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Showing posts with label New Hampshire. Show all posts
Showing posts with label New Hampshire. Show all posts
Monday, September 16, 2013
Saturday, September 14, 2013
Missing Person: Please Help Us Find My Mother
My mother is missing.
I'm afraid this is not a story or a creative promo. I'm posting this in the hopes that some of you may have seen or heard something that could lead to her safe return.
I'm afraid this is not a story or a creative promo. I'm posting this in the hopes that some of you may have seen or heard something that could lead to her safe return.
Tuesday, March 5, 2013
The New England Town Meeting
Today is Town Meeting Day. Some towns have changed the date, but traditionally it's the first Tuesday in March, or the second if the month happens to begin on a Tuesday.
The New England Town Meeting is the foundation of American democracy. Don't be confused by the 'town meetings' or 'town hall meetings' that politicians and political candidates sometimes hold. They are a different animal altogether.
Town Meeting is the annual meeting in which a town makes the majority of its government decisions. What's making this hard to explain is that many people confuse the terms 'democracy' and 'republic.' Most governments that are called democracies are actually republics. In a republic, the citizens elect the government, while in a democracy, the citizens are the government. The elected officials in a traditional New England town don't set policy; they are executives who carry out the decisions made by the people during Town Meeting.
I'm very grateful for having grown up in a New Hampshire town with a traditional Town Meeting, and I'm grateful to my parents for bringing me every year, even when I was small. It helped me understand concepts like democracy, self-government and how to be a responsible member of a group.
The New England Town Meeting is the foundation of American democracy. Don't be confused by the 'town meetings' or 'town hall meetings' that politicians and political candidates sometimes hold. They are a different animal altogether.
Town Meeting is the annual meeting in which a town makes the majority of its government decisions. What's making this hard to explain is that many people confuse the terms 'democracy' and 'republic.' Most governments that are called democracies are actually republics. In a republic, the citizens elect the government, while in a democracy, the citizens are the government. The elected officials in a traditional New England town don't set policy; they are executives who carry out the decisions made by the people during Town Meeting.
I'm very grateful for having grown up in a New Hampshire town with a traditional Town Meeting, and I'm grateful to my parents for bringing me every year, even when I was small. It helped me understand concepts like democracy, self-government and how to be a responsible member of a group.
Thursday, February 28, 2013
February in New Hampshire
I just came across a poem I wrote when I was away from New Hampshire for a while and missing winter. I'm just in time, because it's called "February":
A desolate wasteland of white,
Of wind and of snow and of light--
The wind in the trees on a hill,
The snow now at rest from its flight,
And everywhere--everywhere--light.
A universe barren and bare,
Where man cannot see for the glare
And barely can breathe for the chill.
He stands 'midst the elements there.
And they? Neither see him, nor care.
A desolate wasteland of white,
Of wind and of snow and of light--
The wind in the trees on a hill,
The snow now at rest from its flight,
And everywhere--everywhere--light.
A universe barren and bare,
Where man cannot see for the glare
And barely can breathe for the chill.
He stands 'midst the elements there.
And they? Neither see him, nor care.
Wednesday, February 27, 2013
Snow, Rocks and Other Kinds of Mud
So another snowstorm hits New Hampshire. Time to shovel and make cocoa and enjoy the beautiful whiteness of it all. School won't close for this one because it's already closed for a scheduled vacation.
They named this one Rocky. I don't think so. Rocky is what we have when we don't have snow.
I recently learned that the Old English name for the month roughly equivalent to our modern February was Solmonath, or mud month. I hear England can be very muddy in February. Well, Brits, I'll be thinking of you as I shovel today. We have a mud month, too, only we call it April.
Saturday, February 9, 2013
Writer's Log, Supplemental
February
A desolate wasteland of white,
of wind and of snow and of light.
I stand midst the elements there.
And they?
Neither see me, nor care.
Welcome to the family, Nemo!
Friday, January 25, 2013
My Review of New Hampshire Indie Film The Sensation of Sight
Here's the review I wrote some time ago or the movie The Sensation of Sight, by New Hampshire's own Either/Or Films:
The opening shot thrilled me--for a rather personal reason. I recognized the scene as the one that's been fascinating my brother and me since we were kids. It's an old stone barn we used to drive past on the way to visit our grandfather.
After admiring the barn, I realized that nothing was really happening. Nothing much, anyway. I waited while the movie's dawn turned to daylight around the barn and the morning mists burned off. I began to wish I hadn't bought it.
But it gets better. We meet a man named Finn (David Strathairn) and watch as he tells his wife he's going away. Finn seems to be tortured and have a driving need to search for some sort of answer. His message is ambiguous and almost confusing--as it should be.
In another scene, two guys come together to wash cars, and they're discussing the fact that one is working and the other is not. But there are three guys there, and the third one isn't working, either. And he's wearing a suit. I wondered why. And I wondered why, in the age of the internet, Finn decides to go-to-door selling encyclopedias.
Eventually I learned that the third guy is a ghost. It's not that this is a `paranormal' movie. It's just that Finn's burden of unresolved tragedy is as real to him as any physical presence could be. The people around him can't see the ghost--most of them, anyway. What they can see, can touch, are the encyclopedias.
Finn is not glamorous. He's not fabulous. He's not even successful or collected or sexy, at least in the classic sense. He's real. In fact, he's so real, so imperfect, so nakedly human that I relate to him. I identify. I feel.
"The Sensation of Sight" contains no pat answers. It depicts life, complete with anxieties and uncertainties. But it leaves us with a sense that we need not be its victims: we can be its participants.
The opening shot thrilled me--for a rather personal reason. I recognized the scene as the one that's been fascinating my brother and me since we were kids. It's an old stone barn we used to drive past on the way to visit our grandfather.
 |
| Photo: moosedog studio |
After admiring the barn, I realized that nothing was really happening. Nothing much, anyway. I waited while the movie's dawn turned to daylight around the barn and the morning mists burned off. I began to wish I hadn't bought it.
But it gets better. We meet a man named Finn (David Strathairn) and watch as he tells his wife he's going away. Finn seems to be tortured and have a driving need to search for some sort of answer. His message is ambiguous and almost confusing--as it should be.
In another scene, two guys come together to wash cars, and they're discussing the fact that one is working and the other is not. But there are three guys there, and the third one isn't working, either. And he's wearing a suit. I wondered why. And I wondered why, in the age of the internet, Finn decides to go-to-door selling encyclopedias.
Eventually I learned that the third guy is a ghost. It's not that this is a `paranormal' movie. It's just that Finn's burden of unresolved tragedy is as real to him as any physical presence could be. The people around him can't see the ghost--most of them, anyway. What they can see, can touch, are the encyclopedias.
Finn is not glamorous. He's not fabulous. He's not even successful or collected or sexy, at least in the classic sense. He's real. In fact, he's so real, so imperfect, so nakedly human that I relate to him. I identify. I feel.
"The Sensation of Sight" contains no pat answers. It depicts life, complete with anxieties and uncertainties. But it leaves us with a sense that we need not be its victims: we can be its participants.
Monday, January 14, 2013
Story Beginning: Way Past Boston
The guy walked right up to Brooke and thrust his head forward and down, but his eyes were turned to the side, somewhere beyond her left ear. “Are you Emily?” he demanded. The toes of his sneakers nearly touched the toes of her hiking boots.
Photo: johnbyronkuhner.com
She looked up at him. “No, I’m Brooke.”
“Oh.” He swung his head to glance over his right shoulder, then jerked it back. “I could have sworn you were Emily. Are you sure you’re not Emily?”
“I’m sure.”
He just stood there for a second and wiggled his lips, then shrugged, “Well, I guess you can’t help that. What’s your name?”
“Brooke.”
“Oh. I’m Franklin.”
“Nice to meet you, Franklin.”
He smiled at that, as though she had said something very kind, and suddenly shouted, “Thus saith the Lord!” Then in a regular tone, he asked, “Did you know that?” He was still staring past her left ear.
Brooke nodded. It was because of guys like this that she hadn't wanted to come to Penn Station in the middle of the night. But at least he seemed to be harmless, so far.
He put his right hand up, fingers and thumb upturned together, raised his face to the ceiling and said, “I mean, it’s all connected, you know what I mean?”
Brooke nodded again. “Sure. I can agree with that. It is all connected.”
He turned his face down again, let his hand come down, too, and grabbed one of the buttons on the front of her coat. "Why do you have buttons on your coat?" he asked.
"You need to let go of that," Brooke warned.
"Most coats have zippers," he persisted, still holding the button. "Why does - "
"Let go of my button," she interrupted, louder this time.
He didn't let go. "I don't think coats should have buttons," he said.
Another second and she would have had him on the floor, wondering what had hit him. Fortunately for him, his odd behavior had attracted attention, and a distinguished-looking man in a dark wool dress coat and bright red scarf was on his way over. Maybe Franklin the button-phobe would listen to the man, and she wouldn't have to hit him.
"You didn't answer my question," said Franklin.
"Because putting buttons on coats is a Belgian tradition," Brooke improvved, to buy a little time. "It's for good luck."
"Are you Belgian?" he asked, still clutching the button.
"Excuse me," said the man, reaching them and grabbing Franklin's arm. "You need to move on now." He didn't stop walking, and Franklin had no choice but to join him, or maybe fight him. Brooke stayed alert, ready to intervene if he chose the latter option.
He didn't. He let go of the button and the two men walked about thirty feet away. After that, Franklin kept going and the man in the red scarf came back. A woman stood nearby.
"You okay?" he asked.
"Yes, thank you," Brooke smiled. "That was very nice of you. He's probably harmless, but you never know."
"That's just it," the man agreed. "You can't wait to find out. I'm Bill Perelli and this is my wife Charlotte."
"Nice to meet you, Bill, Charlotte. I'm Brooke." She shook hands with each of them.
"Are you waiting for someone?" Charlotte asked. "We're waiting for our daughter. Her train was delayed due to mechanical problems. She's coming in from Washington."
"No, I came here to take a train. I hope your daughter makes it okay."
"Oh, yes, it's all fixed now; we're expecting her in a few minutes."
"That's good. Have you been waiting long?"
"Not really waiting, no. She's been texting us. We went out to eat; it was very nice."
Brooke nodded and tried to think of something else to say. She was exhausted.
Bill broke the awkward pause. "Where are you traveling to, if you don't mind my asking?"
Photo: nytimes.com
"New Hampshire."
"Oh, you have family there?" from Charlotte.
"Yes, I live there; I'm going home."
"What time does your train leave?" Bill asked. "I'd like to see you safely off. Pardon me for saying so, but Penn Station is no place for a young lady alone, especially at night."
"It looks like I'm not actually going to be taking a train tonight," Brooke admitted.
"Always a good idea to check the schedule beforehand," Bill chided gently.
"My car broke down," Brooke blurted. "It's done for; it can't be fixed, not for what it's worth. I was able to get it towed away for free, but that took all day; everyone wanted to charge me. Then I came here and thought I'd take a train home but I had no idea it would cost so much."
What next? I'll go on with this story but I wanted to open it up to all you writers out there. What would you do with it? What would happen next? What genre is "Way Past Boston"? Is it a short story, a novella or a novel? Feel free to finish it, your way; just please be sure to give me credit for the beginning. And if you send me what you come up with, I'd like to consider posting it on this site.
Friday, January 4, 2013
Science Fiction Story: Mothership
I made a mistake with this short story: Profile Lake and Cannon Cliff in New Hampshire's White Mountains don't quite come together the way I described them. But the story's sold now, so it's too late to change it. I hope I've learned my lesson now: check your work before you submit it.
Note: I answered a call from Chainbooks.com to write just the first chapters for several novels, and Mothership is one of them. If you'd like to contribute a chapter to Mothership, or check out the other novels-in-progress at Chainbooks, click here.
“Laine” was the first thing Moira MacLagan said when she woke up. She mumbled it into her sleeve the first time, before her eyes were even open, then opened them and said it louder. “Laine? Honey, where are you? I need to know if you’re okay. Are you hurt?” She sat up and looked around.
She was in a very small and dimly-lit room that seemed, from what she could tell, to be made entirely of dark-grey metal. The floor, the walls, the two doors that stood opposite each other and took up almost the entire width of their walls, even the grating on the single light, high in a side wall, were the same gun-metal color.
Photo: 123rf.com
Two Imperial Forwards stood over her, their four hard black boots nearly treading on her in the confines of the room—or the hallway or the cell or whatever it was—and making clanging sounds against the metal plating with every movement. But Laine was not there. Moira sat up, causing her own ringing and thumping and clanging sounds. The Forwards seemed to be watching her, but didn’t make any motion to stop her. “Is it okay if I stand up?” she asked, pointing toward the ceiling.
In response, they both moved as though to make room for her, but their movements were really little more than gestures in that small space. She stood between them.
“Do you speak English?” she asked, looking at each one in turn. They were both taller than she, and she found herself looking up at their helmets. But for all she could see through them, she wondered why she didn’t stare at their arms instead. It would have been just has helpful.
“Yes,” answered the one on her left.
“My daughter,” she said, trying to guess where his eyes might be and doing her best to look straight at them, “a ten-year-old girl. She was with me on the mountain when I was shot. Please, can you tell me where she is?”
He shook his faceless helmet. “We were told to expect one human.”
“Can you call the Forwards on the mountain, then? Ask them what happened after I was shot? Maybe they know where she is. Maybe they have her. Or at least they can tell us where they saw her last.”
“No.” the Forward answered quietly.
“No?” said Moira. “Just no? Why not?”
The Forward took a half-step toward her, shoving her backward until her head hit the plating behind her, and growled, “It is not your place to question me.”
An unfamiliar sense of rage filled Moira and nearly overwhelmed her. For an instant, as soon as the Forward had stepped back and released her, she actually considered leaping at his neck—or at least the place where his neck appeared to be—and trying to strangle him. She clasped her hands together to keep them still, and concentrated on calming her breathing. Laine needed her to stay alive.
But this wasn’t supposed to be happening. The Imperial Forwards shouldn’t have even been in New Hampshire. They had no reason to be.
Moira had thought, when she’d been laid off from her engineering job, that at least she’d finally get a chance to spend some time with Laine. But as it turned out, she’d been working just as many hours, getting just as exhausted, becoming just as short-tempered with the poor girl, now that she was looking for a job. So she’d taken an entire three days off, packed two backpacks with rope and ration-packs and bug spray and sunscreen and all the rest of it, and headed for the White Mountains.
But this morning they hadn’t eaten from the ration-packs. This morning their stomachs were full of oatmeal—good, cinnamony oatmeal with the milk and raisins cooked in—and sausage and eggs and applesauce, made the old-fashioned way over a campfire. At the moment they were traipsing through a forest of mostly beeches, oaks and maples, going roughly eastward and using the sun for a guide.
“Mom, are we going in circles?” Laine asked after a long stretch of silence—if cracking twigs and rustling leaves and birdsong and squirrel-chatter and insect noise could be called silence.
“I don’t believe so, Honey. Why do you ask?”
“Because, weren’t we supposed to get to Frankfurt Notch before lunch?”
“Franconia Notch. Yeah, it looks like we’ll get there way before lunch.”
“Um, Mom, the sun just went down.”
“Oh, it’s just behind Mount Lafayette I guess. It means we’re getting lower. We just got in Lafayette’s shadow, I suspect.”
“Are you sure we’re going the right way?”
“Pretty sure. We’ll get out the compass if we have to.”
“Maybe we can use the shadows.”
“What do you mean?”
“Look behind you. Higher up, back there, the sun isn’t down.”
“The sun was down when we were up there, though. It’s like it’s following us.”
“The sun is following us?”
“Maybe just the—“
“Mom, look at this! I think it’s road tar!”
“Yeah, that’s exactly what it is. They paved the trails.”
“Can we take it?”
“The trail? Yeah, it should come out at the south end of Profile Lake.”
But Laine probably didn’t hear even half of that. As soon as Moira had said ‘Yeah’ she was off like a racehorse at the starting gate.
“I think it’s this way,” Moira called.
The girl turned around and in a few minutes they had their packs off and were sitting on a rock, facing the stony beach.
Like most New Hampshire lakes, Profile was much longer than it was wide. The two hikers sat at its southern tip, and from there it stretched northward and disappeared around a bend. To their left across the water, Cannon Cliff seemed to tower over them, and on the right, beyond the narrow two-lane Interstate, Mount Lafayette rose steeply. What in other places was called a gap, a col or a pass, in New Hampshire was known as a notch, and this notch—this breathtaking tract of green pines and jutting granite, of grass and pebbles and placid water under a near-cobalt sky--was Franconia Notch.
Moira got out cookies and raisins and cheese, and they nibbled and drank from their canteens and stared at the reflection of the cliff in the water. After a few minutes Moira pointed northwards, along the lake to a spot beyond it on the east, high up in the peaks of Mount Lafayette. “See that place where the rock sticks out, and it’s a funny shape?”
“Oh, where it’s all pointy?”
“Where it’s all pointy, yeah. That’s called Eagle Crag. It’s a shoulder of Mount Lafayette. And do you see where it…I don’t know how to describe it…it’s almost like there’s a chunk taken out of the mountain? There’s the pointy part, and then there’s nothing, and then there’s rock again.”
“It’s not nothing, Mom,” Laine corrected her, ”it’s air.”
“Okay, you got me,” Moira conceded. “But do you see where I’m talking about?”
“Uh-huh,” answered Laine, as though it was obvious.
Moira handed her the brass spyglass her grandmother had given her when Laine was born, so they could go exploring together when she was old enough. “There’s an old lady up there,” she told her. “See if you can find her.”
The Watcher. Photo: mountwashington.org
Laine frowned in concentration for several seconds, finding her place with the spyglass, focusing it, then suddenly she gasped and smiled. After a minute she gave the spyglass back.
“That was amazing!” she said. “Did somebody carve that? Like Mount Rushmore and the presidents?”
“Nope.” Moira was quiet for a moment, adjusting to the new scale of vision, moving the glass slightly until it pointed to the right spot.
The right spot was a granite cliff, like Cannon Cliff but smaller, like thousands of places in New England where the bedrock was exposed and ended in a vertical drop. But in some of those places, part of the granite jutted out further than the rock face below it, creating unique shapes, and that’s what had happened here. From where Moira sat with Laine, there seemed to be a face protruding from the cliff--a knowing face, constantly watching.
“It’s a natural formation,” she told Laine, “caused by erosion. It’s called The Watcher.” She handed back the spyglass.
“I can see why,” the girl responded, sounding like an adult. She raised the glass to her left eye and squinted.
“On the other side of the notch, right up there…” Moira gestured toward Cannon Cliff. “…there used to be another stone face.”
The Old Man of the Mountain. Photo: econemily.wordpress.com
“Oh!” Laine was so enthused she jumped to her feet. ”I think I learned about that in school. The Old Man of the Mountain, right?”
“Yes, exactly.”
“But he fell down,” said Laine, sitting again.
Moira nodded. “The same forces that put him there, took him down.”
“Erosion?”
“Yup. They even used metal rods and bolts to try to keep him up there. I guess it worked for a while. Then one day, he just fell off anyway.”
“Is that why there’s all that rubbish there?” Laine asked, looking at the great slope at the base of the cliff, apparently taller than the cliff itself.
“Rubbish?” Moira repeated.
“Well, stuff, whatever.”
Moira smiled. “That’s called a talus slope. The Old Man is part of it, now. But what happened to him has been happening to the cliff face for thousands of years, and, yes, all the rock that falls off the cliff is what makes up the talus slope.”
Cannon Cliff. Photo: mooneymountainguides.com
“I bet she misses him.”
“Who misses whom?”
“Whom? Mom, nobody says ‘whom’ anymore. You sound like you’re an old lady.”
Moira smiled. “Yes, and I’m in the notch, watching. Who misses whom?”
Laine rolled her eyes. “The old lady. I bet she misses the Old Man.”
“I guess there’s kind of a legend about that, that the Watcher and the Old Man were friends, and the eagles used to carry messages back and forth between them.”
“Can we go swimming?”
“Sure, I guess we could go swimming. There’s a place, I forget what it’s called, but it’s up past Twin Mountain, Crawford Notch direction. We can—“
“No, I mean now. Can we go swimming now?” Laine’s big brown eyes looked hungrily at the lake.
“Oh, here? No, we can’t swim here. Sorry, Honey, but Profile Lake is just not a safe place to swim.”
“Too deep?”
“Probably,” Moira answered. “Actually, I’m not sure. It could be too deep, or it could be there are rocks in it, where you could hit your head, or…maybe there’s another reason.”
“Alligators?”
“Nope, it’s not alligators. They can’t survive in this climate. It’s too cold for them.”
“Then can we go back up the trail then, if we can’t swim? It’s getting hot here.” The sun had risen above the mountains again.
“Yeah, okay, for a little ways anyway. It’ll be cooler under the trees.”
“Laura said goodbye yesterday,” Laine stated soberly when they’d been following the trail for about five minutes.
“Okay.”
“No, I mean, she said goodbye. In case we’re not going to see each other.”
“Why would—is she moving?”
“No. She said we might not come back.” Laine stopped walking, looked her mother in the eyes and asked, “Are we going to stay here?”
“What do you mean?” Moira asked. “We’re just up here for three days, and then we have to go home again. I have a job interview, remember?”
“Laura said we might not be going back.”
“Why would she say that?”
“She said things like that happen when there’s wars. Parents take their kids to the country to live, because the cities aren’t safe. And Marcus said the war isn’t going very well, and Washington might fall, and then the Forwards would most likely focus on New York next, and—“
Moira put her hands on Laine’s shoulders. “Okay, okay, enough. First of all, I did not bring you here because Springfield isn’t safe. I brought you here because my dad used to bring me here, and I haven’t been spending enough time with you lately. Secondly, there’s no reason to think Washington is going to fall, so you can stop worrying. And thirdly, even if it did, that doesn’t put Springfield in any danger. The Forwards just aren’t interested in Springfield.” Moira set off up the trail again, walking slowly and letting her right hand remain affectionately on Laine’s shoulder.
“That’s what Sarah said. Springfield has no strategic importance.”
“Sarah’s right. They’re not going to waste their time on it.”
“What about this place?”
“Yeah, beautiful, isn’t it?”
“No, does it have strategic importance?”
“Oh! No. None whatsoever.”
Laine spotted an unusually large, old white birch about ten feet from the trail and dashed off to investigate. “Why are they called the Forwards?”
“Not sure. I suppose they’re the forward guard, as opposed to the rear guard, the soldiers who go in front and start the invasion.”
“So there might be more, the Imperial Middles, maybe, coming after them?” She was on the trail again.
“Bureaucrats, I’d bet.”
“What?”
“I bet they call all their military ‘Forwards’.”
“Oh, I get it. The ‘middles’ aren’t military. They’re just office workers.”
“Yeah, maybe. I don’t know.”
“I want to go all the way to the top. Does this trail go to the top?”
“I don’t remember, but we can check the map. We had planned on—“
The trail had taken a sharp bend around a boulder—a glacial erratic—that was twice as tall as Moira and roughly the shape of a ranch-style house. She cut off her sentence the instant she got to the corner because standing about twenty feet beyond the rock were two figures dressed in the striking black-and-purple uniforms of the Imperial Forwards.
Photo: whitemountainsojourn.blogspot.com
Almost by reflex, she shrank back around the corner, put her finger to her lips and looked back at Laine. And that’s when she noticed two more Forwards behind Laine, their black helmets concealing their faces and their black and purple flexible armor covering every inch of their bodies. Moira stood up straight again, her back to the boulder, her eyes on Laine.
The first two Forwards had stepped toward them and now stood beside Moira. The other two remained behind Laine.
“Why you are here?” one of the first ones demanded.
Moira stepped forward, slowly, keeping her hands visible, her movements obvious, reaching toward Laine to demonstrate her intention to stand with her. “It’s a mini-vacation,” she explained. “We’re just doing a little hiking.”
The Forwards all turned their heads, as though they were exchanging glances, even though it was impossible to see through their helmets. “Explain,” ordered the one who had spoken before. “What is ‘cation’? What is ‘hiking’?”
Moira and Laine had closed the distance between them now, were standing side by side, each with one arm around the other, and holding hands. “Pleasure,” Moira explained. “We are here for pleasure.”
“You lie,” said the Forward, raised her weapon until it was nearly touching Moira’s shirt, and pulled the trigger.
Note: I answered a call from Chainbooks.com to write just the first chapters for several novels, and Mothership is one of them. If you'd like to contribute a chapter to Mothership, or check out the other novels-in-progress at Chainbooks, click here.
Thursday, January 3, 2013
Why I Don't Write
It's very gratifying when readers leave comments like this one on An Analysis of the Cardassian Language: "Where's the rest of the story?" But comments like this also ask a legitimate question: Why don't I write more? It's not that I don't want to. Take today, for example.
When I got up around 6:00 it was five below out, and, yup, the bathroom is outdoors. Bundle up, go out, come back in, take off the outdoor gear, think about breakfast. The water's coming out very rusty from the hand pump. It does that when it's cold out; I don't know why. Maybe ice crystals are playing wall ball with the pipe. Anyway, no doing dishes or drinking pump water till that clears up. But that's why we keep several full bottles under the sink.
Then it's time to get to work. No, not writing yet. The convenient stack of wood has just about run out, so it's time to uncover the inconvenient one. Bundle up again, take a good layer of snow off the top, remove the weights that hold the tarp down, remove snow again, then remove the tarp. Now, the stack is carefully balanced, so I clear the snow off a couple of chopping blocks, stand on them and start removing wood, carefully, from across the top. I bring it in until the space beside the chimney and the space under the stove are full. Then I transfer the rest of the wood to the porch, where the convenient stack was. When I get tired I check my email and tweet about my blog. Not that I've posted anything today.
By the time the wood's about a third done it occurs to me that we're going to burn through it fast at the rate we're going. I can't control the weather, but there are a few things I can control, more or less. We're losing a lot of heat around the door, for example. Not only is that corner of the house just drafty in general, but the door opens directly to the outdoors. Good New Hampshire houses have mudrooms that function as airlocks to preserve heat. So every fall I hang a set of thick quilted drapes to make a temporary mudroom for the cold months. Only last fall I didn't. So when I'm done with the wood I get going on that. Or I try to, but I can't find the stupid thing. Small house, lots of family members keeping stuff here, stuff getting added and taken away every few months. The place is never tidy, always looks like a bizarre combination of charming log cabin and disorganized warehouse. And I lose track of things.
So I spend a few hours organizing the warehouse and looking for the mudroom. No dice. (Actually didn't see any dice, but I think I know where they are.) Give up and grab some blankets. No rod pocket in a blanket, so I'll have to nail them up, need to get out some nails and a hammer. One of the blankets turns out to be a tiny throw; I'll have to find another one. And then I remember where the mudroom is. I put my coat and gloves on, push off some snow, shake some ice loose, and open the barrel. That's right, I had it in a barrel outdoors. Space, sometimes - good indoor space - is at such a premium, we can get very creative. I pull out half the set, bring it indoors to warm up, wish it hadn't completely slipped my mind to do this months ago. There's a reason my daughter calls me "crazy writer lady." I see my computer, I see the time, and can't stand the fact that I haven't posted a blog entry today, so I write this.
After I hit 'publish', I'll finish installing the temporary mudroom, reheat some supper and eat it, and - if life doesn't hijack me again - write at least a little before I sleep. But chances are it won't be a big enough chunk to post yet.
Then it's time to get to work. No, not writing yet. The convenient stack of wood has just about run out, so it's time to uncover the inconvenient one. Bundle up again, take a good layer of snow off the top, remove the weights that hold the tarp down, remove snow again, then remove the tarp. Now, the stack is carefully balanced, so I clear the snow off a couple of chopping blocks, stand on them and start removing wood, carefully, from across the top. I bring it in until the space beside the chimney and the space under the stove are full. Then I transfer the rest of the wood to the porch, where the convenient stack was. When I get tired I check my email and tweet about my blog. Not that I've posted anything today.
By the time the wood's about a third done it occurs to me that we're going to burn through it fast at the rate we're going. I can't control the weather, but there are a few things I can control, more or less. We're losing a lot of heat around the door, for example. Not only is that corner of the house just drafty in general, but the door opens directly to the outdoors. Good New Hampshire houses have mudrooms that function as airlocks to preserve heat. So every fall I hang a set of thick quilted drapes to make a temporary mudroom for the cold months. Only last fall I didn't. So when I'm done with the wood I get going on that. Or I try to, but I can't find the stupid thing. Small house, lots of family members keeping stuff here, stuff getting added and taken away every few months. The place is never tidy, always looks like a bizarre combination of charming log cabin and disorganized warehouse. And I lose track of things.
After I hit 'publish', I'll finish installing the temporary mudroom, reheat some supper and eat it, and - if life doesn't hijack me again - write at least a little before I sleep. But chances are it won't be a big enough chunk to post yet.
Saturday, December 8, 2012
Pleased to Beat You
Here's a science fiction story, one of the eight short stories in The Claw and the Eye:
Obviously, he was just another sign of Jade's over-active imagination. She looked again to clear the bizarre image from her mind, and there he was, standing on the orange leaves behind the house. It would have been odd enough for a stranger to walk into her backyard from the forest at all. But this stranger looked like he should have been walking into a sci-fi convention. His entire head was covered in a hairless, ridged and scaly mask. He wore a futuristic-looking slate-gray jumpsuit with an intricate design of shiny gold-colored circles embossed on the front. Heavy gray boots came up to his knees. "My vehicle is disabled," he said. "I require help." He had a deep voice.
"Where is your vehicle?" Jade asked, stalling for time.
"About 500 meters north-northeast of here." He sounded congested.
500 meters north-northeast. There were no roads in that location--only a rough jeep track. Then either he was confused, or he was lying to hide something. "I'd be happy to call someone for you," she told him, and went into the house. She would lock the door and call 911, and they'd probably take him to the hospital.
But before she could finish closing the door, he grabbed it and followed her inside. He was tall--at least six-six.
With an effort, she looked up at the scaly mask. It fit him well--it must have been glued on and touched up with makeup. "Wait for me outside, please."
"No," he said, and closed the door.
“Really,” she insisted, her pulse throbbing in her ears, “you need to wait outside.” She tried to open the door again, but he held it closed. She kicked the little throw-rug out of the way, got a solid stance on the pine floorboards, grabbed the doorknob with both hands, leaned back and pulled hard. But of course she was no match for the much bigger intruder, and he stood there looking almost bored, holding the door shut easily with one hand.
Telling herself not to panic, she methodically put the mail down on the table, took off her coat and fed the fire in the woodstove. She replaced the stove-lid, hung the lid-lifter on its nail beside the bellows and whisk broom on the side of the stair-stringer and started for the telephone.
But when she had the phone almost within her reach, he grabbed her arm, stopping her. His touch felt like leather--and no wonder. He wore gloves to match the gray-brown 'alien' skin of his mask.
The fingers of the gloves ended in claws, but either they weren't sharp or he had been careful not to scratch her with them. "I will not allow you to contact your government," he said matter-of-factly. He must have had a bad cold: he sounded all plugged up.
"Let me go!" Jade protested, trying not to sound scared.
To her surprise, he did release her, and she made a dive for the phone.
It was useless. He grabbed her arm again and held her back.
"Okay," she breathed, hoping she hadn't angered him. "No phone calls." She paused, swallowed, took a deep breath, and said, "But then, I don't know how I can help you."
"I require heat," he replied evenly. "You will stay by the stairs." Still holding her arm, he pulled her back around the table to the place where she’d just hung the lid-lifter. She thought he might frisk her to make sure she didn’t have a cell phone on her, but he didn’t. Maybe he knew there was no cell signal there, or maybe he just didn’t think of it. He stood between the stove and the table, blocking her way to the phone, and took off his outer piece of clothing. It was a stiff piece, worn in front like the protective gear of a baseball catcher. He pulled his arms out of his jumpsuit and tied the sleeves around his waist. The long-sleeved jersey or unionsuit he wore underneath covered him completely, from 'alien' mask to 'alien' gloves.
"What should I call you?" Jade asked.
"Zukk," he answered, "My name is Zukk." It rhymed with 'duke.' But he was so congested that it sounded like, "By dabe is Zukk."
"Zukk," she repeated. "Okay. Why the alien costume?"
Zukk--or whatever his name really was--didn't answer right away. He removed a small object from his left hip and spoke into it: "Costube." Some sounds came from the object. Then he replaced it and turned to Jade. "Are you asking why I wear this clothing?"
Jade resisted the temptation to roll her eyes at this attempt at acting. "Yeah, why the alien suit? You going to a con?"
"No," he answered. "I wear the uniform of a Chuzekk Zidd." (It rhymed with 'seed.') "What should I call you?"
"Oh sorry," she answered. "I'm Jade. Nice to meet you." She offered her hand reluctantly, and he shook it.
“Jade,” he repeated.
"I should check the fire again," said Jade. It was probably too early to check the fire, but she was nervous and needed to keep moving.
He nodded and made room for her. She looked at the fire and tasted the soup that simmered on top. After adding a little black pepper and allspice, there was nothing more to do than move it to the edge of the stove to keep warm.
"Is it ready?" he asked.
"Yeah," said Jade. "It's done." She didn't want to offer him any. He wasn't a guest, after all.
He lifted the cover without a potholder and smelled the soup. "I will eat with you," he said.
His arrogance annoyed her, but she thought it would be petty to argue. "Soup mugs are on the beam," she said, pointing past him.
He grabbed two, and she got out spoons and a ladle and dill weed. He ladled soup into the mugs and ate his. She stirred dill into hers and waited. It was too hot. Besides, she was too nervous to eat.
She should try to get him to talk. It would be good to know if he was a fugitive and the alien-act was a way of concealing his identity, or if he was just crazy. Either way, he could turn dangerous.
"So where you from?" she asked.
"Chuzz," he answered.
"Choose what?"
"Chuzz is the name of my planet. You have not discovered it yet."
Jade shrugged. "I hope this soup helps your cold."
"The heat from your fire is recharging my thermal garment," he answered, sounding as congested as ever in spite of the steaming soup. "We are cold-blooded. We cannot create our own heat as you do. So we wear special garments for this purpose. After my vehicle was disabled, I did not have time to finish repairs before recharging."
"So you came to my house to recharge your garment?" Jade asked. Whatever else this guy was, he was intelligent. And was there something more to his speech, too? A hint of an accent, maybe? It was hard to say for sure, with all that congestion.
"Yes," he said.
Compassion finally got the better of her. "You should take something for that cold. A decongestant.
Let me see what I have."
He followed her to the bathroom, soup in hand. "I do dot require a decodgestat," he objected. "I ab dot codgested."
"You can't even say the word 'congested,'" she countered, "because you're too congested."
"There are some sounds of your language which we cannot make," he explained. "It is a physiological difference, not an illness."
"O-kay," she replied. He was really testing her patience. "Are you sure you don't want to take one of these anyway? It'll help you feel better."
"Yes."
She poured out one pill and held it out to him, in the bottle cap.
He ignored it. "You should eat. You require fuel to create heat. You will come with me to my vehicle."
She put the pill away. "That's okay, you go ahead. I'll stay here."
"No. I will not allow you to contact your government."
They went back to the kitchen and he handed her her soup.
She took a bite, then said, "Why not? Why won't you let me contact the government? They can help you."
"They would consider me a threat, capture me, probably kill me. They would attempt to reverse-engineer my Personal Device, my thermal garment and my vehicle. When we contact your government, we will do so with a show of force sufficient to prove such actions unwise."
"I see." His logic may have been unrelated to reality, but it certainly seemed consistent.
He was getting back into his sleeves, so she put her coat on. The bright orange safety vest, a necessity during hunting season, was already on it. She grabbed some gloves, a hat and scarf, a flashlight and the Spanish novel she'd been reading before she'd gone out for the mail.
He put his front-piece back on, picked up the soup-pot by its bail handle and took her arm again.
She closed the stove-drafts, and he pulled her out of the house.
"What is that thing for?" she asked as they walked north into the forest. She indicated with her hand the stiff thing he wore on the front of his body.
"It is armor. It was originally for battle, but since its protection is useful for many activities, we wear them most of the day."
"And the design on the front? The gold circles?"
"They indicate my rank and command: Zidd, Foreign Relations."
A brilliant red maple that still had most of its leaves caught Jade’s eye. She let her head turn to enjoy the view. He had her firmly by the arm, so she didn’t really need to look where she was going. She didn’t know whether he would let her fall if she tripped, but it didn’t matter. What mattered was that she was being dragged into the forest by some weirdo. For all she knew, he could be a serial killer on the run. She was glad her daughter was in school. What she needed to do was find a way to convince her captor to go back, at least as far as the house, and hopefully as far as the road. At least then, there was a possibility someone would see them. “Do you know what’s wrong with your vehicle?” she asked him.
“Yes,” he said, and nothing more. He let go of her arm.
“Would you mind telling me?” she prodded.
“No,” he said. Still nothing more.
“So, um…are you going to tell me?” she asked, after a pause.
“If you want me to tell you, then I will.”
Jade rolled her eyes. “Please tell me what’s wrong with your vehicle,” she recited.
“The primary seal of the cooling fluid container for the second combustion chamber contained cellulose and fructose.”
Jade suppressed a laugh. Spaceship parts made of cellulose and fructose, what a fantasy! “Is it supposed to?” she asked.
“I do not understand,” her abductor replied, serious as ever. He walked very close to her: even if he was one of those guys whose size made them slow runners, he could still grab her if she tried to make a run for it. She kept up her pace.
“Is—that thing—supposed to be made of cellulose and fructose?” she asked, managing somehow to keep a straight face.
He shook his head “Cellulose and fructose are combustible,” he explained patiently. “They burned and the seal changed shape and caused a leak. The factory workers failed to install the secondary seal.”
Jade didn’t pay a lot of attention to the explanation. “Don’t you need to bring some tools?” she asked. “We have lots of tools at my house. I keep a basic set in my car, and then there are more in the shed. Shouldn’t we grab some?”
“Yes,” he replied, but he didn’t sound very interested.
It had worked. Jade stopped and began to turn back. “What tools do you need, exactly?” she asked, trying to sound casual.
He grabbed her arm and forced her forward, back in the direction they had been going—northeast, uphill, away from the road. The only hope of getting help out there would be if they happened to meet a hunter.
“But you said you need to get tools from my place,” she objected, looking up at him. She opened her eyes as wide as she could. Maybe he’d feel sorry for her, and reconsider.
“No,” he replied. “I said yes I do not need tools from your house. I need a tachzutt combiner and there is one in my vehicle.”
A new thought suddenly occurred to Jade: if 'Zukk' was delusional--really believed his own story--then would he become violent when he discovered there was no spaceship? She walked for a minute, thinking, silent except for the rustling sound her feet made in the leaves. Then she said,
"Does your vehicle have a self-destruct function?"
"I will not answer," was the 'alien's' response.
"Okay, that's fair. But if it does--and it's in need of repair--then the self-destruct could theoretically go off accidentally, right?"
"I don't know."
"And if that happened we could get to the spot where you left your spaceship--I mean your vehicle--and find nothing."
But when they got to the spot, it was Jade who was surprised. Standing among the wispy black-and-white-and-yellow birches and the thick green hemlocks was something that looked vaguely like a rocket--or like one of the space shuttles, only much smaller. It was white and shaped somewhat like a cone, and had some round black parts on the bottom that she took to be exhaust ports.
Just for an instant, she was tempted to wonder if Zukk really was from outer space. How else could she explain his vehicle, here in such a place? But then, a real alien ship wouldn't look like anything she had ever seen or even imagined.
"How did this get here?" she said aloud.
"I was recording this region when propulsion failed, forcing me to land. I will finish repairs. You will stay beside me."
"You were recording this region. You mean mapping it?"
"Yes." He took the device from his hip and punched in a code, and an opening appeared in the side of the vehicle. Jade noticed that he typed with his claws and not his fingers. He continued,
"Mapping and recording sounds, images, temperature, pressure, material composition and other things."
"You're a spy." She hadn't meant to say it aloud.
"Yes," They were inside the vehicle now. Zukk was typing with his claws and consulting various readouts. None of the places where he typed looked like keypads, and none of the places where the readouts showed looked like readout screens. Everything looked like structural elements--walls or posts, for example--until pictures and diagrams appeared on them.
And then she saw the writing in the readouts and forgot everything else. The characters were angular like printed Hebrew, but had a little of the brushstroke quality of Chinese. The language appeared to be either alphabetic or syllabary. If she could just hear some of it...
"What does that say?" she asked, pointing to a short piece of text above her head.
"26-pod propulsion failure,” he replied. “You will go outdoors with me." Then he took her arm and half-dragged her back out into the familiar world and away from the strange language that begged to be decoded. He had a tool in his other hand, and began using it. It appeared to be some sort of welding torch or laser.
He kept working for hours, and she couldn't convince him to let her back inside. He didn't want to talk, either, and she grew bored and cold. She ate some soup--also cold--and tried to run away but Zukk was too fast for her. She finished the chapter in the Spanish novel.
She wished she’d thought to bring her computer. She should be working right now, after all, and her next task was those four boring documents, two Spanish, one French and one Italian, that were waiting on her hard drive to be turned into English. She didn’t think for a moment that any of her clients would understand if she told them, “Your documents aren’t ready yet because I was kidnapped by a harmless man claiming to be an alien.” She may as well tell them a dog ate it, or a dinosaur.
The novel was much more interesting than those dry documents. It was also much more risky. Nobody was paying her to translate the novel, or not exactly, anyway. She was going to get a percentage, after expenses, assuming enough copies were sold to even cover the expenses.
But as excited as she was about translating the novel, even that was just another translation job. What she really wanted was to tackle a new language and analyze it. She had a feeling, and it wouldn’t go away. It was a feeling like there was something there, buried in the languages—not just in the romance languages she worked with every day. Not even in the Latin and sprinkling of Greek that was always present in all of them. The hints were there, but she wasn’t going to find the answer from just those hints. She wanted to immerse herself, for starters, in Russian, in Norwegian and Swedish, in old and new Turkish, in ancient and modern Hebrew. She didn’t need to actually learn the languages, she just needed to analyze them. Look for patterns. What patterns, she couldn’t tell. She only knew there was something.
But she was being silly. It was ridiculous to think that she, Jade Massilon, could find something the world’s expert linguists hadn’t found. She had only a GED with a couple of college courses tacked on. And she read a lot, for whatever that was worth.
And anyway it didn’t matter. She didn’t have time to chase language-ghosts; she had a living to make. She wished she’d at least thought to bring a paper and pencil. She could start working on translating the novel, that way. At least she’d be doing something, and she could get her mind off the tantalizing readouts locked inside this vehicle. She looked at Zukk working on it and wondered if it was ever going to fly. She wondered if he could really be an alien. She wondered if there was any way to know for sure.
Then suddenly he was done. He stood up and spoke a command, and the engine--or whatever it was--started with a babbling hum. Then the hum stopped and the vehicle disappeared.
"Cloaked," Jade heard herself say.
Zukk spoke another command and the vehicle reappeared, silent this time. He turned to her and offered his hand. This time, she shook it willingly. "I will leave now: you are free," he said. "I believe that since you have seen me, my government will expedite the Earth project. I expect ships from Chuzz to arrive soon." He let go of her hand and started toward his vehicle, then stopped and turned. “Our meeting was due to an error, but I am glad of it. You have a greeting.” He paused a moment to think, then said with his congested sound, “Pleased to beat you, Jade.”
Then he stepped into his vehicle and the opening closed behind him. The vehicle made its babbling hum for a few seconds, then went silent and disappeared.
Obviously, he was just another sign of Jade's over-active imagination. She looked again to clear the bizarre image from her mind, and there he was, standing on the orange leaves behind the house. It would have been odd enough for a stranger to walk into her backyard from the forest at all. But this stranger looked like he should have been walking into a sci-fi convention. His entire head was covered in a hairless, ridged and scaly mask. He wore a futuristic-looking slate-gray jumpsuit with an intricate design of shiny gold-colored circles embossed on the front. Heavy gray boots came up to his knees. "My vehicle is disabled," he said. "I require help." He had a deep voice.
"Where is your vehicle?" Jade asked, stalling for time.
 |
| Photo:www.libroscienciaficcion.com |
500 meters north-northeast. There were no roads in that location--only a rough jeep track. Then either he was confused, or he was lying to hide something. "I'd be happy to call someone for you," she told him, and went into the house. She would lock the door and call 911, and they'd probably take him to the hospital.
But before she could finish closing the door, he grabbed it and followed her inside. He was tall--at least six-six.
With an effort, she looked up at the scaly mask. It fit him well--it must have been glued on and touched up with makeup. "Wait for me outside, please."
"No," he said, and closed the door.
“Really,” she insisted, her pulse throbbing in her ears, “you need to wait outside.” She tried to open the door again, but he held it closed. She kicked the little throw-rug out of the way, got a solid stance on the pine floorboards, grabbed the doorknob with both hands, leaned back and pulled hard. But of course she was no match for the much bigger intruder, and he stood there looking almost bored, holding the door shut easily with one hand.
Telling herself not to panic, she methodically put the mail down on the table, took off her coat and fed the fire in the woodstove. She replaced the stove-lid, hung the lid-lifter on its nail beside the bellows and whisk broom on the side of the stair-stringer and started for the telephone.
But when she had the phone almost within her reach, he grabbed her arm, stopping her. His touch felt like leather--and no wonder. He wore gloves to match the gray-brown 'alien' skin of his mask.
The fingers of the gloves ended in claws, but either they weren't sharp or he had been careful not to scratch her with them. "I will not allow you to contact your government," he said matter-of-factly. He must have had a bad cold: he sounded all plugged up.
"Let me go!" Jade protested, trying not to sound scared.
To her surprise, he did release her, and she made a dive for the phone.
It was useless. He grabbed her arm again and held her back.
"Okay," she breathed, hoping she hadn't angered him. "No phone calls." She paused, swallowed, took a deep breath, and said, "But then, I don't know how I can help you."
"I require heat," he replied evenly. "You will stay by the stairs." Still holding her arm, he pulled her back around the table to the place where she’d just hung the lid-lifter. She thought he might frisk her to make sure she didn’t have a cell phone on her, but he didn’t. Maybe he knew there was no cell signal there, or maybe he just didn’t think of it. He stood between the stove and the table, blocking her way to the phone, and took off his outer piece of clothing. It was a stiff piece, worn in front like the protective gear of a baseball catcher. He pulled his arms out of his jumpsuit and tied the sleeves around his waist. The long-sleeved jersey or unionsuit he wore underneath covered him completely, from 'alien' mask to 'alien' gloves.
"What should I call you?" Jade asked.
"Zukk," he answered, "My name is Zukk." It rhymed with 'duke.' But he was so congested that it sounded like, "By dabe is Zukk."
"Zukk," she repeated. "Okay. Why the alien costume?"
Zukk--or whatever his name really was--didn't answer right away. He removed a small object from his left hip and spoke into it: "Costube." Some sounds came from the object. Then he replaced it and turned to Jade. "Are you asking why I wear this clothing?"
Jade resisted the temptation to roll her eyes at this attempt at acting. "Yeah, why the alien suit? You going to a con?"
"No," he answered. "I wear the uniform of a Chuzekk Zidd." (It rhymed with 'seed.') "What should I call you?"
"Oh sorry," she answered. "I'm Jade. Nice to meet you." She offered her hand reluctantly, and he shook it.
“Jade,” he repeated.
"I should check the fire again," said Jade. It was probably too early to check the fire, but she was nervous and needed to keep moving.
He nodded and made room for her. She looked at the fire and tasted the soup that simmered on top. After adding a little black pepper and allspice, there was nothing more to do than move it to the edge of the stove to keep warm."Is it ready?" he asked.
"Yeah," said Jade. "It's done." She didn't want to offer him any. He wasn't a guest, after all.
He lifted the cover without a potholder and smelled the soup. "I will eat with you," he said.
His arrogance annoyed her, but she thought it would be petty to argue. "Soup mugs are on the beam," she said, pointing past him.
He grabbed two, and she got out spoons and a ladle and dill weed. He ladled soup into the mugs and ate his. She stirred dill into hers and waited. It was too hot. Besides, she was too nervous to eat.
She should try to get him to talk. It would be good to know if he was a fugitive and the alien-act was a way of concealing his identity, or if he was just crazy. Either way, he could turn dangerous.
"So where you from?" she asked.
"Chuzz," he answered.
"Choose what?"
"Chuzz is the name of my planet. You have not discovered it yet."
Jade shrugged. "I hope this soup helps your cold."
"The heat from your fire is recharging my thermal garment," he answered, sounding as congested as ever in spite of the steaming soup. "We are cold-blooded. We cannot create our own heat as you do. So we wear special garments for this purpose. After my vehicle was disabled, I did not have time to finish repairs before recharging."
"So you came to my house to recharge your garment?" Jade asked. Whatever else this guy was, he was intelligent. And was there something more to his speech, too? A hint of an accent, maybe? It was hard to say for sure, with all that congestion.
"Yes," he said.
Compassion finally got the better of her. "You should take something for that cold. A decongestant.
Let me see what I have."
He followed her to the bathroom, soup in hand. "I do dot require a decodgestat," he objected. "I ab dot codgested."
"You can't even say the word 'congested,'" she countered, "because you're too congested."
"There are some sounds of your language which we cannot make," he explained. "It is a physiological difference, not an illness."
"O-kay," she replied. He was really testing her patience. "Are you sure you don't want to take one of these anyway? It'll help you feel better."
"Yes."
She poured out one pill and held it out to him, in the bottle cap.
He ignored it. "You should eat. You require fuel to create heat. You will come with me to my vehicle."
She put the pill away. "That's okay, you go ahead. I'll stay here."
"No. I will not allow you to contact your government."
They went back to the kitchen and he handed her her soup.
She took a bite, then said, "Why not? Why won't you let me contact the government? They can help you."
"They would consider me a threat, capture me, probably kill me. They would attempt to reverse-engineer my Personal Device, my thermal garment and my vehicle. When we contact your government, we will do so with a show of force sufficient to prove such actions unwise."
"I see." His logic may have been unrelated to reality, but it certainly seemed consistent.
He was getting back into his sleeves, so she put her coat on. The bright orange safety vest, a necessity during hunting season, was already on it. She grabbed some gloves, a hat and scarf, a flashlight and the Spanish novel she'd been reading before she'd gone out for the mail.
He put his front-piece back on, picked up the soup-pot by its bail handle and took her arm again.
She closed the stove-drafts, and he pulled her out of the house.
"What is that thing for?" she asked as they walked north into the forest. She indicated with her hand the stiff thing he wore on the front of his body.
"It is armor. It was originally for battle, but since its protection is useful for many activities, we wear them most of the day."
"And the design on the front? The gold circles?"
"They indicate my rank and command: Zidd, Foreign Relations."
A brilliant red maple that still had most of its leaves caught Jade’s eye. She let her head turn to enjoy the view. He had her firmly by the arm, so she didn’t really need to look where she was going. She didn’t know whether he would let her fall if she tripped, but it didn’t matter. What mattered was that she was being dragged into the forest by some weirdo. For all she knew, he could be a serial killer on the run. She was glad her daughter was in school. What she needed to do was find a way to convince her captor to go back, at least as far as the house, and hopefully as far as the road. At least then, there was a possibility someone would see them. “Do you know what’s wrong with your vehicle?” she asked him.
“Yes,” he said, and nothing more. He let go of her arm.
“Would you mind telling me?” she prodded.
“No,” he said. Still nothing more.
“So, um…are you going to tell me?” she asked, after a pause.
“If you want me to tell you, then I will.”
Jade rolled her eyes. “Please tell me what’s wrong with your vehicle,” she recited.
“The primary seal of the cooling fluid container for the second combustion chamber contained cellulose and fructose.”
Jade suppressed a laugh. Spaceship parts made of cellulose and fructose, what a fantasy! “Is it supposed to?” she asked.
“I do not understand,” her abductor replied, serious as ever. He walked very close to her: even if he was one of those guys whose size made them slow runners, he could still grab her if she tried to make a run for it. She kept up her pace.
“Is—that thing—supposed to be made of cellulose and fructose?” she asked, managing somehow to keep a straight face.
He shook his head “Cellulose and fructose are combustible,” he explained patiently. “They burned and the seal changed shape and caused a leak. The factory workers failed to install the secondary seal.”
Jade didn’t pay a lot of attention to the explanation. “Don’t you need to bring some tools?” she asked. “We have lots of tools at my house. I keep a basic set in my car, and then there are more in the shed. Shouldn’t we grab some?”
“Yes,” he replied, but he didn’t sound very interested.
It had worked. Jade stopped and began to turn back. “What tools do you need, exactly?” she asked, trying to sound casual.
He grabbed her arm and forced her forward, back in the direction they had been going—northeast, uphill, away from the road. The only hope of getting help out there would be if they happened to meet a hunter.
“But you said you need to get tools from my place,” she objected, looking up at him. She opened her eyes as wide as she could. Maybe he’d feel sorry for her, and reconsider.
“No,” he replied. “I said yes I do not need tools from your house. I need a tachzutt combiner and there is one in my vehicle.”
A new thought suddenly occurred to Jade: if 'Zukk' was delusional--really believed his own story--then would he become violent when he discovered there was no spaceship? She walked for a minute, thinking, silent except for the rustling sound her feet made in the leaves. Then she said,
"Does your vehicle have a self-destruct function?"
"I will not answer," was the 'alien's' response.
"Okay, that's fair. But if it does--and it's in need of repair--then the self-destruct could theoretically go off accidentally, right?"
"I don't know."
"And if that happened we could get to the spot where you left your spaceship--I mean your vehicle--and find nothing."
But when they got to the spot, it was Jade who was surprised. Standing among the wispy black-and-white-and-yellow birches and the thick green hemlocks was something that looked vaguely like a rocket--or like one of the space shuttles, only much smaller. It was white and shaped somewhat like a cone, and had some round black parts on the bottom that she took to be exhaust ports.
Just for an instant, she was tempted to wonder if Zukk really was from outer space. How else could she explain his vehicle, here in such a place? But then, a real alien ship wouldn't look like anything she had ever seen or even imagined.
"How did this get here?" she said aloud.
"I was recording this region when propulsion failed, forcing me to land. I will finish repairs. You will stay beside me."
"You were recording this region. You mean mapping it?"
"Yes." He took the device from his hip and punched in a code, and an opening appeared in the side of the vehicle. Jade noticed that he typed with his claws and not his fingers. He continued,
"Mapping and recording sounds, images, temperature, pressure, material composition and other things."
"You're a spy." She hadn't meant to say it aloud.
"Yes," They were inside the vehicle now. Zukk was typing with his claws and consulting various readouts. None of the places where he typed looked like keypads, and none of the places where the readouts showed looked like readout screens. Everything looked like structural elements--walls or posts, for example--until pictures and diagrams appeared on them.
And then she saw the writing in the readouts and forgot everything else. The characters were angular like printed Hebrew, but had a little of the brushstroke quality of Chinese. The language appeared to be either alphabetic or syllabary. If she could just hear some of it...
"What does that say?" she asked, pointing to a short piece of text above her head.
"26-pod propulsion failure,” he replied. “You will go outdoors with me." Then he took her arm and half-dragged her back out into the familiar world and away from the strange language that begged to be decoded. He had a tool in his other hand, and began using it. It appeared to be some sort of welding torch or laser.
He kept working for hours, and she couldn't convince him to let her back inside. He didn't want to talk, either, and she grew bored and cold. She ate some soup--also cold--and tried to run away but Zukk was too fast for her. She finished the chapter in the Spanish novel.
She wished she’d thought to bring her computer. She should be working right now, after all, and her next task was those four boring documents, two Spanish, one French and one Italian, that were waiting on her hard drive to be turned into English. She didn’t think for a moment that any of her clients would understand if she told them, “Your documents aren’t ready yet because I was kidnapped by a harmless man claiming to be an alien.” She may as well tell them a dog ate it, or a dinosaur.
The novel was much more interesting than those dry documents. It was also much more risky. Nobody was paying her to translate the novel, or not exactly, anyway. She was going to get a percentage, after expenses, assuming enough copies were sold to even cover the expenses.
But as excited as she was about translating the novel, even that was just another translation job. What she really wanted was to tackle a new language and analyze it. She had a feeling, and it wouldn’t go away. It was a feeling like there was something there, buried in the languages—not just in the romance languages she worked with every day. Not even in the Latin and sprinkling of Greek that was always present in all of them. The hints were there, but she wasn’t going to find the answer from just those hints. She wanted to immerse herself, for starters, in Russian, in Norwegian and Swedish, in old and new Turkish, in ancient and modern Hebrew. She didn’t need to actually learn the languages, she just needed to analyze them. Look for patterns. What patterns, she couldn’t tell. She only knew there was something.
But she was being silly. It was ridiculous to think that she, Jade Massilon, could find something the world’s expert linguists hadn’t found. She had only a GED with a couple of college courses tacked on. And she read a lot, for whatever that was worth.
And anyway it didn’t matter. She didn’t have time to chase language-ghosts; she had a living to make. She wished she’d at least thought to bring a paper and pencil. She could start working on translating the novel, that way. At least she’d be doing something, and she could get her mind off the tantalizing readouts locked inside this vehicle. She looked at Zukk working on it and wondered if it was ever going to fly. She wondered if he could really be an alien. She wondered if there was any way to know for sure.
Then suddenly he was done. He stood up and spoke a command, and the engine--or whatever it was--started with a babbling hum. Then the hum stopped and the vehicle disappeared.
"Cloaked," Jade heard herself say.
Zukk spoke another command and the vehicle reappeared, silent this time. He turned to her and offered his hand. This time, she shook it willingly. "I will leave now: you are free," he said. "I believe that since you have seen me, my government will expedite the Earth project. I expect ships from Chuzz to arrive soon." He let go of her hand and started toward his vehicle, then stopped and turned. “Our meeting was due to an error, but I am glad of it. You have a greeting.” He paused a moment to think, then said with his congested sound, “Pleased to beat you, Jade.”
Then he stepped into his vehicle and the opening closed behind him. The vehicle made its babbling hum for a few seconds, then went silent and disappeared.
Tuesday, November 27, 2012
Audio Fiction
Yesterday I got a message on Facebook from the founder of Maryland Women of Worship. I wrote a couple of short articles for them in 2008, and we've been in touch ever since. Tomorrow's guest on their podcast The Ellie Show had to reschedule, she said, and would I like to fill the slot? Of course I said yes, I'd be honored. And it turned out that I got to be on the very first episode of The Ellie Show.
Ellie gave me a very nice introduction, both in the podcast and on MWOW's blog, and I read portions of my novel Resist the Devil.Listen to the Episode.
While The Ellie Show is brand new, Ellie herself is not new to online broadcasting. She also hosts The Gospel Music News & Video Showcase.
Tuesday, November 20, 2012
Writing Blitz, Day Twenty
Chapter Six is ready, but this is just getting to be too confusing, posting a chapter at a time and trying to provide all the links to previous chapter-posts. The entire story so far (or that is, the small portion of it that's ready for reading) is now posted in convenient tabs at the top of the page.
Enjoy!
Enjoy!
Friday, November 9, 2012
Writing Blitz, Day Nine
It's now day nine of NaNoWriMo, and I am officially three days behind. I do have a new installment for you, though:
Writing Blitz, Day Four
My NaNoWriMo 2012 Project
Chapter Three
Photo: 3quarksdaily.com
To read more of my NaNo-novel An Analysis of the Cardassian Language, see my website, MaryJeddoreBlakney.com.Tahmid leaned back in his chair and looked up at me. “What’s your birthdate?” he asked cheerfully.“September 13, 1985.” On a Friday. I’d never been superstitious about it, but now I was beginning to wonder.“Explain,” he said.Explain what? I wondered, but didn’t dare ask. “I was born on September 13, 1985,” I answered.“Is that a date?”Back to the obvious questions, again, or else he was just badgering me. “Yes.”“By what calendar?”“I think it’s called the Julian calendar,” I answered, getting sick of these obscure historical questions, “or possibly Gregorian? I’m sorry; I don’t know much about calendars.”Tahmid had something on his desk that looked like a game controller, and he touched a button on it. A rod began to come down from the ceiling. It was nearly directly above me and pointing straight down like the rod the fan had been on in the restaurant. But there was no fan on this one. I tried to back up a step, in case it came down too low, but the guards held my arms. It kept coming, six inches in front of my face, and finally stopped when it was about at the level of my chin.As soon as it stopped the guards grabbed my forearms and raised them, fitting the end of the rod into a small hole in the middle of the handcuffs. They locked together with a metallic click. Then the one on my left pulled my shoes and socks off and the one on my right made five quick cuts with his knife, and I was naked.“I hope we’ve been able to come to an understanding,” he said in a friendly tone. “Think back to the last thing you remember before Terra Knorr. You got out of the cab, and then what?”“I paid the driver…No, I paid the driver before I got out. Then I got out, and I walked. I had had him stop in front of the wrong building, so I had to walk a little.”“Go on.”“I got to my building and I was just about to go up the steps.”“Your building?”“The building I was staying at.”“And then what?”“That’s all I remember. I was turning to go up the steps.”“And your next memory is of being on this station?”“That’s correct.”“Tell me about that.”
Photo: MemoryAlpha.org “I was lying on the floor, and I saw a lot of people.”“What were they doing?”“Just walking around, I guess. I didn’t have a lot of time to watch them.”“Go on.”“Well, then the people started crowding around me, looking at me.”“What species were these people?”Oh, no, back to that game again! “Human.”“They were human?”“Yes.”“They looked like you?”“Pretty much, yeah.”“Did you scan them?”I wasn’t sure what that meant, but it didn’t matter because he didn’t wait for an answer anyway.“Did you bring a tricorder?” he asked.“No.” Whatever that was, I didn’t bring one.“What did these humans look like?”“They had scars on their noses.”“So you came this station and saw humans with scars on their noses,” he mused. “What species am I?”“Human,” I answered, with a little hesitation. The last time we’d talked about his origins, he’d had one of his guards give me a bloody nose. And the stakes were higher now.“Have you heard of a people called the Kardashians?” he asked. Only he pronounced it ‘Kardassians.’“Yes.”“Tell me about them.”“They’re a family. Three beautiful women who got famous on reality TV.”“What is TV?”“Television.”He shook his head. “That word’s not translating. But are you telling me you think that the Kardassians are three beautiful women?”“Yes. Well, they’re a whole family. But the famous ones are three women.”He touched the scar above his left eye. “What is this?” he asked.“I’m not sure.”“What do you think it is? Give me your best guess.”“A scar?”He touched the scar below his right eye. “And this?”“Another scar?”He touched the fin-thing on the right side of his neck. “And this? Is this a scar, too?”“I…don’t know what that’s called.”“What happened after you saw the people with the scars on their noses?”“They left, and two other guys showed up.”“What species were the two other guys?”“Human.” I was getting used to this bizarre question, and I wasn’t sure that was a good thing.“Did they look like you?”“Not really.”“Go on.”“They looked like you.”“Oh,” he said, “did they have three beautiful women with them?”“No.”He took his eyes off me again and looked at something behind me. I didn’t turn and follow his gaze this time because my wrists hurt and my hands ached. I’d been moving my fingers a lot to keep the blood flowing, and it had worked to some extent, but it hurt, too.“How old are you?” he asked after a long pause.“Thirty.”“Do you know today’s date?”“September 18, 2015.”“So you turned thirty, five days ago. Happy birthday.”“Thank you.”“I have no more questions for you at the moment,” he said, getting up and coming toward me with the controller in his hand. He touched the controller to the handcuffs and immediately my wrists were free. The handcuffs remained locked to the rod. “You’re welcome to have a seat,” he offered politely, and went back to his own chair.We must have sat for about ten minutes, while I rubbed the feeling back into my hands and he busied himself with a couple of off-brand iPads. Finally he said, “We’re about done here. The gull wants to see you.”I wondered what the chances were that he was referring to a shore bird. Not very good, I figured, but anything was possible.He must have read my face again, because he asked, “Do you know what a gull is?”“A bird?” I ventured.“Perhaps in your universe, where Kardassians are all beautiful women, gulls are birds,” he conceded. “But in our reality, Gul is a military rank. There is only one Gul assigned to this station, and he is its commander. I know it doesn’t come naturally to your people, but if I were you…” He paused and drilled me with his gaze. “…I would be very respectful.”
My NaNoWriMo 2012 Project
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