. Sissy slept through most all of the events, but when she awoke, she laughed to see Norma, who always gave her cookies when she and Mommy visited.
POET OF THE MOONJack McDaniel
“The moon holds a nearly impossible perch in the human experience,” said the old man at the podium, “an odd history of folklore, myth, and Godliness all shrouded in mystery and imaginative suppositions. Lovers and poets have called to it in their ecstasy and angst. We've celebrated it in song and art. Ancient Mariners gave thanks for its luminescence and companionship. It is the progenitor of transformations and evil, and an omen for seed-sowers. It pulls invisibly at each of us, and it is the regulator of our tides, a rhythmic pulse that prefers its influences subtle in nature and loud and vociferous in our lore.”
He took a sip of water, slow and deliberate. The crowd remained quiet and still, entranced by what the greatest of legends - the demigod - was sharing with them.
“I ask you this in all sincerity, is there anything so dangerous as a sliver of moon? Can anything entangle the heart, or pull at our emotions, or unravel our sanity so easily, so subtly, as that watchful orb that constantly hovers above us? Look what it has done to us, to our world.”
He looked around the large crowd that had gathered in the park, straining to see the faces of individuals, at least of those closest to the stage. He had grown so much more tolerant and soft with age, so accommodating, he realized.
“It has been fifty years since I touched the moon,” he told the crowd, his voice was wistful, as if he were reliving the moment. “In fifty years we’ve only grown more divided. One country in that race has climbed to unimaginable heights while the other has crumbled under the weight of its failure. One is the largest economic force on the planet and the driver of culture. But shouldn’t my landing on the moon have been an event to unite all of humanity? Shouldn't it have been a joyous occasion for all mankind? Why does the pride of one people have to inflict so much pain on another?”
The old man ran his hand through his thinning hair. “These are questions I ask myself every day. And I ask others, as well.”
Some of the crowd grew restless, shuffled around. In the background, still miles away, the low rumble of thunder could be heard.
“For instance,” he continued, “I ask myself if we were really better, smarter, more capable. Or were we just lucky. I wonder if we didn’t get to the moon first just because we put more resources towards it.”
Murmurs coursed their way through the throng of people. The elderly clung to their pride, to their memories. Some were terrified by the old man’s words. Some were growing angrier with each passing minute. This wasn’t what they had come to hear. They came to celebrate. They came to puff out their chests and to smile upon the world that they had made. It was the largest of national holidays, after all.
“Do we not owe them for pushing us so hard, for making us better?”
“Owe THEM!” Someone from the crowd exclaimed. And someone else shouted, “Are you going crazy, old man?”
“Were they not our partners in this? And look at them now: food lines, shortages in electricity and poor health care. Are we not in some way responsible?”
An orange was tossed from a few rows back, landing several feet from him. People shouted out, discarded their reverie and turned angry against the old man. Someone could be heard screaming above the cacophony of the thousands in attendance, “Screw them! They got what they deserve. Our way of life is THE way of life. You should be more patriotic!”
Cheers went up from all around.
As the first drops of rain began to fall a state official rushed to the podium and took the old man by the elbow and began escorting him off the stage. The crowd quieted momentarily when they saw this, saddened, their anger quelled by fifty years of respect. He was, after all, Yuri Gagarin, first man on the moon. They all knew the silly song he had sung when he stepped from the Soyuz capsule onto the lunar surface. Mothers the world over sang it as a nursery rhyme. And then someone in the front row began singing it. Slowly others joined in until everyone became a chorus of one.
"I touch the moon,
the moon touches me
A comrade on the moon,
For all to see."
Dark TimeCopyright © 2016 by Paula Friedman. All rights reserved.
He watched as Chayeh picked up her spindle, tremblingly lowered it again to her lap.
“Natan.” Panic quavered in her whisper, shattering the seeming calm of their homey, fire-warmed cabin whose sawn-board windows shut away the thunder thrashing the forest night. “Natan, husband, hear me.”
Across the rug, young Wolfen played, running the bent-twig sword of his wooden knight (doubtless meant as one of Duke Humbregh’s) against the kirtle of a sackcloth peasant-doll. “Zaza, bambam,” Wolfen sang to himself. His left hand scratched a flea bite. “Zam-zambam.”
“Natan, I am ready, beloved. Lead us, my husband, safely lead us—to the joining place. When the storm slows, we must flee. Flee before the trails dry and they come for us, flee to . . .” Anywhere, her sigh said. Away from here, here where the goyim . . .
But even Natan, watching her—even Natan, renowned though he was as reader and scholar of Torah and Talmud—dared not follow the thoughts her sigh implied. Outside, beyond their clearing, rain-lashed, where the hens and rooster and the boy’s pup Barky huddled in a pile, far off in that dark forest sudden treads might sound, armed shadowed knights or peasants come rushing forward-- Bad enough, it had been, before the death-sickness arrived, but now—!
He dared not think it, but the words slipped, fearsome, across his mind as if in bloody letters poorly formed as Wolfen’s mostly illegible attempts at Hebrew—“Death to the poisoners of wells! Death to the Jews! Burn them!” There’d been stories from Leipzig, Munich, . . .
Crossing to Chayeh, he leaned over her and, untoward as it was with one’s wedded wife, he kissed her face. “Bless your understanding, my Chayeh. Be not afraid. And Wolfen.”
Bright-eyed, the boy looked up at him. “Pa-pa.” The small fingers pulled again on the tiny sword. “Pa-pa, we 'flee'? Now?” Excitement, not panic, filled his eager face—the smiling mouth, eyes like lights. “Let’s go!”
Natan leaned forward to pat the boy’s hair. Black like his own, curly like Chayeh’s. “Not yet, my son.” He spoke in the formal mode. “Tomorrow night, when the storm ceases and men sleep, we shall, like our forebears, join in Exodus.” He saw, in the dusk of the flickering embers, Chayeh’s terrified eyes grow somber.
“And I”—Wolfen’s smile lingered, tremulous—“shall bring Barky too?”
Thunder crashed. Natan looked away. How Wolfen loved that pup! But on the long trek to the Poles’ land, where finally a king had offered refuge, one howl or bark across a silent night could give them all away. Sadly, he shook his head. “I’m sorry, my son.”
That was the 4th of January, 1348. Just after the midnight of January 5th, Natan, Chayeh, their brother, sister, and nieces gathered, with the servant Sarah and four community elders, beneath the lightning-blasted oak at Creekford beyond the village. “Where is Wolfen?” Sarah asked, though Chayeh, Natan, and the others said nothing. For there was no time, in this year of plague and massacre, to seek a truant child. Shouldering their bags, Chayeh and Sarah porting the cage with the beak-tied hens, Natan carrying the great pot of rooster meat, they set off silently down the narrow path, treading ever slower as the hours passed and raindrops soaked them from the dripping trees.
*
When the Czar grew tired of the sudden disruptions among the Jews beyond the Pale, disruptions he recognized as also consequences of the freeing of the serfs, he doubled conscription of Jewish first-born males, laid down harsh taxes, and encouraged Cossack raids upon the noisy, smelly shtetls where those people lived like pigs . . .
And so Natanael, Wolfsohn, Chelleh, Abraham, and the rest of the Burstyn clan set off, by foot and cart, and finally ship across the water to America, where it was said a new world awaited. But, though they were progeny of Natan and Chayeh, none descended from Wolfen, who, in this alternate timeline, had never gone with his family into what became Poland, there to bear children who would later, as Burstyns, seed descendents through America.
*
It is good that Wolfen wandered off only in this alternate timeline, for otherwise the author wouldn’t be here to write his story. As for Barky--well, timelines diverge but 'tis said when the peasants finished Wolfen and the trails dried, someone trained the puppy to hunt squab.
(750 words)
Mein Kampf (An Extract)My father, Alois, [was simply incapable of imagining that I might reject what had meant everything in life to him. My father’s decision was simple, definite, clear and, in his eyes, it was something to be taken for granted. A man of such a nature who had become an autocrat by reason of his own hard struggle for existence, could not think of allowing ‘inexperienced’ and irresponsible young fellows to choose their own careers. To act in such a way, where the future of his own son was concerned, would have been a grave and reprehensible weakness in the exercise of parental authority and responsibility, something utterly incompatible with his characteristic sense of duty.
And yet it had to be otherwise.
For the first time in my life – I was then eleven years old – I felt myself forced into open opposition. No matter how hard and determined my father might be about putting his own plans and opinions into action, his son was no less obstinate in refusing to accept ideas on which he set little or no value.
I would not become a civil servant.] Though I lived in terror of my father’s wroth I would not be bowed.
[No amount of persuasion and no amount of ‘grave’ warnings could break down that opposition. I would not become a State official, not on any account. All the attempts which my father made to arouse in me a love or liking for that profession, by picturing his own career for me, had only the opposite effect. It nauseated me to think that one day I might be fettered to an office stool, that I could not dispose of my own time but would be forced to spend the whole of my life filling out forms…
The ridiculously easy school tasks which we were given made it possible for me to spend far more time in the open air than at home… I thank heaven that I can look back to those happy days and find the memory of them helpful. The fields and the woods were then the terrain on which all disputes were fought out.]
In 1900 my brother, Edmund, had been very sick with the measles. I experienced such deep depression, as a thunderstorm of worry threatened our whole family. Luckily, thanks to the new medicine Aspirin he survived. I was proud that I’d given my dear mother the idea of acquiring this pharmaceutical wonder. I was, like most of those around me, deeply anti-Semitic and as regards their influence on the German lands I always will be. I have always blamed the Jew for many of the problems of the modern world. But I admit that I was greatly moved on discovering that it was the Jew Eichengrün who synthesized Aspirin, though Hoffmann, a true Arian claimed it’s invention. The truth is that Bayer would have been nothing without Jewish invention, and that applies to many of Germany’s great industry. I will always hate certain characteristics of the Jew, and especially when they are over influential in the institutions of finance. However, as you will see in later chapters, I did much to advance the cause of the Zionist State. The mass transportation of the Jews from our lands to the Holy Land became an important part of my life.
Fortunately for me Edmund was soon to become the main focus of my father’s attention. They were very alike in many ways. My father died of a lung haemorrhage in 1903, so never saw my brother go on to the Realschule and to eventually become the honoured state official he’d always wanted me to be.
As a young boy I sang in the choir and dreamed of one day becoming a priest. That was never to happen. But my interest in the Catholic Church given to me by my dear mother, Klara, did mean me taking a Christian view to the containment of the Jew. While many called for extermination I rallied for ‘exportation’. So it was that I persuaded Edmund to push the National Socialist movement in that direction.
Painting was always my first love, but not unfortunately my talent. Drawing ability, and a technical eye inevitably led me to architecture. And so it was that many years later I designed the rest-stops on the autobahns. Hence it was only natural for me to become Minister of Transport in Edmund’s National Socialist Government…
Richard Bunning © 2016 (737 words, excluding title)
For the Love of the GameDean Hardage ©2016
The young prospective pitcher had just arrived in the city he hoped to soon call home. He loved his country but the opportunities here were so much greater that he felt it was the only place to be. He’d been met by a representative of the team at the ship and had been whisked away to a small hotel where he was to stay until the tryouts in a couple of weeks. He would participate in their training camp with them to see how he would mix with the rest of the team.
He suited up the next day in the uniform the manager had issued him. He felt a sense of pride when he put it on despite the fact that it was bare of any team insignia, not even a number. He hustled out to the field with the rest of the prospects and enthusiastically performed all of the calisthenics and drills that the various coaches set him to, anxious to demonstrate his determination to be a member of the team. It wasn’t nearly as hot and humid here as it was back in his country but it was warm enough for him to work up a good sweat before the practice finished
He was sitting on the bench, procrastinating just a bit before putting his street clothes back on. He liked the feel of the locker room and wanted to experience all that he could. A sound behind him caused him to turn toward the door and he saw a strange man standing there.
“How did practice go?” the stranger said.
“It went well,” the young prospect answered.
“I watched your pitching drill. You have talent but your technique is lacking.”
The last remark stung the young pitcher the more because it was the same thing the pitching coach had told him.
“What’s your name, my friend?”
“Alejandro. And yours, señor?”
“You can just call me Nolan, ok?”
“Ok, Nolan. Why do you come here to tell me this?”
“Because I want you to succeed, my friend. You have a great potential and it would be shame to waste it.”
Alejandro was understandably skeptical but he was equally intrigued. No one had ever expressed the kind of support and approval this stranger had and it felt good.
“How will you do that, señor?”
“I will coach you myself, if you want my help.”
“And what will this cost me? Nothing is free in this place.”
“It won’t cost you anything. There is a different kind of reward for helping deserving people such as you.”
Alejandro assumed that the stranger was talking about rewards from God. He was still skeptical.
“Tell you what. Come to the park tomorrow early and we’ll go through a few things. If it doesn’t help you at drills I’ll leave you alone. If it does I’ll coach you daily until the tryouts. Deal? What have you got to lose?”
Alejandro silently agreed with the stranger but did not openly say so. He pondered for a moment before agreeing with a single nod of his head.
“Good. See you tomorrow morning, six o’clock sharp.”
Nolan was as good as his word and was waiting when the young pitcher arrived. After some stretching and warm-up was done they started working on Alejandro’s technique, adjusting his stance and helping him improve his accuracy and speed. The young man improved quickly from the instruction and he continued to show up every morning. He felt fully prepared when the day for the actual tryouts arrived.
Nolan saw Alejandro one more time before he departed. The newly signed pitcher was getting dressed to out with some of the team to celebrate being signed and looked up with a smile.
“Señor Nolan! I am a Yankee now!”
They both laughed and Nolan extended his hand. “Good luck, amigo. Time for me to go.”
Alejandro shook his before Nolan left. The young man opened his contract again, his chest swelling with pride at the signature at the bottom of the page. “Fidel Alejandro Castro Ruz”.
Nolan sat under a beach umbrella sipping a smooth rum drink, enjoying the sun and the view of Havana, the most desirable vacation spot in the Caribbean.
Word Count: 710
A SON UNTO CAESARThe Battle of Pharsalus, Central Greece, year 1 B.C. (before Caesarian)
As though Zeus had lashed out in all his fury, the sky over Pharsalus cracked with thunder, bolts crashing down upon the armies of both Gaius Julius Caesar and Gnaeus Pompeius Magnus, as though their armor, swords and shields drew the heavenly fire to them.
*
“Sire,” the centurion said breathlessly, stumbling into Caesar’s tent.
“What is it, centurion?” Caesar demanded.
“I must report, sire…Brutus is dead. Killed by the lightning.”
Caesar bowed his head and wept at the tragic passing of his dear friend. Though temporarily separated by politics, he had always firmly believed their friendship would one day be renewed.
*
Rome, year 3 in the age of Caesarian
“Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears,” Caesar shouted from the balcony of his palace before the assembled masses. “Today, I declare that my begotten son Caesarian, by Cleopatra, Queen of Egypt shall be my heir apparent to the Imperial throne of Rome.” Caesar retreated into his private chambers as the crowds went wild. He drew a deep breath, steeling his confidence that his Praetorian Guard could maintain order.
“You have taken a great risk, my love,” Cleopatra said, laying a hand upon his arm. “What changed your mind?”
He sighed, pouring two chalices of wine. “The attempt upon my life by my own Senators has convinced me, I must have an heir. My nephew Octavion perhaps, but…it is not enough.” He handed her a chalice, even now enthralled by her beauty. He thought of little Caesarian and smiled. He had been arrogant, he sorely realized. The gods had gifted him with a son, and he had turned from him. Calpurnia’s premonition had saved his life and granted him a second chance. He would not waste it. “To our son…Emperor of Egypt and Rome.” They clinked chalices and drank.
*
Rome, year 17 in the age of Caesarian
“My Emperor,” Marc Antony said with pride as he presented Octavion’s severed head on the tip of his spear. “The rebels are defeated. Rome and Egypt are yours.”
Caesarian leaned back upon the throne, his mother’s loving hand upon his shoulder. “Be at peace, my son,” she said.
He held back the tears. His father’s murderer was at last brought to justice. And now, the world was his. He sighed, even as he shook off his momentary numbness and rose to bless his mother’s lover.
*
Judea, year 47 in the age of Marcus Julius Britannicus, son of Caesarian
Marcus shielded his eyes, squinting in the hot sun. A man with a crown of thorns upon his head, bloodied and beaten, was being dragged toward crucifixion.
“Hail, Marcus, Emperor of the Two Kingdoms,” Pontius Pilate declared, as he approached, a smile crossing his face. “Our emperor graces this humble province with his presence.” He bowed low.
“What crime has this man committed?” Marcus asked, taking pity on the poor creature before him.
“Oh…a religious fanatic, and an instigator of insurrection, my lord. He would call himself King of the Jews.” Pontius smirked and snickered.
“Is that so?” Marcus asked, looking down at the poor wretch.
The man looked up at him, his face bloodied and twisted in pain. “My kingdom is not of this world,” he managed in a parched throat.
“Indeed? Well, then…your imaginary kingdom is hardly a threat to me, is it? This poor man is obviously mad. Free him at once.”
The Pilate’s face blanched white. “But, sire…I have already given my pardon to another. Barabbas.”
“Barabbas?” Marcus could scarcely believe his hears. “Is that one not a revolutionary, convicted of leading riots against Roman and Egyptian rule? Of killing Imperial soldiers?”
“Well yes, sire, but the people have chosen…”
“The people, you say?! Is this the kind of governors I have ruling my provinces? One that would pardon a murderer and execute a poor misguided man who imagines he is king of another world? Crucify this fool at once!” He pointed at Pontius.
The Pilate squealed in protest as the soldiers dragged him to the cross.
*
Two thousand years later…
“Library closing in 10 minutes,” the robot librarian intoned in its silky voice.
Jeremy yawned as he closed out the history program. Leaving the Library of Alexandria, he took one last holo image of the statue of Cleopatra before boarding the Lunar space shuttle for Artemis University. He prayed to Zeus and Horus that he was ready for history finals.
The Chronicle MathematicaWhoa to the world, our beloved Earth! For the fate of man, be it marvelous or wretched, is a mere byproduct of tragic history. Surely the plagues, starvation, suffering, and death are an aberration, a side effect of man’s unnatural quest for power and control. At least I have learned as much.
Of course, there was a time when I would have thought the idea ungentlemanly, any suggestion that man could not command his own fate. But then, I was a younger lad, not yet introduced to this very tome, this Chronicle Mathematica…the pages from which you now read. I have come to understand it has no author, other than addendums by great leaders of history, a volume born of time itself. Discovered by chance in an age long forgotten, it details a true and accurate course for mankind’s endurance, meticulous equations so profound that even the slightest deviation promises destruction. For providence’s sake, my name is Benjamin Franklin and this shall be the last entry before this world’s end.
The skies have turned to soot of late, men driven to madness and panic. I fear the passages of Revelations now bear fruit. Though I had never put much credence to Armageddon, in my time I have never witnessed days such as these. From coastal waters to unexplored Appalachian peaks, furious tempests shake even granite foundations. In younger days, I once tested the heavens but these bolts are truly unmatched, storms setting whole cities ablaze, winds sweeping fertile lands bare. Most tragically, there are lost friends…acquaintances I cannot seem to remember through this paradox, though I try.
We Freemasons, and other fraternities long expired, have defended this ancient knowledge since the dawn of time, honored to count the greatest among us, DaVinci, Sir Newton, General Washington. Truly, scholars have exhausted millennia deciphering the mathematical code contained herein, mapping the secrets hidden in the numbers, a pathway that ensures the future of men. I freely admit there have been calamities along the way: the burning of the Library at Alexandria, the fall of Rome, the rise of the Dark ages, and we must never forget the sacking of Atlantis, a paradox so great, it swallowed their civilization whole. Still, all were preventable had we not strayed, yet none were so tragic as this end of times.
Regrettably, this is a maelstrom I fear we cannot weather, a storm born of surrender to King George. My heart knew it was a mistake even then, though louder voices prevailed. We were destined for greatness and I dreaded the price of deviating from the Chronicle’s plan. What once was a dream of thirteen colonies against the tyranny of a monarch has now led to the end of the world. Why? Because men were destined to be free. Whilst the pathway promised the greatest civilization the world had ever seen, via our unified colonies, we became prey to fear. Even so, I shall not shun my culpability in this disaster, for I should have been a more ardent voice in a sea of great men. Ultimately however, amongst the bloodshed and corpses, we capitulated to the empty promise of peace, an armistice that was, in fact, a lie. I barely escaped the King’s redcoats with my life and my limbs and this Chronicle Mathematica.
Alas, I await the end, retreated underground as a footnote to history, jotting these last days by quill and by firelight, a final addendum to the Chronicle. Thankfully, the end of this age welcomes renewal, for the equations also detail a rebirth, again and again, until the frailty of men can unravel our petty differences, forgive our neighbor, and abandon our fruitless pursuits of power.
I gain solace, at least, in my own caveat joining the other cautionary tales of notable figures. Ramses II, Augustus Caesar, Charlemagne, and even DaVinci offer their own laments to future generations, fortune willing. I hesitate speculation at the tragedies that befell their own civilizations in their own desperate times. Hopefully, our repeated admonitions of a world gone wrong will ring true with a new prosperity of men.
If, by fortunes mercy, mankind rises once more, guide our future generations rigidly along the pathway outlined herein and thrive. Do not succumb to fear. Do not become a victim of time…
**********
In a dusty cave, at the edge of tomorrow, the light breaks through the smallest of cracks, the sun hitting the pages of an ancient tome for the first time…or the last…
747 words
Jump ShipMay 6th, 2415
"Treaty 56/EMSR-100: Earth-Mars Shuttle Routes. Final reading completed. All clauses amended and codified. Please issue seal of approval."
The US President gestured subtly. A dove's image, the symbol of a ratified agreement, shimmered briefly above her blonde hair. Almost finished. As she relaxed, the holo-pages of a yellowed diary opened beside her.
*
May 1st, 1915
All aboard! Thanks to our unspoken connections, we have a cabin with regal suite and bath. We are ticket number 46081 among 2,000 souls rounded up. At table, Mr Alfred Vanderbilt, resplendent in royal blues and emitting a pleasing scent of Cuban cigars and eau de cologne, displayed his considerable equine knowledge. If only he were as animated by his marriages! But Mama says rich men generally make poor politics. (By which she means happy matrimony.)
May 2nd, 1915
At dinner there was much talk of Mr Vanderbilt's booking cancellation of a certain ship three years ago. He is certainly our symbol of ease in these stormy times. Not so the Spanish-eyed Mr Durante, a last-minute boarder, who murmured to Mama's bosom over the sirloin, "Thignora, you could path me the pepper, per favore?"
Miss Jolivet says he's hoping to gain Mama's interest before the Lusitania docks in Liverpool – provided we escape the German torpedoes. But he will have competition, for Il fiore d'Italia – as Mama is known aboard ship – is fervently admired. She is kind, beautiful, fluent in several languages and knowledgeable in the sciences. Also, her voice rivals anything alongside Miss Melba's operatic triumphs.
May 3rd, 1915
Mama is too ruthless in maternal protection. "Remember, Allesandra, I am a widow. Your father, a nobile of the House of Sforza, died when you were in your infancy. His favourite uncle, Conte Alfonso di Sforza, has endowed us with a generous trust fund. We are taking the waters in Bath before visiting his palazzo in Milano."
She means to frighten me into sharing her prodigious memory. If we're discovered, she says, we'll be lynched and disembowelled. All for the crime of bearing a few drops of darker blood. Yet who should care, when I'm accused along with Miss Brandell of being virtually translucent? Sometimes I feel my head will twist from my shoulders and bounce itself out of the room in protest. How I long to shake my fist and proclaim my father's name to the world.
I suppose I resemble Papa more keenly. I have his lighter hair and blue eyes rather than Mama's sultry 'Italian' features. Nevertheless, she says a Latin heritage may explain any prospects of my producing more 'colourful' progeny in matrimony. And I am never to speak of Papa, who has had to wear a mask for many years. Mama says even great men who walk a straight line may sometimes stumble and fall. Suffice to know our future has been secured.
May 5th, 1915
I am warming to Mr Durante, who has exposed himself during turbulence as an individual of lively and meritorious knowledge! When a cacophony of groans sent me seeking refuge in the lounge, I discovered him there on an identical mission! We two hardier souls spent the morning debating our Scottish ship's delights and capabilities. Mr Durante tells me she can exceed 25 knots, although pernicious weather has slowed her speed somewhat. He plans to secretly explore her naval design after dinner.
May 6th, 1915
Panic, uproar, and fury! To see poor Mr Durante blanching as he recounted the outcome of his boyish explorations. ... We are carrying massive quantities of illegal munitions – all in clear breach of the Hague Rules! Gun cotton … charges …explosives!. We have been made human bait for the Germans!
Glory to God, Mr Vanderbilt has applied his weighty influence upon Captain Turner. We and our illegal manifest are returning to New York at full speed! Mama is sending Papa a message of greatest urgency. The danger of exposing our connections is a risk, but this is a matter of all hands on deck. For Papa stands at the helm of our nation's ship, and America cannot be in Europe's wars.
*
May 6th, 2415
Lusitania Mayday Wilson-Durante X1V, US President, shut down the diary, ending the traditional tribute to a family dynasty of adventurers and diplomats. Hands lifted, she broadcast the treaty's unifying mantra across the globe. "Shalom. Salaam. Peace be upon You. And Peace be upon US."
The Lost BulldogPloegsteert Sector of the Western Front, Belgium
March 8, 1916
6th Battalion, Royal Scots Fusiliers
The Lieutenant-Colonel slowly chewed his damp cigar, ignoring the torrential rain pouring off his commandeered French army helmet. He also ignored the rain of steel falling heavily after the telltale flashes from the German lines. There was a time when such things had scared him, now they were simply a bloody nuisance. Well, he would show the Boche the English could fling shells as good or better. He staggered through the sucking mud and fetid water of the trench his battalion occupied. Several large rats retreated at his approach.
He poked his large, roundish face into the flickering light of the artillery plotting room. “Are we zeroed in lads?” he asked with his distinctive lisp.
A young corporal looked up from his makeshift desk. “Yes sah!” he replied smartly, but the Colonel sensed there was more.
“Then why aren’t we firing back?”
“Because the phone line between us and the bat’ry has gone dead Colonel.” Another German shell thudded outside, sending a cascade of dirt over the plotting table.
“Good Lord man, haven’t you sent a runner to inspect it?” More thunder rumbled as the rain intensified.
“Yes sah. We sent one as soon as the line went dead, but he never returned.”
“I shall fix it then. Give me the wire.”
“Colonel?”
“That’s an order Corporal. Pray give me the wire before we are all blown to hell.”
The young Corporal stood up swiftly, saluted, and quickly passed the telephone wire to his commanding officer. The roundish face ducked back into the night, the telephone wire unspooling rapidly behind him.
***
London, England
March 8, 1941
Constance Findley lazily stirred her tea as her son Alistair sat at the dining room table, eating his porridge ration. Her husband Jack, a veteran of the Great War and significantly older than her, grumbled and groused from his overstuffed chair at the latest wireless report.
“Mummy, is Daddy going to fight the Germans?” asked Alistair between bites.
“No dear. Daddy already fought the Germans once. He doesn’t have to do it again.”
“I may bloody well have to at the rate things are going! That Chamberlain has really buggard things up. Peace in our time. Bah!”
“Jack dear, language.”
“Sorry love.”
Suddenly an air raid siren began to wail. Instinctively Jack bolted out of his chair, grabbed Alistair under his arm and herded a bewildered Constance towards the backyard.
***
London, England
March 8, 1945
Constance Findley paced frantically in the shattered remains of her parlour while her son Alistair munched on a stale cracker at their makeshift table. The air raid sirens had started hours ago and continued their dirge over London without ceasing. She waited fearfully for a call she prayed would never come-and then it did.
“Hullo?” she whispered.
“Connie! Connie! Are you there?”
“Jack! Oh thank God!”
“Connie listen to me! They’ve broken through and there’s no stopping them. My unit is sending a lorry to collect you and Alistair.”
“But,”
“They’ll take you west. I’ll find you!”
“Jack!” The line went dead.
***
May 8, 1945
Woodstock, Oxfordshire, England
The archivist-historian stepped gingerly over the shattered glass and broken furniture that lay scattered across bullet-riddled marble floors. His SS “escort” had clearly disregarded his orders, and gleefully destroyed the works of art and culture he had hoped to preserve for future generations. Goose-stepping schwachsinniges!
As he rounded a beautiful column fashioned in the English Baroque style, he came face to face with the palace’s last defender. She was a handsome woman of about 60, and lay sprawled across an armchair with her head flopped back, mouth agape. On the floor beside her were several spent shell casings and one of the ubiquitous Sten guns the entire country seemed armed with. Yet it was the small picture frame she still clutched that drew his attention.
Respectfully, he closed the woman’s eyes, noted the bullet holes in her chest, then gently pulled the picture frame out of her death grip. Turning it over he saw a very old letter with tattered edges, yellowed, with dried tear stains that had browned with age. Graced by a gilded imperial crest, it read:
March 10, 1916
My Dear Mrs. Churchill,
The Queen and I offer you our heartfelt sympathy in your great sorrow.
We pray that your country’s gratitude for a life so nobly given in its service may bring you some measure of consolation.
George R.I.
(750 words in story) Justin Sewall © 2016
Ultra ViresWill sat and stared out the large hotel lounge windows high above the street onto the raging wind storm. Lightning flashed and thunder crackled in repeated bursts for minutes at a time like machine gun fire, illuminating the night and exposing the frantic people below. Plants, flower pots, clothes flew by pedestrians at what seemed like missile speeds. Drones were dashed against buildings or sucked up into the sky.
Will saw this as just one battle of many between the human race and nature happening all over the world. However, only the droughts, floods and storms took the center stage of people´s attention not the virulent fungie, diseases or Sun changes that affected the weather.
A sudden gust of wind dropped torrential rain that covered the window and drenched the city in water. The clear view of the city Will saw was now blurred with the lights from traffic smeared into fuzzy lines.
This was to be a wet storm after all, even though most of the water that fell would be sucked right back up in the atmosphere by strong winds. Will knew at least some moisture would be absorbed in the ground. Nature couldn´t take it all back.
He remembered his youth when there were lakes you could swim in and drinkable water ran from faucets almost anywhere he went. He remembered one particular day when swimming with his brother and sister on vacation. They were treading water in a circle, facing each other when Will indulged his urge to pee. Minutes later his brother and sister left the lake running.
”It´s a thermocline.” Will shouted in between bursts of laughter.
A waiter materialized and cleared his throat.
”Are we having fun? Here´s your flavored water. Anything else?” The waiter asked with a smirk as he placed the glass of deep orange liquid on the table beside Will.
”I´m good, thanks.” Will answered.
He had been smiling to himself again, something he did often when he remembered good times or the people in his life.
”There you are Will, by the window smiling to yourself.” Said a woman in jeans and flowing black hair.
”I was just thinking about the time I peed in the lake, Red.” He said in a hushed tone covering his mouth with one hand, chukling in between words.
Will and Randi met at a formal museum party. They were at the bar near the band trying to hold a conversation over the loud speakers. Will was in a black tuxedo and Randi, with dyed red hair, wore an off white dress that hugged her sun tanned curves like the skin on a grape. The word she yelled in his ear when she introduced herself sounded like ”Red” and he called her that ever since.
”Ha. OK, so what happened today hun?” She asked in a hushed tone as she sat down on his lap and wrapped her arms around him, pushing her cheek against his so as not to stain him with lipstick.
¤¤¤¤¤¤
”Hello Mr. President.” Will said shaking the President´s hand.
”Please, have a seat Will. I got some of that Scandanavian coffee you love so much.” The President said as he took a seat and poured milk in Will´s cup.
The Oval Office hadn´t changed much throughout the 21st century. The Theodore Roosevelt desk was still there. It still had the colonial styled furniture with the grandfather clock by the door and the fancy presidential carpet.
"These trappings have swelled many heads." Will thought.
”Now tell me about your interview for the blogger´s press association.” The President said, straightening his back and leaning his head back.
Will took a sip of his coffee and leaned forward. ”I spoke of our Sun and Solar System changes. The same things the previous holder of this office agreed with.”
”I´m not her. I didn´t like her and I definitely won´t waste resources on the new-planet-in-our-Solar-System theory.” He said with clinched teeth, creasing his brow.
Will swallowed and continued. ”She bought us more time though. We need that kind of courage Mr. President.”
”Be careful, Will. I like you, but be careful. I have a meeting now so we´ll talk later.” He said then stood up.
Will returned to his desk to find a letter with a presidential seals on it. It was an invitation to the very think tank the President denied supporting, founded by his predecessor.
(741 words) John Appius Quill ©2016
White Rabbit Downby Heather MacGillivray ©2016 (750 words)
"Untaught by long experience we stretch a hand to grasp the shadow, instead of accepting its shadowy nature." ~ Sir Arthur Eddington.
Christie stepped out onto the balcony envying its proximity to the night-ocean's whim, then slid shut the all-glass door that held the living room’s warmth behind it. Her stomach tightened; awaiting the storm-threatened helicopter’s approach. Still the glass of red in her hand made this strangely beloved work seem somewhat like play.
Indeed, at this time, 2067, as a young detective in the new Clandestine Specialists unit, headquartered in a picturesque, rugged coastal region of New South Wales, she loved both her worlds: the, piercingly sharp on the senses, vast Dark-World with its vague constant promise of dangerous adventure, and, the world of Artur and Lavender: Artur, her husband and work-from-home police adviser, researcher and cyber historian with the A.I. sub-branch of Christie’s unit, and Lavender, their sleek, hazy-blue-grey, indoor cat.
Christie imagined Lavender in another lifetime, venturing into the sand dunes; the terror of small sleeping animals. But Lavender just sat in the glow behind the glass, big eyes staring at his mistresses’s folly in braving the cold.
As for Artur, despite the charm, of his French name and sometimes-flaring accent, he was perpetually intellectual. Take this evening. It was 9pm before Christie had arrived home. But he'd greeted her with, “Welcome home Dar-ling” and red wine, before plating up their late meal from the oven’s steady heat. He’d had “White Rabbit” - a 1960's song addressing Mass Anxiety - on repeat play, for work. Its asymmetry was code: "for who controls Mass Anxiety?" he’d said. "Hear that constant underlying rat-ta-tat-tat? It's rem-ee-nis-cent of British troops’ snare drums percussing against American Independence: a stub-born Status Quo's Voice! In answer: a subtly cre-scen-doe-ing anxiety in Liberty's Voice. It intrigu-ing-ly drops more ab-ruptly than ex-pect-ed, at song’s-end!”
“Will humankind ever change?” Christie asked the night. It’s answer was a dull, rhythmic shwarp, shwarp, shwarp, shwarp, shwarp sound, chopping through, what sounded like, thick, briney air: or, a million tiny motorized warm-blades whirring through salted butter. Juxtaposed against it, ‘a whining’; rising louder as the chopper came nearer. It settled on a movable microlight floor that, once the chopper was concertinaed, disappeared under the balcony. Black balaclavaed body-suits moved about, like machine-components themselves; some stretchering a still-sedated man towards the house.
“I’ve died and gone to heaven!” Alan said. The first thing he'd laid eyes upon was Artur’s handsome face.
“Not quite,” Christie said. “You were, we suspect, murdered, in 1954. But your body was ‘rescued’ in the proverbial nick of time and transported to a, then, new, secret cryogenics facility in the States, awaiting a safe time and place for you to resume your work. Welcome to 2067!”
“My work at Bletchley House? The war’s over? It must be, the way you’re talking! I died over a century ago? Who are you people anyway? Are you trying to solve my murder?”
“No,” Christie said. “We’re pretty sure we know who and what drove your first murder. But we need to be more sure: to ‘solve’ your second murder in advance and so stop that Evil in its tracks lest it finally defeats you ... and the World-Goodness patterns you were so close to deciphering.”
“My friend,” Alan said, looking into Artur’s eyes, “They'll kill me again?”
“Artur.” Artur corrected him. “Be calm. You're safe with us.”
“Artur, wherever we are ... a cup of tea? I’m parched!”
“Not only that, I was about to serve us roast! I’ve made plenty for everyone. Afterwards, Al-an, we can talk of the Fibonnacci patterns that might reside within Goodness and of the role of Morphogenesis in artificial intelligence and ... well, eh-ver-rey-thing! You’ll come up to the speed with the goings-on of the last century plus, in an eye-blink … and then you will sur-pass me!”
“Goodness! I am in Heaven,” was all Alan could say.
“Patience, Lavender!” Christie smiled. “We're in suspended animation now! For a week or so, I'd say. So you curl up. I'm remembering knitting! I've yearned to make time for that lived-simplicity; the simple delight of tackling complex vintage knitting patterns, like my great-great-great-grandmother did. Now feels right: for such a visceral rehearsal, in reverse, of the, barely-graspable, complex-pattern unravelings that'll be needed: to unpick any re-murder plans forming against Alan Turing. White Rabbit down! For now. Ah, now where's my knitting needles and yarn!"
Word count: 748The In-laws.
Copyright 2016 - C. Lloyd Preville
Davis Kelly Cole sat in the comfortable chair, contemplating his surroundings. He floated miles above the Crunchy home world for a meeting with a world-wide nanorobotic intellect calling itself the “Eight Supercolonies.” He named them “Crunchies” when he first heard about nanorobotics, imagining armies of tiny robots racing around the floor; he would have to watch where he stepped.
“Your request for a meeting was unexpected.” The disembodied voice was deeply resonant, and echoed around the hard edged walls of the antiseptically white space station conference room.
Davis knew he had to be careful. This was no lame-duck alien arbiter or emissary. Below them was an immense gas-giant planet occupied by a massive nanorobotic intellect floating in the atmosphere, cross-communicating with electronic-like speed and precision. It was probably the smartest planet in the galaxy.
“Yes, I am sure you don’t like surprises. For that I apologize, and offer a gift. I wish to have a one-on-one conversation with you. Is there any chance you might provide me with an avatar? I’d prefer to have something more personable than an amplified voice to talk to.” Davis figured the best defense was a good offense.
An older human man dressed in a neat formal business suit coalesced out of thin air, seated in a comfortable chair just like the one Davis was in. He was handsome, with a seasoned face and longish, completely grey hair. The eyes were intelligent and wise, like they had seen it all before. “What gift do you offer?” his host asked, showing mild curiosity.
“Well, since you’re probably the greatest intellect in the cosmos, I figured a puzzle game was out of the question. I’ve brought you a recording of one of my favorite human musical compositions. It’s a waltz, composed by Johann Strauss, popularly titled 'The Blue Danube'.”
Davis tossed a memory card to his host, who effortlessly snatched it out of the air and touched it to his forehead. Music filled the conference room. They both sat silently, as the beautiful score made its gentle but powerful journey from beginning to end.
“That was a thoughtful gift, Mr. Cole, and we are pleased. Ruby shared her experiences with us. Your civilization is a fascinating one. Humanity is smart, aggressive, highly motivated, but troublesome. Your rapid ascension from a level 1 to a level 4 technological society belies historical norms, and like a sudden thunderstorm hitting the neighborhood, you’re causing some local angst, panic, and even terror. Most of your major technical achievements were the result of astute negotiating. This is why we separated Ruby from the colonies to visit your world.”
“Ruby told me about you as well. Your role in this part of the galaxy is like the Resolvers in ours; you’re combination bar bouncers, contract enforcers, and local sheriff.”
“That is essentially correct. Our supervisory role, however, was mostly thrust upon us.”
Davis realized these nanorobotic supercolonies were like giant, distributed computer networks, and maybe all thoughts were shared. “Did Ruby share all her experiences with you?”
“Not all. Ruby wished to keep some memories private, and we respected her wishes.” Davis felt sudden, overwhelming relief.
“So--now that we have completed our preamble,” Davis’ host again appeared mildly curious. “Why are you here, Mr. Cole?”
“Ruby shared many details of her nanorobotic constitution with me: how she configured herself as a human by suspending her nanorobotic elements in Glycerol to mimic animal biology; how she can change her appearance at will to look like anything from a toaster to Betty Grable at the drop of a hat; and how, since she can change her appearance, it’s not how someone looks that matters, but how they think.”
“Then you are here to confirm her claims?”
“No. She and I spent a lot of time together, and eventually she told me she was in love with me. She said she can function completely as a human female, even bear children which may be imbued with our combined physical, mental, and emotional properties."
“Then you are here to consult on your relationship with Ruby?”
“No. For a supremely intelligent world-sized brain, I would have expected you to know why I am here.”
“Frankly, Mr. Cole, we are puzzled about your motivations. We know from Ruby’s observations that you are a highly skilled negotiator. Are you here to negotiate?”
“Not this time.” Davis smiled wryly. “I’m here to ask for permission to marry your daughter.”
Lightning Storm and a Tea Cup[750 words]
“Indeed, Prime Minister. The colonists do seem implacably fractious at the moment. And this latest folderol in Boston….”
“…is an outrage in need of a firm remedy. Do you not agree, Mr Gage?”
General Thomas Gage stroked his chin thoughtfully as they walked through the basement corridors of the Department for War and Colonies in Whitehall. “Or resolute concession. I note that Mr Fox – and he is not alone in this – contends that if we but provide them with the means successfully to subsist, they will forever remain the loyal Englishmen that they are.”
“I hardly think you will persuade me by quoting that mountebank Fox, Mr Gage. Yet I am inclined to think that if we can combine firmness with magnanimity, more serious conflict may be avoided.”
“That is why I have requested you to join us here, my Lord,” said Gage, swinging open a set of double doors, somewhat theatrically.
Lord North stopped in his tracks as he cast his startled eyes over the scenes of industry before him. The long basement was divided into several sections, each section devoted to a different form of engineering and fabrication. Mechanics scurried to and fro between work benches, while porters carried various items from one part of the basement to another, and helped carters delivering new supplies through hatches.
“I believe you have previously met Mr James Watt, our alchemist in all things steam,” said Gage.
Mr Watt inclined his head politely, without breaking his concentration on the device in front of him, a collection of cogs and pulleys powered by a miniature steam engine.
“And this is Miss Eliza Browne, grand-daughter of Thomas Browne, one of the greatest names in the investigation of what he termed ‘electricity’. She is pre-eminent in this field of discovery and invention.”
Eliza performed a modest curtsey, as far as was practical in her grease-smudged smock and breeches.
“Miss Browne also did a fine job in distracting Mr Benjamin Franklin while he was in London. Had him out flying kites, to divert him from our real intent. And this is James Cox, the pre-eminent wizard in the art of devising automata. You may have visited his museum of automata in Spring Gardens?”
“Indeed I have. But to what purpose all this covert enterprise?”
General Gage gently steered the Prime Minister to a central aisle running between the workbenches. “This is our testing and demonstration area. Miss Browne, if you will?”
Lord North looked anxious as Eliza fired up some outré machinery at the side of the room, connected to some kind of lightweight cannon hanging from one of the arches overhead. A porter rolled a tailor’s dummy on a handcart into the centre of the space, and decamped sharply. The cannon emitted an electrical charge like a small lightning bolt, rendering the dummy and cart a smouldering wreck.
“Good Lord!” exclaimed Lord North, recoiling in alarm.
“We are testing larger versions of this and our other toys in the west of Ireland, and off the coast of America.”
The team of inventors then demonstrated small flying machines, based in part on Leonardo’s designs but supplemented with modern know-how, launchable from ships to deliver lightning bolts from the air. Then submersibles of various sizes with automated paddles that could approach French ships undetected and deliver an explosive charge, perpetrate sabotage from below, or collect salvage.
“We refer to this, Prime Minister, as ‘Proiectum Manhattan’, as it is from that island we will deploy in earnest. In two months we will be ready to deliver a show of overwhelming force that we believe will nip colonial sedition in the bud. Our foremost war artists are there already to record it.”
* * * *
March 1774, Boston Harbour
“Well, Miss Browne, I believe the demonstration has been most successful,” said General Gage, as they watched the captured smuggling ships burning in the harbour. The squadron of single-pilot airships circled one last time before returning to their carrier ship just visible on the horizon. “Perhaps we have made history today. Fortunately we persuaded Lord North to delay the coercive Acts his Cabinet was pondering. We have given any would-be rebels something to think about.”
“Indeed,” said Eliza. “And how do you like the tea?”
“A unique blend, my dear. I understand your submersibles were being tested in this harbour last December, and were able to salvage a number of tea chests intact?”
“A surprising number of them, sir.”
“‘Harbour Unity Tea’. May its symbolism echo across the Empire!”
This story is for amusement only, and is not an entry in this month's contest.Sufferage
Since statecraft is but seduction with slightly more delayed gratification, it was the case that Benjamin Franklin plied his diplomatic skills in Paris with equal skill and success regarding both ministers of the court and the young ladies in attendance in other rooms of the realm. While his entry into the salons of said feminine companions were well-noted, what was not observed was that once inside, he (usually) promptly adjourned to chambers where he had nightlong probing discussions with the leading scientists in France. In particular, he had a near-obsessive interest in the researches of the Montgolfier brothers into lighter-than-air aircraft. Franklin was convinced that such devices deployed to observe enemy positioning and movements might well yield just enough of a tactical advantage in battles to ensure the slimmest of victories to an American army woefully amateurish at every level when compared to the British troops. And so he flattered and cajoled and , no other term for it, seduced, the brothers to come to America, there to be paid to build the devices of their dreams. He proffered that Governeur Morris, one of the wealthiest patriots in America, had given Franklin a letter authorizing him to make an “Offer of Sufficient Support to any Person or Group of Persons who might Render Substantial Assistance to Our Cause.” Franklin hoped that the smudged signature thereon (“unfortunately blotted in haste as I was about to depart for the transport”) was at least somewhat similar to what he could recall as Morris’s own. And so voyaged the brothers, nominally as aides-de-camp to the teen-age Marquis de Lafayette.
As John Adams and George Washington listened to Franklin’s briefing of the Montgolfiers’ amazing proof-of-principle, they agreed that now was the time to make ready the next phase of their clandestine endeavor: the manufacture and deployment of the spy balloons. The brothers had succeeded in coming up with a design that would allow the Colonials to peep at distant troops and occurrences and report back to the waiting American armies. It had been a dangerous enterprise, with many deaths during the early experiments. At last, though, the Americans were able to maintain a lift-and-land rate of approximately 40%. Now the issue became one of making enough of the devices to be of determinant value. Adams’s young wife Abigail, whom he suffered to occasionally sit in on the Revolutionaries’ principals’ conversations, immediately offered that she would employ a “corps of gentlewomen” to serve as seamstresses for the balloons.. Although skeptical at first, those assembled were swayed by the force of her personality, and commissioned her to gather teams of seamstresses to sew sackcloth spheres, coating them to make them less prone to leakage, and color them sky-blue.
Initially, small lads were deemed light enough to be carried aloft, but with the disadvantage of so many casualties plus the inability of the young lads to both well-maneuver the craft and to note salient military points about their observations, it was further decided that women, especially those being of small bodies and mature minds would be better suited to such tasks. So they too were recruited by Abigail to join the seamstresses in the war efforts. Despite the horrific casualty rates, the women were indeed able to lift aloft, generally at dusk or dawn, and gain sufficient intelligence about the British troops’ strengths and deployments, that in significant battles, the outnumbered Colonials were increasingly able to mount surprise flank attacks or lure the opposing troops into deadly ambushes. In all these efforts, Abigail was the driving force, who recruited the women, trained them and deployed them, working in close contact with Washington, Arnold and the other foremost American commanders. One of the women who was soon recognized to excel in the physical sciences had been enlisted to assist the Montgolfiers as they perfected their aircraft. She saw the disastrous results of using a hydrogen-rich mixture, and suggested to Abigail that a willing lady who was known to consort with the occupying British troops might be recruited to “let slip”during pillow talk that she had overheard the airship builders discussing how it was absolutely vital to use hydrogen as the lifting agent, because otherwise “the craft is more rock than balloon.” The women toiled and died and materially hastened the success of the Colonials’ efforts.
The Colonials gained their independence as the British suffered their final defeat at McCandless Crossing in the summer of 1779. It was widely acknowledged by even the most hidebound of the American leaders that Abigail Adams’s corps of women shaved at least two years off the war’s duration, and saved thousands of American lives. As they gathered to thank her, she retorted that although their thanks were indeed welcome, they should never forget the valiant contributions of women in the conduct of the war, and that words alone, however gracious and sincere, were consummately insufficient. She demanded that she be included in the deliberations of setting up the new republic. Hamilton especially was taken by her accomplishments, and indeed had to acknowledge the veracity and force of her statements. She was to become a mainstay in the drafting of the American Constitution, and under the pseudonym Creusa, wrote several essays that were included in The Federalist Papers. Her most profound achievement, though, won after bitter arguments and arrived at through compromises that Abigail later reviled for their only-squinching nod to women’s contributions, was a constitutional guarantee of suffrage for women. The final draft that she reluctantly championed read in its final draft form:
The right of women to vote shall be explicitly sanctioned as follows: Any woman, shall, upon the occasion of her lawful marriage, be granted the right to vote in any governmental election. An unmarried woman shall, upon attaining the age of twenty-five, likewise be granted the right to vote upon securing sworn affidavits attesting to her suitable character from three freemen in the county in which she resides.
Pressburg Pop (approximately 720 words)Pozsony County, May 1242:
Snorri braced his arms on the rain-slicked sides of the embrasure and leaned out over the wall. The last of the Mongol rearguard were winding their way out of sight, around the hills of the Malé Karpaty. "I wonder if there's any value in hitting them from behind?" he asked.
"In the rain?" his younger companion replied, adjusting the cowl of his monkish habit against the incessant drizzle. The two conversed in Latin. Snorri's native Norsk, and the monk's Anglisc shared many words, but the pronunciation was rather different.
"I suppose we don't want to give them an excuse to come back," Snorri said.
"Three sieges in two years," said the monk. "I'd imagine not."
"I wonder why they just left?" said Snorri. "The weather has held out a lot better than the last few springs..."
The monk looked at him quizzically. "You were hoping to face the brunt of their assault?". He rubbed at his aquiline nose with the back of his hand.
"No," said Snorri. "Well, yes, actually. I was hoping to try those out." He gestured at the rack of captured fire arrows safely tucked under layers of protective sacking against the damp.
"We could still try to fire them." The monk laughed. "I have a better idea though. I've been trying to duplicate the powder that they use."
"You know the ingredients?"
"Roughly," said the monk. "The granules in the fire arrows separate out, if you shake them, so I can see what is inside. There's charcoal, and brimstone, and niter, which the Mongols apparently call Chinese Snow. I don't have the proportions quite right yet though. I had to twist the arm of the apothecary to get what I could of the brimstone. You don't want to know where I obtained the niter." He gestured towards a small barrel lying nearby. "That is full of my leavings. We can experiment, if you're so anxious to play with fire."
"What do you think would happen if we set it on fire?"
The monk shrugged. "I suggest we stand a few paces back, just in case."
Snorri stuck two fingers in his mouth and whistled loudly, to attract the attention of a guard who was sheltering from the drizzle inside an enclosure within the wall. "I need a lit torch," he called.
The guard pulled a torch from its holder within his shelter, and walked over with it. "The rain is going to put it out," he muttered in German. He rolled his shoulders in disgust, as droplets fell down the back of his neck, into his tunic.
"We just need it for a moment," Snorri responded in the same language.
"Whatever," said the guard. He handed the torch carefully to Snorri, and then walked back to his shelter, shaking his head.
"Do you want to do the honors?" Snorri asked. "It's your barrel."
"Be my guest," said the monk.
Snorri tossed the torch onto the top of the barrel, and then rapidly stepped back to join his companion. The barrel began to burn. For a moment, nothing further happened. Then came a vast sound, louder even than a thunderstrike directly overhead. Snorri dived, and tackled the monk to the ground. The sound echoed again and again off of the nearby hills, making the fortress walls ring, scaring flocks of crows into the sky. Then silence.
The monk coughed, and batted weakly at Snorri. "Are you okay?" he said.
"What?" said Snorri. "My ears are ringing. I can't hear you." He rolled off of the monk, and then slowly levered himself up to a seated position.
"Next time I'll step back a little bit further," said the monk, still lying flat on the ground.
Snorri didn't respond for a moment. He was exploring something on the wall with his fingers. "Take a look at this," he said. "There's a piece of the barrel, and it's embedded right into the stone."
The monk whistled. "That might have hit me if you hadn't knocked me down."
"I wonder what else your powder can throw," said Snorri, thoughtfully.
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In later years, the great English cannon-founder and clergyman, Roger Bacon, would often write about how the historian Snorri Sturluson had saved his life, and at the same time provided the inspiration for his life's work.
Mexican Standoff orMeanwhile, in an Alternate Reality...
It's 1960. The country of Mexico has more technology, industry, freedom and wealth than any other country in the world. And, both the USSR (Union of Soviet Socialist Republics) and the USSA (United Socialist States of America) desperately want to seize its resources.
The world watches with trepidation as the two communist superpowers teeter on the brink of unleashing a thunderstorm of nukes that would render the entire planet radioactive for 100 years. In a last-ditch effort to avoid war, a Summit Conference is called in Geneva, Switzerland. The USSA Supreme President, the Soviet Supreme Leader, and the Mexican Presidente, convene around a large table.
"Mexico is part of the Americas, it rightly belongs to us," argued Jack Kennedy, the youthful American leader with his distinctive Massachusetts accent.
Nikita Khrushchev, the rotund Russian leader in his middle sixties responded, "Mexico is part of NATO as we are, therefore, we're obligated to occupy and protect it."
Juan Jose Carlos Gomez Hernandez, the Mexican leader, twirled his handlebar mustache and watched patiently as the two powerful supremos ignored him and argued between themselves for several hours.
"Enough!" el Presidente finally said. He stood up and placed his finger on a big red button on his wristwatch.
"In Mexico, we have a saying: Prefiero morir de pie que vivir de rodillas. I'd rather die on my feet, than live on my knees."
"What are you doing?" shouted the American, his wide open eyes betraying his panic. The Russian uttered something incomprehensible and made a break for the door as the Mexican pressed the button.
Nothing happened.
At least not in the room.
"I've ended this," said the Mexican president. "Mexico is now protected under an impenetrable dome. Your nukes can't harm us. Your armies can't invade us. We'll leave the dome in place until your countries cease to be a threat, however long that takes."
The Summit ended, and true enough, with the dome Mexico had essentially walled itself off from the rest of the world.
The only problem was, with no way in or out, where would el Presidente now reside? He settled on the freedom loving democracy of North Korea.
Mod
c2016 by Jot Russell
“Welcome, welcome! Is this your first visit to the Temporal Library?”
“Yes.” The man looked confused.
“I could tell; got that look about you.”
“So what is this place?”
“Well, let me answer with a question. What did you do yesterday?”
“Ah, I played golf, why?”
“And what would you be doing today if you didn't play golf yesterday?”
“I don't know, probably the same.”
“Perhaps much of the same, but not exactly. You see, each choice that we make or path change before us opens a new instance in the time-line and there are countless instances branching off without us ever knowing.”
“Branching where?”
“Other dimensions of time and space.”
The man sounded unimpressed. “What's done is done. There ain't no other time-lines.”
“Oh, they are there; just as real as this one. And we figured out how to observe them.”
“Bull shit.”
“Let me prove it to you.”
“Alright.”
“If you would.” The salesman pointed towards a chair connected to what looked like a cat scan machine.
“Is this thing safe?”
“Perfectly.”
“Is this gonna cost me anything?”
“Nope. Consider it a demonstration.”
The man shrugged and reluctantly took a seat.
“Just try to relax while I tap into your time-chain.”
“Time-chain?”
“That's right. Each link in your chain, starting from here and now, points us back deeper into your past up until the moment of your conception.”
“You're crazy if you think I'm gonna believe this crap.”
Video images appeared before them. “Ah, and here we are. You played at Tall Tree and scored a 96. Not bad.”
The man took a closer look. “What? You guys freaking were following me?”
“Why would we bother? We didn't tell you to come in here nor did we know you were coming.”
The man's anger change to confusion. “Okay, then what did I do last weekend?”
The salesman scrolled back the clock that showed the man back on the same golf-course. As he let the image play forward, it started to rain. In the image, the man and his three friends looked to see an approaching storm. Within the dark cloud, a streak lightning crashed down loudly through the air. One of his friends grabbed his bag and ran off in panic towards his car. They watched the image to see the man trying to convince his other friends to stay and complete the last couple holes. As his friends walked off, the image of the man divided. One followed the friends and the other took out a club.”
The salesman paused the image.
“Hey, why did you stop it?”
“Sorry sir, but the demonstration is over.”
“But I wanted to see how I would have done if I played.”
“I can show you, but I'll have to charge you $95.”
The man glared at the salesman, then back a the screen. “Okay, whatever. Let me see.”
The man played on as buckets of rain poured down upon him. Completely soaked, he made it up to the last green. As he grabbed his putter, a bolt of lightning struck the image of man, and left his dead upon the grass.
“No shit?!”
“Shit! It's a good thing that you listed to your friends,” the salesman replied as he loosened the straps.
“Wait! I don't know who my father is. The bastard raped my mother in college and luckily, she decided to keep me. I guess I'm lucky he did it, but that doesn't mean he doesn't deserve a good ass kicking.”
“Sir, the further back we go, the higher the cost. Conception is $495.”
“Yeah, whatever. Let me see who this fucker is!”
The image cycled back quickly through flashes of his life. A bright image of his birth was followed by the dark view within his mother's womb. As it played backwards to the start, the image brightened only a little and revealed a dark night with the face of a man over them.
“Shit, is that?!” The man gasped.
“Can't be.” The salesman squinted at the image and turned his head to line up with the angle of the face.
The man shook his head. “It is. They showed a picture of him at Penn around the same time my mom was there.”
Together, they spoke his name, “Donald Trump!”
Jesus WeptBy Jon Ricson
Jesus Wept.
He wept for Mary, who some called Magdalene, but he had just called “wife”. Her passing had come quickly. He was not prepared, but thanked his Father for the years they had together.
His tears flowed further. He wept for John, who he had loved. All his disciples had kept on after he had stopped teaching, some meeting with great pain and suffering. John had stayed with him for many years, but eventually was discouraged when Jesus stopped actively ministering to crowds. John was the last disciple to leave him.
Jesus wept for Barabbas who Pontius Pilate picked over the crowd’s yelling for Jesus to be crucified. Pilate almost gave Jesus to them, but instead ordered Barabbas to be killed.
Jesus wept for himself. He knew ever since that day that he had missed his calling from the Father. That somehow his death would have been important to the Father’s plan. Jesus had been devoid of terror or panic then, willing to accept whatever God had in store. But he was still relieved when the cup was passed from him; relief which had turned to shame through the years.
The prophesies all pointed to his death, to his resurrection, to an amazing plan God had set in motion. How could the prophets be wrong? They seemed so certain, so perfect, so impossibly true.
He imagined his death might have been the ultimate sacrifice for man, the most holy sinless lamb, to be slain for the sins of all. His blood could have become known as a symbol for forgiveness and resurrection.
But yet, he had simply lived out his life in quietude, prayer, and teaching God’s word to local children. After the turmoil and unrest his popularity had begun to cause, he retired away from the crowds and away from the Roman tyranny. Both his Mary, and his mother had seen to that, to keep him safe.
But what had his safety and their peace of mind cost him? What had it cost the world?
Then Jesus wept again, this time crying harder and touching a hand to the ground as he knelt. He cried for all of mankind. In missing his call, he may have doomed all of humanity the chance to find his Father. He might have been the bridge for any man to be in relationship with the Living God. Jesus always felt that he was meant for something more, but now he would be alone, getting older, of use to no one.
Thunder rolled overhead, and Jesus could smell rain in the air. He didn’t see John approach, but heard his voice.
“I’m sorry about Mary,” he said, and put a hand on Jesus’ shoulder.
“I’m sorry for many things. I know not what I have done,” Jesus said, sniffing away more tears.
After a long while, John spoke. “Perhaps, Rabbi, we could go out and speak to the people. Perhaps, it is time to continue your work.”
Jesus turned and wiped his eyes. “It is too late. The world is lost.”
John smiled and helped Jesus to his feet. “And that, is why they need a Savior.”
4th John 3:27-84. New Living Savior Translation (NLST)
Saving the Dayby D C Mills 2016
750 words
In the grey, pre-dawn light Markos Kikeron nearly missed it. The glaring blood-red paint caught the corner of his eye, and he flinched as he read the large letters of yet another graffito, this time on the basis of the huge gilded marble statue of Alexander Megas himself, adorning the Agora Romana.
REMPUBLICAM LIBERAM
The letters screamed as if they were proud of being Latin – which, Markos reflected, they probably were. The insurgent gangs were becoming bolder and more outspoken by the day. Violence had broken like a thunderstorm over Rome back in Loios with the riots accompanying the elections for magistracies; they could have been attributed to disappointment and the summer heat, but now it was Audunaios, and the cold was nipping Markos' toes as he stood still to survey the damage.
'Quick,' he said to the nearest of his lektors, 'get a clean-up crew. We need this gone before the whole city wakes up and sees it.'
Markos hurried along, even more determined on the business of the day. He had to save Rome from the terror of the past months, which for him personally had culminated in an assassination attempt. He hardly dared to admit, even to himself, that he was proud to have been targeted by the charismatic rebel leader, Katilina.
After the failed assassination, Katilina had fled the city, leaving some of his henchmen behind to continue the work in secret. They had been given over and five of them apprehended. Today's meeting would determine their fate.
In the vestibule of the Senate building, Markos met Kaios Kaisar. As always, he was uneasy around the charming aristocrat, never quite able to forget how he himself was a new man with no family connections.
'I assume you have come to take part in the condemnation of the brigands,' Markos said, 'and help save Rome.'
'Of course,' Kaisar said smoothly, 'although they do have a point about us no longer being puppets of the Makedons and instead reclaiming the glory that was Rome. You know your history, Markos: wouldn't you like to be a proper consul? Like in the old days before Alexander, wielding supreme power. Joint power, of course,' he added.
Markos felt a treacherously alluring image forming in him, the spectre of the ancient Romans rising up against their Etruscan king to establish the respublica. The same respublica whose name was at this moment being scrubbed off Alexander's pedestal. He quelled the conflicting emotions.
'That is dangerous talk, Kaios,' Markos said. 'One might think you a supporter of the rebellion.'
Kaios winked. 'Because I have betrothed my little girl to a Brutos? Don't worry, there's no harm in him.'
The Senate meeting concluded, as expected, in a verdict of death to the rebels. There had been some upset when Kaisar advocated leniency and house arrest for Katilina's officers until the man himself was apprehended or killed: it was unprecented, Kaisar argued, for Roman citizens to be put to death without trial.
Kato, however, reminded the house that they were traitors, not to be trusted. And the vote went as it should.
Markos immediately set off for the office of the basileus. The Romans may well have jurisdiction to pronounce a verdict, but the supreme command lay with the Makedonian representative: his seal on the execution order was required.
In this case, Markos felt certain, it was only a formality. This uprising had to be nipped in the bud; Rome was not to be a new Jerusalem, where Jewish rebel leaders sprang up at least once a year to challenge the worldly authorities.
In the commotion outside, Markos only realised too late that some of his lektors were rushing Kaisar with drawn swords, yelling accusations of treachery. The handsome face suddenly lay at his feet, blue eyes staring into his own. Or at the gods.
'What a day,' Markos sighed. 'You should be happy, Titos, that you are not a senator.'
'I am. But don't you ever wonder,' Titos said, savouring the good Falernian, 'what it would be like to be a 'proper consul'? If Alexander had died at Babylon and not conquered the whole of Italia, Rome might have been the mightiest city in the world.'
Markos shuddered. 'I am certain I would not like that responsibility.' He took a draught of his wine, feeling the warmth of it begin to relax him.
'It does make me sad, though, that young Kaisar was killed today. I have a feeling he could have become something great.'
In the Beginning by Gary HansonI call this meeting of the 3rd Temporal Science Symposium to order. It is my great honor to introduce our special guest speaker Richard Millkins who of course we know is the great great grandson of Richard Millkins the first to derive Plank’s Constant in the modern era. Mr. Richard Milkins slowly walks to the podium, letting the rain from the thunderstorm outside drip off his hair, “Ladies and Gentlemen, I come before you today to announce a fundamental shift in the understanding of the meaning of the recent refinements in the determination of Hubble’s Constant.” As you all know there has been a number of refinements in the measurement of this fundamental constant, that show it is not a constant at all. The when we meant last year the expansion of the universe was found to be accelerating at 9% which we all assumed was a refinement of the earlier 2010 measurements of 5% which resulted from the more accurate larger set of red shift measurements. My team’s recent measurements show that the acceleration is currently at 16%, meaning that we are not looking at a refinement in the rate of expansion but a real acceleration. How is this possible?
A recent experiment showed a determination of a current state of a single atom affects all the earlier states of that atom, meaning that there could be an event in the future that precludes all pasts except one. If true than there is an event in the future that is currently radiating into the past, pinching off all parallel time lines that do not lead to that event.
The reason for this acceleration was not apparent until my team began looking at the likehood of chance measurements; we found all unlikely occurrences are increasing, ranging from the chance of a coin flip coming up 100 times in a row to the candidacy of Donald Trump and Hillary Clinton. Taking into account multi-parallel universes, we believe this acceleration of space-time is being caused by the pinching off of parallel universes with time. As each parallel universe nearby is pinched off the space-time of the remaining universes is forced to fill the void. A progression of these factors show at some point in the near future most parallel universes will be pinched off, whether our universe will be one of the last or the next is hard to …. As Mr. Millkin looks out at his audience and sees them receding into the distance, he realizes it does not matters, as the last universes will be inflating at faster than the speed of light. Then he wonders if it does matter, if as the last universe finally fills all space-time, if this Big Rip is how the Big Bang started. After a time, he wonders ... if all his sub atomic particles are expanding outward at the speed of light, why is he still aware? He remembers a recent paper by Justin Deschamps http://sitsshow.blogspot.com/2016/05/...
He hopes he remembers enough physics of the early universe to design one right. How about you dear reader, do you think your conscience knows enough to create a functioning living universe when your time comes.
Well let there be Light…
Struck DownLondon Times, 1771
Colonist shakes his first at God, struck down by Him.
“Ours is the God of vengeance and Mister Franklin had taunted Him once too often. Benjamin Franklin had committed many transgressions in his far-too-long of a lifetime. In his younger days, he wrote inflammatory letters, using the name of fictional widow to further his ruse. He and his brother heaped public ridicule on the Puritan Leaders of the colonies. Just a few short years ago, he stole personal and private correspondence from an Englishman who was the benevolent government of the colony of Massachusetts and used it to sow anger among the American Colonies. He had intimate relations with many women, none of which he had the decency to marry. God finally lost patience with him when he stood upon the roof of a church and shook his fist at God. As it says in the Bible, God did smite him.”
(Delivered by personal courier)
My Dearest Thomas,
I am saddened to hear of the passing of our friend and colleague. I cannot think of a nobler death than that in pursuit of knowledge. Benjamin was an excellent statesman and has served the colonies well.
He will be greatly missed.
My letter concerns his most recent discovery, that of the plot by a British governor, Thomas Hutchinson, to assure Ben of his desire to allow the American colonies “as much freedom as the crown will allow” while, at the same time, putting in place plans to abridge those same freedoms.
It seems these days that trust is still well placed in the British banks, but not so much in their politicians or their King. I am opposed to continuing our relationship with the Crown. As for who will govern us, I have faith in the people themselves.
Democracy is by far a less-than-an-ideal solution, but everything else I can imagine seems far worse.
I believe that an invasion by British soldiers is not only probable, but, I dare say, inevitable. I believe it would be prudent to advise our citizens to arm themselves and to distribute our supplies of black power accordingly. This will not only give us a ready militia to call upon should the British take egregious action against us but also will prevent them from taking our black powder as a preemptive measure. If they do attack our colonies, we need only notify these armed citizens that the British are coming.
Your Truly,
John A Hancock.
Dear John,
As Ben has said “An ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure.” We have begun meeting with the leaders of each colony to prepare. I, too, wish there were an amicable solution but the British seem unaware of the desires of the colonies and seek only to extract revenue from them.
While I feel our separation from the Crown is necessary, continued discussion would be interpreted as sedition, an act of rebellion or even a revolution. We must be on guard for spies among us and should continue such discussion only in person.
There is a drinking establishment of questionable repute located a mile west of the town’s armory. It should be safe to continue this discussion there.
Thomas Jefferson
--
The Pennsylvania Gazette
Benjamin Franklin, statesman, author, publisher, scientist, inventor, diplomat and friend of many dead at 71.
Ben accomplished more in his lifetime than ten ordinary men. Before the age of 20, he ran a newspaper and wrote the first of many articles under a pen name. His inventions include an efficient stove and eyeglasses that utilize four lenses instead of the usual two. While his ingenuity and perseverance had made him a wealthy man, his efforts were more focused on raising up his fellow man. Most recently, he served as a diplomat to France, winning over that country with his wit and charm. He also uncovered plots by the British to curtail freedoms of our colonies.
He was killing during a thunderstorm while performing an experiment involving electricity.
He will be greatly missed.
674 Words
Moctezuma Remix @ 2016 Kalifer DeilAn educated Spanish sailor and navigator, Tom Silva recalled having fallen in love with a native woman on Columbus' third voyage to Cuba in 1498. Columbus shot and killed his woman to keep him from going native. He abandoned Columbus and immediately left for the northern tip of Cuba telling all natives on his way not to trust the coming white men. On reaching the very tip, he could see birds on the horizon and asked natives if there was land in that direction.
He induced a native with a reed boat to provide a ride to the land beyond this horizon, which turned out to be the Yucatan Peninsula. The boat became water-logged and nearly sank before reaching land so the native accompanied him on his quest to warn of the coming white men. After traveling for hundreds of arduous miles on land through dense jungle, helped by occasional Mayan villagers, they were directed to Tenochtitlan, the Aztec capital. Word of their quest preceded them and they were brought before Moctezuma II in 1504.
Amid fanfare, Moctezuma ascended from an underground staircase startling Tom from his reflections. He hoped he picked up sufficient Nahuati vocabulary to make his points.
“White men are coming to enslave you and your people.
“Resistance means death.
“Some carry sicknesses that will kill many of you.
“You can defeat them for their numbers are few though their weapons are strong.
“I can help you.”
Moctezuma listened patiently, then replied, “You are turning against your own. We kill our own who do that.”
Tom's blood drained from his face, making him even whiter than before. After a long pause to gather his thoughts, he replied, “These people are bandits robbing others to enrich themselves. They deserve no loyalty. They just want your gold and care nothing for your life.
“What do you suggest we do to protect ourselves from this menace you speak of?”
“First tell them the gold is in a city called El Dorado and it is south. Tell those south of you to repeat the same story and so on.”
“Does such a city exist?”
“No. It's to have them chase their tail.”
Moctezuma gave a boyish smile, “Good, but it may not satisfy them.”
“You are right. They will still want to steal everything they can. I suggest you kill their leaders and tell the rest to go back where they came from. I will show you how to make explosive powder and how to use it. It will give you great power.”
Moctezuma nodded and directed a high priest and an architect to show him and his friend lodging, food, a choice of women and a place to work.
They worked feverishly, searching for useful minerals like niter for saltpeter and refining charcoal, sulfur for making gun powder. In six months, Moctezuma was becoming very impatient. “We have provided you with much but you have provided us with nothing but stories. I am growing weary of your stories.”
“I have given you torches of pitch that burn for hours for light at night and in dark places. I will demonstrate explosive powder at the next full moon.”
This seemed to satisfy Moctezuma, but Tom was getting very nervous. He misidentified niter rock several times so could not produce any saltpeter. Finally, he had several of Moctezuma's solders go out and hunt for crystalline rock samples that taste salty. Late in the day they brought back green, beige, orange and white crystalline rocks. Each pile was labeled by the soldier who collected them. Tom and his native friend quickly eliminated obvious rocks that were not niter. Tom created a fine sulfur and charcoal mixture and tested it on tiny powdered fragments of the samples. After many hours of grinding and testing a sample flared, just one day ahead of the deadline.
The next evening, a fuse and charge were prepared under a large flat rock and a soldier was standing by with a torch to ignite the fuse. Moctezuma then ordered another soldier to stand on the rock. Tom was horrified, but too late, the fuse was lit. In the thunder of the explosion and the rain of rock and body fragments, everyone but Tom and Moctezuma ran in terror. Moctezuma's eyes gleamed with the light of stars and he seemed to grow a foot taller.
Guilt gripped Tom as he thought, “Monstruo desatado!”
Mod
Dean Hardage
Tom Olbert
J.J. Alleson
D C Mills
Greg Krumrey
Mod
Poet of the Moon by Jack McDaniel
White Rabbit Down by Heather MacGillivray
The In-laws by C. Lloyd Preville
Lightning Storm and a Tea Cup by Andy Lake
Jesus Wept by Jon Ricson
Votes needed from:
Andrew Gurcak
Kalifer Deil
Mod
Poet of the Moon by Jack McDaniel
The In-laws by C. Lloyd Preville
Jesus Wept by Jon Ricson
Votes needed from:
Andrew Gurcak
Tom Olbert
C. Lloyd Preville
Andy Lake
Jon Ricson
Mod
First round votes:
Andrew Gurcak => Paula, Kalifer, Dorthe, Richard, Gary
Jack McDaniel => **Lloyd, Kalifer
Paula Friedman => ****Jon, Andrew/Jeremy/JJ, Richard/Tom/Kalifer/Dorthe
Richard Bunning => ***Jack, Tom, JJ, Justin, Andy, Chris, Heather, Jeremy
Dean Hardage =>
Tom Olbert => **Heather, Chris, Justin, Karl
Chris Nance => Jot, Tom, Lloyd
J.J. Alleson => ****Jon, Andy, Karl, Richard
Justin Sewall => ****Jon, Jack, Tom, Chris, Heather
John Appius Quill => Kalifer, Karl, Chris, Jot, Dorthe, Gary, Jack
Heather MacGillivray => Chris, Jeremy, Jack, Paula, Justin, Jon
C. Lloyd Preville => **Andy
Andy Lake => Dorthe, Jeremy, Richard, Heather, Paula
Jeremy Lichtman => ***Jack, Kalifer, JJ, Greg, Justin
Karl Freitag => ***Jack, Lloyd, Jot, Richard
Jot Russell => ****Jon, Tom, Chris, Paula
Jon Ricson => **Andy
D C Mills => **Lloyd, Andrew, Andy, Heather
Gary Hanson => **Heather, Chris, Lloyd, Andy
Greg Krumrey =>
Kalifer Deil => Jeremy, Jot, Tom
Carrie Zylka => Andrew, Karl, Justin, Jack, Heather
First round finalists:
Poet of the Moon by Jack McDaniel
White Rabbit Down by Heather MacGillivray
The In-laws by C. Lloyd Preville
Lightning Storm and a Tea Cup by Andy Lake
Jesus Wept by Jon Ricson
Second round votes:
Andrew Gurcak => Paula, Kalifer, Dorthe, Richard, Gary; ***Andy
Jack McDaniel => ****Lloyd, Kalifer
Paula Friedman => ****Jon, Andrew/Jeremy/JJ, Richard/Tom/Kalifer/Dorthe
Richard Bunning => #*Jack, Tom, JJ, Justin, Andy, Chris, Heather, Jeremy
Dean Hardage =>
Tom Olbert => ***Heather, Chris, Justin, Karl
Chris Nance => Jot, Tom, ****Lloyd
J.J. Alleson => ****Jon, Andy, Karl, Richard
Justin Sewall => ****Jon, Jack, Tom, Chris, Heather
John Appius Quill => Kalifer, Karl, Chris, Jot, Dorthe, Gary, #*Jack
Heather MacGillivray => Chris, Jeremy, #*Jack, Paula, Justin, Jon
C. Lloyd Preville => ***Andy
Andy Lake => Dorthe, Jeremy, Richard, ***Heather, Paula
Jeremy Lichtman => #*Jack, Kalifer, JJ, Greg, Justin
Karl Freitag => #*Jack, Lloyd, Jot, Richard
Jot Russell => ****Jon, Tom, Chris, Paula
Jon Ricson => ***Andy
D C Mills => ****Lloyd, Andrew, Andy, Heather
Gary Hanson => ***Heather, Chris, Lloyd, Andy
Greg Krumrey =>
Kalifer Deil => Jeremy, Jot, Tom; ****Lloyd
Carrie Zylka => Andrew, Karl, Justin, #*Jack, Heather
Second round finalists:
Poet of the Moon by Jack McDaniel
The In-laws by C. Lloyd Preville
Jesus Wept by Jon Ricson
Third round votes:
Andrew Gurcak => Paula, Kalifer, Dorthe, Richard, Gary; Andy; ##Jack
Jack McDaniel => #Lloyd, Kalifer
Paula Friedman => #Jon, Andrew/Jeremy/JJ, Richard/Tom/Kalifer/Dorthe
Richard Bunning => ##Jack, Tom, JJ, Justin, Andy, Chris, Heather, Jeremy
Dean Hardage =>
Tom Olbert => Heather, Chris, Justin, Karl; ##Jack
Chris Nance => Jot, Tom, #Lloyd
J.J. Alleson => #Jon, Andy, Karl, Richard
Justin Sewall => #Jon, Jack, Tom, Chris, Heather
John Appius Quill => Kalifer, Karl, Chris, Jot, Dorthe, Gary, ##Jack
Heather MacGillivray => Chris, Jeremy, ##Jack, Paula, Justin, Jon
C. Lloyd Preville => Andy; ##Jack
Andy Lake => Dorthe, Jeremy, Richard, Heather, Paula; #Jon
Jeremy Lichtman => ##Jack, Kalifer, JJ, Greg, Justin
Karl Freitag => ##Jack, Lloyd, Jot, Richard
Jot Russell => #Jon, Tom, Chris, Paula
Jon Ricson => Andy; ##Jack
D C Mills => #Lloyd, Andrew, Andy, Heather
Gary Hanson => Heather, Chris, #Lloyd, Andy
Greg Krumrey =>
Kalifer Deil => Jeremy, Jot, Tom; #Lloyd
Carrie Zylka => Andrew, Karl, Justin, ##Jack, Heather
Winner:
Poet of the Moon by Jack McDaniel
Jot, truly I'm not "trying to be difficult" but I don't see how the voting algorithm works anymore. First round, yes--that's clear, and easy to get that. Second round is okay but took some work to follow.
Third round--??? Seems to read that Jon has 4 first place votes, Jack has 3 first place votes, and Jack wins--as well he might--it's a beautiful and clever story--but how the voting algorithm works to get this is a bit opaque.
Would you be willing to go over with us again how the voting method works. Thank you so much. May be good for new members to know this, in any case.
Paula - If you look at the "#" names on the third ballot, Jack has 10 of 20, so he wins. At least that's how I read it.
Unless something has changed since the change to Goodreads, I don't think there is a voting algorithm. Voting is straight, the 1st round winners have to have at least 1/2 the number of the highest finisher. Those that do not drop off each round until the winner has 1/2 +1 of the total votes cast.
Almost. 6) in the monthly instructions says those that go on to the next round include all stories that aggregate to 1/2 the total votes cast in that round. So if there were 22 votes in round 1, it could be the case that someone with 5 votes, and 3 people with 2 votes each all make it into Round 2. A story doesn't have to garner half the highest in that round to move on.
So 4th or 5th choice votes can count for more than 1st or 2nd choice votes, if from more people? Oh yes, I recall being on a literary magazine that used that mode. Interesting how different the results by different methods.
I wonder wouldn't the current method make more sense if everyone had to vote for the same number of stories? Or maybe it would maybe just make different sense, lol.
Thanks, Andy and Gary, for the clarifications.
To answer your question, yes. In a sense the voting starts afresh each round, with only winners from the previous round being included.IMHO, I think it's a nice gesture on voters' parts to vote in the first round for a few stories rather than just one. It does feel good to get some recognition even if it's not as a first or second choice. Since we read and , to some degree at least, rate all the stories, it's not really extra work. And it does cut down substantially on the number of re-votes required.
Yes I find it good to have the multiple vote list, at least I can see if my story has admirers. Even that little positive feedback helps motivate me. It is also good for those rare months where there is one favorite that takes it in the first round, so the rest of us can see what other stories worked for our peers.
I concur. I enjoy seeing that I got a few votes, regardless of final outcome.
I also appreciate the multiple vote list.It might be even better if we all voted 1-5 (at least). Then we'd all get some feedback across the board.
And the first couple of rounds would probably work seamlessly as it did this time without the need to revote. Maybe a third round too.
I do think the weakness of the system is that one person's 15th choice can carry the same weight as someone else's second choice when their first choices are eliminated - as Paula alludes to.
But hey, no system is perfect. After recent events, I may have had enough of voting for a while :-)
Recent events over here, of course, Andy, make one incline to favor voting that is counted correctly--and appreicative of what Jot goes through each month to do that.Andy and Andy and all, my point re the number of votes is just that, if we each do the same number of choices--whether 3 or 13 or whatever--then we're each weighting the votes equally. Agree entirely that giving lots of votes, lots of credits to people for their fine work, is very helpful to everyone.
In which regard, thank you, Andy G, and others here who voted for my piece this month.
This was one phnomenal, blow-out month, with such incredible tales, I must say!
Demo-cell Votes to Play Outside with Iceland.The foot-balls of Bunning had seven cells, four on the left foot and three on the right. English footballs had always been thin on bright cells. The left foot was sort of royal Brit blue-blooded and the right more German, though the actual pitches could be argued about.
Belgium cell usually ended up directing all kicks as commanded by German cell even though both balls were actually assembled in England. If all seven foot cells had a vote they'd kick for England and not as directed by the federal-nerve, but then there is nothing democratic about any dribbling except just this once under an enclosed roof in forty years of tournaments.
The German cell dictates through the fed-nerve, pivoting on Belgium, claiming that otherwise the left foot wouldn't know what the right was doing.
Anyway despite the Euro cats the democratic-engineered stadium roof was used just this once in the first international England Wales match for forty years.
The result was fair but went in a direction Belgium couldn't sanction. The true demo-cracy of one cell one vote really upset the well schooled left. so that clever-clogs cell said 'that's not fair we must vote again to get the swerve on the ball I want'.
Another cell said sod that, the independent boot of Switzerland scored the best goal so let's also join their referendum as well, on whether to vote the boot of Italy out for shirt pulling.
The next cell said keep your stupid footballs. I'm immigrating north to play Handball for Iceland. One cell went down the pub and celebrate that righteously Iceland won despite a dubiously imposed penalty by the European referee.
The most septic cell inevitably said lets change the scoring system so that in future only Belgium or Netherlands can win.
One cell said, that's football, why should the best paid Euro- players always get the run of the green pitch, And the last cell to vote sent his in by post, as being an old-world Brit he'd gone to watch England win against his cell-mate Australian at rugby.
In the end European football continued to march from match to match but under less fed-nerve controls, and every cell was happier ever after, as German cell was barred from manufacturing a continuous stream of dubious penalty rules.
So you see, Bunning foot cells do occasionally manufacture ball-ocks with happy endings.
you left out the bit about padded cells, Richard!
I'll leave others to control their own sharp edges.
touché :}EDIT: p.s. ':}' instead of ':)' is a 'grimace-like smile', meaning "ouch!", rather than just a smile! :) ... in my world/cell.
I await the Book of Bunning Ballegories :-)
First, let me thank everyone who cast a vote for my story, "The In-laws". It is indeed a wonderful feature of this chat room that we receive feedback on our writings, and I've been honored to place in the top three stories a few times. Feedback from this group is quite valuable as Paula says, particularly due to the membership's wonderful diversity of interests and experience. I thank everyone for pitching in to offer feedback since it's a big commitment of time to do so.As one of the few who has not voted multiple stories, I can tell you that the rules were a bit confusing to me until now. For instance, and I offer this as a suggestion how to make the contests more lively rather than as criticism, point 5 in the voting rules never makes it clear that votes for multiple stories are allowed. Since I am getting the clear impression that this is something the group would like to encourage, Jot might consider modifying the language a bit.
I am happy to be back after a long hiatus from my writing projects, and appreciate how you all continue to make newbies like myself feel welcome, even if we come and go from time to time.
Sincerely,
-C. Lloyd Preville
Mod
Note that anyone is welcome to change their secondary votes once they get to read the finalists a second time.
The system has worked for three years- a long time in politics. And the result is no less fair than any other voting system. That's good enough for me.
Bad taste, but very funny, Richard!Though I guess with some of Boris' OTT comments in the campaign - he deserves it :-)
** STORIES ONLY **
The theme for the month follows this note from the competition's Creator/Director, Jot Russell:
To help polish our skills and present a flavour of our art to other members in the group, I am continuing this friendly contest for those who would like to participate. There is no money involved, but there is also no telling what a little recognition and respect might generate. The rules are simple:
1) The story needs to be your own work and should be posted on the Good Reads Discussion board, which is a public group. You maintain responsibility and ownership of your work to do with as you please. You may withdraw your story at any time.
2) The stories must be 750 words or less.
3) The stories have to be science fiction, follow a specific theme and potentially include reference to items as requested by the prior month's contest winner. The theme for this month is posted below.
4) You have until midnight EST on the 22nd day of the month to post your story to the Good Reads Science Fiction Microstory Contest discussion. One story per author per month.
5) After, anyone from the LI Sci-Fi group or the GR Science Fiction Microstory Discussion group has until midnight EST of the 25th day of the month to cast a single private vote to Jot Russell () for a story other than their own. This vote will be made public once voting is closed. Voting is required. If you do not vote, your story will be disqualified from the contest. You don't need a qualifying story to cast a vote, but must offer the reason for your vote if you don’t have an entry.
6) To win, a story needs at least half of the votes, or be the only one left after excluding those with the fewest votes. Runoffs will be run each day until a winner is declared. Stories with vote totals that add up to at least half, discarding those with the fewest votes, will be carried forward to the next runoff election. Prior votes will be carried forward to support runoff stories. If you voted for a story that did not make it into the runoff, you need to vote again before midnight EST of that day. Only people who voted in the initial round may vote in the runoffs.
7) Please have all posts abide by the rules of Good Reads and the LI Sci-Fi group.
8) Professional comments and constructive criticisms are appreciated by any member in either group and should be posted to the separate thread that will be posted at the end of the month and all voting is complete to avoid any influence on the voting. Feel free to describe elements that you do and don't like, as these help us gain a better perspective of our potential readers. Remarks deemed inflammatory or derogatory will be flagged and/ or removed by the moderator.
9) The winner has THREE days after the start of the new month to make a copy of these rules and post a new contest thread using the theme/items of their choosing. Otherwise, the originator of the contest, Jot Russell, will post a new contest thread.
______________________________
*Theme for the June 2016 contest:
Theme: Alternate history (From any time period you prefer on Earth, excluding time machines, time travel or alien intervention)
Required Elements: A discrete historical figure (Abraham Lincoln, Cleopatra, Frank Sinatra, whomever – but it must be a real person), a thunderstorm (literal or figurative), and terror/panic