Theme Story - Directions

Prompt this week was directions from point A to point B. I went a little weird.

First, start your water boiling. You want to get a nice, rolling boil going, so keep those flames hot. Once you've got the boil going, you'll start your journey by tossing in a handful of dirt. Doesn't matter where it comes from, but don't skimp on that handful. Add three oak leaves, with the veins removed, and two acorns. Let the mixture stew for a moment, then put on your protective clothing. Add a fourth-generation honeybee queen, being careful to keep the drones defending her from touching the boil. Using a stick from a sapling of less than two years, stir the mixture three times counter-clockwise. Then, add the saltpeter and step back – you should see a healthy boom.

If the pot survives the explosion. Instantly remove it from heat and let the mixture congeal. Scoop out three spoonfuls onto three separate cheesecloths, and place them at the corners of an equilateral triangle the size of the portal you wish to make. Make sure that the triangle points northwards – a south-pointing triangle is not something you want to experience. Step into the triangle formed by the three cheesecloths and do the hokey pokey but do NOT turn yourself around. Following this, hold your breath for three seconds and jump. If you have completed the recipe correctly, you should break through the ground into Flavortown. If not, you will land solidly on the ground and will lose your access for three years.

Theme Story - He turned the key in the lock...

He turned the key in the lock and opened the door. To his horror, he saw yet another of the damn rooms. Same pulsing green light emitting from the same pillars in each corner, same four doors pointing in each of the cardinal directions, same metal chair at the same table with – once again – nothing on it. Yet. He knew that would change soon enough, just as he knew that once he stepped forward the door would shut and lock behind him. He considered going back and trying the other doors, but after nearly fifty rooms he knew what he would find when he did so. Besides, it had only been four rooms since he had just picked a direction and went. He didn't know if he was making progress – hell, the way this place defied logic he could very well be moving in a circle repeatedly – but with no other options he decided to keep pressing onward.

He pulled out the chair and sat at the table, the screen inset into the surface once again coming to life. The same grid with the same colored dots greeted his angry gaze. He had to struggle to stop himself from tearing his hair out in frustration. He'd solved 47 of these puzzles so far. He found himself irrationally hoping that this one would be the last, or at the very least 50 would mark some kind of change in the scenario. A different room, a different puzzle, even a different light color in the glowing pillars would be preferable! Some indication that his actions were producing some effect somewhere. Anywhere.

He swiped his finger along the grid, connecting the colored dots without overlapping. This one was fairly simple, as were the others – the entire process took fifteen seconds. Upon completion, another key rose from the table. He placed the original key into his pocket with the rest of the growing collection, and palmed the new key. He rose from his chair and moved towards the door directly opposite the table - he'd taken to referring to this direction as North, but he had no real way to tell where he was even headed. He put his hand on the door handle, inserted the key, took a breath, closed his eyes, and turned the handle.

He waited a second to open his eyes, hoping to see anything different, but once again he was met with the same room. The 49^th room, with the 49^th puzzle, and the 49^th key. He sighed heavily, and moved to the chair. He plopped down with a despair as deep as his frustration had been in the last room. Fifty, he told himself. Just make it to fifty and something will change. He idly solved the puzzle on the table and grabbed the proffered key that resulted. Moving once again in the same direction, he approached the North door and inserted the key. With another steadying breath he turned the key in the lock and opened the door of the fiftieth room.

No change. Same green glow, same table, same chair, same four doors. He stepped through the door and sat in the chair, regarding the puzzle before him with a surly look. He swiped his finger around the grid, connecting the dots together, retrieving the key from the tiny slot in the table. He stood and approached the fiftieth door. He placed the key in the lock and, after a brief pause, turned it and opened the door...

… and blinked in the sudden light. Not green this time, but bright white emanating from every corner of the room. The table was round this time, the chair wooden, but the room was still surrounded by four doors in each of the cardinal directions. He crossed the threshold and a siren blared, causing him to jump out of his skin. He had no idea what it signified, but was oddly comforted by the fact that someone felt the need to signify something. A siren like that is placed for other people to hear, not for the sole occupant trapped in a maze. He approached the table and pulled out the chair. The surface lit up revealing the same grid. No, it was different this time – there was one more square in each direction, and one additional color to connect. He had apparently reached the next level. He leaned back, but oddly felt no anger or frustration. He was making progress at last. He solved the puzzle quickly and grabbed the key that emerged from the table, making his way to the North door once again. He inserted the key in the lock and turned the knob. Telling himself that if there is progress there might be an end, he pulled the door open and moved into the next white room. 

Theme Story - A Milestone Birthday

Brian took another swig of his drink, grimacing as the cheap bourbon set his mouth on fire yet again. He preferred the smoother Irish whiskeys, but in a bar in Kentucky your drink choice was more or less a foregone conclusion – particularly when someone else was buying. He looked over his glass at John and, catching his eye, raised it in the traditional salute of thanks. Niceties achieved, he set the beverage down to give the ice some time to melt and mellow the flavor.

Thirty. He couldn't believe it had been so long. By some accounts his life was half over, and even the most optimistic estimates only reduced the deduction to thirty-three percent. Sixty years if he was lucky, of which the last fifteen to twenty were likely just biding time. So call it forty years reliably. He took another swig – too soon, as the heat on his tongue was happy to inform him – and tried not to dwell on how he was spending yet another night punishing his liver in the same tavern. Perhaps if they had tried to class up the place a bit he could have stood the monotony – sand some of the walls smooth, maybe stain the wood a darker color than the tannish-brown that didn't so much reflect the light as absorb it before casting it out into the world. Of course that would offend the clientele, the hearty salt-of-the-earth folk who liked their bars slapdash, their camaraderie boisterous, and their whiskeys blazing.

And their music twangy, as Brian was reminded by the jukebox happily blaring the latest blues-inspired nothing from a country-western group whose last chart-topper was released a decade ago. His melancholy allowed him to scoff at the clear efforts of musicians past their prime, but his past years in the country had helped him to develop an appreciation for the style, finding some small comfort of home in the chord structures if not the banal lyrics. He'd tried once, a couple years ago, to get the jukebox to do more than lament the lives of cheating boyfriends and lost tractors, but the death glares that he'd earned as the opening bars of the one Rush tune that was available on the machine played had been enough to abash him of any future attempts at culture.

He took another swig, this time more satisfied with the spirit. Sure the ice watered it down a bit, but sometimes that was the only thing that made the drink tolerable. He smiled to himself as he remembered the hazy days of college, the quantity-versus-quality binges Friday after class. Had that really been nine years ago? It was odd – the gray hairs didn't bother him at all, but when Brian realized how long it had been since he'd been a student he shuddered with the weight of age. He still felt like that wayward scholar most days, no idea where he was headed but doing his best to not appear that way. Somehow fake-it-til-you-make-it never made it past step one, and one of his more pervasive ridiculous fears was that someone would expose his attempts at maturity for the pathetic facade that they were.

Someone asked him a question, and Brian took a second longer to process than was proper. With a small shake of his head he gave a non-committal response, and received a hearty clap on his back to go with the chuckles at the birthday boy who was showing his inebriation so soon after the party's start. Conversation resumed, and Brian went back to staring at his glass. Was this what forty would feel like? Fifty? He went to take another swig, but suddenly noticed that the glass was empty. Setting it down, he leaned forward on his hands as he pondered.

Thirty years gone. Seven years a professional, and what did he have to show for it? A slice of the American dream, sure. For what that mattered, at least. The small house on the edge of town was often a harsher task master than his manager, with the grass that never stopped growing and the vermin that never stopped burrowing. A job that was decidedly middle-class, which in essence meant he was able to come out enough ahead every paycheck to set aside a meager amount for those waiting years in the coming autumn of his life. No loving wife, but a parade of women of increasing age, with accelerating desires and relationship goals that never seemed to align with his long-term plans. Plans towards which he had, so far, made zero progress.

Another contained puddle of bourbon had materialized at his elbow, and he gave a grateful smile to Katy – the kind purveyor of the current round, and even kinder woman who was the most recent of those trying to find a place to fit in with him. Not that he had women lining up, but rather he understood what they were looking for and how to provide it. He took a sip and shook his head. That last bit was unnecessarily harsh. Katy was sweet, and even if she felt the same pressures that had been put on him by others of the fairer sex she gave no indication of the pushiness that others had been all to happy to unlimber on him once things started to show signs of progress. He thought he appreciated that more than anything – sure she was looking for a future, but she wasn't using the strong-arm to make it happen.

Brian took another swig, smiling again as raucous laughter filled the table in response to some joke or another. He'd never been much for birthdays, he realized that, and his friends seemed to tolerate that well enough, but he knew he was on the edge of stretching patience. He grit his teeth, smiled, and jumped into the conversation – feeling out of place and awkward, but still knowing what was expected of him and fulfilling those expectations as best he could.

Perhaps the next thirty years would hold the wisdom he seemed to be missing, or the sudden achievement of greatness. He sipped the bourbon, made a random joke. Doubtful, but he figured he'd give 'em his best shot.

Theme Story - Superstitions

Mack crept slowly through the doorway, squeezing between the unfinished stone surface of the door and the doorframe and entering the great hall. And that it was a great hall was unmistakable – soaring columns at regular intervals along either wall led off into the distance, carved with exquisite detail in direct contrast to the unfinished rock wall that gave entry to this room. Though he could not see the ceiling in the murky, flickering light thrown off by the line of braziers down the sides of the room, the echoes of his footsteps as he crossed the polished marble floor told him that it certainly lay far above him.

He looked about warily as he moved, expecting an attack at any moment, but saw nothing save a free-standing mirror in the center of the great hall. It glowed with a green light, casting a sickly pall that seemed to negate the effects of the flames – cold where the firelight was warm, static where the firelight flickered, chilling where the firelight was comforting. Mack saw himself in the mirror as he approached, his steps showing more confidence than he felt. The light gave his jovial features a grim cast, his bright red beard looking almost black underneath an unearthly pale face.

“So you have finally come.”

The voice seemed to come from everywhere, assaulting Mack at his very core as it battered his ears. He looked quickly about, but could see no source for the sound in the room. A flicker of movement caught his eye, and he turned back towards the mirror. His reflection seemed darker somehow, as though something blocked the light approaching him. Mack squinted, and was able to discern a ghostly shape in the shadow. As he watched, the shadow in the mirror solidified. Darkness gave way to light as features emerged – a head took shape, a hawkish nose growing out of its center, and a dark body became ornate robes with glowing embroidery.

Before long Mack was face-to-face with a figure that was not there, seeing only a reflection in the free-standing mirror that should not be. A tall, pale man looked back at him. His robes rippled in black and green, with embroidery along the collars that glowed with the same unearthly green light as emanated from the mirror. Dark eyes looked out over a long nose, but no hair framed the eyelids, brow, or head. Most disturbing was the complete absence of a mouth – between the hooked nose and the strong chin lay flesh without blemish – a solid sheet of white that jarred Mack's sense of reality.

“I have watched your progress through my domain.” The voice continued to beat at Mack, gravelly and rasping. “You are the first person to reach my chamber in twenty years.”

Mack peered around him, looking for both the origin of the voice with no source and the body casting the impossible reflection, but saw only the sickly light of the mirror fighting back the firelight from the surrounding hall. He turned back to the mirror. “Who are you?”

The voice chuckled. “Seems as though I should be asking you that question. You are the invader here, after all.” The reflection heaved a sigh, then the voice continued. “When this land was young, and your people were emerging from their caves across the oceans, I was worshiped as a god. When you had taken your first stumbling steps, I had been here for a thousand years. Ten thousand.”

Mack shook himself free of the aural assault. “You're the Destroyer.”

The figure nodded, though it had not been a question. “Where there is good in this land, I bring evil. Where there is light, I make darkness. Where there is peace, I bring war.”

Mack pulled a stone from the pouch on his belt, sliding it into his sling. The weight felt odd, heavier than a stone should be at that size, but he only noticed this in passing. “Not anymore. Show yourself, Destroyer.”

The mouthless figure looked at him intently. In his mind's eye, Mack saw an evil grin but the smooth patch of skin on the creature's face remained unchained. “But I already have.”

Mack whirled about, looking for the source of the reflection, but an empty hall met his gaze. He turned back to the mirror. “You lie. I command again – show yourself, coward!”

The figure raised a white hand, nailless finger extended towards him. “You command nothing here.”

The Destroyer made a jabbing motion, and Mack flew backwards. He landed in a heap on the marbled floor, sliding to a halt. Pain emanated from his chest as though he had been hit with a battering ram. He scrambled to his feet and looked around, readying himself for the next blow, but still saw nothing to defend against.

The Destroyer laughed, the sound beating against Mack's sanity. “I am sad to say that your journey is at an end, today.”

Its hand swept to the left, and Mack went sliding with it, crashing into a column. He stood, only to be knocked from his feet again at another gesture of the creature. The blows began to come more frequently, tossing him about as though he were a rag doll. Mack took bruises from the columns and floor, bouncing off of them as he was sent careening around the space. He did his best to absorb the impacts, but could not keep up with the sheer volume.

Seconds stretched into minutes as he was dashed into the columns and floor, until suddenly the motion ceased. Mack spat blood as he rose to a knee, breathing heavily and wincing at the pain of cracked ribs. He rose and slowly approached the mirror again, watching the Destroyer's reflection warily.

The figure in the mirror laughed again. “Oh, what fun you have brought me.”

Mack wiped a hand across his face, clearing his vision and some of the pain. “That is not all that I bring you, beast.”

The Destroyer cocked its head. “You have a tribute?”

Mack nodded. “And per the old code, you must allow me to make my offering.”

The figure waved a dismissive hand. “Do not speak to me of my obligations, mortal. Present me with your gift, and then we shall return to your lesson.”

Mack smiled slowly and began to swing his sling in a circle. He opened his mouth and spoke the words he had been given. “I have journeyed far, with this piece of a star. Fought battles grand within your sickly land. Now I strike the killing blow at the beast that does not show, creating fortunes poor as I close the door.” As he completed the verse he released the end of his sling and the special stone flew outward. Time slowed as it crossed the distance to the mirror, the small crystals on the star stone glowing with a red light.

The Destroyer's eyes opened wide as the stone reached the surface of the mirror and, with a loud noise, bounced off the surface. It hit the ground just in front of the mirror, rolling to a stop at Mack's feet. The laughter came again, and the voice assaulted him once more. “It seems as though your gift has been rejected.”

Mack smiled. “Has it?”

The Destroyer began to raise a hand again, but a thunderous noise interrupted his motion. A great crack appeared in the surface of the mirror, cutting across the middle of the creature's body. The Destroyer shook itself as though it had been struck, but before it could recover another peal of thunder came, and another crack, quartering the visage. Mack heard a scream begin in his head, an anguished howl scrabbling at his mind, but the sound was silenced as the mirror shattered into a thousand pieces. The shards sparkled in the firelight as they fell to the ground, the unearthly green light extinguished. As the last piece struck the ground, a tremendous wind arose in the hall. It howled through the columns and echoed under the vaulted ceiling, sweeping the darkness before it as it traversed the room.

A single ray of light stabbed down from the ceiling at the far end of the hall, then another, and still another as they marched toward Mack from the distance. The light reached him and he shielded his eyes against the sudden glare, feeling the room heave beneath him. His eyes adjusted after a moment as the rumbling died down and the wind faded, and he opened them to gaze upon a transformed hall. Gone were the murky firelight and shadows. In their place polished and ornate stone glittered in sunlight, coming in through great square openings in the vaulted ceiling.

Mack basked in the warmth for a moment, reveling in the satisfaction of his victory. He took a step forward, and promptly placed his foot directly on the star stone. The stone skidded out from beneath him, taking his balance with it as he crashed awkwardly to the ground. Mack shook himself and rubbed at his hip, which had taken the brunt of the fall. He looked back at the shattered mirror, and winced. Seven years was a long time, but he was ready to face the bad luck. He put a hand down to help himself up, and winced again as a piece of the mirror penetrated his skin. He just hoped he would survive the ordeal.

Theme Story - Fingers Crossed

“Keep your fingers crossed.”

Those were the last words she had spoken, over a month ago. Steve had considered going to the police – several times, in fact - but with the way things were playing out in the streets he suspected that the cops had better things to do that track down a wayward wife. Steve figured that she had found a spot on a boat, and taken her chances on her own.  She certainly hadn’t returned with any of the supplies they had so desperately needed. Steve idly wondered whether the furtive whispers he’d overheard were true. Stacy was still a comely woman, though she was pushing forty. He tried to think the best of her, but the worst of times seem to bring out the worst in humanity.

Steve walked into the kitchen and grunted at the meager remains. True, Stacy’s departure had left him and Evan just barely enough to get by on, but they were down to their last couple pounds of rice, only a bag or two of dehydrated beans remained sitting on the counter, sagging as though in defeat. He walked past the counter to the window bringing the only light into the galley kitchen, watching the pandemonium as best he could.

The water had crested the docks yesterday. Steve did a quick bit of mental arithmetic and realized that if the water continued to rise this quickly that his tiny apartment would be beneath the surface in just over a week. He could already see makeshift boats in the streets, people doing anything they can in their desperation to get to safety. They wouldn’t make it far, of course – the last of the real boats had left over a month ago, back before the planes had stopped flying – but that kind of logic was lost on a person desperate enough to take two doors lashed together out to sea.

He heard a small shuffle behind him in the two-bedroom apartment, but didn’t move from his perch. The footsteps trailed across his hearing as they moved over the hardwood, registering but failing to penetrate Steve’s thoughtful despair. It wasn’t until the tiny tug he felt on his pants that he looked down to see Evan, bright and chipper with the energy and innocence only a five year old can show.

“Is mommy coming today?”

Steve shook his head. “Not today, buddy. She’s still out.”

“She must be bringing back a lot of food,” Evan concluded with a child’s confidence. “I hope she hurries. I want that pizza.”

“Me too, buddy,” Steve agreed absently. He watched as two boats in the street below collided, sending their respective loads to the asphalt below as the owners took out their shared frustration on each other. He turned away before the inevitable escalation, not wanting to see yet another killing in the street. Steve dropped down to his knees, putting on a smile and looking Evan in the eye. “What say we play a game of checkers before breakfast?”

Evan’s eyes lit up as he giggled with anticipatory glee. “Yes! I’ll be black this time!”

Steve smiled and nodded. “Sounds good to me. Go get the board, buddy.”

Evan raced off as Steve straightened up, taking one last look out the window. “Good luck, Stacy,” he whispered, “wherever you are.”

Theme Story - Message in a Bottle

(Prompt this week: you are stranded on a deserted island with only a bottle, a pen, and a piece of paper)

John Jacobsen

200 Palm Tree Lane

Some Deserted Island, The Ocean

To whom it may concern,

I have spent the better part of a year trying to figure out exactly what to put here. At first I thought that putting everything I could remember about my location would be beneficial, but seeing as I was asleep during the flight that went down I realized I had nothing to add. I then thought that I would put a note to whomever might find this, asking them to care for my loved ones and contact my family, but that’s a gamble at best. I suppose you can consider this a cry for help, and if I knew what date it was I’d put this on the letter so that some scientist somewhere could use some estimate of the ocean currents to deduce the range that my little home lies from the nearest land mass, but ultimately I’m writing this under the guise of a single realization.

I’m never getting off this island.

They say hope springs eternal, and that the last thing you should lose is faith. I can’t say they’re wrong, and maybe I have hit rock bottom. All I know is that I am stuck here, and you are… wherever you are, and that we will probably never meet. And to be honest, I don’t see a lot of difference. Here I am driven mad by routine, forced into action by the basic right to live, dealing with conditions that I would prefer never to have seen in the first place. There, you likely are the same – driven to action by a need for shelter and food, finding solace only in the few spare moments the overlords of circumstance see fit to allow you to pursue the things that truly hold meaning for you. Here I am surrounded by wildlife unable to comprehend my motives or, sometimes, my very existence. There, you are surrounded by the self-centered, possibly aware of your motives but more likely resistant to them, your existence seen as a nuisance at best.

I don’t know where I am, but over the past year I’ve slowly come to the realization that I honestly don’t care. Same shit, different day. At least this time I get to spend my leisure moments relaxing on a beach.

Send help if you can. If not, no big loss.

John Jacobsen.

Writing Prompt/Theme Story - First Sentence and Time Travel

(This time I combined the theme post with my writing prompt. Not sure if I like the result or not - I'll let you be the judge)

The air was calm. The water was still. The insects in the surrounding jungle had stopped making a sound. It was like everything had just stopped all at once.  Jason looked around, mouth agape at the sudden silence – the deafening cacophony of nature, which had been his constant companion for the past two months, had never once abated. He took another step into the clearing, and tentative sounds emerged once more. Each step towards the obelisk in the center raised the decibel level, until by the twentieth step the sound was back in full force. Vague discomfort faded, and Jason stood examining the object in the center of the clearing.

It stood in the exact center of a perfect circle cut in the vegetation. Vines, trees, and undergrowth abruptly gave way to waving Kentucky bluegrass, itself an oddity in the rainforest. The obelisk stood in the center of the tranquil sea, its alabaster body covered in complex carvings and symbols. The flow of the symbols tugged at Jason, hinting at a meaning beyond his grasp – a word on the tip of his tongue just begging to be heard. Jason moved closer to the obelisk, examining the carvings. Smooth lines festooned the surface, showing no evidence of tool work common among ancient relics in the area. The sunlight reflecting off the surface was unbroken, marred by neither crease nor gouge. The craftsmanship rivaled the greatest of modern fabrication techniques, the perfection bespeaking exquisite care and skill on the part of the craftsman.

Jason reached a tentative hand out to the object. His fingers lightly brushed the surface before he jerked them back, shaking feeling back into them. His arm hairs stood on end, static electricity coursing through him as he reached forward again. This time, there was no shock – his fingers connected solidly with the object. What appeared smooth at a glance felt pebbled as he ran his finger down the side, exploring the texture. His wandering finger found one of the designs – an odd spiral that folded back on itself three times. He began to idly trace the design, his finger moving of its own volition along the curves of the engraving.

The sounds surrounding him began to die out again, but this time a low pervasive hum began to rise in their place. Jason’s eyes widened at the change, but his finger continued to walk the curved path, increasing in speed with the volume of the basso rumble. It came from everywhere at once, shaking Jason’s bones, causing his teeth to chatter uncontrollably, but his finger continued to push onward. His arms visibly shook with effort as he tried to pull away, but he was unable to stop the progression.

At the halfway point in the design the hum became a high-pitched whine. The ear-piercing shriek appeared out of nowhere, starting as abruptly as the basso rumble had stopped. The greenery of the clearing faded as his finger moved, occluded by a white glow originating from the obelisk itself. The intensity grew as he moved down the spiral, becoming blinding while still allowing perfect sight. The world faded into a white light, the obelisk only making itself known through the pebbled texture under Jason’s finger.

Jason’s finger finished its traversal, and everything stopped at once. All the jungle sounds, the whine, the light – all ceased to exist. He blinked his eyes, seeing the obelisk as an after-image against his eyelids in the green and purple of photo-negatives. He opened his eyes to look around, but was met with only darkness. There was no breeze, no odors, no light, no sound – the entire world had ceased to exist. Time dilated as Jason stood in the nothingness. His finger hadn’t moved, but he could no longer feel the obelisk. Minutes passed like seconds, and seconds passed like hours. With no feedback, no frame of reference, an eternity whipped by in an eye blink.

A sudden buzzing caught Jason’s ear. There was a bright flash, and then a rising glow. Bars of light, floating in empty space as they increased in illumination, pierced the blackness. After a few moments details appeared, the soft white light reflecting off matte gray as his surroundings came into focus. Jason blinked a few times, clearing the afterimages as his eyes adjusted to the new light. The obelisk was gone, as was the grass. Unmarked gray lined the walls, floor, and ceiling of the room he found himself in, broken only by the bars of light along the floor of the chamber.

Realizing he was still holding his finger out he snatched it back to his side. He checked the finger, but saw no damage imparted by the strange object. His breathing quickened as he looked around, all signs of the world he knew gone. Jason moved about the room, running his fingers along the unbroken walls, but the only variation in the perfect octagonal enclosure was the light emerging from the floor.

“IDENTIFICATION.”

Jason jumped at the sudden sound. The voice came from everywhere and nowhere, deafening, permeating his very being. He clapped hands over his ears in shock, but the sound had left before he completed the maneuver. The silence rang in his ears, stretching as no further information came. Jason swallowed, and spoke to the room.

“Hello?”

His voice sounded tentative, the sound small in the acoustically dead space. He waited for a response, but none came. He had just opened his mouth to try again when the voice invaded his body once more.

“IDENTIFICATION INVALID. RESTATE.”

“I, uh, I don’t have any…” Jason’s voice trailed off as he stumbled over the words. “Who… who are you?”

Once again the silence stretched out, and Jason stood silently. After another pause, the booming voice returned.

“IDENTIFICATION INVALID. UNAUTHORIZED ACCESS DETECTED. ASSISTANCE REQUESTED. PLEASE STAND BY.”

The words hit him with a solid force, the meaning both plain and confusing. Jason looked around at the walls, seeing neither speaker nor microphone.

“Uh hey, what’s going on here?” His voice had a bit more strength behind it, but the complete lack of ambient noise made it continue to sound thin. “Where am I? Who are you?”

He waited expectantly, but no reply came. After several minutes, he began to pace the room. He ran his hand along the gray walls, but found nothing. Each edge of the octagon appeared to be six paces long. He bent down to examine the light source, but could detect neither power connection nor method of generation. He stood up and struck at the wall, balled fist bouncing harmlessly off the hard material. He shook his hand and cursed, checking the bones tenderly but finding no damage. After another moment, he returned to the center of the room and sat down.

“Who are you?”

The voice startled Jason, and he turned around to look at the source. A dark figure stood outlined in the center of one of the walls, bathed from behind in bright light. The voice was feminine, but the shape could have been anything – amorphous, columnar, indiscernible. Jason squinted, trying to discern details.

The figure shifted slightly. “Can you understand me?”

Jason nodded. “Yes, I can.”

“Good.” The figure stepped into the room, revealing a woman’s head over flowing purple and maroon robes. The robes obscured the woman’s figure, the lack of lines and smooth complexion of her face bespeaking youthful vigor. “Who are you?”

Jason stared at the woman. “I’m, uh, Jason MacIntyre.”

The woman frowned. “I don’t know of anyone by that name authorized to use this facility.”

“Facility?”

The woman ignored his question. “How did you get here, Jason MacIntyre?”

Jason shrugged. “I don’t know. I found this carved pillar in a forest clearing, and now here I am.”

“Hmm.” The woman cocked her head, as though listening to something, then abruptly focused on Jason again. “Please come with me, Jason MacIntyre.”

“What? Where are we going?” The woman either ignored him or didn’t hear him as she turned and stepped back into the light. After a moment’s indecision, Jason got to his feet and followed her. She walked confidently down the brightly-lit corridor, white and featureless walls glowing with a daytime intensity. Jason caught up to the woman. “Excuse me, miss. Where are we?”

“All will be made clear soon enough, Jason MacIntyre.” The woman’s voice lacked inflection and emotion, sounding as mechanical as an electronic answering service. Jason shrugged and continued to follow the woman.

The hallway abruptly ended, leaving the pair standing in a corner. As Jason opened his mouth to ask another question, the woman raised a hand against the wall before them. A circle flashed green around the woman’s hand and the wall simply faded, revealing a small room beyond. Along the far wall was a man sitting at a desk, staring into space. The desk was made of some featureless gray material, similar to the walls in the earlier octagonal room. The woman gestured, and Jason stepped across the threshold. He turned to look at the woman for instruction, but the wall had already reappeared behind him. Jason stepped forward, putting a hand to the wall in wonder, feeling nothing but solid material beneath his hands.

“It won’t work for you, at least not yet.” Jason turned to look at the man behind the desk, who had lost his unfocused look as he eyed Jason appraisingly. He indicated a small chair opposite the desk. “Please have a seat, Mr. MacIntyre.”

Jason moved over to the chair, examining it suspiciously. He reached out a hesitant hand, but felt nothing out of the ordinary. After a moment’s hesitation, he sat down and looked at the man across the desk. “Who are you?”

“You can call me Frank.” The man smiled. “And you are Jason MacIntrye.” Jason nodded. “I bet you’re wondering what’s going on.”

“You could say that again.”

“Well, unfortunately I wish I could tell you that. Your arrival has caused a lot of concern.”

“Arrival?” Jason looked confused.

Frank nodded. “The octagonal room – that’s our arrival area. It’s been closed off for nearly twenty years. I’m guessing some technician forgot to disconnect the power.”

Jason stared blankly. “Ok, wait. What’s going on here?”

“This is going to be a bit hard to take.” Frank sighed. “Mr. MacIntyre, you’ve travelled approximately six hundred years into your future.”

“Wait. What?”

“The device you found was one of our early experiments in time travel. By activating it, you activated a recall beam that pulled you from your time into ours.”

“Time travel? Recall beam? All of that’s impossible!”

Frank chuckled. “I’m sure it seems that way to you, but I assure you it is both possible and feasible.”

“But what about Einstein, and all that relativity stuff?”

“Ideas of science evolve, Mr. MacIntyre. A few thousand years ago, people were convinced that Aristotle’s four elements were all that composed the cosmos. Not all that long before your time, people were convinced that it was bad blood that caused disease. Let’s just say our understanding of physics has changed in the intervening time.”

Jason exhaled deeply. “Huh. So, six hundred years?”

Frank nodded. “Give or take.”

“Where am I, then?”

“You are in a small research facility near what you would have known as Des Moines, Iowa.”

“Would have known? Was there some sort of massive war or something?”

Frank chuckled. “Several, actually, but really we’ve simply evolved past our need for physical delimiters of space.”

“Physical delimiters?”

“Locale designations, addresses, and so on. Those hold very little meaning these days.”

“So how do you know where you are?”

Frank shrugged. “Call it something like GPS. With the advent of quantum teleportation, we simply refer to everything by coordinates. It’s easier and produces a more accurate description of location.”

Jason frowned. “Teleportation? Like Star Trek?”

“Star Trek?”

“Never mind.” Jason looked around at the room, then back at Frank. “Seems kind of sparse. Does no one decorate in the future?”

Frank chuckled. “Oh we do. We just have different ways of seeing it.”

“Different ways?”

“For lack of a better way to put it, every person has a computer built into their brain that constantly affects what they see.”

“Computer built….”

Frank waved a hand. “Look, we could spend years talking about the things you’ve missed. But in the end, right now we have two questions to focus on.”

Jason cocked his head. “And those are?”

“How did you get here, and how in the hell will we ever get you back.”

Theme Story - If anyone asks, tell them I'm fine.

Sarah balled up the note and threw it against the wall in disgust. He’d been talking about it for so long, but she never actually believed he’d carry through. Leaving his entire life behind, with the burden to clean up resting on her shoulders… The words “conceited” and “inconsiderate” bounced around in her head, looking for a home.

“So he finally did it, huh.” The voice startled Sarah out of her angry reverie. She cast a glance over her shoulder at Amanda and gave a silent nod, not trusting her voice. Amanda shrugged. “Figures. I never had him pegged for the fatherly type, anyway.” She stepped over to Sarah and put a hand on her shoulder. “You ok?”

Sarah shrugged. “Not really.” She sighed heavily. “I guess I should have expected this.”

“How so?”

“All the signs were there.” Sarah began to tick items off on her fingers. “Obsessive reliance on family support, inability to hold a steady job, never finished college, spent way too much time at the bar…” She stared at her fingers, standing silently on her quivering palm, and let her arm drop. “You see what I mean.”

Amanda moved around her and dropped onto the couch. “So what are you gonna do now?”

“Cry. Scream. Wallow.” Sarah’s shoulders slumped. “Seems appropriate, anyway.”

Amanda nodded. “Anything I can do?”

“If anyone asks, tell them I’m fine.” Sarah shrugged. “Outside of that, well, slap the jackass if you happen to run into him”

Theme Story - A Kickstarter Campaign

(The theme this week was to create a Kickstarter campaign for an ancient invention. Here's my attempt)

Have you had ENOUGH of filthy gutter water?

We’ve all been there. You’ve spent a little too much time in the vomitorium, and now you got some on your best toga. What’s worse is your friend Maximus has been wandering behind you for the past half an hour, holding his nose and making loud comments about the freshness of your air. You go to rinse, change, and refresh, but all that remains in your drawing room is a ewer of sewer filth, containing all the poisons the plebians have left in the street. By Caesar, how can a citizen be expected to survive in such appalling conditions?

The solution, fellow Roman, is written in the soaring arches and stout columns of your palisade. We are going to build an Aqueduct – an ingenious method of transporting clean water from the hills outside of our glorious city right to the fountain in your plaza! No more will your hired servant be forced to stand in line with the other slaves and laborers. Imagine a public bath, with sparkling clean water delivered from the coolest mountain springs. Surely Saturnalia will be a much more pleasing experience for all once everyone has bathed in the waters of the gods!

Our Goal

We want to raise MMM Denari to build a prototype, which we will present to the Forum in the hopes of obtaining Senatorial and Imperial backing. The funding will be used for construction materials, engineering, testing, and for suitable honoraria.

Who we are

We are a guild of local stonemasons who are tired of bathing in the same filth as the mudslingers in the hovels down the road. We seek to honor the gods by bringing their gift to the wealthy masses.

Why we need your help

As you know, with our campaigns against the Goths many of the public funds for research have dried up. Your help will supplement this lack, allowing us to make progress for the glory of Rome and the Empire.

What do you get?

Obviously you want something in return for your investment! For those of you looking for something more than clean water, here are your incentives:

·      Donate V Denari or more, and earn a free ticket to the Coliseum. See the great mock naval battles, or relive our victory over Carthage as reenacted by the very Carthaginians we conquered!

·      Donate L Denari or more, and you can own your very own slave used in construction of the aqueduct, pending senatorial and imperial approval!

·      Donate CCL Denari and receive your very own lion! These exotic beasts make great guard animals, and are wonderful with children and vestal virgins.

·      Donate  D Denari, and your own name will be inscribed into one of the arch keystones! Be remembered for eternity!

·      Donate M Denari or more, and you will have your very own signature span of the finished product! Imagine having a private fountain filled with clear mountain water – take solace in the private luxury while knowing that your donation helped to further the empire!

Theme Story - Finding the Theme

(The theme was late for this week, so I decided to be a smartass :) )

A blast of cold air caught the attention of patrons near the door as the man entered. He stood tall at 6’3”, a hulking frame wrapped in black leather and jeans. A few patrons glanced up from their libations, but their gazes quickly snapped back down. This was the kind of place where the curious didn’t last too long. A jukebox thumped weakly on a wall in the back as the man stepped towards the bar, his boots thumping in time with the forgotten country-western number.

The man approached the bar, pulling out a rickety stool and mounting it in a smooth motion that bespoke practice. The bartender, wiping a dirty glass mug with a dirtier rag, raised an eyebrow in the dim light.

“Beer,” the stranger said, his voice gravelly and deep.

“What kind?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

The bartender shrugged and stepped away for a moment, returning with a pale yellow swill in a water-spotted glass. The man took a sip, a sneer crossing his face as the failed pilsner hit his taste buds, then eyed the bartender as he set the mug back down on the bar. The bartender looked back at him, not wanting to back down in his own place, but a hint of fear was clearly visible in his eyes.

The man leaned forward and spoke in a quieter voice. “I’m lookin’ for something.”

“Lotsa folk are looking for something around here. Some of ‘em even found it.” The bartender shrugged. “Makes no business to me.”

“But you know this something,” the stranger asserted. “I have it on good word that you are a man that can find these kinds of things.”

The bartender quirked an eyebrow, his hands ceasing their incessant wiping. “And what kind of thing would that be?”

The stranger leaned forward. “I’m lookin’ for a theme.”

The bartender twitched in surprise, the glass in his hands falling to the ground with a loud crash. The few curious souls in the run-down tavern cast a wayward glance over, and the bartender continued speaking in a much quieter tone. “Don’t know nothin’ ‘bout no theme, sir. And even if I did…”

“Bullshit,” the man interrupted. “You know exactly where I can find a theme, and I intend to have one before I leave here.”

The bartender was visibly trembling now, looking around at the other patrons for support, but they all stared intently into their beverages. With a visible tremble in his hand, the bartender bent over and began to clean up the shattered glass. He addressed his comments to the floor as he spoke, out of view of the rest of the bar. “Now, I don’t know what you heard, but I got out of that business a long time ago.”

“Not my problem,” the gravelly voice argued from above.

“Now, now, that don’t mean I don’t have anything for ya.” The bartender stood, eyeing the man across the thin wooden bar top. “Happens to be I might know of someone who can point you in the right direction, if given the proper motivation.”

“Motivation, eh?” The stranger smirked as he slid a few folded bills across the bar. The bartender looked furtively about before palming the cash, and slid a piece of paper back towards the stranger. As he started to pull his hand back, the stranger’s came down atop his. The bar creaked as the man applied pressure, trapping the bartender’s hand with a painful grip. “I swear, if you’re screwing with me I’m gonna come right back here and rip your lyin’ tongue outta your head.”

The bartender shrugged. “As I said, I’ve been outta the game for a while. This is all I know now.” The bartender looked down, sweat beading on his forehead. “Can I have my hand back now?” The stranger held on for another second, glaring a threat at the bartender, before releasing the hand from the bar. The bartender shook some blood back into his fingers as he eyed the stranger. “Now kindly finish your beer and go.”

The man picked up the mug, draining the contents in a single pull, and stood up. Tossing another few dollars on the bar, the man headed for the door. As he stepped back into the cold, he glanced down at the scribbled drawing the bartender had handed him, and a smile crept slowly across his face.

Theme Story - Road Trip

I sat back, watching the waves slide slowly up and down the beach. The sunrise cast a surreal purple glow over the water. I thought it was odd that there seemed to be very little break in the water itself. Near the shore the waves crested, white breakers charging forward out of the sea, but out in the water the turmoil was completely masked, replaced with simple undulating motion.

I sighed as I stared out into the night. I'd finally made it. Three thousand miles and as many dollars in gas and repairs, just to feel another ocean on my face. A different ocean, one not laden with history. A flash of my old life popped up; a flash that I violently pushed down. That part of me was done. This was my fresh start.

The breeze picked up, and I shivered in the wind. I had expected southern California to be warm, but the weather here so far wasn't that far a cry from the oil-slicked Jersey beaches, covered in oompa-loompa tans and bleached blonde hair. It had been nice watching the snow melt on the way, though. If nothing else, I would hold that new memory dear.

I still didn't know why I'd chosen to drive. I walked through the train station every day. That 9:56 train from Cherry Hill could take me to Pennsylvania, then Chicago, LA, and San Diego. The train was a known quantity. Hell, I'd spent an eighth of every day over the past seven years on trains. Maybe that was the reason.

Out of reflex I pulled my phone from my pocket, and had my thumb on the button before I was able to stop myself. Looking at those messages meant looking back into the abyss, and once that abyss started staring back I'd end up right back where I started. Lonely, bored, disconnected. Stuck. That way lie danger. They'd just have to get along without me. I wasn't even sure they realized that I'd left.

I stood up and walked down the beach, stopping with the soles of my shoes breaking the crawling surf. I reached back into my pocket and pulled out my phone. I thumbed the button, and the first message popped up.

From Sarah: Where are you???

I pulled my arm back and threw, the plastic square sailing out into the night. My old life was consumed by the ocean, a small ripple swallowed up by the rolling waves. I chose the car because I wanted to begin anew. Time to get started.

Theme Story - The Wedding

A single rose petal floated down through the air. Sarah watched its tumbling fall, bright shining white against the burgundy and brown of the ancient chapel’s altar, and tried desperately not to scream. Would nothing go perfectly? She sighed mentally and began counting, and old calming technique she had picked up from her mother. It was bad enough that the priest had been stumbling all over words as though he had been gulping the blood of Christ, and that Rich’s best man had an unexplained bandage on his hand. Did no one understand the gravity of this event?

Sarah sighed internally again and redoubled her counting efforts. Somewhere around three hundred she was finally had enough peace of mind to focus on the ceremony itself. They were halfway through the second reading, and her darling niece Anna was pushing through something from the Letters. She had fought long and hard to keep any of that ‘obedient wife’ crap out of the question, and she smiled as Anna came to the end with a flourish - Anna’s theatrical tendencies finally overcoming her abject horror at public speaking.

The ceremony resumed, and Sarah turned her eyes - and her thoughts - to the man opposite her. He stood awkwardly, a good ol’ boy wrapped in foreign finery for one of the major events of his life. Their life, now. Sarah was still adjusting to that thought. She’d been independent for so long that she’d forgotten how to share her life with others. Indeed just the other night she had been fighting with Rich over finances. To think, he thought she should take on his debts...

No. Sarah shook herself internally. This was the happiest day of her life, and she was not going to ruin it by dwelling on inconsequentials. She looked at his eyes, those piercing green irises consuming her in an emerald pool of light, and felt that part of her deep inside melt once again. Damn his eyes were beautiful. She could still remember her first sight of them, glistening across the fire pit at Aunt Joanie’s Memorial day barbecue. How could she ever grow angry at eyes like those?

The priest was winding up to the big event, the vows. Rich had wanted to write his own, but Sarah wanted to stick with the traditional. She wouldn’t have her day in the sun ruined by awkward attempts at hillbilly humor. The fact that this also got her out of writing her own vows, putting into words that which had indescribably dominated her consciousness, was simply an added bonus.

“Do you, Richard Young, take Sarah to be your lawfully-wedded wife?”

“I do.”

Sarah had expected chills, but she was so caught up in the moment. Hardly any of it seemed real, as though they were simply running lines at a rehearsal for the actual event some interminable distance in the future. The priest was running through the list: sickness, health, richness, poorness, death, life, and so on. Wasn’t there supposed to be more of a sense of gravity?

“And do you, Sarah May, take Richard...”

Sarah was in a daze, simply inserting the appropriate responses at the appropriate times. Was this what shock felt like? Hadn’t she just a moment ago thought that it seemed all unreal? How could she have been so wrong? This was the most real thing in her entire life, and she was on autopilot!

“I now pronounce you husband and wife.”

Sarah looked into Rich’s eyes, those jewels on a field of white, and all of a sudden she trembled as though it was her first time all over again. She stepped forward and raised her chin, and felt all of her energy dissipate the moment his lips met hers. They kissed for a second that seemed an eternity, and it was a long minute before the roaring in Sarah’s ears gave way to the roaring of the family and friends in attendance.

The two moved down the aisle, hand in hand, leaving the solitary petal on the altar. Whether it was an omen of good or ill only time would tell, but Sarah didn’t care. This was the best day of her life.

Theme Story - Kitten fight!

Mr. Whiskers had his hackles up. The interloper – Mittens – had struck the first blow, a vicious bat across the face. Mr. Whiskers hissed a warning at Mittens, but it went unheeded. Mittens crept forward, ears flattening and jowls tightening to reveal teeth. Mr. Whiskers pounced, and the battle was on.

Mr. Whiskers barreled into the side of Mittens, and the two went tumbling in a ball of furiously flying fur. Mittens began to hiss and spit as Mr. Whiskers scratched him across the hindquarters, but his success was short-lived as Mittens got in a firm bite on Mr. Whiskers’ paw. The two leapt apart, panting heavily. Mr. Whiskers favored his left forepaw, while Mittens was obviously putting less weight on his rear right leg. They eyed each other like two prize fighters, retreating to the corner after a round has concluded.

There was no bell to signal the start of round two. Mittens was the aggressor this time, lunging forward. Just as he was about to collide, and Mr. Whiskers had tensed for the impact, Mittens pulled back and struck with a paw instead, striking Mr. Whiskers right between his namesake. Mr. Whiskers growled in surprise and pain, and leapt forward again. He was going to end this, one way or another.

The two rolled back and forth across the tile, neither gaining advantage over the other. For each swipe Mr. Whiskers landed, Mittens came right back with another. Fur was everywhere – in the air, in their mouths, in their claws. The sounds were horrendous, as though two weary warriors were giving their all in a battle to the death. In some respects this wasn’t too far off.

After a while the two parted. Mr. Whiskers knew his strength was flagging, but he refused to give up any ground over his piece of string. He stared at Mittens, tensing for another strike, and was surprised when he saw Mittens’ face fall. His opponent rolled onto his back, gracefully admitting defeat. Mr. Whiskers nodded, still not believing the turn of events but not questioning it either. He picked up the piece of string in his jaws and sauntered off, triumphant.

Theme story - It starts with a whisper

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Rick tilted his head, nodding along with the voice that whispered in his ear. He couldn’t discern actual words, of course – the voice didn’t work that way. He knew, though. He knew exactly what the voice wanted. It couldn’t have been any clearer if it had been posted on a shining billboard with a running-light marquee. He nodded so that the voice knew he had heard, and stood up.

It was oddly empty on the bus for a Tuesday evening. Barely a dozen people sat in the vehicle trying very hard to pretend that they were the only person within shouting distance. But the voice knew better. The voice had told him exactly how to get their attention.

Rick spread his legs, bending his knees to absorb the shock of the bus’ rocking as it rounded a corner, dodging through the city streets like a limber rhinoceros. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out the knife, running his thumb over the blade in anticipatory glee, feeling the sharp edge press against his calloused hand. Smiling broadly, he rolled up his sleeve and began running the blade down his arm.

Stroke. Stroke. Stroke. He giggled as the blade sliced his flesh, lines of red quickly appearing – neat, glowing, glistening parallel lines on his arm broken only by the curve of the underlying muscle. He laughed at the sensation – there was no pain. He hadn’t felt pain since the voice entered his life, only a sharp awareness – a chillful tingle of awareness that heightened his senses.

He saw the look of horror on the lady three seats down from him, and begin cackling manically – the voice had identified his first victim for the day. Rick stepped forward, crosshatching the blade across his arm, as the woman’s screams drew the attention of the other passengers. The terrified din rose in a cacophony, blending into a symphony of agony and sheer, stark terror that was more powerful than the most moving composition by any composer. The beautiful red flowed, and the delight echoed throughout Rick’s mind. He loved the voice.

Theme Story - The Best Meal

I bit into the morsel, feeling the texture as it filled my mouth. The meat seemed to melt on my tongue, transforming from firm cube to ephemeral flavor in seconds. The sear on the outside, the seasoning…. Everything just melted together in perfect harmony.

I closed my eyes as the flavor faded, savoring this feeling for as long as I possibly could. Only once my mouth was clear did I slice off another piece, salivating as the food approached my opening mouth. At times like this I completely lost myself in sensation, the clang and clamor of the surrounding restaurant disappearing into abject silence. I became a primordial creature, consisting of tastebuds only as I consumed the steak. Each bite was the same experience, neither diminished nor faded, the character of the flavor evolving as the temperature of the meat slowly cooled. I lost myself in the act of consumption completely.

It was her laughter filtering into my ears that ultimately brought me out of my reverie. I opened my eyes and looked down at the plate, awareness returning to me slowly as the taste of heaven faded from my mouth. I looked across the table at her, smiling sweetly, and asked her “How is your dinner?”

Theme Story - Schoolyard Fight

Jimmy ducked under the wild haymaker, taking a step back as he straightened to catch his balance. He saw Gabe winding up for another strike and braced himself. The initial dodge had been luck, but Gabe’s follow-up jab resulted in a sharp impact in Jimmy’s ribs. Jimmy doubled over, hunching over the impact point in an attempt to protect himself that left the other side of his body wide open – a fact which didn’t escape Gabe’s notice as he threw another wild punch, this time connecting.

The force of the blow knocked Jimmy to the ground, adding to his confusion as his mind battled to deal with the pain in both of his sides. The shouts of the crowd surrounding them were in tongues, barely recognizable as human speech as Jimmy curled himself up to protect against Gabe’s kicks, his arms covering his head.  After a few of these Gabe seemed to grow bored, content to simply point and laugh at Jimmy’s quivering form on the ground.

Jimmy knew he should give it up, that he was outmatched, but that fire – the rage of humiliation, powerlessness, and fear burning brightly inside – the fire demanded recompense. He slowly got to his feet as Gabe turned to move away and, right as Gabe’s back was turned, Jimmy launched himself. He grabbed Gabe around the waist, his momentum pulling the pair to the ground. Jimmy didn’t hear the hit, nor did he feel the impact himself. He was beyond sight, beyond feeling as he started to swing his arms wildly.

It wasn’t until the teacher pulled him off that Jimmy had a true idea of how much trouble he was going to be in. Of course the teacher had shown up late, didn’t see the first half of the conflict with Gabe, didn’t see how Jimmy had been an innocent victim in the whole mess. No, Jimmy was the weird kid that no one liked, didn’t have the social skills that others developed to prevent against this kind of abuse. Looking down at Gabe’s form, bloody nose and battered body immobile, Jimmy knew that even though Gabe deserved everything he had gotten, he’d get off light. A detention or two, not the suspension Jimmy was looking forward to.

Jimmy sighed as he was marched off the playground and through the bland halls of the school. He realized that some day the torment had to end, but with the bruises on his side still aching he didn’t see that happening any time soon.